This is a modern-English version of The International Monthly, Volume 4, No. 1, August, 1851, originally written by Various. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Science, and Art.

VOLUME IV

AUGUST TO DECEMBER, 1851.

NEW-YORK:
STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 222 BROADWAY.
FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
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Transcriber's note: Contents for entire volume 4 in this text. However this text contains only issue Vol. 4, No. 1. Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved to the end of the article.

Transcriber's note: Contents for the entire volume 4 in this text. However, this text contains only issue Vol. 4, No. 1. Minor typos have been corrected, and footnotes have been moved to the end of the article.

[Pg iii]

PREFACE TO THE FOURTH VOLUME.

The conclusion of the Fourth Volume of a periodical may be accepted as a sign of its permanent establishment. The proprietors of the International Magazine have the satisfaction of believing that, while there has been a steady increase of sales, ever since the publication of the first number of this work, there has likewise been as regular an augmentation of its interest, value, and adaptation to the wants of the reading portion of our community. While essentially an Eclectic, relying very much for success on a reproduction of judiciously selected and fairly acknowledged Foreign Literature, it has contained from month to month such an amount of New Articles as justified its claim to consideration as an Original Miscellany. And in choosing from European publications, articles to reprint or to translate for these pages, care has been taken not only to avoid that vein of licentiousness in morals, and skepticism in religion, which in so lamentable a degree characterize a large portion of the popular literature of this age, but also to extract from foreign periodicals that American element with which the rising importance of our country has caused so many of them to be infused; so that, notwithstanding the fact that more than half the contents of the International are from the minds of Europeans, the Magazine is essentially more American than any other now published.

The conclusion of the Fourth Volume of a periodical can be seen as a sign of its stable establishment. The owners of the Global Magazine are pleased to believe that, while there has been a steady increase in sales since the release of the first issue, there has also been a consistent growth in its interest, value, and relevance to the reading audience in our community. While primarily an Eclectic publication, relying heavily on a selection of well-chosen and properly credited Foreign Literature for its success, it has included a significant number of New Articles each month that support its claim to being an Original Miscellany. In selecting articles from European publications to reprint or translate for these pages, care has been taken to avoid the moral laxity and religious skepticism that sadly characterizes a large part of popular literature today. Additionally, efforts have been made to incorporate the American element that the growing importance of our country has infused into many foreign periodicals. Therefore, despite the fact that more than half of the content of the Global comes from European authors, the Magazine is fundamentally more American than any other currently published.

For the future, the publishers have made arrangements that will insure very decided and desirable improvements, which will be more fully disclosed in the first number of the ensuing volume; eminent[Pg iv] original writers will be added to our list of contributors; from Germany, France, and Great Britain, we have increased our literary resources; and more attention will be given to the pictorial illustration of such subjects as may be advantageously treated in engravings. Among those authors whose contributions have appeared in the International hitherto, we may mention:

For the future, the publishers have set up plans that will ensure significant and welcome improvements, which will be detailed in the first issue of the upcoming volume; well-known[Pg iv] original writers will be included in our list of contributors; we've expanded our literary resources from Germany, France, and Great Britain; and we will focus more on visually illustrating topics that can be effectively represented in engravings. Among the authors whose contributions have appeared in the Global so far, we can mention:

Miss Fenimore Cooper,
Miss Alice Carey,
Mrs. E. Oakes Smith,
Mrs. M. E. Hewitt,
Mrs. Alice B. Neal,
Bishop Spencer,
Henry Austin Layard,
Parke Godwin,
John R. Thompson,
W. C. Richards,
W. Gilmore Simms,
Bayard Taylor,
Robert Henry Stoddard,
Alfred B. Street,
Thomas Ewbank,
E. W. Ellsworth,
G. P. R. James,
Dr. John W. Francis,
Maunsell B. Field,
Dr. Starbuck Mayo,
John E. Warren,
A. Oakey Hall,
Horace Greeley,
Richard B. Kimball,
The Author of "Nile Notes,"
The Author of "Harry Franco."
Rev. J. C. Richmond,
Rev. H. W. Parker,
James T. Fields,
R. S. Chilton.

Ms. Fenimore Cooper,
Ms. Alice Carey,
Mrs. E. Oakes Smith,
Mrs. M.E. Hewitt,
Ms. Alice B. Neal,
Bishop Spencer,
Henry Austin Layard,
Parke Godwin,
John R. Thompson,
W.C. Richards,
W. Gilmore Simms,
Bayard Taylor,
Robert Henry Stoddard,
Alfred B. Street,
Thomas Ewbank,
E.W. Ellsworth,
G.P.R. James,
Dr. John W. Francis,
Maunsell B. Field,
Dr. Starbuck Mayo,
John E. Warren,
A. Oakey Hall,
Horace Greeley,
Richard B. Kimball,
The author of "Nile Updates,"
The Writer of "Harry Franco."
Rev. J.C. Richmond,
Rev. H.W. Parker,
James T. Fields,
R.S. Chilton.

The foreign writers, from whom we have selected, need not be enumerated; they embrace the principal living masters of literary art; and we shall continue to avail ourselves of their new productions as largely as justice to them and the advantage and pleasure of our readers may seem to justify.

The foreign writers we've chosen do not need to be listed; they include the main contemporary masters of literary art. We will continue to make use of their new works as much as it seems fair to them and beneficial and enjoyable for our readers.

New-York, December 1, 1851.

New York, December 1, 1851.

[Pg v]

Arts, the Fine.—Monuments to Public Men in Europe and America, 130.—Mosaics for the Emperor of Russia, 130.—Tenarani, the Italian Sculptor, 131.—Group by Herr Kiss, 131.—English and American Portrait Painters, 131.—Mr. Pyne's English Landscapes, 131.—Paintings by British Officers in Canada, 131.—Ovation to Rauch at Berlin, 131.—Healy's Picture of Webster's Reply to Hayne, 131.—Newly-discovered Raphael, 131.—Daguerreotypes, 131.—Letter from Hiram Powers, 279.—Monument to Wordsworth, 279.—Monument to Weber, 279.—Works of Cornelius, 279.—Greenonga's Group for the Capital, 279.—The Twelve Virgins of Raphael, 279.—Tributes by Greece to her Benefactors, 279.—Paul Delaroche, 417.—Winterhalter, 417.—New Scriptures in the Crystal Palace, 417.—London Art-Union, 417.—American Art-Union. 417.—Powers's Eve, 417.—Leutze, 417.—The London Art-Journal on the Engravings of the American Art-Union. 561.—The Philadelphia Art-Union, 561.—The Western Art-Union, 562.—Mr. Healy's Picture of Webster's Reply to Hayne, 562.—Mr. Lentze's Washington Crossing the Delaware, 562—Illustrations of Martin Luther, 562.—Lentze's Washington. 743.—Colossal Statue of Washington at Munich, 703.—Kaulbach's Frescoes, 703.—Cadame's Compositions of the Seasons, 703.—Portraits of Bishop White and Daniel Webster, 703.

Fine Arts.—Monuments to Public Figures in Europe and America, 130.—Mosaics for the Emperor of Russia, 130.—Tenarani, the Italian Sculptor, 131.—Group by Herr Kiss, 131.—English and American Portrait Painters, 131.—Mr. Pyne's English Landscapes, 131.—Paintings by British Officers in Canada, 131.—Ovation to Rauch in Berlin, 131.—Healy's Picture of Webster's Reply to Hayne, 131.—Newly-discovered Raphael, 131.—Daguerreotypes, 131.—Letter from Hiram Powers, 279.—Monument to Wordsworth, 279.—Monument to Weber, 279.—Works of Cornelius, 279.—Greenonga's Group for the Capital, 279.—The Twelve Virgins of Raphael, 279.—Tributes by Greece to her Benefactors, 279.—Paul Delaroche, 417.—Winterhalter, 417.—New Scriptures in the Crystal Palace, 417.—London Art Union, 417.—American Art Union, 417.—Powers's Eve, 417.—Leutze, 417.—The London Art Journal on the Engravings of the American Art Union, 561.—The Philadelphia Art Union, 561.—The Western Art Union, 562.—Mr. Healy's Picture of Webster's Reply to Hayne, 562.—Mr. Lentze's Washington Crossing the Delaware, 562.—Illustrations of Martin Luther, 562.—Lentze's Washington, 743.—Colossal Statue of Washington in Munich, 703.—Kaulbach's Frescoes, 703.—Cadame's Compositions of the Seasons, 703.—Portraits of Bishop White and Daniel Webster, 703.

Authors and Books.—The Story of Talns, and the Sardonic Laughter, by Merehlen, 122.—A German Treatise on Free Trade, 122.—Curious Medical Works in Germany, 122.—Weiseler on the Theatre, 122.—Woodcuts of celebrated Masters, 123.—Recent German Poetry, 123.—Venedy's Schleswig-Holstein in 1850, 123.—Souvenirs of Early Germans, 123.—Gutzkow, Reimer, and Gubitz. 123.—Mundi's Macchiavelli and the Course of European Policy, 123.—New German Novels, 124.—Baner's Documents respecting the Monastery of Arnsburg, 124.—Mss. of Peter Schlemil, 124.—Professor O. L. B. Wohl's Poetic and Prosaic Home Treasury, 124.—German opinion of Miss Weber, 124.—Professor Zahn at Pompeii, 124.—Barthohl's History of German Cities, 124.—Cornell on Feurebach, 124.—New Book of the Planets by Ernst, 125.—Waldmeister's Bridal Tour, 125.—German version of George Copyway's Book, 125.—German Survey of American Institutions, 125.—Russian Literature, 125.—Jewish Professors in Austria, 125.—Dumas's new Works, 125.—Madame Reybaud, 125.—New Volume of Thier's History of the Empire, 125.—Mignet's Life of Mary Queen of Scots, 126.—Cormenin on the Revision of the Constitution, 126.—Literary Episodes in the East, by Marcellus, 126.—Victor Hugo. 126.—Madame Bocarme, 126.—Signatures to Articles in the French Journals, 126.—Arago's loss of sight, 126.—George Sand to Dumas, 127.—Vacherot on the Philosophical School of Alexandria, 127.—Mss. of Rousseau, 127.—Unpublished works of Balzac, 127.—M. Nisard, 127.—M. Gautier, 127.—Guizot's History of Representative Government, 127.—Mademoiselle de Belle Isle, 127.—Rev. T. W. Shelton, in Sharpe's Magazine, 127.—Rev. Charles Kingsley, author of Alton Locke, 127.—Bowring's Translation of Schiller, 128—New English Poems, 128.—New Novel by Warren, 128.—Judge Woodbury's Works, 128.—The North American Review, 128.—Life of Judge Story, 128.—Contributions to the History of the West, by Lyman C. Draper, 129.—The Dublin University Magazine on Streets Frontenac, 129.—Mrs. Southworth in England. 129.—Return of Mrs. Mowatt, 129.—Miss Beecher's new Work on the Writings of Women, 129.—Ludwig Feuerback, 268.—August Kopish on the Monument to Frederic the Great, 269.—The Janus Review, 269.—Franz Kugler on the Theatre, 269.—Von Muller's History of the Swiss Confederation, 269.—Memoir of Bretschneider, 269.—Dr. Worth, 269.—Herr Christern's Book Store, 269.—German Periodicals, 270.—The Hungarian Refugees in Turkey, 270.—The Youth of Thorwaldsen, 270.—Old and New Songs and Fables for Children, 270.—Convention of Sclavic Scholars, 270.—German Translation of Milton's Areopagitica, 270.—Eccentricities of German Medical Literature, 271.—German Poems, 271.—Shakspeare in Sweden, 271.—Neander's Lectures, 271.—George Sand and her Husband, 271.—New work by Comte, 271.—Lamartine's New History, 271.—Michelet's Legendes de la Democratie, 272.—Guizot's History of Representative Government, 272.—Prudhon's Idea of Revolution, 272.—Miss Martineau and her Master, 272.—Rumored Discoveries of Greek MSS, 272.—Bunsen on the supposed MS. of Origen, 272.—New English Poems, 272.—Herodotus and the Discoveries of Nineveh, 273.—Sir James Stephen's History of France, 273.—J. S. Buckingham, 273.—Mrs. Jamieson, 273.—New Books of Travels, 273.—Dr. Wilkinson and Henry James, 273.—New Novels, 273.—New Books on the Apocalypse, 274.—Finchman on Ship Building, 274.—The Grenville Papers, 274.—Sir W. Parish on Buenos Ayres, 274.—Works of Bishop Whately, 274.—Macaulay's New Volumes, 274.—Poems of Edith May, 274.—Ware's European Capitals, 274.—New Romance by Thomas H. Shreve, 274.—More about[Pg vi] American Reviews, 275.—Poem on Woman, by J. W. Ward, 275.—Novellettes of Musicians, 275.—Dr. Huntington's Alban, 276.—Simms's Poetical Works, 276.—Dr. Tyng and Bickersteth, 276.—Mr. Putnam's forthcoming Souvenir Books, 276.—Kitto's Biblical Cyclopedia, 276.—Episodes of Insect Life, 276.—History of Oneida County, 276.—Mrs. Nichols's Poem's, 276.—New Translations of the Bible, 277.—Sale of Dr. Jarvis's Library, 277.—Ik Marvell's New Work, 277.—Mr. Longfellow's New Poem, 277.—Books on the Mechanic Arts, 278.—Dr. Wainwright's Work on Egypt, 278.—Mr. Jefferson's MSS. Work on Grammar, 278.—Dr. Williams on the Lord's Prayer, 278.—Works of John Adams, 278.—Publications of James Munroe, 278.—German Magazines, 403.—German Poets, 403, 405.—Freilegrath, 403.—New edition of Brockhaus' Lexicon, 403.—German View of Lamartine, 403.—Prutz in a Novel, 403.—Stahl on Paris, 404.—Kohler on Ancient Cameos, &c., 404.—Children's Picture Books, 404.—Latin Life of Zumpt, 404.—New work by Robert Remak, 405.—The German Element in English Language, 405.—Count Blumberg on the Higher Classes, 405.—Auerbach's German Evenings, 405.—Gailhabaud's Monuments of Architecture, 405.—A Life Spent in Studying Thrushes, 405.—Gust's Bibliotheca Biographia Lutherana, 405.—New work on Monarchy, 405.—New German Works on the Middle Ages, 406.—Konig and Gelzer on Luther, 406.—The Bible and the Almanac, 406.—Austrian Biographical Dictionary, 406.—New Book by Hans Andersen, 406—Zeise, the Danish Novelist, 407.—Poems of Tegner, 407.—Bohemian Songs, 407.—Italian Histories of To-day, 407.—Bible Plays by Wiese, 408.—Colins on Socialism, 408.—Memoirs by Captain Laconte, 408.—Villemarque's Breton Poems, 408.—Perrymond vs. Thiers, 408.—The French Orators, 408.—Histories of the Reformation in France, 408.—M. Guizot, 409.—Jules Janin, 409.—Montbeillard on Spinoza, 409.—Punishment of a Socialist Dramatist, 409.—Marriage of "Bon Gaultier," 409.—Visits to De Quincy and Burns's Sister, 410.—The "Baroness Von Beck," 410.—Thackeray's New Novel, 410.—Literary Pensions in England, 410.—Tributes to James Montgomery, 410.—New editor of the Westminster Review, 410.—New Lives of Mary, Queen of Scots, 411.—Publications of Moore & Co., of Cincinnati, 411.—Rivers of the Bible, 411.—Mexican Documents collected by the Abbé Bourbourg, 412.—Mr. Schoolcraft and the Publishers, 412.—Mr. Simms's New Tragedy, 412.—Dr. Albro's Life of Shepherd, the Puritan, 412.—New Edition of Fielding, 413.—Theory of Human Progression, 413.—The Nile Boat, 413.—Kitto's Bible Illustrations, 413.—Poore's Life of Napoleon, 413.—Indications of the Creator, by George Taylor, 413.—Parkman's History of Pontiac, 413.—De Quiney's Works, 413.—Mrs. Judson, 413.—Hart's Female Prose Writers of America, 414.—Mrs. Lee's Memoirs of Buckminster, 415.—Rochefoucauld, 415.—Dr. Huntington and his Novels, Letters, and Life, 415.—New Works in Press by the Harpers, 415.—By Redfield, do., 416.—New Work by Dr. Boardman, 416.—Carl Immerman's Letters on the Theatre, 551.—Kohl's last book of Travels, 551.—L'Eco d'Italia, 551.—Narcissa Zwichowska, 551.—Baron Baerst on Cooking, 551.—Brinckle's-Butterfly Book, 552.—Stein's History of the Social Movement in France, 552.—Dr. Schleiden's Work on Animalculæ, 552.—History of Education, by Kranse, 552.—Handbook of Catholic Pulpit Eloquence, 552.—Popular Songs of Southern Russia, 552.—Hogarth's Works in Germany, 552.—Dr. Andree's Work on America, 553.—Studies of German Lore, 553.—Hase's New Prophets, 553.—Wanderings in Slavonia, 553.—A reply to the Countess Hahn-Hahn's last book, 554.—A Review of Lamartine's Parasite History, 554.—Humboldt's Kosmos, 554.—History of Polish Literature, 554.—Russian Archaeology, 554.—Siegfried Weiss on German Trade Policy, 554.—Periodicals in Asia, 554.—German Translation of Hawthorne, 554.—The German Universities, 555.—New German Poems, 555.—Literary Statistics of Poland, 555.—Work on Russia by Tegoborski, 555.—Ritter's History of Philosophy, 555.—De Flotte on the Sovereignty of the People, 555.—Nineveh, 555.—New Series of Eugene Sue's Mysteries of the People, 556.—Second Part of Michelet's History of the French Revolution, 556.—Julian's History of Porcelain Manufacture, 556.—Felix de Verneihl on the Cologne Cathedral, 556.—Andre Cochat on French Workingmen's Associations, 556.—New edition of George Sand's Works, 556.—Letter from Alexander Dumas, 556.—Alfred de Musset, 557.—Translations of Comte's Philosophy, 557.—Jules Janin's new Romance, 557.—Ferdinand Hiller, 557.—James T. Fields, 557.—New Histories of the Mexican War, 557.—Horace Mann on the Sphere of Woman, 557.—General Morris not guilty of Plagiarism, 558.—Torrey's Translation of Neander, 558.—Translations of Dante, 559.—Alice Carey's Recollections of Our Neighborhood in the West, 559.—Modern Miracles, by Henry Ingalls, 559.—New Novel by Mr. James and Mr. Field, 559.—History of the German Reformed Church, 559.—Professor Hackett's Commentary on the Acts, 559.—The Whale, by Herman Melville, 559.—Mr. Herbert's work on Ancient Battles, &c., 560.—Glances at Europe, by H. Greeley, 560.—Hungary and Kossuth, 560.—Richard B. Kimball, 560.—Mr. Judd's Margaret, 560.—Pendant to Professor Creasy's Decisive Battles of the World, 693.—Correspondence respecting the Thirty Years' War, 693.—German collection of English Songs, 693.—German Philologists, 693.—Weil's History of the Califs, 693.—The Germans in Bohemia, 693.—Andree's Work on America, 694.—Works on Spinoza, 694.—New Gœthean Literature, 694.—The British Empire in Europe, by Meidinger, 694.—The Play of the Resurrection, 694.—German History of French Literature, 694.—New work on German Knighthood, &c., 694.—German Romanee in the 18th Century, 695.—Madame Blaze de Bury's New Novel, 695.—Richter's History of the Evangelical German Churches, 695.—German Life of Sir Robert Peel, 695.—Zimmermann on the English Revolution, 695.—History of Norway, 695.—Reguly, the Hungarian Traveller, 695.—Political Notabililities of Hungary, 695.—Speeches, &c., by King William of Prussia, 695.—Pictures from the North, 695.—History of the Swiss Confederation, 695.—Bem's System of Chronology, by Miss Peabody, 695.—French Almanacs, 695.—M. Croce-Spinelli's Work on Popular Government, 696.—Works by the Paris Asiatic Society, 696.—Cæsar Daly on Parisian Architecture, 696.—Fignier's Modern Discoveries, 696.—The Annuaire des Deux Mondes, 696.—Calvin's Inedited Letters, 697.—Lacretelle, 697.—Critical Studies of Socialism, 697.—Memoirs of Mademoiselle Mars, 697.—The Institute of France, 697.—Grille on the War in La Vendee, 697.—History of the Bourgeoisie of Paris, 697.—Archives des Missions Scientifiques, &c., 697.—Travels in Africa, 698.—Spirit of New Roman Catholic[Pg vii] Literature, 698.—Garcin de Tassy on Mr. Salisbury's Unpublished Arabic Documents, 699.—New Travels in Palestine, 698.—The Abaddie Travellers, 699.—French, English, and American Missionaries, as Scholars, 699.—The Westminster Review, 699.—A Grandson of Robert Burns, 699.—Friends in Council, &c., by Mr. Helps, 699.—New English Announcements, 700.—New Dissenters' College, 700.—Sir Charles Lyell and the "Free Thinkers," 700.—Prof. Wilson, 700.—Miss Kirkland's Evening Book, 700.—Works by Mrs. Lee, 701.—Mr. Boyd's edition of Young's Night Thoughts, 702.—"Injustice to the South," 702.—Splendid American Gift Books for 1852, 703.—New American Works in Press, 703, &c. British Humorists.—By W. M. Thackeray, 24

Authors and Books.—The Story of Talns, and the Sardonic Laughter, by Merehlen, 122.—A German Treatise on Free Trade, 122.—Interesting Medical Works in Germany, 122.—Weiseler on the Theatre, 122.—Woodcuts of celebrated Masters, 123.—Recent German Poetry, 123.—Venedy's Schleswig-Holstein in 1850, 123.—Souvenirs of Early Germans, 123.—Gutzkow, Reimer, and Gubitz. 123.—Mundi's Machiavelli and the Course of European Policy, 123.—New German Novels, 124.—Baner's Documents regarding the Monastery of Arnsburg, 124.—Mss. of Peter Schlemil, 124.—Professor O. L. B. Wohl's Poetic and Prosaic Home Treasury, 124.—German opinion of Miss Weber, 124.—Professor Zahn at Pompeii, 124.—Barthohl's History of German Cities, 124.—Cornell on Feuerbach, 124.—New Book of the Planets by Ernst, 125.—Waldmeister's Bridal Tour, 125.—German version of George Copyway's Book, 125.—German Survey of American Institutions, 125.—Russian Literature, 125.—Jewish Professors in Austria, 125.—Dumas's new Works, 125.—Madame Reybaud, 125.—New Volume of Thier's History of the Empire, 125.—Mignet's Life of Mary Queen of Scots, 126.—Cormenin on the Revision of the Constitution, 126.—Literary Episodes in the East, by Marcellus, 126.—Victor Hugo. 126.—Madame Bocarme, 126.—Signatures to Articles in the French Journals, 126.—Arago's loss of eyesight, 126.—George Sand to Dumas, 127.—Vacherot on the Philosophical School of Alexandria, 127.—Mss. of Rousseau, 127.—Unpublished works of Balzac, 127.—M. Nisard, 127.—M. Gautier, 127.—Guizot's History of Representative Government, 127.—Mademoiselle de Belle Isle, 127.—Rev. T. W. Shelton, in Sharpe's Magazine, 127.—Rev. Charles Kingsley, author of Alton Locke, 127.—Bowring's Translation of Schiller, 128—New English Poems, 128.—New Novel by Warren, 128.—Judge Woodbury's Works, 128.—The North American Review, 128.—Life of Judge Story, 128.—Contributions to the History of the West, by Lyman C. Draper, 129.—The Dublin University Magazine on Streets Frontenac, 129.—Mrs. Southworth in England. 129.—Return of Mrs. Mowatt, 129.—Miss Beecher's new Work on the Writings of Women, 129.—Ludwig Feuerbach, 268.—August Kopish on the Monument to Frederic the Great, 269.—The Janus Review, 269.—Franz Kugler on the Theatre, 269.—Von Muller's History of the Swiss Confederation, 269.—Memoir of Bretschneider, 269.—Dr. Worth, 269.—Herr Christern's Book Store, 269.—German Periodicals, 270.—The Hungarian Refugees in Turkey, 270.—The Youth of Thorwaldsen, 270.—Old and New Songs and Fables for Children, 270.—Convention of Slavic Scholars, 270.—German Translation of Milton's Areopagitica, 270.—Eccentricities of German Medical Literature, 271.—German Poems, 271.—Shakespeare in Sweden, 271.—Neander's Lectures, 271.—George Sand and her Husband, 271.—New work by Comte, 271.—Lamartine's New History, 271.—Michelet's Legendes de la Democratie, 272.—Guizot's History of Representative Government, 272.—Prudhon's Idea of Revolution, 272.—Miss Martineau and her Master, 272.—Rumored Discoveries of Greek Mss, 272.—Bunsen on the supposed MS. of Origen, 272.—New English Poems, 272.—Herodotus and the Discoveries of Nineveh, 273.—Sir James Stephen's History of France, 273.—J. S. Buckingham, 273.—Mrs. Jamieson, 273.—New Books of Travels, 273.—Dr. Wilkinson and Henry James, 273.—New Novels, 273.—New Books on the Apocalypse, 274.—Finchman on Ship Building, 274.—The Grenville Papers, 274.—Sir W. Parish on Buenos Ayres, 274.—Works of Bishop Whately, 274.—Macaulay's New Volumes, 274.—Poems of Edith May, 274.—Ware's European Capitals, 274.—New Romance by Thomas H. Shreve, 274.—More about[Pg vi] American Reviews, 275.—Poem on Woman, by J. W. Ward, 275.—Novellettes of Musicians, 275.—Dr. Huntington's Alban, 276.—Simms's Poetical Works, 276.—Dr. Tyng and Bickersteth, 276.—Mr. Putnam's forthcoming Souvenir Books, 276.—Kitto's Biblical Cyclopedia, 276.—Episodes of Insect Life, 276.—History of Oneida County, 276.—Mrs. Nichols's Poems, 276.—New Translations of the Bible, 277.—Sale of Dr. Jarvis's Library, 277.—Ik Marvell's New Work, 277.—Mr. Longfellow's New Poem, 277.—Books on the Mechanic Arts, 278.—Dr. Wainwright's Work on Egypt, 278.—Mr. Jefferson's Mss. Work on Grammar, 278.—Dr. Williams on the Lord's Prayer, 278.—Works of John Adams, 278.—Publications of James Munroe, 278.—German Magazines, 403.—German Poets, 403, 405.—Freiligrath, 403.—New edition of Brockhaus' Lexicon, 403.—German View of Lamartine, 403.—Prutz in a Novel, 403.—Stahl on Paris, 404.—Kohler on Ancient Cameos, &c., 404.—Children's Picture Books, 404.—Latin Life of Zumpt, 404.—New work by Robert Remak, 405.—The German Element in English Language, 405.—Count Blumberg on the Higher Classes, 405.—Auerbach's German Evenings, 405.—Gailhabaud's Monuments of Architecture, 405.—A Life Spent in Studying Thrushes, 405.—Gust's Bibliotheca Biographia Lutherana, 405.—New work on Monarchy, 405.—New German Works on the Middle Ages, 406.—Konig and Gelzer on Luther, 406.—The Bible and the Almanac, 406.—Austrian Biographical Dictionary, 406.—New Book by Hans Andersen, 406—Zeise, the Danish Novelist, 407.—Poems of Tegner, 407.—Bohemian Songs, 407.—Italian Histories of Today, 407.—Bible Plays by Wiese, 408.—Colins on Socialism, 408.—Memoirs by Captain Laconte, 408.—Villemarque's Breton Poems, 408.—Perrymond vs. Thiers, 408.—The French Orators, 408.—Histories of the Reformation in France, 408.—M. Guizot, 409.—Jules Janin, 409.—Montbeillard on Spinoza, 409.—Punishment of a Socialist Dramatist, 409.—Marriage of "Bon Gaultier," 409.—Visits to De Quincy and Burns's Sister, 410.—The "Baroness Von Beck," 410.—Thackeray's New Novel, 410.—Literary Pensions in England, 410.—Tributes to James Montgomery, 410.—New editor of the Westminster Review, 410.—New Lives of Mary, Queen of Scots, 411.—Publications of Moore & Co., of Cincinnati, 411.—Rivers of the Bible, 411.—Mexican Documents collected by the Abbé Bourbourg, 412.—Mr. Schoolcraft and the Publishers, 412.—Mr. Simms's New Tragedy, 412.—Dr. Albro's Life of Shepherd, the Puritan, 412.—New Edition of Fielding, 413.—Theory of Human Progression, 413.—The Nile Boat, 413.—Kitto's Bible Illustrations, 413.—Poore's Life of Napoleon, 413.—Indications of the Creator, by George Taylor, 413.—Parkman's History of Pontiac, 413.—De Quiney's Works, 413.—Mrs. Judson, 413.—Hart's Female Prose Writers of America, 414.—Mrs. Lee's Memoirs of Buckminster, 415.—Rochefoucauld, 415.—Dr. Huntington and his Novels, Letters, and Life, 415.—New Works in Press by the Harpers, 415.—By Redfield, do., 416.—New Work by Dr. Boardman, 416.—Carl Immerman's Letters on the Theatre, 551.—Kohl's last book of Travels, 551.—L'Eco d'Italia, 551.—Narcissa Zwichowska, 551.—Baron Baerst on Cooking, 551.—Brinckle's Butterfly Book, 552.—Stein's History of the Social Movement in France, 552.—Dr. Schleiden's Work on Animalculæ, 552.—History of Education, by Kranse, 552.—Handbook of Catholic Pulpit Eloquence, 552.—Popular Songs of Southern Russia, 552.—Hogarth's Works in Germany, 552.—Dr. Andree's Work on America, 553.—Studies of German Lore, 553.—Hase's New Prophets, 553.—Wanderings in Slavonia, 553.—A reply to the Countess Hahn-Hahn's last book, 554.—A Review of Lamartine's Parasite History, 554.—Humboldt's Kosmos, 554.—History of Polish Literature, 554.—Russian Archaeology, 554.—Siegfried Weiss on German Trade Policy, 554.—Periodicals in Asia, 554.—German Translation of Hawthorne, 554.—The German Universities, 555.—New German Poems, 555.—Literary Statistics of Poland, 555.—Work on Russia by Tegoborski, 555.—Ritter's History of Philosophy, 555.—De Flotte on the Sovereignty of the People, 555.—Nineveh, 555.—New Series of Eugene Sue's Mysteries of the People, 556.—Second Part of Michelet's History of the French Revolution, 556.—Julian's History of Porcelain Manufacture, 556.—Felix de Verneihl on the Cologne Cathedral, 556.—Andre Cochat on French Workingmen's Associations, 556.—New edition of George Sand's Works, 556.—Letter from Alexander Dumas, 556.—Alfred de Musset, 557.—Translations of Comte's Philosophy, 557.—Jules Janin's new Romance, 557.—Ferdinand Hiller, 557.—James T. Fields, 557.—New Histories of the Mexican War, 557.—Horace Mann on the Sphere of Woman, 557.—General Morris not guilty of Plagiarism, 558.—Torrey's Translation of Neander, 558.—Translations of Dante, 559.—Alice Carey's Recollections of Our Neighborhood in the West, 559.—Modern Miracles, by Henry Ingalls, 559.—New Novel by Mr. James and Mr. Field, 559.—History of the German Reformed Church, 559.—Professor Hackett's Commentary on the Acts, 559.—The Whale, by Herman Melville, 559.—Mr. Herbert's work on Ancient Battles, &c., 560.—Glances at Europe, by H. Greeley, 560.—Hungary and Kossuth, 560.—Richard B. Kimball, 560.—Mr. Judd's Margaret, 560.—Pendant to Professor Creasy's Decisive Battles of the World, 693.—Correspondence regarding the Thirty Years' War, 693.—German collection of English Songs, 693.—German Philologists, 693.—Weil's History of the Califs, 693.—The Germans in Bohemia, 693.—Andree's Work on America, 694.—Works on Spinoza, 694.—New Gœthean Literature, 694.—The British Empire in Europe, by Meidinger, 694.—The Play of the Resurrection, 694.—German History of French Literature, 694.—New work on German Knighthood, &c., 694.—German Romance in the 18th Century, 695.—Madame Blaze de Bury's New Novel, 695.—Richter's History of the Evangelical German Churches, 695.—German Life of Sir Robert Peel, 695.—Zimmermann on the English Revolution, 695.—History of Norway, 695.—Reguly, the Hungarian Traveller, 695.—Political Notabililities of Hungary, 695.—Speeches, &c., by King William of Prussia, 695.—Pictures from the North, 695.—History of the Swiss Confederation, 695.—Bem's System of Chronology, by Miss Peabody, 695.—French Almanacs, 695.—M. Croce-Spinelli's Work on Popular Government, 696.—Works by the Paris Asiatic Society, 696.—Cæsar Daly on Parisian Architecture, 696.—Fignier's Modern Discoveries, 696.—The Annuaire des Deux Mondes, 696.—Calvin's Unpublished Letters, 697.—Lacretelle, 697.—Critical Studies of Socialism, 697.—Memoirs of Mademoiselle Mars, 697.—The Institute of France, 697.—Grille on the War in La Vendee, 697.—History of the Bourgeoisie of Paris, 697.—Archives des Missions Scientifiques, &c., 697.—Travels in Africa, 698.—Spirit of New Roman Catholic[Pg vii] Literature, 698.—Garcin de Tassy on Mr. Salisbury's Unpublished Arabic Documents, 699.—New Travels in Palestine, 698.—The Abaddie Travellers, 699.—French, English, and American Missionaries, as Scholars, 699.—The Westminster Review, 699.—A Grandson of Robert Burns, 699.—Friends in Council, &c., by Mr. Helps, 699.—New English Announcements, 700.—New Dissenters' College, 700.—Sir Charles Lyell and the "Free Thinkers," 700.—Prof. Wilson, 700.—Miss Kirkland's Evening Book, 700.—Works by Mrs. Lee, 701.—Mr. Boyd's edition of Young's Night Thoughts, 702.—"Injustice to the South," 702.—Splendid American Gift Books for 1852, 703.—New American Works in Press, 703, &c. British Humorists.—By W. M. Thackeray, 24

Boker, George II.—By Bayard Taylor. (Portrait.) 156

Bohemian Glass. (Six Engravings.) 291

Ballad of Sir John Franklin.—By George H. Boker, 473

Bryant, and his Works, William Cullen. (Portrait.) 588

Bull Fight at Ronda, 681

Bullfight in Ronda, 681

Calvin Colton, Rev., and his Works. (Portrait.) 1

Castle of Belvor: An Incident in the Life of Arago, 41

Count Monte-Leone. (Concluded), 42, 202, 327, 500

Count Monte-Leone. (Concluded), __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, 202, 327, 500

China, Our Phantom Ship, 67

China, Our Ghost Ship, 67

Chest of Drawers.—By an Attorney, 73

Chest of Drawers.—By a Lawyer, 73

Cicada, The.—By H. J. Crate, 164

Charlemagne, Times of.—By Sir Francis Palgrave, 169

Calhoun, Private Life of John C.—By Miss M. Bates, 173

Copenhagen, 238

Cooper, J. F., Portrait and View of his Residence, Frontispiece.

Cooper, J. F., Portrait and View of his Home, Cover Page.

Cooke, Sketch of Philip Pendleton. (Portrait.) 300

Chamois Hunting, 344

Cleopatra's Needle, 367

Cheap Postage System, 370

Affordable Mailing System, 370

Country Gentleman at Home.—By C. A. Bristed, 389

Cooper, Reminiscences of J. Fenimore.—By Dr. Francis, 458

Cooper, Public Honors to the Memory of Mr., 456

Chimes, The.—By E. W. Ellsworth, 487

Carlyle's Life of John Sterling, 599

Calcutta: Social, Industrial, Political, 611

Kolkata: Social, Industrial, Political, 611

Captain and the Negro, The, 646

The Captain and the Black Man, 646

Crebillon, the French Æschylus, 520

Crebillon, the French Aeschylus, 520

Dramatic Fragments.—By R. H. Stoddard, 17

Decorative Arts in America, 171

Deserted Mansion, 227

Abandoned Mansion, 227

Dirge for an Infant—By R. S. Chilton, 487

Death in Youth.—By H. W. Parker, 598

Dutch Governors of Niew Amsterdam.—By J. R. Brodhead, 597

Dutch Governors of New Amsterdam.—By J. R. Brodhead, 597

Drinking Experiences: A Temperance Lecture by "Nimrod," 621

Drinking Experiences: A Talk on Moderation by "Nimrod," 621

Deaths, Recent.—General Arbuckle, 139.—Mrs. Thomas Sheridan, 139.—Bishop Carlson, 139.—Sir J. E. Dalzell, 139.—Chevalier Parisot de Guyrmont, 139.—General James Miller, 140.—General Uminski, 140.—Viscount Melville, 140.—Mr. Dyce Sombre, 140.—Bishop Medrano, 140.—The Earl of Shaftesbury, 141.—Mr. Thomas Wright Hill, 142.—Melchior Boisserée, 142.—Christian Tieck, the Sculptor, 142.—Rev. Stephen Olin, D.D., 282.—Baron de Leideni, 282.—Edward Quillinan, 282.—Harriet Lee, 282.—Dr. Julius, 282.—Rev. Azariah Smith, 282.—General Henry A. S. Dearborn, 283.—D. M. Mon, 228, 283.—General Sir Roger Sheafe, 283.—M. Daguerre, (Portrait), 283.—Rev. Dr. Lingard, (Portrait), 285.—Marshal Sebastian, 287.—J. Fenimore Cooper, 428.—Rev. T. H. Gallaudet, 428.—Judge Beverly Tucker, 428.—Levi Woodbury, 429.—General McClure, 429.—Lorenz Ocken, 429.—Count Killmansegge, 430.—H. E. G. Paulus, 430.—Joseph Rusiecki, 430.—John Gottfried Gruber, 430.—The Earl of Clare, 431.—Sir Henry Jardine, 431.—Mrs. Sherwood, 572.—Rev. James H. Hotchkiss, 572.—General Henry Whitney, 572.—Commodore Warrington, 572.—Professor Kidd, 573.—The Earl of Donoughmore, 573.—William Nicol, 574.—Mr. Freeman, the Missionary, 574.—James Richardson, 574.—William Willshire, 574.—J. R. Dubois, 575.—Gustav Carlin, 575.—Archibald Alexander, D. D., 705.—J. Kearney Rogers, M.D., 705.—Rev. Wm. Croswell, D.D., 706.—Granville Sharpe Pattison, M.D., 706.—Mr. Stephens, author of The Manuscripts of Erdeley, 706.—Mr. Gutzlaff, the Missionary, 707.—Don Manuel Godoy, the Prince of the Peace, 708.—George Baker, 708.—M. de Savigny, 708.—Archbishop Wingard, 708.—Samuel Beaseley, author of The Roué, 708.—H. P. Borrell, 708.—James Tyler, R. D., 708.—Emma Martin, 709.—Yar Mohammed, 709.—Alexander Lee, 710.—Prince Frederick of Prussia, 710.

Recent Deaths.—General Arbuckle, 139.—Mrs. Thomas Sheridan, 139.—Bishop Carlson, 139.—Sir J. E. Dalzell, 139.—Chevalier Parisot de Guyrmont, 139.—General James Miller, 140.—General Uminski, 140.—Viscount Melville, 140.—Mr. Dyce Sombre, 140.—Bishop Medrano, 140.—The Earl of Shaftesbury, 141.—Mr. Thomas Wright Hill, 142.—Melchior Boisserée, 142.—Christian Tieck, the Sculptor, 142.—Rev. Stephen Olin, D.D., 282.—Baron de Leideni, 282.—Edward Quillinan, 282.—Harriet Lee, 282.—Dr. Julius, 282.—Rev. Azariah Smith, 282.—General Henry A. S. Dearborn, 283.—D. M. Mon, 228, 283.—General Sir Roger Sheafe, 283.—M. Daguerre, (Portrait), 283.—Rev. Dr. Lingard, (Portrait), 285.—Marshal Sebastian, 287.—J. Fenimore Cooper, 428.—Rev. T. H. Gallaudet, 428.—Judge Beverly Tucker, 428.—Levi Woodbury, 429.—General McClure, 429.—Lorenz Ocken, 429.—Count Killmansegge, 430.—H. E. G. Paulus, 430.—Joseph Rusiecki, 430.—John Gottfried Gruber, 430.—The Earl of Clare, 431.—Sir Henry Jardine, 431.—Mrs. Sherwood, 572.—Rev. James H. Hotchkiss, 572.—General Henry Whitney, 572.—Commodore Warrington, 572.—Professor Kidd, 573.—The Earl of Donoughmore, 573.—William Nicol, 574.—Mr. Freeman, the Missionary, 574.—James Richardson, 574.—William Willshire, 574.—J. R. Dubois, 575.—Gustav Carlin, 575.—Archibald Alexander, D. D., 705.—J. Kearney Rogers, M.D., 705.—Rev. Wm. Croswell, D.D., 706.—Granville Sharpe Pattison, M.D., 706.—Mr. Stephens, author of The Manuscripts of Erdeley, 706.—Mr. Gutzlaff, the Missionary, 707.—Don Manuel Godoy, the Prince of the Peace, 708.—George Baker, 708.—M. de Savigny, 708.—Archbishop Wingard, 708.—Samuel Beaseley, author of The Roué, 708.—H. P. Borrell, 708.—James Tyler, R. D., 708.—Emma Martin, 709.—Yar Mohammed, 709.—Alexander Lee, 710.—Prince Frederick of Prussia, 710.

Exile's Sunset Song.—By John R. Thompson, 26

Egypt, The last Joseph in, 185

English in America.—By the author of "Sam Slick," 186

Egypt under Abbas Pasha,—By Bayle St. John, 259

Earthquake in Europe, The Last, 467

Fleischmann, Herr, on Life in America, 158

Fleischmann, Mr., on Life in America, 158

Fallen Genius.—By Miss Alice Carey, 288

Fallen Genius.—By Alice Carey, 288

Flying Artist, 398

Franklin, Inedited Letter of Dr., 472

Franklin, Unpublished Letter of Dr., 472

Fragments from a New Volume of Poems.—By Thomas L. Beddoes, 550

French Flower Girl, The, 641

Fragments of a Poem.—By H. W. Parker, 189

Great Fair at Rochester. (Fifteen Engravings.) 438

Gold-Quartz and Society in California, 472

Greenwood.—By Maunsell B. Field, 476

Ghost Story of Normandy, 512

Gerard, and the Baron Munchausen, in Africa, M. Jules, 587

Gerard and Baron Munchausen in Africa, M. Jules, 587

German Handbook of America, 598

Gondolettas: Two Songs.—By Alice B. Neal, 597

Hahn-Hahn, The Countess Ida, 17

Hahn-Hahn, Countess Ida, 17

History of a Rose, 117

Huntington, Dr., on Copyright, 308

Dr. Huntington on Copyright, 308

Heroines of History: Laura.—By Mary E. Hewitt, 480

Habits of Frederick the Great, 528

Herman Melville's New Novel of "The Whale," 602

Historical Review of the Month.—The United States: Elections, &c., 567.—Foreign Relations, 567.—Mexico, 568.—South American States, 568.—Great Britain, 568.—France, Italy, Russia, &c., 569.—The East, &c., 569.—The American Elections, 704.—Kossuth in England, 704.—Europe, and the East, 704.

Historical Review of the Month.—The United States: Elections, etc., 567.—Foreign Relations, 567.—Mexico, 568.—South American States, 568.—Great Britain, 568.—France, Italy, Russia, etc., 569.—The East, etc., 569.—The American Elections, 704.—Kossuth in England, 704.—Europe and the East, 704.

Imaginary Conversations at Warsaw.—By Walter Savage Landor, 98

In the Harem.—By R. H. Stoddard, 164

Illustrations of Motives, 280

Motives Illustrated, 280

International Copyright, 386

Jules Janin and the Paris Feuilletonistes, 18

Jungle Recollection.—By Captain Hardbargain, 110

Jungle Memories.—By Captain Hardbargain, 110

Jews in China, 264

Jefferson, Mr., on the Study of the Anglo-Saxon Language, 468

Landscapes, Swedish.—By Hans Christian Andersen, 20

Swedish Landscapes.—By Hans Christian Andersen, 20

London, Paris, and New-York, 100

London, Paris, and New York, 100

Ladies' Fashions. (Illustrated.) 142, 288, 431, 575, 710

Ladies' Fashions. (Illustrated.) __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, 288, 431, 575, 710

Latham, on the People of the Mosketo Kingdom, 471

My Novel: or, Varieties in English Life.—By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, 80, 243, 371, 534, 688

My Novel: or, Varieties in English Life.—By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, 243, 371, 534, 688

Moir, David Macbeth.—By George Gilfillan, 233[Pg viii]

Music.—By H. W. Parker, 327

Meeting of the Vegetarians, 402

Vegetarians' Meeting, 402

Newspaper Poets: Charles Weldon, 201

Nauvoo and Deseret: The Mormons. (Six Engravings.) 577

Noctes Amicitiæ.—English Opinions of the "American Department" in the Crystal Palace, 563.—Ridiculous Convention of Women, at Worcester, 563.—Bloomerism in London, 563.—Defenders of the Catholic Practices, 563.—Anecdote of Tom Cook, 563.—Capital Anecdote of Charles XII, 564.—A Superfluous Amount of Name, 564.—G. P. R. James in the Law Courts, 564.—Nursery Rhymes, 564.—The London Printers, 564.—The Japanese and French Civilization, 565.—Extraordinary Suicides in Paris, 565, &c.

October.—By Alice Carey, 371

Obelisks of Egypt, 469

Old Man's Death, The.—By Alice Carey, 529

Ottoman History, The Three Eras of, 643

Parodies, A Chapter of, 23

Passages in the Life of a Dutch Poet, 65

Phantasy, A.—By R. H. Stoddard, 169

Paris, Reminiscences of, from 1817 to 1851, 182

Poulailler, the Robber, 216

Poulailler, the Thief, 216

Questions from a worn-out Lorgnette.—By O. A. Hall, 187

Reminiscence, A.—By Alice Carey, 360

Remarkable Prophecy, 474

Revolutions in Russia.—By Alexander Dumas, 616

Story Without A Name.—By G. P. R. James, Esq., (Concluded), 28, 189, 316, 487, 604

Story Without A Name.—By G. P. R. James, Esq., (Concluded), __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, 189, 316, 487, 604

Stuart of Dunleath, 119

Stuart of Dunleath, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

Sailors, Institutions for, in New-York. (Six Engravings.) 145

Scenes in the Old Dominion (Six Engravings.) 151

Styles of Philosophies.—By Rev. J. R. Morell, 180

Shadow of Lucy Hutchinson, 239

Saxe, John G., and his Satires. (Portrait.) 289

Sandwich Islands To-Day. (Two Engravings.) 298

Sandwich Islands Today. (Two Images.) 298

Shadow of Margery Paston, 363

Saint Escarpacio's Bones.—From the French, 483

Saint Escarpacio's Bones. — *From the French*, 483

Sonnets: Truth—The Future, 499

Sliding Scales of Despair, 592

Songs of the Cascade.—By A. Oakey Hall, 602

Spendthrift's Daughter: In Six Chapters, The, 664

Scientific Discoveries and Proceedings of Learned Societies.—The British Association, 137.—Asiatic Society, 137.—Paris Geographical Society, 137.—Royal Society of Literature, 137.—Paris Academy of Sciences, 138.—London Royal Institution, 138.—Berlin Academy of Sciences, 138.—Improvements in Photographs, 138.—Colonel Rawlinson on the last Discoveries of Nineveh and Babylon, 426.—New attempts to discover Perpetual Motion, 426.—Document respecting the discovery of Steam Navigation at Venice, 427.—English Athletes, compared with Greek Statues, 427.—Discoveries at Memphis, 427.—Scientific Conventions, 427.—The Russian Academy, 571.—Scientific Congress in France, 571.—Paris Academy of Sciences, 571.—Ethnological Society, 571.

Scientific Discoveries and Proceedings of Learned Societies.—The British Association, 137.—Asiatic Society, 137.—Paris Geographical Society, 137.—Royal Society of Literature, 137.—Paris Academy of Sciences, 138.—London Royal Institution, 138.—Berlin Academy of Sciences, 138.—Improvements in Photographs, 138.—Colonel Rawlinson on the latest Discoveries of Nineveh and Babylon, 426.—New efforts to discover Perpetual Motion, 426.—Document regarding the discovery of Steam Navigation in Venice, 427.—English Athletes, compared to Greek Statues, 427.—Discoveries at Memphis, 427.—Scientific Conventions, 427.—The Russian Academy, 571.—Scientific Congress in France, 571.—Paris Academy of Sciences, 571.—Ethnological Society, 571.

Trot on the Island.—By C. Astor Bristed, 54

To the Author of Eothen.—By Barry Cornwall, 315

The King and the Outlaw.—By an Old Contributor, 482

Verses.—By R. H. Stoddard, 22

Visit to the "Maid of Athens," 116

Visit to the late Dr. Lingard.—By Rev. J. C. Richmond, 172

Veneer, Fraser's Magazine on English, 306

Visit to the Aberdeen Comb-Works, 856

Visit to the Aberdeen Comb Factory, 856

Vagaries of the Imagination, 638

Veiled Picture: A Traveller's Story, The, 648

Veiled Picture: A Traveler's Story, The, 648

Watering Places, A Glance at the. (Fifteen Engravings.) 4

Watering Places, A Quick Look at the. (Fifteen Images.) 4

Webster, Noah, LL. D. (Portrait and birthplace.) 12

Webster, Noah, LL. D. (Picture and place of birth.) 12

Waterloo, Tricks on Travellers at, 164

Waterloo, Tricks on Travelers at, 164

Wives of Southey, Coleridge, and Lovell, 241

Wallace, William Ross. (Portrait.) 444

Windsor Castle and its Associations. (Two Engravings.) 585

[Pg 1]

THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. IV. NEW-YORK, AUGUST 1, 1851. No. I.

REV. CALVIN COLTON.

Mr. Colton is a man of very decided abilities, voluminous and various in their manifestation, and assiduously cultivated during a long life, in which he has never failed of the curiosity, ambition, and industry of a learner. The untiring freshness and hopefulness of his spirit is shown by his undertaking the study of the French language not more than three or four years ago, and obtaining such a mastery of it as to read with delight its most abstruse authors, and to preach in it with fluency and even with eloquence. It is characteristic of him that he is always earnest, and that he considers whatever he has to do worthy of his best abilities, so that in writing of theology, economy, polity, or manners, he arrays in order for each particular subject all the forces of his understanding, and makes its discussion their measure and illustration. He has been in an eminent degree devoted to literature as a profession, and although he has produced works which may be deemed unfortunate in design or defective in execution, it must be admitted that he is entitled to a highly respectable position as a thinker and as a writer, and that in opinion and in affairs he has exercised a steady and large influence.

Mr. Colton is a man of strong abilities, diverse and extensive in their expression, and has diligently cultivated them throughout his long life, maintaining the curiosity, ambition, and hard work of a learner. His relentless enthusiasm and optimism are evident in his decision to start learning French only three or four years ago, achieving such proficiency that he can enjoy reading its most complex authors and even preach in it with fluency and eloquence. It's typical of him to be earnest and to see everything he does as worthy of his best efforts, so when writing about theology, economics, politics, or social behavior, he brings together all his intellectual resources for each topic, using them to frame and illustrate his discussions. He has been profoundly dedicated to literature as a profession, and while he has produced works that may be considered flawed in concept or execution, it's important to recognize that he deserves a highly respected place as a thinker and writer, and that he has consistently wielded significant influence in both opinions and actions.

He was born in Long Meadow, Massachusetts, graduated at Yale College in 1812, studied divinity at Andover, and in 1815 took orders in the Presbyterian church. For several years he was settled in the village of Batavia in western New-York, but his voice[Pg 2] failing in 1826, he became a contributor to several of the principal periodicals occupied with religion and learning, and in the summer of 1831, after an extended tour through the western states and territories, proceeded to London, as a correspondent of the New-York Observer.

He was born in Long Meadow, Massachusetts, graduated from Yale College in 1812, studied theology at Andover, and in 1815 was ordained in the Presbyterian church. For several years, he settled in the village of Batavia in western New York, but after his voice[Pg 2] failed in 1826, he became a contributor to several key periodicals focused on religion and education. In the summer of 1831, after an extensive tour through the western states and territories, he went to London as a correspondent for the New-York Observer.

In England, he led a life of remarkable literary activity. In 1832 he published a Manual for Emigrants to America, which had a large sale among the middling classes; and The History and Character of American Revivals of Religion, of which there were two or three editions. In 1833, in a volume entitled The Americans, by an American in London, he replied, with an unanswerable display of facts, to the libels on this country by British travellers and reviewers; and published The American Cottager, a religious narrative. A Tour of the American Lakes and among the Indians of the North-West Territory, in two volumes, and Church and State in America, a vindication of the religious character of the country and the voluntary principle for the support of religion, in reply to the Bishop of London, who had endeavored to show that the United States were going back to paganism because the church was not here connected with the state.

In England, he had an incredibly active literary life. In 1832, he published a Manual for Emigrants to America, which sold well among the middle class, and The History and Character of American Revivals of Religion, of which there were two or three editions. In 1833, in a book titled The Americans, by an American in London, he countered the negative claims about the U.S. made by British travelers and critics with an undeniable presentation of facts; he also published The American Cottager, a religious story. He wrote A Tour of the American Lakes and among the Indians of the North-West Territory, in two volumes, and Church and State in America, a defense of the country’s religious character and the voluntary principle for supporting religion, in response to the Bishop of London, who had argued that the United States were regressing to paganism because the church wasn’t tied to the state here.

Returning to New-York, in 1835, he published Four Years in Great Britain, in two volumes, which were soon after reprinted, with some additions, in a more popular form. In 1836 he gave to the public anonymously, Protestant Jesuitism, a criticism of the constitution, extreme opinion, and unwise action of many of the benevolent and religious societies; and having taken orders in the Episcopal church, Thoughts on the Religious State of the Country, and Reasons for preferring Episcopacy, a work which was much read and the cause of much critical observation in Great Britain as well as in the United States.

Returning to New York in 1835, he published Four Years in Great Britain in two volumes, which were later reprinted with some additions in a more accessible format. In 1836, he anonymously released Protestant Jesuitism, a critique of the constitution, extreme views, and misguided actions of many benevolent and religious organizations. After being ordained in the Episcopal Church, he wrote Thoughts on the Religious State of the Country, and Reasons for Preferring Episcopacy, a work that gained significant attention and sparked much critical discussion in both Great Britain and the United States.

From that time Mr. Colton has written very little on any subject intimately connected with religion, but directing his attention to public affairs, has been as conspicuous in the state as he was previously in the church. In 1838 he published Abolition a Sedition, and Abolition and Colonization Contrasted, in which he contended with equal earnestness and ability that the entire subject of slavery is beyond the limits of the proper action of the national government, and that there is no justification of its discussion, except in the states where slavery is established, or for the wise and really philanthropic purpose of promoting African Colonization. In 1839 he again took up the argument of our social relations with Great Britain, in a work written in Philadelphia, but published in London, under the title of A Voice from America to England, By an American Gentleman. The plan was judicious: it was not so much to express opinions as to state facts which should compel opinions in the adverse audience he addressed. While mainly defensive, he was at the same time bravely critical. He contended that in its constitution our government was republican and not democratic, but that the extraordinary force of public opinion among us has made it democratic in fact. A large portion of the work was devoted to the several ecclesiastical polities existing here, which he treated with singular freedom and originality, so that the frequent impertinences of ignorant laymen and obtrusively-meddling women, in the affairs of churches, rendering the clerical profession humiliating and difficult to a person of manly character and cultivation, were stated without any hesitation or attempt at concealment. The entire performance is still attractive for frequent sound observation upon institutions, judicious criticism of manners, happy illustration, and good humor, and its opportune appearance was advantageous to the best fame of the country.

Since then, Mr. Colton has written very little about religion, focusing instead on public affairs, where he has been as prominent in the state as he was previously in the church. In 1838, he published Abolition a Sedition and Abolition and Colonization Contrasted, arguing with equal passion and skill that the entire issue of slavery is beyond the proper scope of the national government, and that discussing it is justified only in the states where slavery exists or for the wise and genuinely philanthropic purpose of promoting African Colonization. In 1839, he revisited our social relations with Great Britain in a work written in Philadelphia but published in London, titled A Voice from America to England, By an American Gentleman. His approach was thoughtful; he aimed not just to share opinions but to present facts that would compel opposing views from his audience. While mainly defensive, he was also boldly critical. He argued that our government is fundamentally republican rather than democratic, but the overwhelming strength of public opinion has made it functionally democratic. A significant portion of the work addressed the various church governance systems in the U.S., which he discussed with notable frankness and originality. He openly stated the frequent annoyances caused by ignorant laypeople and overly intrusive women in church matters, which made the clerical profession humiliating and challenging for someone with integrity and education. The whole work remains engaging for its insightful observations on institutions, thoughtful criticism of social behaviors, effective illustrations, and good humor, and its timely release enhanced the positive reputation of the country.

In 1840 he made a more distinct and powerful impression than ever before, by the publication of The Crisis of the Country, American Jacobinism, and One Presidential Term, a series of tracts under the name of "Junius," which were circulated in all the states by thousands and hundreds of thousands, and were supposed to have had great influence in the overthrow of the democratic administration. In 1842 he edited at Washington a paper called The True Whig, and in 1843 and 1844 he brought out a second series, embracing ten publications, still more popular than the first, of the Junius Tracts.

In 1840, he made a stronger and more impactful impression than ever before with the release of The Crisis of the Country, American Jacobinism, and One Presidential Term, a series of pamphlets under the name "Junius." These were distributed by the thousands and hundreds of thousands across all the states and were believed to have significantly influenced the downfall of the democratic administration. In 1842, he edited a newspaper in Washington called The True Whig, and in 1843 and 1844, he published a second series that included ten issues, which were even more popular than the first, of the Junius Tracts.

In the autumn of the latter year, when the fortunes of the whig party seemed to be entirely broken, when full half the nation felt a personal grief for the defeat of a leader, added to the mortification of political discomfiture, Mr. Colton determined to write the life of the chief he had followed with unwavering admiration and unfaltering activity. Casting aside all other cares, so that his every thought might be given to the work until its completion, he set out for Kentucky, where he was sure of the friendly assistance of Mr. Clay in whatever concerned the investigation of facts. In November, 1844, he reached Lexington, where Mr. Clay laid open to him the stores of his correspondence, and the documentary history of his career. The work was finished in the spring of 1846, and published in two large octavos; and so great was the demand for it, that the first impression of five thousand copies was sold in six months. It is unquestionably an able performance, and from the circumstances under which it was composed and the conclusiveness of some of its arguments it is probable that it will always be regarded as a valuable portion of the material for contemporary political history; but, it appears to me very unequal in execution, and signally unfortunate in design, if considered either as a biography or a history. For the subjective rather[Pg 3] than the chronological arrangement of the facts in it there is however this defence, that it rendered the work much more easy of citation, and therefore more valuable as a magazine for partisan controversy. The influence it obtained may be illustrated by reference to a single point: for a quarter of a century the staple of declamation against Mr. Clay, the opposition which thrice cost him the presidency, was his supposed bargain with John Quincy Adams; but since the appearance of Mr. Colton's exposition of this subject any person in an intelligent society would forfeit the consideration given to a gentleman who should repeat the charge.

In the fall of that year, when the Whig Party seemed completely defeated, and half the country felt a personal loss over the failure of their leader, Mr. Colton decided to write the life of the man he had followed with unwavering admiration and dedication. Putting aside all other responsibilities so he could focus entirely on this project until it was finished, he traveled to Kentucky, where he knew he could count on Mr. Clay's support for any fact-finding efforts. In November 1844, he arrived in Lexington, where Mr. Clay shared his correspondence and the documented history of his career. The work was completed in the spring of 1846 and published in two large volumes; the demand was so high that the first print run of five thousand copies sold out in six months. It is undoubtedly a strong work, and given the circumstances of its creation and some of its compelling arguments, it will likely always be considered a valuable contribution to contemporary political history. However, I find it quite uneven in execution and unfortunately flawed in design, whether viewed as a biography or a historical account. One justification for the focus on subjective rather than chronological arrangement is that it made the work easier to cite, thus more useful as a resource for partisan debate. The influence it gained can be shown by one key example: for 25 years, the main charge against Mr. Clay—the opposition that cost him the presidency three times—was his alleged deal with John Quincy Adams. But since Mr. Colton's exploration of this issue, anyone in an educated society would lose respect for someone who repeated that accusation.

For several years the attention of Mr. Colton had been more and more attracted to the literature and philosophy of political economy. In 1846 he printed his first work in which it is formally treated, The Rights of Labor, in which he asserted, illustrated, and with unanswerable logic vindicated the American doctrine of the privileges and dignity of Industry; and in 1848 he gave to the world his last and most important work, Public Economy for the United States. From the formation of the first system of society the subjects embraced in this production have employed the most powerful intellects of all nations. But though illustrated by the liveliest genius and the profoundest reflection, they have not until recently assumed even the forms of science. We cannot tell what formulæ of economical truth passed from existence in the lost books of Aristotle. The father of the peripatetic philosophy undoubtedly brought to public economics the severe method which enabled him to construct so much of the everlasting science of which the history goes back to his times; but whatever direction he gave to the subject, by the investigation of its ultimate principles and their phenomena, his successors, and the writers upon it since the revival of learning, have generally been guided by empirical laws, which in an especial degree have obtained in regard to the economy of commerce. Scarcely any of the literature or reflection upon the subject has gone behind the bold hypotheses of free trade theorists, which have been as unsubstantial as the fanciful systems of the universe swept from existence by the demonstrations of Newton. Not only have economical systems generally been made up of unproven hypotheses, but they have rarely evinced any such clear apprehension and constructive ability as are essential in the formation and statement of principles; and down to the chaos of Mr. Mills's last essay there is scarcely a volume on political economy which rewards the wearied attention with any more than a vague understanding of the shadowy design that existed in the author's brain.

For several years, Mr. Colton became increasingly interested in the literature and philosophy of political economy. In 1846, he published his first work addressing this topic, The Rights of Labor, where he asserted, illustrated, and with convincing logic defended the American belief in the privileges and dignity of labor. Then, in 1848, he presented his most notable work, Public Economy for the United States. Since the establishment of the first social systems, the themes covered in this work have engaged the greatest minds across all nations. However, despite the creativity and deep thought behind these subjects, they had only recently started to take on a scientific form. We cannot know what theories of economic truth existed in the lost writings of Aristotle. The founder of peripatetic philosophy definitely brought a rigorous approach to public economics, which allowed him to construct significant parts of the everlasting science that dates back to his time; yet whatever direction he gave to the field, through the exploration of its fundamental principles and phenomena, his successors and writers since the Renaissance have mostly relied on empirical laws, particularly concerning commercial economy. Little of the literature or thought on the subject has gone beyond the bold assumptions of free trade theorists, which have proven as unsubstantiated as the whimsical universe theories that Newton’s demonstrations dispelled. Not only have economic systems generally been composed of untested hypotheses, but they have also rarely shown the clarity and constructive skill essential for laying out and articulating principles; up until the confusion of Mr. Mill's last essay, there is hardly a book on political economy that rewards the tired reader with anything more than a vague understanding of the unclear ideas that were in the author's mind.

In the eminently original and scientific work of Mr. Colton we see economy subjected to fundamental and ultimate methods of investigation of which the results have a mathematical certainty. We have new facts, new reasonings, new deductions; and if the paramount ideas are not altogether original, they are discovered by original processes, and their previous existence is but an illustration of the truth that the instinctive perspicacity of the common mind often surpasses the logical faculty in recognizing laws before they are discovered from elements and relations. Mr. Colton has not rejected the title "political economy" because he proposed to enter a different field, or because the subject and argument have no relation to politics, but chiefly because the term has been so much abused in the rude agitation of what are commonly called politics, that he does not think it comports with the dignity of the theme; and the second part of his title is adopted from a conviction that the economical principles of states are to be deduced from their separate experience and adapted to their individual condition. The task which he proposed to himself is, the exhibition of the merits of the protective and free trade systems as they apply to the United States. He expresses at the outset his opinion that the settlement of the question is one of the most desirable, and will be one of the most important results which remain to be achieved in the progress of the country; and we can assure him that the accomplishment of it will be rewarded by the best approval of these times, and an enduring name. The second chapter of his work is a statement of the new points which it embraces. By new points he does not mean that all thus described are entirely original, though many of them are so; but that on account of the importance of the places he has assigned them as compared with those they occupy in other works of the kind, they are entitled to be presented as new. Many of them involve fundamental and pervading principles that have not hitherto appeared in speculations on the subject, but which are destined to an important influence in its discussion. Some of the most prominent are, that public economy is the application of knowledge, derived from experience, to given positions, interests and institutions, for the increase of wealth; that it has never been reduced to a science, and that the propositions of which it has been for the most part composed, down to this time, are empirical; that protective duties in the United States are not taxes, and that a protective system rescues the country from a system of foreign taxation; that popular education is a fundamental element of public economy; that freedom is a thing of commercial value, and that the history of freedom for all time, shows it to be identical with protection.

In the highly original and scientific work of Mr. Colton, we see economics subjected to fundamental and ultimate methods of investigation that yield mathematically certain results. We have new facts, new reasoning, and new conclusions; and while the key ideas may not be entirely original, they are discovered through original processes, illustrating the truth that the instinctive insight of the general public often surpasses logical reasoning in recognizing laws before they are formally established from elements and relationships. Mr. Colton has not rejected the title "political economy" because he intends to enter a different field or because the subject and argument lack relevance to politics, but mainly because the term has been so misused in the rough debates commonly referred to as politics that he believes it does not align with the dignity of the subject; and the second part of his title stems from a belief that the economic principles of states should be derived from their individual experiences and tailored to their specific conditions. His goal is to showcase the advantages of both protective and free trade systems as they apply to the United States. He expresses at the outset his belief that resolving this issue is one of the most desirable outcomes and will be one of the most significant achievements in the country’s progress; and we assure him that achieving it will earn him the greatest appreciation of our time and a lasting legacy. The second chapter of his work outlines the new points it addresses. By new points, he doesn’t mean that all of them are entirely original, though many are, but rather that their importance due to the places he has assigned them, compared to their positions in other works of this kind, justifies presenting them as new. Many involve fundamental and pervasive principles that have not appeared in previous discussions on the topic but are set to have a significant impact on its discourse. Some of the most notable include: that public economy is the application of knowledge gained from experience to specific circumstances, interests, and institutions to increase wealth; that it has never been established as a science; and that the propositions it has largely consisted of until now are empirical; that protective duties in the United States are not taxes and that a protective system shields the country from a foreign taxation system; that popular education is a fundamental aspect of public economy; that freedom has commercial value, and that throughout history, freedom has been synonymous with protection.

Recently the renewal of his voice has enabled Mr. Colton to devote more attention to the favorite pursuit of his life, and he is a very frequent preacher, in French or English. He resides in New-York.[Pg 4]

Recently, the revival of his voice has allowed Mr. Colton to focus more on the passion of his life, and he frequently preaches in both French and English. He lives in New York.[Pg 4]

A GLANCE AT THE WATERING PLACES.

THE YOUNG MARRIED GENTLEMAN WHO "COULD NOT POSSIBLY GO TO THE SPRINGS."

THE YOUNG MARRIED MAN WHO "JUST COULDN'T POSSIBLY GO TO THE SPRINGS."

All the gay world of the cities, and even of the villages and country homes, who can do so, by the first of August are "going," or "gone," as Mr. John Keese says of a last invoice, to the watering places, and other summer resorts, which serve as fairs for the disposal of valueless time and "remainders" of marriageable daughters. With the crowds intent on speculation are a few invalids, a few students of human nature, and the common proportion of mere lookers-on, who have no purpose but to be amused. Times have changed, manners have changed, since Paulding gave us his Mirror for Travellers, though Saratoga still maintains the ascendency she was then acquiring, and for certain inalienable natural advantages is likely to do so for a part at least of every season.

Everyone from the lively social scene of the cities, and even from the villages and countryside, who can make it, by the beginning of August is "heading out" or "has already left," as Mr. John Keese describes a final shipment, to the vacation spots and other summer destinations, which act as venues for wasting time and showcasing available single daughters. Among the crowds focused on opportunity are a few people struggling with health issues, some observers of human behavior, and the usual mix of just onlookers who are there for entertainment. Times have changed, and so have social norms, since Paulding wrote his Mirror for Travellers, although Saratoga still holds the popularity it was gaining back then, and for some essential natural perks is likely to maintain that appeal for at least part of each season.

New-York is the grand rendezvous: once settled in our hotels, the splendid Astor, the comfortable American, the busy Irving, the gay New-York, or the quiet Union Place or Clarendon, the stranger has little desire to go further, until the last and imperative demands of Fashion compel him to abandon the study of those noble institutions we described in the last International, and to forego the observation of those great public works in which the energy of our rich men has flowered, or those appointments of Providence which render New-York a rival of Dublin, Naples, or Constantinople, in scenic magnificence.

New York is the ultimate meeting place: once settled in our hotels, whether it's the luxurious Astor, the cozy American, the bustling Irving, the lively New York, or the peaceful Union Place or Clarendon, visitors usually have little desire to venture further, until the strong demands of Fashion force them to stop exploring the impressive institutions we discussed in the last International, and to skip observing the fantastic public works that showcase the energy of our wealthy individuals, or those aspects of nature that make New York a competitor to Dublin, Naples, or Constantinople in scenic beauty.

Many indeed who come from distant parts[Pg 5] of the country, linger all summer in the vicinity of the city, in the hottest days quitting Broadway for a sail or drive, to the Bath House, Rockaway, Coney Island, New Brighton, Long Branch, or Fort Hamilton, where they dine, or perhaps stay over night. At Fort Hamilton, indeed, Mr. Clapp is apt to keep those who venture into his hotel, with its luxurious tables, pleasant rooms, cool breezes from the ocean, and fair sights in all directions, for a much longer time; and every one of these places, in the hot months, has attractions that would make a visitor at the Spas of France, Germany, or Italy, could he wake in them, think he had eluded the watchful guard St. Peter keeps at the gateway of another retirement, to the which, it may be feared, the gay world has far less anxiety to go.

Many who come from far away[Pg 5] stay all summer near the city, escaping the heat on Broadway for a boat ride or a drive to the Bath House, Rockaway, Coney Island, New Brighton, Long Branch, or Fort Hamilton, where they have dinner or even spend the night. At Fort Hamilton, Mr. Clapp tends to keep guests at his hotel longer, with its fancy dining, nice rooms, cool ocean breezes, and beautiful views all around. Each of these places, during the hot months, offers attractions that would make a visitor from the Spas of France, Germany, or Italy feel like they’ve escaped the watchful gaze St. Peter keeps at the entrance to another retreat, which, unfortunately, the lively world seems less eager to visit.

Fort Hamilton House, Long Island.

PROPOSED SUMMER HOTEL AT THE HIGHLANDS OF NEVERSINK.

Ascending the Hudson, from the social metropolis of this continent, to which all "capitals" of states or nations, from Patagonia to Greenland, are in some way subject and tributary, the traveller finds the palace in which he rides, continually near embowered pavilions for the public, and clusters of private residences, which but add to their enjoyableness.[Pg 6] Cozzens's Hotel at West Point, is perhaps as well known as any house of the same class in the world, and its picturesque situation, as well as the admirable manner in which it is kept, will preserve for it a place in the list of favorite resorts. The Catskill Mountain House, in the midst of grand and peculiar scenery, on the verge of a rock two thousand and five hundred feet above the Hudson—seen with its various fleets at a distance from the long colonnade—is thronged even more than West Point. There are other pleasant houses on the river, and many turn from its various points to visit newer or less crowded places than Saratoga along the lines of the western railroads, as Trenton Falls, Sharon Springs, or Avon, or further still, the towns by the borders of the great lakes.

Traveling up the Hudson River, starting from the bustling metropolis that serves as the heart of the continent, where all state and national "capitals," from Patagonia to Greenland, are in some way influenced and connected, the traveler frequently comes across beautiful public pavilions and charming clusters of private homes that enhance the experience.[Pg 6] Cozzens's Hotel at West Point is probably just as famous as any hotel of its kind in the world, and its stunning location, along with the excellent service, ensures it remains a popular destination. The Catskill Mountain House, set against breathtaking and unique scenery on a cliff two thousand five hundred feet above the Hudson—overlooking its various boats from the long colonnade—is even more crowded than West Point. There are other nice hotels along the river, and many tourists choose to venture to newer or less crowded spots than Saratoga, such as Trenton Falls, Sharon Springs, or Avon, or even further to the towns near the Great Lakes.

Catskill Mountain House.

Hotel at Trenton Falls.

Saratoga is now for several weeks the gayest scene of all. At the United States Hotel,[Pg 7] with its fine grounds, are the leaders of fashion; at Congress Hall, with its clean and quiet rooms and unsurpassed cuisine, are representatives of the substantial families that have had grandfathers, and in the dozen or twenty smaller houses about the village are "all sorts and conditions of men," and eke of women. With drives, dinners, flirtations, drinking of drinks, and, once in a long while, imbibitions of a little congress water, all goes merry as a marriage bell—except with ladies of uncertain ages who are disappointed of that blessed music—until the Grand Ball gives signal for departure to other places.

Saratoga has been the most lively scene for several weeks now. At the United States Hotel,[Pg 7], with its beautiful grounds, you'll find the fashion leaders; at Congress Hall, with its neat and peaceful rooms and top-notch food, are representatives from established families with grandfathers; and in the dozen or so smaller homes around the village are "all sorts and conditions of men" and women as well. With drives, dinners, flirting, drinks, and, occasionally, a sip of congress water, everything is as cheerful as a wedding bell—except for the ladies of uncertain ages who feel let down by the lack of that delightful music—until the Grand Ball signals it's time to move on to other places.

SARATOGA SPRINGS.

[Pg 8]

The Notch House, White Mountains.

From Saratoga parties go northward to Lake George, (for which region, of the most romantic beauty, they should be prepared by a perusal of Dudley Bean's admirable sketch of its revolutionary history;) and down the Champlain toward Montreal, whence they return by way of the Ontario and Niagara Falls (where our engraver Orr's Pictorial Guide Book is indispensable to the best enjoyment), or go through the glorious hills of northern Vermont and New Hampshire to the White Mountains. All the last grand region has been most truthfully and effectively represented in a small folio volume of drawings from nature, by Isaac Sprague, described by William Oakes, and published in Boston by Crosby & Nichols. We commend the book to summer tourists.

From Saratoga, travelers head north to Lake George, a region of stunning beauty that they should familiarize themselves with by reading Dudley Bean's excellent account of its revolutionary history. They can also travel down the Champlain towards Montreal, returning via Ontario and Niagara Falls, where Orr's Pictorial Guide Book is essential for the best experience. Alternatively, they might journey through the beautiful hills of northern Vermont and New Hampshire to the White Mountains. This breathtaking area has been accurately and effectively captured in a small folio of nature drawings by Isaac Sprague, described by William Oakes and published in Boston by Crosby & Nichols. We recommend this book to summer tourists.

Niagara Falls.

[Pg 9]

Ocean House, Newport.

A considerable proportion of the guests who are at Saratoga in the earlier part of the season, proceed to Newport in time for the Fancy Ball which every year closes the campaign there. Newport increases in attractions. Its historical associations, fine atmosphere, beautiful position, and facilities for sea-bathing, fishing, sailing, riding, and other amusements, are continually drawing to its neighborhood new families, whose cottages add much to the beauty of the town, as they themselves to the pleasantness of its society; and for transient visitors no place in the world has better hotels or boarding-houses.

A large number of guests at Saratoga during the earlier part of the season head to Newport in time for the Fancy Ball that wraps up the summer there. Newport keeps gaining appeal. Its rich history, great atmosphere, stunning location, and options for swimming, fishing, sailing, riding, and other activities consistently attract new families to the area. Their cottages enhance the town's beauty, just as they contribute to the enjoyment of its social scene. For short-term visitors, no place in the world offers better hotels or boarding houses.

[Pg 10]

White Sulphur Springs, Virginia.

After the season closes at Newport, and from her Ocean House the last unwilling traveller has taken his way, strewn with regrets, many linger at the more quiet summer haunts scattered through New-England and New-York, particularly at the rural and luxurious hotel of Lebanon—a country palace which a king might covet—filled always with good society; or go southward to the Virginia Springs, which have many attractions peculiar to themselves, and with their unique pastimes, their tournaments, field sports, &c., happily vary a summer's life commenced at the more northern watering places.

After the summer season wraps up in Newport, and the last reluctant traveler has left from her Ocean House, many people stick around at the quieter summer spots scattered throughout New England and New York. One popular choice is the rural and luxurious hotel in Lebanon—a country retreat that even a king would envy—always filled with great company. Others head south to the Virginia Springs, which have their own unique attractions and activities, like tournaments and field sports, providing a refreshing change to a summer that started at the northern resorts.

COLUMBIA HALL, LEBANON SPRINGS.

[Pg 11]

MOULTRIE HOUSE, SULLIVAN'S ISLAND, NEAR CHARLESTON.

Moultrie House, Sullivan's Island, close to Charleston.

The South Carolinians have this year seceded from the northern resorts, and those who do not go from Charleston to the up-country or to Georgia, may well be content with Captain Payne's spacious and splendid hotel on Sullivan's Island—the coolest and most agreeable place by the seaside we have visited, north or south, for years. From the south, and indeed from all parts of the country, parties go more and more every year to the Mammoth Cave, (of which we have in store a particular and profusely illustrated account), and up the great rivers and lakes of the west, all along which, first-class hotels, steamboats, &c., render travel as easy and delightful as on the old summer routes in the middle and eastern states.

The people of South Carolina have this year decided to break away from the northern resorts, and those who don't travel from Charleston to the up-country or to Georgia can be quite happy with Captain Payne's spacious and beautiful hotel on Sullivan's Island—it's the coolest and most pleasant seaside spot we've visited, north or south, in years. Each year, more and more groups from the south and indeed from all over the country are heading to the Mammoth Cave (which we plan to cover in detail with lots of illustrations), and exploring the great rivers and lakes in the west, where first-class hotels, steamboats, etc., make traveling as easy and enjoyable as the traditional summer routes in the mid and eastern states.

—Thus we have taken our readers—some of whom haply cannot this season go by other ways—the circuit of the principal scenes of enjoyment to which the denizens of the hot cities are intent to escape through July, August, and September. If any have till this time hesitated where to go, possibly we have aided them to an election: certainly, we have led them cheaply along the fashionable tour.

—So we've taken our readers—some of whom might not be able to travel any other way this season—on a journey through the main places of enjoyment that people from the busy cities are eager to escape to during July, August, and September. If anyone has been unsure about where to go until now, we may have helped them make a choice: we’ve definitely shown them an affordable path along the popular tour.

Mammoth Cave Hotel.

[Pg 12]

NOAH WEBSTER.

The above portrait of the author of The American Spelling-Book, of which there have been sold thirty millions of copies, and of the American Dictionary, of which his publishers have hopes of selling as great a number, is very life-like; it is from a painting by Professor Morse, and the last time we saw the veteran scholar and schoolmaster, he wore the very expression caught by that always successful artist. Noah Webster's is the most universally familiar name in our history; every body, from first to second childhood, from end to end and side to side of the continent, knows it as well as his own; and he who made it so famous was worthy of his reputation.

The portrait above is of the author of The American Spelling-Book, which has sold thirty million copies, and the American Dictionary, for which his publishers hope to sell just as many. It's very lifelike; it’s from a painting by Professor Morse, and the last time we saw the veteran scholar and schoolmaster, he had the same expression captured by that consistently successful artist. Noah Webster is the most recognizable name in our history; everyone, from kids to the elderly, across the entire continent knows it as well as their own name, and the man who made it so famous truly lived up to his reputation.

Noah Webster was born in Hartford, Connecticut, October 16th, 1758. He was a descendant, in the fourth generation, of John Webster, one of the first settlers of Hartford, and afterwards governor of the colony. In 1774 he was admitted to Yale College. His studies were frequently interrupted during the Revolution, and for a time he himself served as a volunteer in the army, with his father and two brothers. He graduated, with honor, in 1778, in the same class with Joel Barlow, Oliver Wolcott, Uriah Tracy, and other distinguished men, and immediately opened a school, residing meanwhile in the family of Oliver Ellsworth, afterward chief justice of the United States. He soon commenced the study of the law, and was admitted to the bar in 1781; but the poverty and unsettled state of the country prevented any immediate success in the courts, and he resumed the business of instruction in 1782, at Goshen, Orange county, New-York. It was here that he began the preparation of books for the schools. He was led to do so in despondency of success in his profession; but it changed the course of his life. Having exhibited the rude sketch of his initial effort to Mr. Madison (afterwards President), and Dr. Stanhope Smith, Professor in Princeton college, he was encouraged by them to publish the "First Part of a Grammatical Institute of the English Language." The second and third parts of the series soon followed. A generation has not passed since some of these books were occasionally seen in New England. It may be that here and there a copy may still be lurking in the garret of some ancient family, or on the dusty shelves of a collector of antiquities. There is no more striking contrast than that suggested by a comparison of Webster's "Third Part," as it was familiarly styled, with the admirably printed school books now in every family. Webster's were the first school books published in the United States. In 1847 twenty-four million copies of the Spelling Book had been sold, and for several years the demand for it has been at the rate of a million a year.

Noah Webster was born in Hartford, Connecticut, on October 16, 1758. He was a fourth-generation descendant of John Webster, one of the first settlers of Hartford and later governor of the colony. In 1774, he was admitted to Yale College. His studies were often interrupted during the Revolution, and he served as a volunteer in the army with his father and two brothers for a time. He graduated with honors in 1778, in the same class as Joel Barlow, Oliver Wolcott, Uriah Tracy, and other notable figures, and immediately opened a school while living with Oliver Ellsworth, who later became chief justice of the United States. He soon began studying law and was admitted to the bar in 1781; however, the poverty and instability of the country hindered his success in the courts, so he returned to teaching in 1782 in Goshen, Orange County, New York. It was here that he started writing books for schools. This decision stemmed from his disappointment in his legal career but ended up changing the course of his life. After showing a rough draft of his first work to Mr. Madison (who later became President) and Dr. Stanhope Smith, a professor at Princeton, he was encouraged to publish the "First Part of a Grammatical Institute of the English Language." The second and third parts of the series quickly followed. It hasn’t been long since some of these books were occasionally found in New England. It’s possible that a copy may still be hiding in the attic of some old family or on the dusty shelves of an antiquities collector. The difference between Webster's "Third Part," as it was commonly known, and the well-printed school books available today is quite striking. Webster's were the first school books published in the United States. By 1847, twenty-four million copies of the Spelling Book had been sold, and for several years, the demand was about a million copies a year.

Dr. Webster did not confine his attention to his own publications; but having learned[Pg 13] that a copy of Winthrop's Journal was in the possession of Governor Trumbull, he caused it to be transcribed and published at his own risk. In this way was given to the public one of the most important memorials of our early history, and the first example furnished of printing the documents, and other materials, illustrative of our original experience. Mr. Webster was poor, and the country had never yet evinced any disposition to encourage enterprises of this sort; but he had always a confidence that it was safe to do what was right and necessary, and therefore disregarded in this, as in many other cases, the opinions of his friends that he would incur inevitable loss.

Dr. Webster didn’t just focus on his own publications; after finding out that Governor Trumbull had a copy of Winthrop's Journal, he arranged for it to be transcribed and published at his own expense. This way, one of the most important records of our early history was made available to the public, and it became the first instance of printing documents and other materials that reflect our original experiences. Mr. Webster was poor, and the country had never shown much interest in supporting projects like this; however, he always believed it was worthwhile to do what was right and necessary, so he ignored the opinions of his friends who warned him that he would face certain losses.

The peace of 1783 involved the whole country in political agitation, at certain points of which the calmest and wisest well nigh despaired of the republic. At that time the influence of the pen was greater than ever before. It seemed that the decision of principles which were to last for centuries was dependent on the force of a single argument, or the earnestness of one appeal. In this conflict the ambitious and self-relying spirit of Mr. Webster led him to take an active part, and from the peace till the close of Washington's administration, he was an industrious and efficient writer. No period in the history of this country was ever more critical; in none were so many principles subjected to experiment, in none was discussion more able, exhausting, and high-toned.

The peace of 1783 had the whole country in a political frenzy, and at times even the calmest and wisest people nearly lost hope in the republic. Back then, the power of the written word was greater than ever before. It felt like the future principles that would last for centuries depended on just a single argument or the passion of one appeal. In this struggle, Mr. Webster's ambitious and self-assured nature drove him to take an active role, and from the peace until the end of Washington's presidency, he was a dedicated and effective writer. No other time in this country's history was more crucial; there had never been so many principles tested, nor had discussions been so skilled, intense, and elevated.

The first topic which engaged Mr. Webster's attention was the decision of Congress to remunerate the army, then recently disbanded. This measure was violently opposed in all parts of the country. Meetings were held to organize resistance to the law, and two-thirds of the towns of Connecticut were represented in a convention for this purpose. Mr. Webster was then twenty-five years of age, but he contributed to the leading paper of the state a series of essays, signed HONORIUS, which induced a decisive change in the public feeling; and he received for his important services the thanks of Governor Trumbull. In the winter of 1784—5 he published a tract, Sketches of American Policy, in which he advanced the doctrine, that to meet the crisis and secure the prosperity of the whole country, a government should be organized that would act, not upon the states, but directly on the people, vesting in Congress full authority to execute its own acts. A copy of this essay was presented by the author to Washington, and it is believed that it contained the first distinct proposal of the new constitution. About the same time, he exerted himself successfully for what was then called an "International Copyright" law between the several sovereign states; and at a later period he spent a winter in Washington, to procure an extension of the period for which a copyright might be enjoyed. In 1785, he prepared a series of lectures on the English language, which he delivered in the larger towns, and in 1789 published, under the title of Dissertations on the English Language. In 1787-8, he spent the winter in Philadelphia, as a teacher. The convention called to frame the new constitution was in session during a part of the year, and after its labors were completed, Mr. Webster undertook to recommend the result to the then doubtful favor of the people. This he did in a tract, entitled An Examination of the Leading Principles of the Federal Constitution. In the next year he established in New-York The American Magazine, but it was unsuccessful. In 1789 he opened a law-office in Hartford, and his reputation, diligence, and abilities, insured business and profits. He was now married to Miss Greenleaf, of Boston, and enjoyed the advantage of one of the most brilliant literary circles of the country, consisting of Joel Barlow, Lemuel Hopkins, John Trumbull, and others who at that time were eminent for their capacities.

The first topic that caught Mr. Webster's attention was Congress's decision to pay the recently disbanded army. This move faced strong opposition throughout the country. Meetings were organized to resist the law, and two-thirds of the towns in Connecticut participated in a convention for this purpose. Mr. Webster was just twenty-five years old, but he contributed a series of essays under the pseudonym HONORIUS to the state's leading paper, which led to a significant shift in public opinion; he received thanks from Governor Trumbull for his important efforts. In the winter of 1784-85, he published a pamphlet, Sketches of American Policy, where he argued that to address the crisis and ensure the nation’s prosperity, a government should be established that operated directly on the people rather than the states, giving Congress full power to enforce its actions. He presented a copy of this essay to Washington, and it’s believed to have included the first clear proposal for the new constitution. Around the same time, he successfully advocated for what was known as an "International Copyright" law among the various sovereign states; later, he spent a winter in Washington trying to extend the duration of copyright protection. In 1785, he prepared a series of lectures on the English language, which he delivered in larger towns, and in 1789, he published them under the title Dissertations on the English Language. From 1787 to 1788, he taught in Philadelphia during the winter. The convention tasked with drafting the new constitution convened for part of the year, and after their work was done, Mr. Webster aimed to gain the people's support for the outcome. He did this in a pamphlet called An Examination of the Leading Principles of the Federal Constitution. The following year, he launched The American Magazine in New York, but it failed to succeed. In 1789, he opened a law practice in Hartford, where his reputation, hard work, and skills ensured a steady flow of business and income. He was now married to Miss Greenleaf from Boston and enjoyed being part of one of the country’s most vibrant literary circles, which included notable figures like Joel Barlow, Lemuel Hopkins, John Trumbull, and others who were prominent for their talents at that time.

But the political excitement of 1793, caused by the proclamation of neutrality, disturbed his plans, and brought him again into the arena of affairs. The sympathy for the new French republic, natural and pardonable as it was, overran all limits of reason. The popularity and influence of Washington were hardly sufficient for the repression of disorder and violence, and an armed espousal of the cause of the French. Mr. Webster was solicited to devote himself to the support of the administration, and means were furnished for the establishment by him of a daily paper in New-York. He accordingly commenced The Minerva, and soon after, a semi-weekly, The Herald, which ultimately received the names which they now retain, of The Commercial Advertiser, and The New-York Spectator.

But the political excitement of 1793, triggered by the announcement of neutrality, disrupted his plans and pulled him back into the political scene. The support for the new French republic, although understandable and justifiable, went beyond what was reasonable. Washington's popularity and influence were barely enough to control the chaos and violence, and to support the French cause with arms. Mr. Webster was asked to dedicate himself to backing the administration, and resources were provided for him to start a daily newspaper in New York. He accordingly launched The Minerva, and soon after, a semi-weekly paper, The Herald, which eventually became known by the names they have today, The Commercial Advertiser, and The New-York Spectator.

Another agitation soon followed, if possible, still more alarming—that which grew out of Jay's Treaty with England. The discussions to which this gave rise were earnest, often angry and vituperative, but always able, enlisting the most accomplished men of the country. In these discussions Mr. Webster was, as might have been anticipated, remarkably active. A series of papers by him, under the signature of CURTIUS, had an unquestionable influence on the whole nation. They were extensively reprinted and afterwards collected in a volume. Mr. Rufus King said to Mr. Jay, that they had done more than any others to allay the popular opposition to the treaty. During these conflicts, Mr. Webster often encountered as an antagonist the celebrated William Cobbett, at that time conducting a journal in Philadelphia, distinguished alike for ability and for unscrupulous violence.

Another wave of unrest soon followed, and if possible, it was even more alarming—this time stemming from Jay's Treaty with England. The debates it sparked were serious, often heated and insulting, but always skillful, involving some of the country's most talented individuals. In these debates, Mr. Webster was, as expected, very active. A series of articles he wrote under the name CURTIUS had a significant impact on the entire nation. They were widely reprinted and later compiled into a book. Mr. Rufus King told Mr. Jay that these writings had done more than anything else to reduce the public opposition to the treaty. During these debates, Mr. Webster frequently faced off against the well-known William Cobbett, who was then running a newspaper in Philadelphia, known for both his talent and his ruthless aggression.

While Mr. Webster lived in New-York, the yellow fever prevailed in this city and in Philadelphia, and he wrote a minute and comprehensive History of Pestilential Diseases, in two volumes, which was published in New-York and in London. It attracted[Pg 14] much attention in its time, and was referred to with interest during the subsequent prevalence of the cholera. He also published in 1802 an able treatise on The Rights of Neutral Nations in time of War, occasioned by the interference of the French government with the shipping of the world, and its seizure of American vessels, under the proclamation of a blockade. He also published Historical Notices of the Origin and State of Banking Institutions and Insurance Offices, a work of authority and popularity.

While Mr. Webster was living in New York, yellow fever was rampant in the city and in Philadelphia. He wrote a detailed and comprehensive History of Pestilential Diseases in two volumes, which was published in New York and London. It attracted [Pg 14] a lot of attention at the time and was referred to with interest during the later outbreaks of cholera. In 1802, he also published a strong treatise on The Rights of Neutral Nations in Time of War, prompted by the French government's interference with global shipping and its seizure of American vessels under a blockade proclamation. Additionally, he published Historical Notices of the Origin and State of Banking Institutions and Insurance Offices, a respected and popular work.

In 1798 he removed to New Haven, but retained the direction of his paper at New-York for several years. After disposing of his interest in it he devoted the remainder of his life to literary pursuits.

In 1798, he moved to New Haven but continued to oversee his newspaper in New York for several years. After selling his share in it, he dedicated the rest of his life to writing.

His first work was a Philosophical and Practical English Grammar, printed in 1807. It was in many respects original, acute, and excellently fitted for the purposes of instruction. It was, however, only one of the studies for his subsequent and far more important performance. For more than twenty years he had been a close student of the elements and sources of the English language; he had gradually, as his various occupations permitted, accumulated and arranged materials for its exposition, and he now felt himself at liberty to forego all other pursuits and ambitions to devote himself for the remainder of his life to the great labors which have made his name so honorably eminent in the history of the intellectual advances of his country and of the Saxon family. The preparation of a Dictionary, under any circumstances, must be regarded as a very formidable task, involving even for an enthusiast the most dry and wearying researches, unenlivened by any of the pleasing excitements which vary the monotony and relieve the tedium of ordinary literary pursuits. Mr. Webster from the beginning had a just conception of the duties and difficulties before him; he was assured that no superficial study or careless execution would command or in any degree deserve approval, in one who followed in the track of Johnson. He was not disposed to make the work of that great man a basis for his own; to be simply an editor, whose duties should be fulfilled by additions of the new words and new definitions introduced in seventy years; he determined to make a new and altogether original work; to study the English language in the writings of its most distinguished authors, to inquire into its actual usage in conversation and public discourse, not by loosely gathered and ill arranged groups of synonymes, but by a clear and precise statement of meanings, illustrated, whenever it should be necessary, by various instances. In this work, Johnson had made a beginning; he first conceived the plan of defining by descriptions, instead of synonymes; and he had introduced into his larger dictionary quotations from the best authors. But his work, valuable as it was, was imperfect, even in regard to the words current in his time, and which he succeeded in collecting. But, if Johnson had perfectly accomplished his design, the lapse of seventy years of such extraordinary and various activity in every department of human action and aspiration, would have rendered a New Dictionary indispensable. New sciences and arts had been discovered, which, in their manifold applications to industry, had changed or wonderfully augmented the technology and common speech of every class and description of workers. New experiments had been made in governments; new institutions had been introduced; literature had assumed new forms; and speculation, with perfect freedom and gigantic force, had forged new weapons for its new endeavors. The necessity for a new Dictionary of the English language, indeed is, demonstrated in the simple fact that the first edition of Webster's great work contained twelve thousand words not in Johnson; the second, thirty thousand. This statement does not, however, give a just impression of the difference between Johnson and Webster, or of the actual labor which Webster performed. The new definitions, many of which were fruits, not more of patient research than of nice discrimination, the arrangement of these definitions, so as to exhibit the history of words as it had been slowly developed, cost the author an amount of toil which can with difficulty be measured. We hazard little concerning the importance or difficulties of the work, when we quote the remark of Coleridge, that the history of a word is often more important than that of a campaign.

His first work was a Philosophical and Practical English Grammar, printed in 1807. It was original, insightful, and very well suited for teaching. However, it was just one of the steps leading to his much more significant achievements. For over twenty years, he had been a dedicated student of the basics and origins of the English language; he gradually gathered and organized material for its explanation as his various jobs allowed, and now he felt ready to set aside all other pursuits and ambitions to devote the rest of his life to the major efforts that made his name respected in the history of intellectual progress in his country and the Saxon heritage. Preparing a dictionary, under any circumstances, is a daunting task that involves, even for someone passionate about it, tedious and exhausting research, uninspired by the enjoyable diversions that often break the monotony of regular literary work. From the start, Mr. Webster understood the responsibilities and challenges ahead of him; he was certain that nothing less than profound study and careful execution would earn respect in someone following in Johnson's footsteps. He wasn't inclined to use the work of that great man as a foundation for his own nor just act as an editor, whose tasks would be satisfied merely by adding new words and definitions introduced in seventy years; he set out to create an entirely new and original work: to study the English language through the writings of its most remarkable authors, to explore its actual usage in conversation and public speaking, not through loosely collected and poorly organized groups of synonyms, but through clear and precise definitions, illustrated whenever necessary by various examples. Johnson had begun this work; he was the first to propose defining concepts through descriptions instead of synonyms, and he included quotes from great authors in his larger dictionary. However, his work, valuable as it was, remained incomplete, even regarding the words used in his time, which he managed to compile. Had Johnson perfectly achieved his goal, the seventy years of extraordinary and diverse activities in every aspect of human life would have made a New Dictionary essential. New sciences and arts had emerged, which, in their numerous applications to industry, transformed or greatly enhanced the terminology and everyday language of every kind of worker. New experiments in governance had taken place; new institutions had been created; literature had evolved into new forms; and speculation, with total freedom and immense power, had developed new tools for its modern endeavors. The need for a new Dictionary of the English language is clearly highlighted by the fact that the first edition of Webster's great work included twelve thousand words not found in Johnson's, and the second edition listed thirty thousand. However, this statistic does not accurately convey the differences between Johnson and Webster or the real effort Webster put in. The new definitions, many of which were the result of careful research and sharp distinction, along with the arrangement of these definitions to show the history of words as it had gradually developed, required an amount of effort that is hard to quantify. We don't misjudge the significance or challenges of the work when we quote Coleridge's remark that the history of a word is often more significant than that of a battle.

The etymology of the language, was a subject to which he devoted much attention, and in which he made great advances. To qualify himself for tracing the derivations of English words, he studied some twenty languages, and wrote out a synopsis of the leading words of each, and incorporated the chief results of this extraordinary investigation in the very full and instructive statement of words of similar imports, which in the larger Dictionary is prefixed to English words, and which he prepared for the press also, as a separate work, of about half the size of the American Dictionary, entitled "A Synopsis of Words in Twenty Languages," which is still unpublished.

The history of the language was a topic he focused on a lot and made significant progress in. To equip himself for tracing the origins of English words, he studied around twenty languages, created a summary of the main words for each one, and included the key findings of this extensive research in a detailed and informative section on words with similar meanings, which is prefixed to English words in the larger Dictionary. He also prepared this as a separate work, about half the size of the American Dictionary, titled "A Synopsis of Words in Twenty Languages," which remains unpublished.

In 1812, he removed to Amherst, in Massachusetts, where he devoted ten years entirely to these labors. He returned to New Haven in 1822; in the following year he received from Yale College the degree of LL. D., and in the spring of 1824 he proceeded to Paris to consult in the Bibliothèque du Roi some works not accessible in this country, and then went to England and passed eight months in the libraries of the University of Cambridge.

In 1812, he moved to Amherst, Massachusetts, where he spent ten years fully dedicated to his work. He returned to New Haven in 1822; the following year, he received an LL.D. degree from Yale College, and in the spring of 1824, he traveled to Paris to examine some works at the Bibliothèque du Roi that weren't available in the U.S., and then went to England where he spent eight months in the libraries of the University of Cambridge.

Returning to America, he made arrangements for the publication of his great work,[Pg 15] and it finally appeared, near the end of 1826, in an edition of twenty-five hundred copies, in two quarto volumes, which were sold at twenty dollars per copy. An edition of three thousand copies was soon after printed in England.

Returning to America, he set up the publication of his great work,[Pg 15] which was finally released towards the end of 1826 in an edition of two thousand five hundred copies, spread over two quarto volumes, priced at twenty dollars each. A subsequent edition of three thousand copies was printed in England shortly after.

Dr. Webster was now seventy years of age, and he considered his life-task accomplished; but habits of literary occupation had become fixed and necessary, and after a few months he began to rewrite his History of the United States for Schools. In 1840 he published a second edition of the Dictionary, in two octavo volumes; in 1843, A Collection of Papers, on Political, Literary and Moral Subjects, selected from his various writings in early life; and in 1847 another edition of the American Dictionary appeared, after a thorough revision of it by Professor Goodrich, of Yale College. In this edition very large additions were made, amounting to a fifth of the whole work. There were new words, and new definitions, when needed; careful attention was bestowed on technical terms of science and art; and it was made a general cyclopædia of knowledge. Yet by employing a finer type, and adopting a close yet clear style of printing, the original work, with all these copious additions, was brought within the compass of a single quarto, which has been styled the finest specimen of book-manufacture ever produced in America. A revised edition of the abridgement was issued at the same time, and both volumes have had a circulation which evinces the general appreciation of their value. Several of the New England states, we believe, have furnished a copy of the quarto Dictionary to every school district within their limits, and the legislature of New-York, during its recent session, passed a law for the distribution of some thousands of copies in the school districts of this state also. Whatever may be said of the Dictionary by Dr. Webster, it will not be questioned by the disinterested scholar that it is one of the most extraordinary and honorable monuments of well-directed intellectual labor of which we have any account in the histories of literature or learning. It is as great an advance from the work of Dr. Johnson, as that was from the wretched vocabularies of the English language which existed before his time; and so accurate and exhausting has been the investigation which it displays that no rival work is likely to take its place until sufficient time has elapsed for the language itself to pass into a new condition.

Dr. Webster was now seventy years old, and he felt his life's work was complete; however, his habits of writing had become ingrained and necessary, so after a few months, he started to rewrite his History of the United States for Schools. In 1840, he published a second edition of the Dictionary in two octavo volumes; in 1843, he released A Collection of Papers on Political, Literary and Moral Subjects, selected from his early writings; and in 1847, another edition of the American Dictionary came out after being thoroughly revised by Professor Goodrich from Yale College. This edition included many large additions, amounting to a fifth of the entire work. There were new words and definitions where necessary; careful attention was paid to technical terms in science and art, making it a comprehensive encyclopedia of knowledge. By using a finer typeface and adopting a close but clear printing style, the original work, along with these extensive additions, was condensed into a single quarto, which has been regarded as the finest example of book production ever made in America. A revised edition of the abridged version was published at the same time, and both volumes have circulated widely, showing that their value is generally recognized. Several New England states have provided a copy of the quarto Dictionary to every school district, and the New York legislature recently passed a law to distribute thousands of copies in the school districts across the state. No matter what is said about Dr. Webster's Dictionary's Dictionary, it's undeniable to impartial scholars that it stands as one of the most remarkable and respected achievements of well-directed intellectual effort in the histories of literature and education. It represents a significant advancement from Dr. Johnson's work, just as his was from the poor vocabularies of the English language that existed before him; and the thoroughness of its research is so impressive that no competing work is likely to replace it until enough time has passed for the language itself to evolve.

Noah Webster's birthplace.

Much has been said of Dr. Webster's innovations, but for the most part, by persons altogether ignorant of the philosophy of languages in general, as well as of the character and condition of the English language. Dr. Webster attempted, and with eminent success, to reduce the English language to order, and to subject it to the operation of principles. The changes which he made, though in a few instances, necessary for consistency, striking, are much less numerous than is commonly supposed, and even to scholars, with whom the study of languages is not a specialité, they would not be very apparent but for the frequent attempts which are made to prejudice the public against the work. An amusing illustration of this fact occurred a few years ago, when, a concerted assault upon the Dictionary having been made, and sustained for some time, a distinguished author who had a new book in the press of the Harpers, was alarmed by intelligence that they intended to adopt for it Webster's orthography. He wrote to these[Pg 16] publishers his apprehensions that the success of his performance and his own good reputation could not fail of exceeding injury, if their design should be executed, and begged them to adopt some other work as a medium for the display of the Websterian innovations. The Harpers replied that he might select his own standard; they believed he had, perhaps unconsciously, followed Webster in his manuscript, and that the several productions of his which they had published in previous years had all been printed according to Webster's Dictionary, which was the guide used in their printing offices.

A lot has been said about Dr. Webster's innovations, but mostly by people who know nothing about the philosophy of languages in general or the state of the English language. Dr. Webster tried, and succeeded remarkably, in organizing the English language and applying principles to it. The changes he made, while necessary for consistency in a few cases, are actually fewer than people often think. Even for scholars who aren’t specialists in language study, the differences would hardly stand out if it weren't for the ongoing efforts to sway public opinion against the work. A funny example of this happened a few years ago when there was a coordinated attack on the Dictionary. A well-known author with a new book coming out through Harpers became worried after hearing they planned to use Webster's spelling. He wrote to these publishers, expressing his concern that the success of his book and his own reputation could suffer if they went ahead with their plan, and asked them to choose another work as a basis for the Websterian changes. The Harpers responded that he could choose his own standard; they believed he had, perhaps without realizing it, followed Webster in his manuscript. They also mentioned that all of his previous works they published had been printed according to Webster's Dictionary, which was the standard they used in their printing offices.

The incidents of Dr. Webster's life after the publication of the second edition of his Dictionary, in 1840, were few and unimportant. Indeed, with that effort he regarded his public life as brought to a close. He passed through a serene old age, which was terminated by a peaceful death, on the twenty-eighth of May, 1843, when he was in the eighty-fifth year of his age.

The events in Dr. Webster's life after the release of the second edition of his Dictionary in 1840 were few and not very significant. In fact, he considered his public life to be over with that work. He enjoyed a calm old age, which ended with a peaceful death on May 28, 1843, when he was 85 years old.

DR. MERLE D'AUBIGNE AND THE ENGLISH CHURCH.

The celebrated German historian, Dr. Merle d'Aubigne, is now in England, and in consequence of certain proceedings growing out of his occupation of an Episcopal pulpit recently, he has published a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury concerning the general subject of the exclusion of continental Protestant ministers from the pulpits of English churches. He is aware that, in consequence of the Act of Uniformity, there are churches which cannot be opened to those ministers, but he hopes that this law of exclusion will be repealed. "It is no longer in harmony with the spirit and the wants of the church in the age in which we live." The Calvinistic historian expresses his conviction that the reëstablishment of the Annual Convocation would not reform the Church. The Convocation has been for more than a century deprived of its powers, and it is to Parliament that the question now belongs. He says:

The well-known German historian, Dr. Merle d'Aubigné, is currently in England, and due to certain happenings related to his recent role in an Episcopal pulpit, he has published a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury addressing the issue of excluding continental Protestant ministers from the pulpits of English churches. He understands that, because of the Act of Uniformity, there are churches that cannot welcome those ministers, but he hopes that this exclusionary law will be repealed. "It no longer aligns with the spirit and needs of the church in today's world." The Calvinist historian believes that restoring the Annual Convocation would not fix the Church. The Convocation has been stripped of its powers for over a century, and now it is up to Parliament to address the issue. He states:

"Why should I not express to you, my lord, a desire which I have long had in my heart? This desire is, that being surrounded by ministers and members of the Church the most enlightened and most devoted to God and to his word, you should digest and present to Parliament a plan, not to effect (sic) a reform of the Church, but to establish the authority (sic) which should be charged with its reform and government. It seems to me that the best way would be to establish a body similar to that which governs the Episcopal church of America, composed of three chambers, that of the bishops, that of the presbyters, and that of the members of the Church, the two latter being ordinarily united in one. The Americans of the United States have received so much from you (they have received every thing, even their very existence), why should you not take something from them? I am convinced that sooner or later a reform must take place in the government of the Church of England: it is important that it should be done well. I think that there would be some hope of its being accomplished in a good sense, if it were done while you, my lord, are Primate of the Church, and while Victoria is Queen of England."

"Why shouldn't I share with you, my lord, a desire that's been in my heart for a long time? This desire is for you, surrounded by the most enlightened and devoted ministers and members of the Church, to develop and present to Parliament a plan not to effect (sic) a reform of the Church, but to establish the authority (sic) responsible for its reform and governance. I believe the best approach would be to create a body similar to the one that governs the Episcopal Church in America, made up of three chambers: one for bishops, one for presbyters, and one for lay members, with the latter two typically united as one. The Americans in the United States have gained so much from you (they owe everything to you, even their very existence); why shouldn't you take something from them? I'm convinced that sooner or later, a reform must happen in the governance of the Church of England: it’s crucial that it’s done properly. I believe there’s hope it could be achieved positively if it's done while you, my lord, are Primate of the Church and Victoria is Queen of England."

Every thing seems to tend to an entire revolution in the British ecclesiastical system, and the coöperation of Dr. Merle and other continental writers with those who are agitating the subject in England—demanding the separation of the church from the state—makes the prospect of such a separation more imminent than it has ever been hitherto.

Everything seems to be heading towards a complete revolution in the British church system, and the collaboration of Dr. Merle and other writers from the continent with those advocating for the issue in England—calling for the separation of church and state—makes the likelihood of such a separation more imminent than it has ever been before.

THE EXILE'S SUNSET SONG.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY J. R. THOMPSON.

When you’re not by my side, love, In quiet and darkness,
Half heartbroken Fate pulled me away,
All humbled in pride, love, I contemplated my fate,
That hope is gone Forever and always!

But Fate may not dismiss From memory's collection,
That happy connection Of years that have passed,
Nor make yet to disappear The shine that covers Our fond thoughts of togetherness,
So softly shone.

And still over the ocean My dreams take flight,
Where I often see shining Your figure in the distance; And I feel deeply, That sometimes at night, We watch the same smiling And trembling star.

The sunsets are so golden. That stream around me here,
But summon your shadow The terrain in between:
And when in the past
Beloved dim season,
It tripped over the meadow With a queen's stride.

As the moonlight, love,
Like snow gently falls,
And sits on the mountain,
And sparkles the sea,
That midnight in June, love, My memory remembers,
At the fountain I climbed with you.

How sweetly the river flows Reflected the beam Of the moon through the willows Or sun over the hill:
Does the moonbeam there shake,
The sunset there plays, On its colorful waves So perfectly still?

I'm feeling worn out—
An exile I mourn,
When the morning's early sounds A joyful song declare,
And the soft Miserere Of nature at dusk,
To me but celebrates To whisper your name.

Yet Hope, returning,
A vision emerges,
In rapture together In joy's blissful reign,
When love is all about affection The whole eye sees,
We'll walk through the heather
At sunset again.

Richmond, Va.

Richmond, VA

[Pg 17]

DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

THE GAME OF CHESS.

Bianca and I played chess, One afternoon, neither won the game,
Both lost in thought, contemplating our hearts
Moving the ivory pawns from black to white,
Moved aimlessly around the board; Sometimes we totally forget it with a sigh. And then recalled it and moved again;
As I gaze along the slopes in the distance,
Blocked by blue mountains, the fountain, and the grove Where lovers sat in the shadows, back again,
With sideways glances in each other's eyes; Without realizing it, I made a fortunate choice,
I checked my friend and got a queen; My couch moved closer to hers, and I took her hand—
A gentle white hand that revealed itself—
Told over the straightforward tale of my love,
In simplest terms, which are always the best,
And asked her if she loved me back—
A legendary uncertainty—about giving her heart to me; And then, right there, over that chess game,
Not done yet, in first-time trustfulness,
She gave me what I knew was mine—her heart!

FROM A PLAY.

I think about you all day long, Working with my needle by the small stand,
And wish that we had never, ever met,
Either I would be dead, or you would be married off,
Even though that would be the end for me, I put down my work,
And take the lute you gave me, but the strings Have become so out of tune that I can't play; I sing the favorite songs we used to sing,
The lovely old songs we cherish make us cry out loud!
I looked for a way to forget, and tried today To read a chapter in the Holy Book:
I couldn't see a line, I only read. The serious sonnets you sent me:
Nor can I pray like I used to,
For you stand between me and the Lord,
And when I try to elevate my spirit, My thoughts are scattered, and I cry out your name!
And at night, when I'm lying in bed,
(I hope these thoughts aren't inappropriate,) I think of you, fall asleep, and dream. I am yours, your married, happy wife,—
But that can never, ever happen on earth!

THE COUNTESS IDA HAHN-HAHN.

We gave in the last International a short notice of "Von Babylon nach Jerusalem" (A Journey from Babylon to Jerusalem), by Ida, Countess of Hahn-Hahn, in which she declares her conversion to Christianity and Catholicism. What the Germans themselves think of this work may be gathered from the following brief review, which has just fallen under our notice in the Central Blatt. The article is curious, from the "intensely German" style and spirit in which it is written, though we cannot very warmly commend either.

We included a brief notice in the last International about "Von Babylon nach Jerusalem" (A Journey from Babylon to Jerusalem) by Ida, Countess of Hahn-Hahn, where she talks about her conversion to Christianity and Catholicism. To get an idea of what the Germans think about this work, you can refer to the following short review that we recently came across in the Central Blatt. The article is interesting because of its "intensely German" style and spirit, although we can't wholeheartedly praise it.

"The above-mentioned work," which contains an account of the conversion of its celebrated authoress to the Catholic belief, says the critic, "presents a sad picture of the complete decay and dissolution of a void subjectivity (a vacant mind).

"The work mentioned above," which recounts the conversion of its renowned author to the Catholic faith, states the critic, "shows a disheartening image of the total decline and breakdown of a void subjectivity (a vacant mind).

"The writer falls a sacrifice to her exclusive, aristocratic position in society. Without occupying any place in the world, won and maintained by personal ability, and consequently without a well-grounded moral standard, she wanders like a homeless being from land to land, every where influenced, 'as far as it agreed with her disposition,' by her momentary interests, and thus rendering apparent the barrenness of her soul. But this had been developed at an early period. 'That this feeling (that of joy) was occasionally accompanied by the deepest discontent, appearing as an unearthly ennui—and that over it swept the darkest melancholy, will be readily intelligible to every one, for they are the twin sisters of the fortune of this world.' 'And occasionally it was a kind of heroism, in that I sat myself down, and—wrote a romance. Was it finished, I travelled—did I return, I described the tour—was there a time when the book was complete and circumstances did not permit of travelling, I took with raging appetite to reading—and when I no longer wrote, no longer travelled, and could no longer read for any determined purpose—because I had none—I knew not what to do with my time. I could not create illusions, and say to myself, Try this! try that! perhaps the world hath yet somewhat hidden for thee—the call of Knowledge is incessant. No, no! she hath nothing. Well—what then? God? There stood the Word, the One, the Eternal.' Thereupon she reads the greater and lesser catechisms of Luther, the creeds of the evangelic reformed church, and the decrees and canons of the Council of Trent. 'But only the Catholic church hath under roof and proof brought her dogma-buildings to a tower, provided with the lightning-rod of authority.' Thereupon she determines, 'I asked no human being for explanation, information, or counsel—not even myself.' Three months after, on the first day of January, 1850, she wrote to the Cardinal Prince-Bishop of Breslau, to beg of him aid in her entrance to the church.

"The writer becomes a victim of her exclusive, high-society status. Lacking a role in the world built and maintained by her own abilities, and therefore without a solid moral foundation, she drifts aimlessly from place to place, influenced everywhere, 'as far as it agreed with her nature,' by her fleeting interests, which reveals the emptiness of her soul. This feeling had developed early on. 'The fact that this feeling (of joy) was sometimes mixed with the deepest discontent, showing up as a profound ennui—and that it was often overshadowed by intense melancholy, will be clear to everyone, for they are the twin sisters of the fortunes of this world.' 'And sometimes it was a sort of bravery, as I settled down and—wrote a romance. When it was finished, I traveled—if I returned, I recounted the journey—if there was a time when the book was completed and circumstances didn't allow for travel, I eagerly turned to reading—and when I no longer wrote, could not travel, and found no purpose in reading—because I had none—I was at a loss about how to spend my time. I couldn't fabricate illusions and tell myself, Try this! try that! maybe the world has something yet to reveal to you—the call of Knowledge is ceaseless. No, no! She has nothing. Well—what then? God? There was the Word, the One, the Eternal.' Then she read the larger and smaller catechisms of Luther, the creeds of the evangelical reformed church, and the decrees and canons of the Council of Trent. 'But only the Catholic church has constructed her dogma buildings to a tower, equipped with the lightning rod of authority.' After that, she decided, 'I asked no one for explanation, information, or advice—not even myself.' Three months later, on January 1, 1850, she wrote to the Cardinal Prince-Bishop of Breslau, asking for his help in her entrance to the church."

"The moral vacancy displayed in these quotations corresponds with the shallow manner and half romantic, half French style of the book. Though the first part be written in a fresher and livelier style than the second, there is still not to be found in the whole a single well-determined and clearly-impressed thought, and whenever we imagine that we have hit upon such a thing, straightway we find whirling forth the dust-clouds of an obscure, phrase-laden, highly affected sentimental feeling, which, without any real energy, stirs itself up with repeated 'ohs!' and 'ahs!' and other forced sighs and artificial aids. In place of such thoughts we find a shallow and occasionally insupportably wearisome speech on the ideal of Catholicism, or 'the heathenish abomination in art and literature, which, after the fall of Byzantium was transported thence to Italy, and there received with that love which impels sensuous mortals to joyfully draw into the sphere of his life the new and glittering, because it promises fresh and shining pleasures.'(!) In another place she speaks of the reformers as 'miserable, narrow-minded heads, who should have chosen other ground whereon to exercise their love of quarrelling;'[Pg 18] while the second half of her book is confined almost exclusively to the democrats, and the events which took place from 1847 to 1849. In this part the authoress displays the greatest want of intellect, and is sadly wearisome; but her frivolity of manners and morals appears most repulsive in her account of the Reformation. None of the Catholics—not even Cochlæus himself—has so far degraded himself as to interpret in such a vulgar manner the deeds of the reformers (more particularly Luther's) as is here done by—a lady!

"The lack of moral substance shown in these quotes matches the superficial, half romantic, half French style of the book. While the first part is written in a fresher, more vibrant style than the second, there isn't a single clear and well-defined thought throughout. Whenever we think we've stumbled upon one, we're immediately met with a swirl of vague, complex, overly sentimental expressions that, lacking any real energy, resort to repeated 'ohs!' and 'ahs!', along with other forced sighs and artificial embellishments. Instead of genuine thoughts, we're presented with a shallow and sometimes unbearably tedious discourse on the ideal of Catholicism, or 'the pagan disgrace in art and literature, which, after the fall of Byzantium, was brought to Italy and welcomed with that love which drives sensual beings to eagerly embrace the new and sparkling, because it promises fresh and bright pleasures.'(!) In another section, she refers to the reformers as 'miserable, narrow-minded individuals who should have found another arena for their love of conflict;' [Pg 18] while the second half of her book focuses almost entirely on the democrats and the events from 1847 to 1849. In this part, the author shows a significant lack of intellect and becomes sadly tedious; however, her trivial approach to manners and morals is most off-putting in her take on the Reformation. No Catholic—not even Cochlæus himself—has ever lowered themselves to interpret the actions of the reformers (especially Luther's) in such a crude way as this woman does!"

"If the Countess places at the conclusion of her work the words 'Soli Deo Gloria,' this is merely in accordance with a Catholic custom, and by no means meant in earnest, since the work is more particularly adapted to flatter the vanity and self-conceit of its composer, who cannot imagine why she should suffer the disgrace to belong to the German nation. A vain, coquettish self-regard, an affected, aristocratic-noble nonchalance, and a contradicting, heresy-accusing confidence of judgment, meet us on every side, and render us completely opposed to the pretence and moral vacancy of this book."

"If the Countess puts 'Soli Deo Gloria' at the end of her work, it's just a customary Catholic thing and not meant to be taken seriously, since the piece is really more about flattering the vanity and arrogance of its creator, who can’t fathom why she should face shame for belonging to the German nation. A vain, flirtatious self-importance, a contrived, aristocratic indifference, and a judgment filled with contradictory accusations of heresy surround us everywhere, making us wholly resistant to the pretentiousness and moral emptiness of this book."

These are bitter words, and bitterly spoken, when thus applied to a woman. The reader will in their perusal remember that the writer is evidently influenced by a deep feeling against all that savors of conservatism in politics, and shares in an unusual degree the popular German feeling against emancipiste Frauen, or women who strive against the bonds which the customs of society have imposed on the sex,—a feeling, which, however creditable it may be when applied to undue extravagances of manners or morals, should be carefully guarded against when it threatens an unconditional restraint of every exertion of feminine genius and talent.

These are harsh words, and they're spoken harshly when aimed at a woman. As the reader goes through this, they'll notice that the writer is clearly driven by a strong feeling against anything that resembles conservatism in politics, and also shares a common German sentiment against emancipiste Frauen, or women who fight against the limitations imposed by society's customs on their gender. While this feeling can be understandable when it comes to excessive behavior or morals, it should be approached with caution when it risks completely stifling any expression of women's creativity and skills.

JULES JANIN, AND THE PARIS FEUILLETONISTES.

Jules Janin, whose name, of so constant recurrence in the contemporary history of light literature, artistic criticism, and feuilleton, is the Prince Royal of the brilliant court of gifted, tasteful, witty and spirituel writers, who compose the body of Parisian feuilletonistes. These are men who write, not because they have any thing especial to say—for their peculiar function is to say nothing, in a pointed and brilliant manner—but because they love leisure and luxury, the opera, pictures, and beautiful ballet girls, and must themselves make the golden lining to their purses, which they can do by the very simple process of weaving the similar lining of their brains into a feuilleton. They are often scholars, men of fine cultivation and genius, whose tastes however are so imperious, and who enjoy so much the ease thus facilely achieved, that they accomplish no great work, win no lasting name. Of course the feuilletonist proper is to be distinguished from the author or novelist who publishes a work in the Feuilleton, as Lamartine his Confidences, and Sue and Dumas and George Sand, their romances. We propose now to follow briefly the sparkling career of Jules Janin as the type of the life, character, and success of the feuilletonistes.

Jules Janin, a name that frequently appears in the modern history of light literature, artistic criticism, and feuilleton, is the Royal Prince of the vibrant court of talented, stylish, witty, and spirituel writers that make up the group of Parisian feuilletonistes. These are individuals who write not because they have anything special to say—since their unique role is to say nothing in a clever and engaging way—but because they appreciate leisure and luxury, enjoy the opera, art, and beautiful ballet dancers, and need to fill their wallets, which they can do simply by transforming their thoughts into a feuilleton. They are often scholars, individuals with great culture and talent, whose strong preferences for a comfortable lifestyle are so overpowering that they achieve no significant work and gain no lasting recognition. Naturally, the true feuilletonist should be distinguished from authors or novelists who publish in the Feuilleton, like Lamartine with his Confidences, and Sue, Dumas, and George Sand with their novels. We now plan to briefly trace the shining career of Jules Janin as a representation of the life, character, and success of the feuilletonistes.

He came to Paris, a Jew: as Meyerbeer, Heine, Grisi, Rachel, and the long luminous list of contemporary artists who have made fame in Paris, are Jews. He supported himself by teaching—doing nothing, but very conscious that he could do something—at all events he could lecture upon the Syrian language, if for a week he could prepare himself. Then he wrote in little theatrical papers, and received twenty-five francs a month. But in 1830 he happily succeeded to his present position in the Journal des Debats. He is now a rich man. He gives splendid soirees in his saloons glittering with oriental luxury, and artists and authors bow before him. Like Henry Heine, his contemporary, whom he as much resembles in talent as in manner, he declared now for the Republic and Freedom, now for the Church and King, until his connection with the Debats impressed upon him the conservative seal. He since loudly declaims for public morality—against the prostitution of the press; but his early works were the most licentious of any that have swarmed from the fertile French genius of social protestantism. His first novel, published in 1829, The Dead Donkey and the Guillotined Woman, is the history of a prostitute, from the brothel, to the murder of her child, and her execution, garnished with Byronic sentimentalities upon the transitoriness of things temporal.

He came to Paris as a Jew: just like Meyerbeer, Heine, Grisi, Rachel, and the long list of contemporary artists who found fame in Paris, who are also Jews. He supported himself by teaching—doing nothing, but fully aware that he could achieve something—at the very least, he could give lectures on the Syrian language, given a week to prepare. Then he wrote for small theatrical publications, earning twenty-five francs a month. But in 1830, he happily secured his current position at the Journal des Debats. He is now a wealthy man. He hosts lavish soirées in his salons, which sparkle with oriental luxury, and artists and authors pay their respects to him. Like his contemporary Henry Heine, with whom he shares both talent and style, he declared his support for the Republic and Freedom, then shifted to backing the Church and King, until his association with the Debats branded him with a conservative label. He now loudly advocates for public morality—denouncing the corruption of the press; however, his earlier works were among the most scandalous produced by the vibrant French spirit of social protest. His first novel, published in 1829, The Dead Donkey and the Guillotined Woman, chronicles the life of a prostitute, from the brothel to the murder of her child and her execution, laced with Byronic reflections on the fleeting nature of worldly things.

Jules Janin's next work was one of the most instructive illustrations of the character of French romance at that period when literary feeling and taste seemed to reach the artificial point that is artistically achieved by the melo-dramas of Chatham-street and the Strand. We record it as a literary curiosity, as the work of a "fast" Frenchman, a Parisian Vivian Grey, on a small scale. It is called The Penitent, and was published in 1830. It opens with a marriage. The bride, who has been violently dancing, retires, overcome with sleep, and the husband in his rage at her sleepiness smothers her. It is nominally supposed that she has been stricken with apoplexy, but a Jesuit, who meditates many mysteries, understands the whole matter, yet observes the most discreet silence. The young man, who is somewhat conscience-pricked, still persists in profligacy, until he is overwhelmed by remorse, and rushes to the church to receive absolution. He seeks a trusty confessor, and of course finds the old Jesuit; but as he finds it difficult to obtain access to him, makes the acquaintance of a girl, with whom the Jesuit has some kind of relation, and in order to win her to his will, seduces her! Then comes the Jesuit and begins[Pg 19] to fulminate excommunications and damnations. But the youth bursts into a passionate strain of repentance, and is told by the old Jesuit, that the difficulty in his case, is a religious one, that in fact the murder was "a circumstance" arising from his irreligious state, and that by genuine repentance the matter will be arranged. Presto: The youth repents and enters the church, is made Bishop and proceeds through an endless course of fat capon and Château Margaux to an edifying end!

Jules Janin's next work was one of the most enlightening examples of French romance at a time when literary sentiment and taste seemed to reach an artificial level, much like the melodramas of Chatham Street and the Strand. We note it as a literary oddity, created by a "fast" Frenchman, a Parisian Vivian Grey, on a smaller scale. It's titled The Penitent, and it was published in 1830. The story begins with a wedding. The bride, who has been dancing vigorously, retires, overwhelmed by sleep, and the husband, furious at her drowsiness, smothers her. It's generally believed that she has suffered a stroke, but a Jesuit, who reflects on many mysteries, understands the whole situation yet remains discreetly silent. The young man, feeling a prick of conscience, continues in his reckless ways until he's consumed by guilt and rushes to the church for forgiveness. He looks for a reliable confessor and, naturally, finds the old Jesuit; however, as he struggles to get to him, he befriends a girl with some connection to the Jesuit and, in order to win her over, he seduces her! Then the Jesuit arrives and starts[Pg 19] to unleash excommunications and curses. But the young man breaks into a heartfelt expression of remorse and is told by the old Jesuit that the issue at hand is a religious one, that the murder was merely "a circumstance" stemming from his lack of faith, and that through true repentance, the matter can be resolved. Presto: The young man repents, enters the church, becomes a Bishop, and indulges in a never-ending feast of fatty capon and Château Margaux, leading to a morally uplifting conclusion!

The boldest efforts of young France and young Germany, are feeble by the side of this extraordinary effort. His earlier tales, which are somewhat in the style of Hoffmann, Jules Janin published in the year 1833, under the title of Fantastic Tales, and a series of works of less size and importance followed, until the series of papers, half fiction, half fact, which, in the novel form, treated a great variety of historico-literary subjects. His last romance is the Nun of Toulouse, written during the revolution of '48. It sparkles with the same sprightly skepticism and spiritual coquetry that distinguished his earlier works, yet he celebrates in it those beautiful times, the "old times," in which the serenity of faith was never ruffled by impertinent thought; and in his recent letters from the Great Exhibition, he indulges in the same strain, and sighs for the magnificence of the monarchy.

The boldest efforts of young France and young Germany seem weak compared to this remarkable achievement. His earlier stories, which resemble the style of Hoffmann, were published by Jules Janin in 1833 under the title Fantastic Tales. A series of smaller works followed, leading to a collection of articles that blended fiction and fact, covering a wide range of historical and literary topics in novel form. His latest novel is The Nun of Toulouse, written during the revolution of '48. It sparkles with the same lively skepticism and playful spirit that marked his earlier works, yet it also celebrates those beautiful times, the "old times," when the peace of faith was never disturbed by bothersome thoughts; and in his recent letters from the Great Exhibition, he continues in the same vein, longing for the splendor of the monarchy.

But his weekly contributions to the Debats, the rapid dashing review of the dramatic novelties and incidents in a metropolis where alone a living drama survives, and which he serves up garnished with the most felicitous verbal graces and the most charming intellectual conceits, every Monday morning—these are the flowers whence the brilliant Jules Janin builds the honey hive of his reputation. He has decreed the fashion of the Feuilleton, and the other Parisian critics flash and snap and sparkle, as much like Jules Janin as possible. Their articles are the streak of light in the dimness of the preponderating political literature of the week. They hold high holiday at the bottom of the page, although the history of revolutions, and woes, and the rumors of wars and impending millenniums may throw their sombre shadows along the columns above. They raise their banner of a butterfly's wing, emblazoned with Vive la Bagatelle, and march on to the tournament of wit and beauty. They belong to France; their game is the gambol of the exuberance of French genius. They are more than witty, they are spirituel; and they have more than talent, they have taste.

But his weekly contributions to the Debats, the quick and lively review of the latest dramas and events in a city where real drama still thrives, served up every Monday morning with the most pleasing language and delightful intellectual flair—these are the sources from which the brilliant Jules Janin builds the hive of his reputation. He has set the trend for the Feuilleton, and other Parisian critics try to mimic him as much as they can. Their articles are the ray of light in the otherwise heavy political literature of the week. They celebrate at the bottom of the page, even though the stories of revolutions, suffering, and whispers of wars and looming disasters cast their dark shadows above. They wave their banner that looks like a butterfly's wing, marked with Vive la Bagatelle, and head into the contest of wit and beauty. They are a part of France; their game reflects the lively spirit of French genius. They are not just witty; they are spirituel; and they possess more than talent; they have taste.

In a day of such rapid and facile printing as ours, this department of literary labor was a necessity. Every man who has a conceit and can write, may parade it before the world. In the mass of pleasant common-place, what is bizarre may supplant the symmetrically beautiful. To seize therefore what every man saw, and with nimble fingers to weave a transparent tissue of gorgeous words through which every man's impressions of what he saw look large and graceful and piquant—to sum up a vaudeville in a bon mot, and a ballet in a voluptuous trope,—voila! c'est fait, you have the recipe of a successful feuilletoniste. Hence, the influence of these writers, upon words, has been remarkable. The French language, long so precise, is now among the most dissolute of tongues. It reels through the columns of a feuilleton, drunk and dim-eyed with expletives and exaggerations and beatified adjectives, so that, fascinated with the casket, you quite forget the jewel. The language of dramatic and operatic criticism in Paris is now inexplicable to any one but an habitué. If you should tell John Bull, who wishes to go to the opera, that Alboni's singing is pyramidale, he would expect to see the fair and fat contralto sharpened to a point at top,—but, I grant, if you should call it "jolly" or "stunning," he would entirely comprehend that you meant to express your admiration in superlatives.

In an era of such fast and easy printing as ours, this kind of literary work was essential. Anyone with an idea and the ability to write can show it off to the world. Amid a sea of ordinary content, the weird can easily overshadow the traditionally beautiful. So, to capture what everyone sees and quickly weave a clear fabric of rich words through which everyone’s impressions appear grand, elegant, and interesting—to sum up a variety show in a clever saying and a ballet in an elaborate metaphor—voila! That’s the formula for a successful columnist. As a result, the influence of these writers on language has been remarkable. The French language, once so precise, is now one of the most chaotic. It stumbles through the sections of a column, muddled and blurry with filler words, exaggerations, and flowery adjectives, so that, entranced by the packaging, you completely overlook the gem inside. The language used in dramatic and operatic criticism in Paris is now only understandable to regulars. If you told John Bull, who wants to go to the opera, that Alboni's singing is "pyramidale," he would expect to see the charming and plump contralto come to a sharp point at the top—but I admit, if you called it "jolly" or "stunning," he would fully understand that you meant to express your admiration in superlatives.

I must not longer gossip as these gay gossips do, these fanciful feuilletonistes, nor seek more deeply to draw the outline of these rainbow bubbles upon the stream of the time, whether it flow turbid or transparent. One cannot live upon sugar and nutmeg, or even upon allspice. But our friends are a literary phenomenon not to be omitted, and if you love the Muses, you will not omit to snuff the azure incense offered weekly by the feuilletonistes.

I can no longer gossip like those cheerful gossipers, those whimsical feuilletonistes, nor try to more deeply sketch the outlines of these colorful bubbles on the stream of time, whether it's murky or clear. You can't live on just sugar and nutmeg, or even allspice. But our friends are a literary phenomenon that shouldn't be overlooked, and if you love the Muses, you won't forget to enjoy the blue incense offered every week by the feuilletonistes.

Jules Janin shall show us out of this article as he ushered us in. The Great Mogul of the Feuilleton had purchased a carriage whose luxury, and taste of appointment, and perfection of footman, was unsurpassed in the Champs Elysée. But the gods are jealous and the feuilletonistes have thus the highest authority for jealousy. So, on one evening when the exquisite equipage awaited its master at the grand opera, a crowd of lesser critical luminaries gathered around it, and both reviled and envied the fortunate owner. While they were thus engaged, the great critic came out of the opera house and saw his contemporaries engaged in longing and envious remark. Now tact is the sublimest secret of success—and smilingly Jules Janin advanced cheerily, greeted his friends cordially, and piled into the carriage all of them who lived in his neighborhood.

Jules Janin will guide us out of this article just as he welcomed us in. The Great Mogul of the Feuilleton had bought a carriage that was unmatched in luxury, style, and the perfection of its footman on the Champs Elysées. But the gods are jealous, and the feuilletonistes have every reason to feel that jealousy. So, one evening, when the beautiful carriage was waiting for its owner outside the grand opera, a crowd of less prominent critics gathered around it, both criticizing and envying the lucky owner. While they were busy with their remarks, the great critic stepped out of the opera house and noticed his peers indulging in their longing and envy. Tact is the ultimate key to success—and with a smile, Jules Janin cheerfully approached, warmly greeted his friends, and invited everyone from his neighborhood into the carriage.

They naturally reserved the seat of honor for the owner, but this great General seizing the most inimical of all the party who lived in a quarter of the city farthest from his own home, pushed him into the vacant seat, ordered his coachman to set him down first, and then humming the finale of the opera, lighted a cigar and sauntered leisurely down the street. It was like Jules Janin to make his own marriage the subject of a Feuilleton. In his case the man and the feuilletoniste are the same.

They naturally saved the seat of honor for the owner, but this great General took the most unfriendly person from the party, who lived in the farthest part of the city from his own home, and pushed him into the empty seat. He ordered his coachman to drop him off first, then, humming the finale of the opera, lit a cigar and strolled leisurely down the street. It was typical of Jules Janin to make his own marriage the topic of a Feuilleton. In his case, the man and the feuilletoniste are the same.

[Pg 20]

ODE XX. OF ANACREON.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME DACIER FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY MARY E. HEWITT.

Niobe, driven to madness by her grief from long ago. The gods, feeling pity, turned into beautiful marble;
And miserable Progné, cursed forever, Changed into a swallow, it soars through the sky.

But oh! if Love, whom I, enslaved, serve, By his sweet power, change me, I would be The mirror in your hand, if this way, always, Your gentle eyes would lovingly look at me.

Or, I would be the fragrance that reveals
Its scent among the strands of your hair;
Or that soft veil that gently covers your chest,
And jealous, it hides the ivory treasure there.

Or I would be the robe that wraps around you, The area around you that embraces you with warmth; The stream that shines with your beauty,
And it holds your beauty close.

If I were fortunate enough to have those admired pearls That closely entwine your swan-white neck; Or even to be the sandal, pressed by you,
Were your lover, a divine destiny.

SWEDISH LANDSCAPES: BY HERR ANDERSEN.

In the last International we gave some characteristic historical sketches from Hans Christian Andersen's latest and most delightful book, the Pictures of Sweden; but the inspiration of nature is more powerful with him than that of history, and he is never so felicitous as when painting the scenery of his native country, though he has certainly indulged, to a greater extent than a sober taste can approve, in that passion for the fantastic and visionary, which has been but too visibly manifested in some of his later and slighter works. Our readers, however, shall judge for themselves. The forests of Sweden and its rivers give the most noticeable features to its landscape. This is how they appeared to Andersen—the forest first:

In the last International, we shared some characteristic historical sketches from Hans Christian Andersen's latest and most delightful book, Pictures of Sweden; however, the inspiration of nature has a stronger hold on him than that of history. He is never more skillful than when depicting the scenery of his homeland, even though he has definitely indulged, more than a sensible taste might find acceptable, in that passion for the fantastic and visionary, which has been all too clearly seen in some of his later and lesser works. Our readers, however, can form their own opinions. The forests and rivers of Sweden are the most prominent features of its landscape. This is how they appeared to Andersen—the forest first:

"We are a long way over the elv. We have left the corn-fields behind, and have just come into the forest, where we halt at that small inn which is ornamented over the doors and windows with green branches for the midsummer festival. The whole kitchen is hung round with branches of birch and the berries of the mountain ash; the oat cakes hang on long poles under the ceiling; the berries are suspended above the head of the old woman who is just scouring her brass kettle bright.

"We've come a long way over the hill. We've left the cornfields behind and just entered the forest, where we stop at that small inn decorated with green branches for the midsummer festival. The whole kitchen is adorned with birch branches and mountain ash berries; the oat cakes hang on long poles from the ceiling; the berries are dangling above the old woman who is busy polishing her brass kettle."

"The tap-room, where the peasants sit and carouse, is just as finely hung round with green. Midsummer raises its leafy arbor every where, yet it is most flush in the forest which extends for miles around. Our road goes for miles through that forest, without seeing a house, or the possibility of meeting travellers, driving, riding, or walking. Come! The ostler puts fresh horses to the carriage; come with us into the large woody desert: we have a regular trodden way to travel, the air is clear, here is summer's warmth and the fragrance of birch and lime. It is an up-and-downhill road, always bending, and so, ever changing, but yet always forest-scenery—the close, thick forest. We pass small lakes, which lie so still and deep, as if they concealed night and sleep under their dark, glassy surfaces.

"The pub, where the locals hang out and have a good time, is surrounded by greenery. Midsummer brings lush leaves everywhere, but it’s especially vibrant in the forest that stretches for miles around. Our path goes on for miles through that forest, without a house in sight or the chance of encountering travelers—whether they’re driving, riding, or walking. Come on! The stable hand is putting fresh horses to the carriage; join us in this vast, wooded area: we have a well-trodden path to follow, the air is fresh, there’s summer warmth, and the scent of birch and lime fills the air. The road goes up and down, always curving, so the scenery is constantly changing, yet it remains full of dense forest. We pass small lakes that lie tranquil and deep, as if they’re hiding the essence of night and sleep beneath their dark, glassy surfaces."

"We are now on a forest plain, where only charred stumps of trees are to be seen; this long tract is black, burnt, and deserted, not a bird flies over it. Tall, hanging birches now greet us again; a squirrel springs playfully across the road, and up into the tree; we cast our eyes searchingly over the wood-grown mountain side, which slopes so far, far forward, but not a trace of a house is to be seen: nowhere does that bluish smoke-cloud rise, that shows us, here are fellow-men. The sun shines warm; the flies dance around the horses, settle on them, fly off again, and dance as though it were to qualify themselves for resting and being still. They perhaps think, 'Nothing is going on without us: there is no life while we are doing nothing.' They think, as many persons think, and do not remember that time's horses always fly onward with us!

"We're now on a forest plain, where all that's left are charred tree stumps; this long stretch is black, burned, and empty, not a single bird flies over it. Tall, hanging birches greet us again; a squirrel hops playfully across the road and up into a tree. We scan the wooded mountainside, which slopes way down ahead, but there's not a hint of a house to be seen: nowhere does that bluish smoke rise, signaling that there are people nearby. The sun shines warmly; flies buzz around the horses, land on them, take off again, and flit about as if they're trying to figure out how to settle down and be still. They might think, 'Nothing happens without us: there's no life while we're doing nothing.' They think this, just like many people do, forgetting that time's horses always move forward with us!"

"How solitary is it here! so delightfully solitary! one is so entirely alone with God and one's self. As the sunlight streams forth over the earth, and over the extensive solitary forests, so does God's Spirit stream over and into mankind; ideas and thoughts unfold themselves—endless, inexhaustible, as He is—as the magnet which apportions its powers to the steel, and itself loses nothing thereby. As our journey through the forest scenery here along the extended solitary road, so, travelling on the great high road of thought, ideas pass through our head. Strange, rich caravans pass by from the works of poets, from the home of memory, strange and novel; for capricious fancy gives birth to them at the moment. There comes a procession of pious children with waving flags and joyous songs; there come dancing Menades, the blood's wild Bacchantes. The sun pours down hot in the open forest; it is as if the Southern summer had laid itself up here to rest in Scandinavian forest solitude, and sought itself out a glade where it might lie in the sun's hot beams and sleep; hence this stillness as if it were night. Not a bird is heard to twitter, not a pine tree moves. Of what does the Southern summer dream here in the North, amongst pines and fragrant birches?

"How solitary it is here! So wonderfully solitary! One is completely alone with God and oneself. Just as the sunlight spreads across the earth and the vast solitary forests, so does God's Spirit flow over and into humanity; ideas and thoughts emerge—endless, inexhaustible, just like He is—like a magnet that transfers its power to the steel without losing anything in the process. As we journey through this scenic forest along the long, solitary road, thoughts travel through our minds on the grand highway of ideas. Strange, rich caravans pass by from the works of poets and the home of memory, strange and new; for whimsical imagination brings them to life in the moment. Here comes a procession of pious children with waving flags and joyful songs; there come dancing maenads, the wild Bacchae of the blood. The sun beats down hot in the open forest; it feels as if the Southern summer has come here to rest in the Scandinavian forest solitude, seeking out a clearing where it can bask in the sun's hot rays and drift off to sleep; hence this stillness as if it were night. Not a bird is heard chirping, not a pine tree stirs. What does the Southern summer dream of here in the North, among the pines and fragrant birches?"

"In the writings of the olden time, from the classic soil of the South, are sagas of mighty fairies, who, in the skins of swans, flew towards the North, to the Hyperboreans' land, to the east of the north winds; up there, in the deep still lakes, they bathed themselves, and acquired a renewed form. We are in the forest by these deep lakes; we see swans in flocks fly over us, and swim upon the rapid elv and on the still waters...."

"In the writings from long ago, originating from the classic South, there are tales of powerful fairies who, disguised as swans, flew northwards to the land of the Hyperboreans, east of the north winds. Up there, in the serene deep lakes, they bathed and emerged transformed. We find ourselves in the forest by these deep lakes; we see flocks of swans flying overhead and swimming on the swift river and the calm waters..."

"Woodland solitude! what images dost thou not present to our thoughts! Woodland solitude! through thy vaulted halls people now pass in the summer time with cattle and domestic utensils; children and old men go to the solitary pasture where echo dwells, where the national song springs forth with the wild mountain flower! Dost thou see the procession? Paint it if thou canst! The broad wooden cart, laden high with chests and barrels, with jars and with crockery. The bright copper kettle and the tin dish shine in the sun. The old grandmother sits at the top of the load, and holds her spinning wheel, which complete the pyramid. The father drives the horse, the mother carries the youngest child on her back, sewed up in a skin, and the procession moves on step by step. The cattle are driven by the half-grown children; they have stuck a birch branch between[Pg 21] one of the cows' horns, but she does not appear to be proud of her finery; she goes the same quiet pace as the others, and lashes the saucy flies with her tail. If the night becomes cold on this solitary pasture, there is fuel enough; here the tree falls of itself from old age, and lies and rots.

Woodland solitude! What images do you not bring to our minds! Woodland solitude! Through your vaulted halls, people now stroll in the summer with livestock and household goods; children and the elderly head to the quiet pasture where echoes linger, where the national song emerges alongside wild mountain flowers! Do you see the procession? Paint it if you can! The broad wooden cart, piled high with chests and barrels, jars and dishes. The shiny copper kettle and tin plate glisten in the sun. The old grandmother sits atop the load, holding her spinning wheel, completing the scene. The father drives the horse, while the mother carries the youngest child on her back, wrapped in a skin, and the procession moves on, step by step. The livestock are guided by the older children; they've tied a birch branch to one of the cow's horns, but she doesn't seem to take pride in her adornment; she keeps the same steady pace as the others, swatting away pesky flies with her tail. If the night turns chilly in this quiet pasture, there's plenty of firewood; here, trees naturally fall from age and lie decaying.

"But take especial care of the fire—fear the fire-spirit in the forest desert! He comes from the unextinguishable pile; he comes from the thunder-cloud, riding on the blue lightning's flame, which kindles the thick, dry moss of the earth: trees and bushes are kindled; the flames run from tree to tree, it is like a snow-storm of fire! the flames leap to the tops of the trees. What a crackling and roaring, as if it were the ocean in its course! The birds fly upward in flocks, and fall down suffocated by the smoke; the animals flee, or, encircled by the fire, are consumed in it! Hear their cries and roars of agony! The howling of the wolf and the bear, dost thou know it? A calm rainy day, and the forest-plains themselves alone are able to confine the fiery sea, and the burnt forest stands charred, with black trunks and black stumps of trees, as we saw them here in the forest by the broad high-road. On this road we continue to travel, but it becomes worse and worse; it is, properly speaking, no road at all, but it is about to become one. Large stones lie half dug up, and we drive past them; large trees are cast down, and obstruct our way, and therefore we must descend from the carriage. The horses are taken out, and the peasants help to lift and push the carriage forward over ditches and opened paths. The sun now ceases to shine; some few rain-drops fall, and now it is a steady rain. But how it causes the birch to shed its fragrance! At a distance there are huts erected of loose trunks of trees and fresh green boughs, and in each there is a large fire burning. See where the blue smoke curls through the green leafy roof; peasants are within at work, hammering and forging; here they have their meals. They are now laying a mine in order to blast a rock, and the pine and birch emit a finer fragrance. It is delightful in the forest."

"But be especially careful with the fire—be wary of the fire spirit in the wilderness! He arises from the ever-burning flames; he comes from the thundercloud, riding on the blue lightning, which sparks the dry, thick moss on the ground: trees and shrubs ignite; flames leap from tree to tree, like a snowstorm of fire! The fire reaches the tops of the trees. What crackling and roaring, like the ocean in motion! The birds flee in flocks and fall, suffocated by the smoke; the animals run away, or are trapped by the flames and consumed! Hear their cries and roars of pain! Do you recognize the howling of the wolf and the bear? On a calm rainy day, only the forest plains can contain the fiery sea, and the burnt forest stands charred, with blackened trunks and stumps, just like we saw here in the woods by the wide highway. We continue our journey along this road, but it just gets worse and worse; it’s hardly a road at all, but it’s on the verge of becoming one. Large stones are half-buried, and we drive past them; fallen trees block our path, so we have to get out of the carriage. The horses are unharnessed, and the locals help lift and push the carriage over ditches and rough ground. The sun has now stopped shining; a few raindrops fall, and then it starts to rain steadily. But it makes the birch trees release their sweet scent! In the distance, there are huts made from loose tree trunks and fresh green branches, each with a large fire burning inside. Look at the blue smoke curling through the leafy roof; the locals are inside working, hammering and forging; it’s where they have their meals. They are laying explosives to blast a rock, and the pine and birch trees give off an even stronger fragrance. It’s delightful in the forest."

So say we. It is delightful in the forest; not less so on the torrent-river of Scandinavia:

So we say. It's lovely in the forest; just as much on the rushing river of Scandinavia:

"Before Homer sang, there were heroes; but they are not known, no poet celebrated their fame. It is just so with the beauties of nature; they must be brought into notice by words and delineations, be brought before the eyes of the multitude; get a sort of world's patent for what they are. The elvs of the North have rushed and whirled along for thousands of years in unknown beauty. The world's great high-road does not take this direction; no steam-packet conveys the traveller comfortably along the streams of the Dal-elvs; fall on fall makes sluices indispensable and invaluable. Schubert is, as yet, the only stranger who has written about the magnificence and southern beauty of Dalecarlia, and spoken of its greatness.

"Before Homer sang, there were heroes, but they went unrecognized; no poet celebrated their glory. It's the same with the beauty of nature; it needs to be highlighted by words and images, shown to the masses, and given a kind of public acknowledgment for what it is. The rivers of the North have flowed and swirled for thousands of years in hidden beauty. The main roads of the world don’t go this way; no steamship comfortably carries travelers along the streams of the Dal-elvs; the many waterfalls make dams essential and valuable. Schubert is still the only outsider who has written about the beauty and richness of Dalecarlia and highlighted its significance."

"Clear as the waves of the sea does the mighty elv stream in endless windings through forest deserts and varying plains, sometimes extending its deep bed, sometimes confining it, reflecting the bending trees and the red-painted block-houses of solitary towns, and sometimes rushing like a cataract over immense blocks of rock.

"Just like the waves of the sea, the mighty elv flows in continuous twists through forested areas and different plains, sometimes widening its deep channel, sometimes narrowing it, reflecting the swaying trees and the red-painted cabins of isolated towns, and at times charging over huge boulders like a waterfall."

"Miles apart from one another, out of the ridge of mountains between Sweden and Norway, come the east and west Dal-elvs, which first become confluent and have one bed above Balstad. They have taken up rivers and lakes in their waters. Do but visit this place! here are pictorial riches to be found: the most picturesque landscapes, dizzyingly grand, smilingly pastoral, idyllic; one is drawn onward up to the very source of the elv, the bubbling well above Finman's hut; one feels a desire to follow every branch of the stream that the river takes in.

"Miles apart from each other, the east and west Dal-elvs flow from the mountains between Sweden and Norway and merge into one river above Balstad. They have captured rivers and lakes in their waters. Just visit this place! Here, you'll find breathtaking beauty: the most stunning landscapes, strikingly grand, cheerfully pastoral, and idyllic; you're tempted to follow the river all the way to its source, the bubbling spring above Finman's hut; you feel an urge to explore every branch of the stream that the river takes."

"The first mighty fall, Njupesker's Cataract, is seen by the Norwegian frontier in Semasog. The mountain stream rushes perpendicularly from the rock to a depth of seventy fathoms.

"The first impressive waterfall, Njupesker's Cataract, is located by the Norwegian border in Semasog. The mountain stream cascades straight down from the rock to a depth of seventy fathoms."

"We pause in the dark forest, where the elv seems to collect within itself nature's whole deep gravity. The stream rolls its clear waters over a porphyry soil, where the mill-wheel is driven, and the gigantic porphyry bowls and sarcophagi are polished.

"We pause in the dark forest, where the elf seems to gather nature's entire deep essence. The stream flows its clear waters over a porphyry ground, where the mill-wheel is powered, and the enormous porphyry bowls and sarcophagi are polished."

"We follow the stream through Siljan's lake, where superstition sees the water-sprite swim like the sea-horse, with a mane of green seaweed; and where the aërial images present visions of witchcraft in the warm summer day.

"We follow the stream through Siljan's lake, where superstition imagines the water sprite swimming like a sea horse, with a mane of green seaweed; and where the aerial images show visions of witchcraft on a warm summer day."

"We sail on the stream from Siljan's lake under the weeping willows of the parsonage, where the swans assemble in flocks; we glide along slowly with horses and carriages on the great ferry-boat, away over the rapid current under Balstad's picturesque shore. Here the elv widens and rolls its billows majestically in a woodland landscape, as large and extended as if it were in North America.

"We sail on the river from Siljan's lake under the drooping willows of the parsonage, where swans gather in groups; we move slowly with horses and carriages on the large ferry-boat, across the swift current beneath Balstad's beautiful shore. Here, the river widens and rolls its waves grandly in a forested landscape, as vast and expansive as if it were in North America."

"We see the rushing, rapid stream under Avista's yellow clay declivities; the yellow water falls, like fluid amber, in picturesque cataracts before the copper works, where rainbow-colored tongues of fire shoot themselves upwards, and the hammer's blow on the copper-plates resound to the monotonous, roaring rumble of the elv-fall."

"We see the fast-moving stream beneath Avista's yellow clay slopes; the yellow water cascades, like liquid amber, in beautiful waterfalls before the copper works, where rainbow-colored flames shoot up into the air, and the sound of the hammer hitting the copper plates echoes in the continuous, roaring rumble of the waterfall."

And so on, past the famous fall down which the waters gush, ere they lose themselves in the waters of the Baltic. One glimpse more ere they reach their resting-place. We take them up as they are circling the garden of a trim Swedish manor-house:

And so on, past the famous waterfall where the water rushes down before it merges into the Baltic Sea. One last glimpse before they reach their final destination. We see them as they circle around the garden of a neat Swedish manor house:

"The garden itself was a piece of enchantment. There stood three transplanted beech trees, and they throve well. The sharp north wind had rounded off the tops of the wild chestnut trees of the avenue in a singular manner; they looked as if they had been under the gardener's shears. Golden yellow oranges hung in the conservatory; the splendid Southern exotics had to-day got the windows half open, so that the artificial warmth met the fresh, warm, sunny air of the Northern summer.

"The garden was truly magical. Three newly planted beech trees stood tall and healthy. The biting north wind had strangely shaped the tops of the wild chestnut trees along the avenue, making them look as if they had been pruned by a gardener. Bright yellow oranges hung in the conservatory; the beautiful Southern plants had the windows half open today, allowing the artificial warmth to mix with the fresh, warm, sunny air of the Northern summer."

"The branch of the Dal-elv which goes round the garden is strewn with small islands, where beautiful hanging birches and fir-trees grow in Scandinavian splendor. There are small islands with green, silent groves; there are small islands with rich grass, tall brakens, variegated bell flowers, and cowslips. No Turkey carpet has fresher colors. The stream between these islands and holmes is sometimes rapid, deep, and clear; sometimes like a broad rivulet with silky green rushes, water lilies, and brown feathered reeds; sometimes[Pg 22] it is a brook with a stony ground, and now it spreads itself out in a large, still mill-dam.

The branch of the Dal-elv that wraps around the garden is dotted with small islands, where beautiful hanging birches and fir trees grow in stunning Scandinavian beauty. There are small islands with lush, quiet groves; there are small islands with rich grass, tall ferns, colorful bellflowers, and cowslips. No Turkish carpet has brighter colors. The stream between these islands and little hills is sometimes fast, deep, and clear; other times it resembles a wide creek filled with silky green reeds, water lilies, and brown feathered cattails; sometimes[Pg 22] it’s a brook with a stony bed, and right now it spreads out into a large, calm mill pond.

"Here is a landscape in midsummer for the games of the river-sprites, and the dancers of the elves and fairies! There, in the lustre of the full moon, the dryads can tell their tales, the water-sprites seize the golden harp, and believe that one can be blessed, at least for one single night, like this.

"Here’s a summer scene for the river sprites to play in, along with the dancers of elves and fairies! There, under the glow of the full moon, the dryads share their stories, the water sprites grab the golden harp, and they all hope to be blessed, if only for one single night, like this."

"On the other side of Ens Bruck is the main stream—the full Dal-elv. Do you hear the monotonous rumble? It is not from Elvkarleby Fall that it reaches hither; it is close by; it is from Laa Foss in which lies Ash Island: the elv streams and rushes over the leaping salmon.

"On the other side of Ens Bruck is the main river—the full Dal-elv. Do you hear the steady rumble? It doesn't come from Elvkarleby Fall; that's nearby. It’s from Laa Foss, where Ash Island sits: the river flows and rushes over the jumping salmon."

"Let us sit here, between the fragments of rock by the shore, in the red evening sunlight, which sheds a golden lustre on the waters of the Dal-elv.

"Let’s sit here, between the chunks of rock by the shore, in the red evening sunlight, which casts a golden glow on the waters of the Dal-elv."

"Glorious river! But a few seconds' work hast thou to do in the mills yonder, and thou rushest foaming on over Elvkarleby's rocks, down into the deep bed of the river, which leads thee to the Baltic—thy eternity."

"Glorious river! Just a few seconds of work you have to do in the mills over there, and then you rush, foaming over Elvkarleby's rocks, down into the deep riverbed that takes you to the Baltic—your eternity."

We could fill half our number with passages just as beautiful; but will leave the rest of the poet's landscapes till some American publisher brings out the book. We must nevertheless quote one picture of a different kind. "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin;" and the sorrows of the palace and the cottage alike find their level and their rest in the grave. The "Mute Book" speaks with a moving eloquence to those who can read it aright:

We could easily fill half our number with equally beautiful passages, but we'll wait for an American publisher to release the book to share the rest of the poet's landscapes. However, we must include one picture of a different kind. "One touch of nature makes the whole world family;" and the sorrows of both the palace and the cottage find their place and peace in the grave. The "Mute Book" communicates with a profound eloquence to those who can interpret it correctly:

"By the high-road into the forest there stood a solitary farm-house. One way lay right through the farm-yard; the sun shone; all the windows were open; there was life and bustle within, but in the yard, in an arbor of flowering lilacs, there stood an open coffin. The corpse had been placed out here, and it was to be buried that forenoon. No one stood by, and wept over that dead man; no one hung sorrowfully over him. His face was covered with a white cloth, and under his head there lay a large, thick book, every leaf of which was a whole sheet of gray paper, and, between each, lay withered flowers, deposited and forgotten,—a whole herbarium, gathered in different places. He himself had requested that it should be laid in the grave with him. A chapter of his life was blended with every flower! 'Who is that dead man?' we asked, and the answer was, 'The old student from Upsala. They say he was once very clever; he knew the learned languages, could sing and write verses too; but then there was something that went wrong, and so he gave both his thoughts and himself up to drinking spirits, and, as his health suffered by it, he came out here into the country, where they paid for his board and lodging. He was as gentle as a child when the dark humor did not come over him, for then he was strong, and ran about in the forest like a hunted deer; but when we got him home, we persuaded him to look into the book with the dry plants. Then he would sit the whole day, and look at one plant, and then at another, and many a time the tears ran down his cheeks. God knows what he then thought! But he begged that he might have the book with him in his coffin; and now it lies there, and the lid will soon be fastened down, and then he will take his peaceful rest in the grave!'

"By the main road leading into the forest, there was a lonely farmhouse. One path went right through the yard; the sun was shining, all the windows were open, and there was life and activity inside. But in the yard, in a section shaded by flowering lilacs, there was an open coffin. The body had been placed outside, and it was scheduled to be buried that morning. No one stood nearby, weeping over the man; no one mourned for him. His face was covered with a white cloth, and under his head was a large, thick book, with every page being a whole sheet of gray paper. Between each page lay withered flowers, set there and forgotten—a complete herbarium collected from various places. He had requested it be buried with him. Each flower was tied to a chapter of his life! 'Who is this dead man?' we asked, and the response was, 'The old student from Upsala. They say he was once very smart; he knew the learned languages and could sing and write poetry too. But then something went wrong, and he succumbed to alcohol, which harmed his health. So, he came out to the countryside, where they covered his food and lodging. He was as gentle as a child when the dark mood didn't take over, but then he became wild, running through the forest like a hunted deer. When we brought him back home, we convinced him to look at the book with the dried plants. He would spend the whole day studying one plant and then another, and many times tears streamed down his face. God knows what thoughts crossed his mind then! But he asked to have the book with him in his coffin; and now it lies there, the lid will soon be closed, and then he will find his peace in the grave!'”

"They raised the winding sheet. There was peace in the face of the dead. A sunbeam fell on it; a swallow, in its arrow-flight, darted into the new-made arbor, and in its flight circled twittering over the dead man's head.

"They lifted the shroud. The deceased's face looked peaceful. A ray of sunlight hit it; a swallow, in its swift flight, darted into the newly made arbor and circled overhead, chirping over the dead man's head."

"How strange it is!—we all assuredly know it—to take out old letters from the days of one's youth, and read them: a whole life, as it were, then rises up, with all its hopes and all its troubles. How many of those with whom we, in their time, lived so devotedly, are now even as the dead to us, and yet they still live! But we have not thought of them for many years—them whom we once thought we should always cling to, and share our mutual joys and sorrows with!

"Isn't it strange?—we all definitely know this—taking out old letters from our youth and reading them: a whole life, in a way, comes back to us, with all its hopes and all its troubles. So many of those we once lived for so passionately now feel as distant as the dead, even though they’re still alive! But we haven't thought about them in years—those we once believed we would always hold on to and share our joys and sorrows with!"

"The withered oak-leaf in the book here, is a memorial of the friend—the friend of his school days—the friend for life. He fixed this leaf on the student's cap, in the greenwood, when the vow of friendship was concluded for the whole life. Where does he now live? The leaf is preserved; friendship forgotten. Here is a foreign conservatory plant, too fine for the gardens of the North. It looks as if there still were fragrance in it. She gave it to him—she, the lady of that noble garden!

"The dried oak leaf in this book is a reminder of a friend—the friend from his school days—the friend for life. He attached this leaf to the student’s cap in the woods when they made their lifelong friendship vow. Where is he now? The leaf is kept; the friendship is forgotten. Here’s a foreign plant from a conservatory, too delicate for northern gardens. It seems like it still has some fragrance left in it. She gave it to him—she, the lady of that beautiful garden!"

"Here is the marsh-lotus, which, he himself has plucked and watered with salt tears—the marsh-lotus from the fresh waters! And here is a nettle; what do its leaves say! What did he think on plucking it?—on preserving it? Here are lilies of the valley, from the woodland solitudes; here are honeysuckles from the village ale-house flower-pot; and here the bare, sharp blade of grass. The flowering lilac bends its fresh, fragrant clusters over the dead man's head; the swallow again flies past—'qui-vit! qui-vit!' Now the men come with nails and hammer; the lid is placed over the corpse, whose head rests on the 'Mute Book'—preserved—forgotten!"

"Here is the marsh-lotus, which he picked and watered with salty tears—the marsh-lotus from the fresh waters! And here’s a nettle; what do its leaves say? What was he thinking when he picked it?—when he tried to keep it alive? Here are lilies of the valley, from the quiet woods; here are honeysuckles from the village pub’s flowerpot; and here the bare, sharp blade of grass. The flowering lilac leans its fresh, fragrant clusters over the dead man’s head; the swallow flies by again—'qui-vit! qui-vit!' Now the men arrive with nails and a hammer; the lid is placed over the corpse, whose head rests on the 'Mute Book'—preserved—forgotten!"

The book, to those who are not repelled by a certain quaintness of manner from the enjoyment of a work of true genius, will form a permanent and delightful addition to those pictures of many lands which the enterprise and accomplishment of modern travellers is creating for the delight of those whose range of locomotion is bounded by the limits of their own country, or by the four walls of a sick chamber.

The book, for those who aren’t put off by a bit of old-fashioned style, will be a lasting and enjoyable addition to the many portrayals of different countries that modern travelers are making for the pleasure of those whose ability to explore is limited to their own country or to the confines of a sickroom.

Andersen has grown old in years, and with age he has increase of art, but he was never younger in spirit, and his genius never blossomed with more freshness and beauty.

Andersen has aged over the years, and with age has gained more skill, but he has never been younger at heart, and his creativity has never flourished with more vibrancy and beauty.

VERSES

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY R. H. STODDARD.

My desk is piled with nice things.
From tropical lands divine,
But this is much braver than anything else—
A bottle of Chian wine!

Fill up my golden cup,
And grab a bowl of fruit,
And then unlock my cabinet, And pass me my lute;

For when these comforts have nourished And filled my mind with light,
I need to write a wedding song,
To prepare for my wedding night!

[Pg 23]

A CHAPTER OF PARODIES.

Parodies have been much in vogue in almost every age; among the Greeks, Latins, Germans, French, and English, it has been among the commonest of literary pleasantries to turn verses into ridicule by applying them to a purpose never dreamed of by their authors, or to burlesque serious pieces by affecting to observe the same rhymes, words, and cadences. The wicked arts of Charles the Second's time thus made fun of the hymns of the Roundheads, and pious people have since turned the tables by adapting to good uses the profane airs and sensual songs of the opera house. Of the class of puns, parodies have in the scale of art a much higher rank, and occasionally they furnish specimens of genuine poetry. Among the best we have ever seen are a considerable number attributed to Miss Phebe Carey, of Ohio; they are rich in quaint and natural humor, and as a London critic describes them, "wonderfully American." In its way, we have seen nothing better than this reflex of Bayard Taylor's poem of "Manuela."

Parodies have been popular in almost every era; among the Greeks, Romans, Germans, French, and English, it has been a common form of literary fun to mock verses by using them for purposes that their authors never intended, or to spoof serious works by pretending to follow the same rhymes, words, and rhythms. The clever humor of Charles the Second's time made fun of the hymns of the Roundheads, and since then, pious individuals have flipped the script by adapting the crude tunes and suggestive songs of the opera house for wholesome purposes. Compared to puns, parodies hold a much higher place in the realm of art and can occasionally provide examples of genuine poetry. Among the best we've ever encountered are several works credited to Miss Phebe Carey from Ohio; they are filled with unique and natural humor, and as one London critic puts it, "wonderfully American." In this regard, we haven't seen anything better than this reflection of Bayard Taylor's poem "Manuela."

MARTHA HOPKINS.

A BALLAD OF INDIANA.

From the kitchen, Martha Hopkins stood there making pies, She looks south along the highway, shielding her eyes with her hand; Somewhere on the far hillside, her young heifer grazes, And some grass is growing in a huge patch of weeds.

The air is filled with noise because there's no school,
And boys, with rolled-up pants, are splashing in the pool; Joyfully playing, countless chickens cluck because they can't laugh,
Where the bright mountain tops shine, the little calf jumps around playfully.

Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins! Tell me why you are looking. On the land that's being plowed for planting corn? Tell me why you have followed the turnpike road down the valley, Way past the cattle pasture and the brick yard with its clay?

Ah! the dogwood tree can bloom, and the lawn grass can shine,
With the amber tears falling from the laundry on the line; And the morning's scent of balsam gently brushes her freckled cheek,— Martha Hopkins doesn't care about the stories of spring they talk about.

When the summer's scorching solstice shone on the meager harvest, She saw a man on horseback riding down the turnpike road; Many times she watched him turn, looking back with a sense of despair,
Until, in her tears, she lost sight of him in the shadow of the barn.

Before dinner was finished, he had walked by the brick kiln,
Crossed the fast-flowing Yellow River and waded through a small creek,
And his flatboat cargo was delivered, at that time, for pork and beans,
With the traders of the Wabash, at the dock in New Orleans.

So, Martha Hopkins watches—holding the pans in her hands,
When the sound of distant footsteps sounds just like a man's; Not a breeze disturbs the stove-pipe, nor does a door behind her creak, But she seems to hear the sound of him lowering the bars.

She often sees men on horseback, coming down the rough highway, But they don't come as John Jackson; she can see that clearly enough;
Well, she knows the steady walk of the chestnut horse he has, As he jogs casually with his head down like a sheep.

She would recognize him among a thousand people, by his homemade coat and vest; By his socks, which were blue wool, like the ones farmers wear out west; By the color of his pants and his saddle, which was laid out By a blanket that was taken from the bed for that purpose.

No one can place the hickory yoke on the untamed ox like he can,
No one in his father's cornfields uses the spade and hoe like he does; And at all the apple cutting events, very few men are seen,
That can dance the polka with him, and play the violin with him.

He told Martha Hopkins that he thinks he hears him now,
For she knows just as well as anyone that he intended to keep his promise,
When the buck-eye tree has bloomed, and your uncle sows his corn,
Will the bells of Indiana announce the wedding morning?

He has imagined his relatives, each wearing their Sunday hat and gown,
He thinks he’ll get a carriage, and they’ll spend a day in town; That their love will be reignited, and the comfort it will bring, To have the first breakfast in the cabin where they'll be living.

Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins! What’s gotten you into such a jam,
It's a tear that falls to sparkle on the edge of her cape,
Ah! The eye of love can definitely brighten when it knows what it sees,
One man looks pretty much like another when they're half-hidden by the trees.

But her excited eyes light up again, she forgets the pies and bread,
As she sees a man on horseback rounding the corner of the shed. Now put on another apron, grab the comb, and fix your hair, It's the sorrel horse that runs, it's John Jackson himself who's there!

Here is one scarcely less happy upon Mr. Willis's "Better Moments:"

Here is one hardly less joyful from Mr. Willis's "Better Moments:"

WORSER MOMENTS.

That guy's voice! How often it interrupts
Its rhythm over my lonely days!
Like something delivered on wagon wheels,
Or crowded into an unconscious chaise.
I might forget the words he said. When all the kids worry and cry,
But when I finally get them to bed,
His soft voice comes quietly by—
And years of marriage fly,
And let me sit on his lap.

The times he showed up to court for a while,
The sweet things he said to me,
Make me remember really well I hoped he would propose to me.
My face is less attractive, and maybe
Time and the comb have made my hair thinner; And the caps are simple and ordinary,
And the dresses I have to wear—
But memory is still here
With all that guy's flattery written.

I was out during milking time. Under a gloomy and rainy sky,
When it was time to feed in the barn, And calves were mooing loudly—
When dispersed hay and bundles of oats, And yellow corn ears, solid and firm,
And all that causes the cattle to move With wilder richness throughout the yard—
When everything was loathsome, that’s when I, With friends who had to help me milk, He spoke about his wife very bitterly,
And how he kept her dressed in silk; And when the cattle run there, Covered me in a splash of mud,
That guy's voice came on the air,
Like the gentle chewing of the cud—
And resting close to a spotted cow,
The essence of a woman's bitterness,
I've made a deep and passionate promise,
If I had the power to create him, Live his entire life as intensely, And milk his cows in that yard.
[Pg 24]

I went out to get some wood
When night was fading into dawn,
Before the fire was really going, Or I had put the kettle on. The small stove—when babies were waking With a soft whisper in the beds,
And the melody was breaking in fits. Above their little yellow heads—
And this was when I was up maybe From a few brief and restless naps—
And when the sun rose intensely And openly expressed it, causing us to hold back, And landed on every hill and tree
The bullets from his quiet rifle—
I say a voice has excited me then,
Near that solemn wooden structure,
Or sneaking out from the quiet valley,
Like something on the unhatched nestlings,
Has struck me, and I have pressed Hold my load of chips close in my arms,
And pouring out the most hated Of the words that have ever crossed my lips,
I've felt my woman's spirit surge. On me, just like that milking night,
And, giving in to the blessed flow
Of my uncontrollable anger,
Have risen up, the married ones, the old, Scolding as strongly as I could.

And in the same vein "The Annoyer," in which is imitated one of the most delicate pieces of sentiment and fancy which Willis has given us:

And similarly, "The Annoyer," which reflects one of the most subtle expressions of emotion and imagination that Willis has provided us with:

THE ANNOYER.

"Love is as common as light," "And its familiar voice never tires."—Shelley.

Love knows everyone's house,
And every human presence,
And comes unexpectedly, everywhere,
Like people we don’t want. The toll roads and small streams
Are written with loving words,
And you hear his voice like a thousand bricks. In the call of the herds.

He looks into the teamster's heart,
From the edge of Buena Vista,
And the cracking whips of many men Can never scare him.
He'll return to his cart in the tired night,
When he's dreaming about his work;
And he’ll drift into view in the morning light,
Like a guy on a river raft.

He hears the sound of the cooper's adz, And makes him his fool too,
For he sighs in his ear from the shaving pile As he pounds on the hoop.
The little girl, the boy without a beard,
The men who walk or stand, He will gather them all in his strong arms
Just like the grip of your hand.

The shoemaker hammers above his workbench,
And thinks about his shiny awl,
For love is hidden under the lap-stone,
And there’s a spell on the wall.
It lifts the sole where he drives the pegs,
And speaks in every strike, Until the last is dropped from his cunning hand,
And his foot hangs exposed below.

He smudges the designs that the shopkeepers sell,
And disrupts the hatter's business,
And desecrates the stable yard
In the form of a maid. In the darkest night and the bright daylight,
Knowing he can win,
In every home of attractive people
Will human love come in?

The next is from Poe's "Annabel Lee:"

SAMUEL BROWN.

It was a long time ago, In a place downtown,
There was a guy who lived there whom you might know. By the name of Samuel Brown;
And this guy lived with no other thought Rather than coming down to our house.

I was a kid and he was a kid,
In that house down in town,
But we loved with a love that was deeper than love,
Sam and I—
With a love that women envied,
Samuel Brown and I.

And this is why, a long time ago,
To that place down in town,
A girl got out of her carriage, flirting. My handsome Samuel Brown; So her aristocratic relative arrived And set sail, Samuel Brown,
And confine him to a house,
On a street farther uptown.

The women, not nearly as happy up there,
Was envious of me and Brown; Yes! That was the reason, as everyone knows,
In this home located in the town,)
That the girl got out of the carriage at night. Flirting and getting my Samuel Brown.

But our love is much more skillful than the love Of those who are older than us—
Of many who are much wiser than we are—
And neither the girls living upstairs,
Not the girls who are out in town,
Can anyone ever discover my soul from the soul __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__? Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.

The morning never breaks without giving me words. From my wonderful Samuel Brown;
And the night is never dark, but I’m sitting in the park. With my amazing Samuel Brown.
And often during the day, I walk down Broadway,
With my love, my love, my life, and my support,
To our home in town,
To our home on the street downtown.

The two poems that have been most parodied in this country are the "Woodman spare that tree," of General Morris, and Poe's "Raven." There have been an incredible number of burlesques of the former, and of the latter we have seen a collection of seventeen, some of which are scarcely less clever than the original performance.

The two poems that have been most parodied in this country are "Woodman, Spare That Tree" by General Morris and Poe's "The Raven." There have been an astonishing number of parodies of the former, and for the latter, we've seen a collection of seventeen, some of which are almost as clever as the original.

THE BRITISH HUMORISTS: DESCRIBED

BY MR. THACKERAY.

In the last International, we gave sketches of the first and second of the series of lectures Mr. Thackeray is now delivering in London, a series which we may regard with more interest because it is to be repeated in Boston, New-York, and other American cities. The subjects of the lectures already noticed were Swift, Congreve, and Addison. The third lecture was upon

In the last International, we provided outlines of the first and second lectures from the series that Mr. Thackeray is currently giving in London. We find this series even more intriguing since it will also be presented in Boston, New York, and other American cities. The topics of the lectures we covered earlier were Quick, Congreve, and Addison. The third lecture was on

SIR RICHARD STEELE.

Sir Richard Steele.

"Having," says the Times, "to deal with a personage whose character was any thing but perfection, Mr. Thackeray started with a good-humored declamation against perfection in general. A perfect man would be intolerable—he could not laugh and he could not cry, neither could he hate nor even love, for love itself implied an unjust preference of one person over another, which was so far an imperfection. The interest which a man takes in the progress of his own boy at school, while he is indifferent about other boys who are probably better and more clever, his choice that a death should occur in his neighbor's house rather than in his own, and various traits of a similar kind, are all so many manifestations of selfishness, and therefore so many removes from perfection.

"According to the Times, dealing with someone whose character was far from perfect, Mr. Thackeray began with a lighthearted critique of perfection in general. A perfect person would be unbearable—he wouldn't be able to laugh or cry, nor could he hate or even love, because love itself suggests an unfair preference for one person over another, which is already a flaw. The concern a man has for his own son doing well in school while being indifferent to other boys who might actually be better and smarter, his preference for a death occurring in his neighbor's house instead of his own, and various similar traits, are all clear signs of selfishness, and thus represent steps away from perfection.

"After this preface, Mr. Thackeray discoursed upon Steele's career at school. At the Charter-house he distinguished himself as a good-natured mauvais sujet—idle beyond the average mark. By his scholastic acquisitions he gave little satisfaction to his masters, and was flogged more frequently than any boy in the school. Moreover, he was in debt to all the vendors of juvenile delicacies in the neighborhood; and, if any boy came to[Pg 25] school with money to lend, Dick Steele was certain to appear as the person to borrow. These facts, given with much minuteness, were followed by an assertion on the part of the lecturer that he had no authority for them whatever. It was an admitted truth that 'the child is the father of the man,' and on this principle he felt he had a right, from his intimate knowledge of Captain Steele, to deduce what sort of a personage Master Dicky Steele was likely to be.

"After this introduction, Mr. Thackeray talked about Steele's time at school. At the Charter House, he stood out as a friendly troublemaker—more lazy than most. His academic performance didn’t impress his teachers, and he was punished more often than any other boy in the school. Additionally, he owed money to all the local sellers of kids' treats, and if any boy came to[Pg 25] school with cash to lend, Dick Steele was sure to be the one asking to borrow it. These details, shared in great detail, were followed by the lecturer admitting that he had no real proof of them. It’s a well-known saying that 'the child is the father of the man,' and based on this idea, he felt justified in making educated guesses about what kind of person Master Dicky Steele would grow up to be."

"This bit of mock biography gave the key-note to the entire lecture. While Mr. Thackeray admitted that Steele was a far less brilliant man than any who had formed the subjects of the preceding discourses, and far less entitled to admiration than Addison, he spoke of him in a tone of warmer affection than he had displayed when talking of the great Joseph. He dilated with unction on Steele's many follies and vices—his strange medley of piety and debauchery, his inordinate love of dress, his insensibility as to the duty of meeting pecuniary obligations; he even read an ill-natured description by John Dennis, remarking that it was substantially true, but at the same time he constantly kept before the minds of his hearers the kindliness of Steele's heart. He did not call upon them to worship him as a moral being or as a talent, aware that many others much more deserved such honor, but he exhorted them to love him as a friend: 'If Steele is not a friend, he is nothing.'

"This bit of mock biography set the tone for the entire lecture. While Mr. Thackeray acknowledged that Steele was a far less brilliant man than anyone who had been the subject of the previous lectures, and far less deserving of admiration than Addison, he spoke of him with a warmer affection than he had shown when discussing the great Joseph. He elaborated passionately on Steele's many flaws and vices—his odd mix of piety and debauchery, his excessive love of fashion, his disregard for the responsibility of settling financial debts; he even read a mean-spirited description by John Dennis, noting that it was mostly true, but he consistently reminded his audience of Steele's kind heart. He did not ask them to revere him as a moral figure or as a talent, knowing that many others were far more worthy of such honor, but he encouraged them to love him as a friend: 'If Steele is not a friend, he is nothing.'

"The great number of letters which Steele wrote to his wife, and which are still extant, furnished Mr. Thackeray with much of the knowledge he possessed as to the character of his hero. With these he could pursue him through every variety of joy and sorrow, difficulty and triumph, and, as they were evidently written for none but her to whom they were addressed, he could be sure that the writer spoke from his own heart. On the literary productions of Steele, Mr. Thackeray dwelt very little, but he pointed out in them this peculiarity, that the author showed a reverence for woman unknown to his contemporaries. Swift hated women just as he hated men; Congreve regarded them as so many fortresses to be conquered by a superior general; even Addison sneered at them with a gentle sneer; but Steele really spoke of them in a tone of affectionate respect, and this gives a charm to his comedies not to be found in more brilliant productions.

"The many letters that Steele wrote to his wife, which still exist today, provided Mr. Thackeray with a lot of insight into the character of his hero. With these letters, he could follow him through every kind of joy and sorrow, challenge and victory, and since they were clearly written for no one else but the person they were addressed to, he could be certain that the writer was speaking from the heart. Mr. Thackeray didn’t focus much on Steele's literary works, but he did highlight this unique aspect: the author showed a respect for women that was rare among his peers. Swift despised women just like he did men; Congreve saw them as fortresses to be taken by a superior general; even Addison made gentle mockery of them; but Steele truly spoke of them with a tone of caring respect, which adds a charm to his comedies that isn’t found in more dazzling works."

"Mr. Thackeray took occasion to illustrate by these extracts the characteristic differences of Swift, Addison, and Steele. He had already drawn a ludicrous picture of the relative positions of Steele and Addison, remarking that the latter had been through life to the former what a 'head boy' is to an inferior boy at school. Now by Swift's poem on the 'Day of Judgment'—an extract from the Spectator, containing Addison's reflections in Westminster Abbey—and a passage from Steele, he showed how the subject of Death was treated by the three writers. Swift's poem savagely treats as fools all who pretend to know any thing beyond the grave, including the teachers of the several sects. Addison's tone was kinder, but, while he was benevolent in his skepticism, he came to nearly the same result as the ferocious Dean. Steele, on the other hand, was content to remember, as his first grief, the death of his father, when he was five years old, and the dignified sorrow of his mother.

"Mr. Thackeray took the opportunity to highlight the distinct differences between Swift, Addison, and Steele. He had already painted a funny picture of the relationship between Steele and Addison, saying that Addison had been to Steele throughout life what a 'head boy' is to a lower-ranked student at school. Now, by using Swift's poem about the 'Day of Judgment'—an excerpt from the Spectator, featuring Addison's thoughts in Westminster Abbey—and a passage from Steele, he demonstrated how these three writers approached the topic of Death. Swift’s poem harshly mocks anyone who claims to know anything about what happens after death, including the leaders of the various religious groups. Addison's tone was more compassionate, but, while he was kind in his skepticism, he ended up nearly at the same conclusion as the fierce Dean. Steele, on the other hand, chose to reflect on his earliest sorrow, which was the death of his father when he was five years old, alongside the dignified grief of his mother."

"By way of an additional comical apology for the foibles of Steele, Mr. Thackeray concluded his lecture by remarking on the atrocities of the age when poor Dick lived,—an age when young ladies, at dinner, actually put their knives into their mouths. The social peculiarities of the period he illustrated by a sort of summary of Swift's Polite Conversation, which led up to an ironical praise of the nineteenth century, as a century whose anomalies are unknown."

"To add a humorous apology for Steele's shortcomings, Mr. Thackeray wrapped up his lecture by commenting on the crazy times when poor Dick lived—times when young women actually put their knives in their mouths at dinner. He illustrated the social quirks of the era with a summary of Swift's Polite Conversation, which eventually led to a sarcastic praise of the nineteenth century as a time with no strange behaviors."

The fourth lecture on the humorists was of Prior, Gay, and Pope, Mr. Thackeray choosing to consider Pope, who was not a humorist, but a wit, the greatest humorist of all:

The fourth lecture on humorists focused on Prior, Gay, and Pope, with Mr. Thackeray deciding to regard Pope, who wasn't actually a humorist but a wit, as the greatest humorist of all.

MATHEW PRIOR.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

"Prior he characterizes as the foremost of lucky wits, abounding in good nature and acuteness. He loved—he drank—he sang. Some verses at Cambridge first rendered him an object of notice, and by the 'City Mouse and Country Mouse,' which, jointly with Montague, he wrote against Dryden, and which, Mr. Thackeray ironically asserted, all his hearers knew, of course, by heart, he gained the post of Secretary to the Embassy at the Hague, in accordance with the usage then prevalent of rewarding a talent for correct alcaics or biting epigrams with important diplomatic appointments. However, his fortune was but transient, since he fell with his patron Montague. As a poet, Mr. Thackeray praised Prior highly, calling him the most charming of English lyrists, and comparing him with Horace on one side and Moore on the other. At the same time he referred to a certain statement that Prior, after he had spent the evening with the first men of the day, would retire to Long-acre to smoke a pipe with two very intimate acquaintances—a soldier and his wife—adding that many of his writings seemed to be under the influence of his Long-acre friends."

"Prior is described as the top of the lucky wits, full of good nature and sharpness. He loved—he drank—he sang. Some poems he wrote at Cambridge first made him stand out, and with the 'City Mouse and Country Mouse,' which he co-wrote with Montague against Dryden, he gained the position of Secretary to the Embassy at the Hague. This was in line with the common practice at the time of rewarding talent for well-crafted alcaics or sharp epigrams with significant diplomatic roles. However, his fortune was brief, as he fell from grace along with his patron Montague. As a poet, Mr. Thackeray praised Prior highly, calling him the most delightful of English lyricists and comparing him to Horace on one side and Moore on the other. He also mentioned that Prior, after spending the evening with the leading figures of the day, would go back to Long-acre to smoke a pipe with two close friends—a soldier and his wife—adding that much of his writing seemed to be influenced by his Long-acre friends."

JOHN GAY.

John Gay

"Gay was pointed out as a remarkable instance of kindliness and good humor, gaining the love even of the most savage wits of the day, and incurring the hatred of none. The ferocious giant Swift loved him as the Brobdignag loved Gulliver, and was afraid to open the packet which contained the tidings of his death. This kindliness is an especial feature in Gay's writings, even in his Beggars' Opera, and as Rubini was said to have, 'une larme dans la voix,' so was there in all that Gay produced a tone of the gentlest pathos. This peculiarity he illustrated by reading the well known story of the two devoted lovers struck dead by lightning. As for Gay's life, it was easy enough. He failed, indeed, to make his fortune, but he led a comfortable existence with his noble patrons the Duke and Duchess of Queensbury, living like a little round French abbé, eating and drinking well and growing more melancholy as he increased in fat."

"Gay was recognized as an outstanding example of kindness and good humor, earning the affection of even the sharpest critics of the time, while incurring the animosity of none. The fierce giant Swift cared for him as the Brobdingnag cared for Gulliver, and was hesitant to open the letter that contained news of his death. This kindness is a prominent aspect of Gay's writings, even in his Beggars' Opera, and just as Rubini was said to have 'a tear in his voice,' there was in all of Gay's work a tone of the softest pathos. He illustrated this peculiarity by reading the well-known story of the two devoted lovers who were struck dead by lightning. As for Gay's life, it was quite manageable. He didn’t strike it rich, but he enjoyed a comfortable life with his noble patrons, the Duke and Duchess of Queensbury, living like a small, round French abbé, eating and drinking well and growing more melancholy as he gained weight."

ALEXANDER POPE.

"For a guaranty of Pope's merits, Mr. Thackeray especially referred to the Rape of the Lock and the Dunciad. He insisted on his claims to admiration as a great literary artist, always bent on the perfection of his work and gladly adopting the thoughts of others if they would serve to complete his own. This peculiarity of carefulness was early shown in the fact that Pope began by imitation. The five happiest years of his life were devoted to the study of the best authors, especially[Pg 26] poets, and the intellectual enjoyment was heightened by the feeling that genius was throbbing in his heart and awakening within him dreams of future glory. He too should sing—he too should love. Of love, indeed, Pope did not make a great deal, and as his addresses to Lady Wortley Montague were a failure, so was his first amour a sham love for a sham mistress. A particular pleasure in reading the works of Pope consists in the fact that they bring the reader into the very best company—a company whose manners are, to be sure, a little stiff and stately, and whose voices are pitched somewhat beyond the ordinary conversation key, but there is something ennobling about them. Apropos of this peculiarity, Mr. Thackeray took occasion to dwell with great unction on the advantages of high society, and said, for the benefit of any young hearer who might be present, 'Young hearer, keep company with your betters.' Addison, as we have seen, is Mr. Thackeray's moral hero. He considers, however, that he has one great blemish in his dislike of Alexander Pope. The young poet was too conscious of his own powers to be a mere attendant at the Court of King Joseph, and King Joseph did not like this independence. The support given by the Addison clique to Tickell's translation of Homer might naturally enough be construed by the Pope faction as proceeding from an ungenerous wish to depreciate their chieftain's version, and they might easily suppose that what was emulation in Tickell was envy in Addison. The verses which Pope wrote on this occasion and sent to Addison, had the satisfactory effect that the great Joseph was civil ever afterwards. But still Mr. Thackeray surmised that their sting was never forgotten, and that the saintly Addison might be painted as a Sebastian, with this one arrow sticking in him.

"For proof of Pope's talent, Mr. Thackeray specifically mentioned the Rape of the Lock and the Dunciad. He asserted Pope's right to admiration as a remarkable literary artist, always striving for perfection in his work and happily borrowing ideas from others to enhance his own. This carefulness was evident early on, as Pope started with imitation. The five happiest years of his life were spent studying the best authors, especially[Pg 26] poets, with the joy of feeling that genius was stirring within him, igniting dreams of future success. He too wanted to sing—he too wanted to love. However, Pope didn't focus much on love, and since his efforts to woo Lady Wortley Montague were a failure, his first romance was a fake love for a fake mistress. One of the pleasures of reading Pope's works is that they invite the reader into the best company—a company that's somewhat formal and whose tone is pitched above ordinary conversation, yet they have an uplifting quality. Apropos of this quality, Mr. Thackeray took the opportunity to emphasize the benefits of high society, advising any young listener present, 'Young listener, keep company with your betters.' Addison, as we've seen, is Mr. Thackeray's moral hero, but he believes he has one major flaw: his dislike for Alexander Pope. The young poet was too aware of his own abilities to be just a follower at King Joseph's court, and King Joseph didn't appreciate this independence. The support that the Addison clique provided to Tickell's translation of Homer could understandably be seen by Pope's supporters as an unkind attempt to undermine their leader's version, leading them to interpret what was competitive spirit in Tickell as jealousy in Addison. The verses Pope sent to Addison regarding this matter had the gratifying effect that the great Joseph was courteous from then on. Still, Mr. Thackeray suspected that the sting was never forgotten, and that the saintly Addison could be depicted as a Sebastian, with this single arrow lodged in him."

"The causes that led to the writing of the Dunciad were laid down, chiefly with a view of justifying the author, though Mr. Thackeray admitted that Pope's arrows are so sharp, and his slaughter so wholesale, that the reader's sympathies are often enlisted on the side of the devoted inhabitants of Grub-street. The vile jokes and libels that were aimed against the illustrious poet, and the paltry allusions to his personal defects, were brought forward as sufficient motives; and the lecturer dwelt with admiration on the personal courage which the "gallant little cripple" displayed when the indignant dunces threatened him with corporeal chastisement. At the same time, he declared it his conviction that the Dunciad had done the greatest possible harm to the literary profession. Prior to its publication there were great prizes for literary men in the shape of government appointments and the like; but Pope, a lover of high society—a man so refined that he kept thin while his friends grew fat—hated the rank and file of literature, and if there was one point in his assailants on which he dwelt with savage partiality, it was their abject poverty. He it was who brought the notion of a vile Grub-street before the minds of the general public; he it was who created such associations as author and rags—author and dirt—author and gin. The occupation of authorship became ignoble through his graphic descriptions of misery, and the literary profession was for a long time destroyed.

"The reasons behind the writing of the Dunciad were primarily aimed at defending the author, although Mr. Thackeray acknowledged that Pope's criticisms are so pointed and his attacks so widespread that readers often find themselves sympathizing with the beleaguered residents of Grub Street. The vile jokes and slander targeted at the renowned poet, along with the petty references to his personal flaws, were presented as valid reasons; and the lecturer expressed admiration for the personal bravery shown by the "gallant little cripple" when the furious dunces threatened him with physical punishment. At the same time, he stated his belief that the Dunciad caused significant harm to the literary profession. Before its release, there were substantial rewards for writers, such as government positions and similar opportunities; however, Pope, who loved high society—a refined man who stayed slim while his friends became overweight—despised the everyday writers, and if there was one aspect of his critics that he attacked with cruel favoritism, it was their extreme poverty. He was the one who introduced the concept of a wretched Grub Street to the public's consciousness; he was the one who forged associations like author and rags—author and filth—author and gin. His vivid portrayals of suffering made the profession of authorship seem disreputable, and the literary world was negatively impacted for a long time."

"Pope's well known affection for his mother, on which Mr. Thackeray feelingly expatiated, and the love which his friends entertained for him, were introduced as a sentimental relief in describing the character of a man whose career Mr. Thackeray compared to that of a great general, obtaining his end by a series of brilliant conquests."

"Pope's well-known affection for his mother, which Mr. Thackeray spoke about with great emotion, along with the love his friends had for him, served as a sentimental touch in depicting the character of a man whose career Mr. Thackeray likened to that of a great general, achieving his goals through a succession of impressive victories."

HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.

Hogarth, Smollett, and Fielding.

"In his fifth lecture," says the Leader, "Mr. Thackeray dwelt at great length on Hogarth, and pointed out how much of his success lay in the simple conventional morals of his works; gave a graphic analysis of the Marriage à la Mode and the Idle and Industrious Apprentices; and humorously set forth Hogarth's pretensions to the sublime in historical painting. Smollett was dismissed in a few pleasant paragraphs. Fielding called out the hearty admiration of the author of Vanity Fair; and amidst the panegyric there were some admirable passages, notably one on the scorn and hatred Richardson and Fielding unaffectedly felt for each other, and the sincerity which may animate even the most contemptuous criticism. The opinions Thackeray stamps with his authority, we constantly find open to question; but it is not as a Course of Criticism that these Lectures have their inexpressible charm, and it would be possible for a man to dissent in toto from the views put forth, while at the same time he held them to be among the most delightful lectures he ever listened to."

"In his fifth lecture," says the Leader, "Mr. Thackeray spent a lot of time discussing Hogarth and highlighted how much of his success came from the simple, traditional morals in his works; he provided a vivid analysis of Marriage à la Mode and The Idle and Industrious Apprentices; and humorously expressed Hogarth's aspirations to be seen as grand in historical painting. Smollett was briefly mentioned in a few light-hearted paragraphs. Fielding received the enthusiastic praise of the author of Vanity Fair; and amid the praise, there were some excellent passages, especially one that addressed the disdain and enmity Richardson and Fielding openly had for each other, and the genuine feelings that can underpin even the most scornful criticism. The opinions Thackeray asserts with his authority are often open to debate; however, it’s not just a Course of Criticism that gives these Lectures their unique charm, and it's entirely possible for someone to completely disagree with the views presented while still considering them among the most enjoyable lectures they've ever attended."

STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.

Sterne and Goldsmith.

In the sixth and last lecture of the course, Mr. Thackeray's subjects were Sterne and Goldsmith. He stigmatized severely all Sterne's relations with women, showed up the sham sensibility which wept through his writings, dwelt on the perilous thing it was to make a market of one's sorrows, and sell the deepest experiences of one's life at so much per volume, and wound up with an emphatic condemnation of the pruriency of Sterne's writings, contrasting that pruriency with the purity of Dickens. All the generosity, sweetness, and improvidence of Goldsmith's Irish nature were earnestly and genially presented.

In the sixth and final lecture of the course, Mr. Thackeray discussed Sterne and Goldsmith. He harshly criticized Sterne’s relationships with women, pointed out the fake sensitivity that came through in his writing, emphasized how dangerous it is to profit from one’s sorrows, and sell the most profound experiences of life for a price per book. He concluded with a strong condemnation of the lewdness in Sterne's work, contrasting it with the innocence found in Dickens. He warmly and sincerely highlighted all the generosity, charm, and carefree nature of Goldsmith's Irish background.

This course of lectures has been described as "a review of the humorists, by their master," but Mr. Thackeray is not a humorist—at least humor is not his distinguishing quality; he is a cold satirist, sneering at humanity, and in all his writings never exhibiting a spark of the genial fire which should commend an author to the affections of his readers. Gentlemen may be amused by him—he may be even punctilious and sincere in the observance of all honorable conduct—but judging him by his works, he is one of the last men living whom any person with the instincts of a gentleman would admit to his friendship. Some of his books are amazingly clever, but others, as the Kickleburys on the Rhine, are but unredeemable vulgarity. He has been taken up very much by the snobs—a class somewhat remarkable for misapprehensions of their real relations—and we find the snobs of this country as well as of England lauding the satirist as an enemy of their own peculiar caste. This is a mistake: Mr. Thackeray has painted to the life the sentimental snob, indeed, but he is himself a chief of a different and far less endurable class in this division of the race—the snob cynical and supercilious.

This series of lectures has been called "a review of the humorists, by their master," but Mr. Thackeray isn't a humorist—at least, humor isn't his main characteristic; he’s a cold satirist, looking down on humanity and never showing a hint of the warm spirit that should endear an author to his readers in all his writings. People might find him amusing—he could even be attentive and sincere in following all honorable principles—but judging by his works, he’s one of the last people on earth that anyone with the instincts of a gentleman would want as a friend. Some of his books are incredibly clever, but others, like the Kickleburys on the Rhine, are just utterly crude. He has gained quite a following among snobs—a group known for misunderstanding their true relationships—and we see snobs from both this country and England praising the satirist as an opponent of their particular class. This is a mistake: Mr. Thackeray has accurately depicted the sentimental snob, but he himself is a leader of a different and much less tolerable group in this aspect of society—the cynical and supercilious snob.

[Pg 27]

ALRED.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY ELMINA WALDO CAREY.

Do you remember, Alred dear, The peach tree provides cool and generous shade,
Where our hearts first experienced love and fear,
And promises of loyalty were made?

The peach tree stands there, just like before,
Its shadow is just as faint and gentle, And throughout the holy valley The strawberry vines are growing freely.

Still all about the shoreline
Fields of green flags lie in beauty, And, sloping towards the elder hedge,
Are fields of gently swaying rye.

But, dear Alred, not by our feet. Will the round clover heads be pressed,
Years must pass before we meet
In that cherished valley of the west.

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed with fear,
But if not, Alred, in that land,
It's a joy to know, in some bright place
You'll wait to hold my trembling hand.

CHRISTOPHER NORTH ON ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

The July number of Blackwood's Magazine has a long paper under the title of What is Mesmerism? in which the question is discussed with ingenuity, apparent candor, and occasional eloquence. The editor, however, does not altogether agree with his contributor, and adds to the article the following postscript. Undoubtedly a large proportion of the "professors of magnetism" are mere mountebanks, and the pretenders to clairvoyance may in all cases probably be set down as knaves, or as very ignorant or feeble-minded persons. Nevertheless, we cannot quite agree with Professor Wilson in all his propositions:

The July issue of Blackwood's Magazine features a lengthy article titled What is Mesmerism? where the topic is explored with creativity, seemingly honest insights, and occasional flair. However, the editor doesn’t completely align with the author and includes the following postscript. Clearly, many of the "magnetism professionals" are simply charlatans, and those claiming to have clairvoyance can likely be categorized as frauds, or as very naive or mentally weak individuals. Still, we can't fully agree with Professor Wilson on all his points:

WHAT IS MESMERISM?

"It must be admitted that our excellent correspondent has set forth the claims of 'Adolphe' and 'Alexis,' and similar interesting abstractions, to the powers of omnipresence and omniscience, with great candor and becoming gravity. We are sorry that we cannot follow what many of our readers may consider so excellent an example. We have no faith in those dear creatures without surnames: we have no faith in animal magnetism, either in its lesser or in its larger pretensions; but we have an unbounded faith in the imbecility, infatuation, vanity, credulity, and knavery of which human nature is capable. And we are of opinion that there is not a single well-authenticated mesmeric phenomenon which is not fully explicable by the operation of one or more of these causes, or of the whole of them taken in conjunction.

It has to be acknowledged that our excellent correspondent has presented the claims of 'Adolphe' and 'Alexis,' along with other intriguing ideas, regarding the powers of being everywhere and knowing everything, with great honesty and appropriate seriousness. We regret that we cannot follow what many of our readers might see as such a worthy model. We have no trust in those charming beings without last names: we have no belief in animal magnetism, whether in its minor or major claims; however, we have complete faith in the stupidity, obsession, vanity, gullibility, and deceitfulness that human nature is capable of. We believe that there isn’t a single well-documented mesmerism phenomenon that can’t be fully explained by the influence of one or more of these factors, or all of them together.

"The question in regard to mesmerism is two-fold: first, how is the mesmeric prostration to be accounted for? and secondly, how is it to be disposed of? It may be accounted for, we conceive, by the natural tendencies just recited, without its being necessary to postulate any new or unknown agency; it may be disposed of by the influence of public opinion, which would very soon put a stop to these pitiable exhibitions, and very soon extinguish the magnetizer's power and the patient's susceptibility, if it were but to visit the performers with the contempt and reprobation they deserve. A few words on each of these heads may not be out of place, as a qualifying postscript to the foregoing letter, which, in our opinion, treats the mesmeric superstition with far too much indulgence.

"The question about mesmerism has two parts: first, how can we explain the state of mesmerized individuals? and secondly, how can we address it? We believe it can be explained by the natural tendencies mentioned earlier, without needing to assume any new or unknown forces; it can be addressed by the power of public opinion, which would quickly put an end to these sad displays and would soon diminish the magnetizer's influence and the patient's receptiveness if only the performers were met with the contempt and disapproval they deserve. A few comments on each of these points might be relevant as a closing note to the previous letter, which, in our view, handles the mesmeric superstition with far too much leniency."

"I. The existence of any physical force or fluid in man or in nature, by which the mesmeric phenomena are induced, has been distinctly disproved by every carefully conducted experiment. No person was ever magnetized when totally unsuspicious of the operation of which he was the subject. This is conclusive; because a physical agent, which never does, of itself and unheralded, produce any effect, is no physical agent at all. Then, again, let certain persons be prepared for the magnetic condition, and aware of what is expected of them, and the effects are equally produced, whether the intended influence be exerted or not. It seems simply ridiculous to postulate an odylic (we should like to be favored with the derivation of this word) fluid to account for phenomena which show themselves just as conspicuously when no such fluid is or can be in operation.

I. The existence of any physical force or fluid in humans or in nature that causes mesmeric phenomena has been clearly disproven by every well-conducted experiment. No one has ever been magnetized when completely unaware of the process they were undergoing. This is definitive; because a physical agent that never produces any effect on its own and without warning is not a physical agent at all. Furthermore, if certain individuals are prepared for the magnetic condition and know what is expected of them, the effects still occur, regardless of whether the intended influence is applied or not. It seems completely absurd to suggest an odylic (we would appreciate the origin of this word) fluid to explain phenomena that are just as clearly evident when no such fluid is or can be at work.

"But it is argued by some of the advocates of mesmeric influence, that their agent, though perhaps not physical, is at any rate moral—that the will, or some spiritual energy on the part of the mesmerist, is the power by which his victims are entranced and rendered obedient to his bidding. Here, too, all the well-authenticated cases establish a totally different conclusion. They prove that the will or spiritual power of the mesmerist has of itself no ascendency or control whatsoever over the body or mind of his victim. Every well-guarded series of experiments has exhibited the mesmerist and his patient at cross-purposes with each other—the patient frequently doing those things which the mesmerist was desirous he should not do, and not doing those things which the operator was desirous he should do. As for the buffoonery begotten by mesmerism on phrenology, this exhibition can scarcely be expected to provoke much astonishment, or credence, or comment, except among professional artists themselves—

"But some supporters of mesmeric influence argue that their agent, even if not physical, is at least moral—that the will, or some spiritual energy from the mesmerist, is what entrances and makes their subjects obedient to their commands. However, all the well-documented cases point to a completely different conclusion. They show that the will or spiritual power of the mesmerist has no control or influence over the body or mind of the subject, by itself. Every carefully controlled series of experiments has shown the mesmerist and the subject working against each other—the subject often doing what the mesmerist didn't want them to do and failing to do what the mesmerist wanted them to do. As for the ridiculousness stemming from mesmerism on phrenology, this spectacle is unlikely to evoke much surprise, belief, or discussion, except among professional artists themselves—

"Just like Katterfelto, with their hair standing up," At their own amazement, wondering how to make a living!

"The true explanation of mesmerism is to be found, as we have said, in the weakness or infatuation of human nature itself. No other causes are at all necessary to account for the mesmeric prostration. There is far more craziness, both physical and moral, in man than he usually gives himself credit for. The reservoir of human folly may be in a great measure occult, but it is always full; and all that silliness, whether of body or mind, at any time wants, is to get its cue.

"The real explanation of mesmerism lies, as we mentioned, in the weaknesses or obsessions of human nature itself. No other factors are needed to explain the mesmerized state. There's a lot more irrationality, both physically and morally, in people than they usually acknowledge. The source of human foolishness may often be hidden, but it's always brimming; all that silliness, whether physical or mental, needs at any moment is to get its cue.

"These general remarks are of course more applicable to some individuals than they are to others. In soft and weak natures, where the nervous system is subject to cataleptic seizures, mental and bodily prostration is frequently almost the normal condition. Such of our readers as may have frequented mesmeric exhibitions must have observed a kind of semi-humanity visible in the expression and demeanor of most of the subjects whom the professional operators carry about with them. These poor creatures are at all times ready to imbibe the magnetic stupefaction, because it is only by an effort that they are ever free from it. There is always at work within them an occult tendency to self-abandonment—an[Pg 28] unintentional proclivity to aberration, imitation, and deceit, which only requires a signal to precipitate its morbid deposits. This constitutional infirmity of body and of mind furnishes to the mesmerist a basis for his operations, and is the source of all the wonders which he works.

"These general observations naturally apply more to some people than to others. In sensitive and fragile individuals, where the nervous system experiences cataleptic episodes, being mentally and physically drained is often the usual state. Those of our readers who have attended mesmerism shows must have noticed a kind of semi-humanity reflected in the expressions and behavior of most of the subjects used by the professional operators. These unfortunate individuals are always prepared to absorb the magnetic stupor because it takes an effort for them to break free from it. There is continually an underlying tendency for self-abandonment within them—an[Pg 28] unintentional inclination towards erratic behavior, imitation, and deceit, which only needs a trigger to bring forth its unhealthy aspects. This inherent weakness in body and mind provides a foundation for the mesmerist's practices and is the source of all the marvels they create."

"It is only in the case of individuals who, without being fatuous, are hovering on the verge of fatuity, that the magnetic phenomena and the mesmeric prostration can be admitted to be in any considerable degree real. Real to a certain extent they may be; marvellous they certainly are not. Imbecility of the nervous system, a ready abandonment of the will, a facility in relinquishing every endowment which makes man human—these intelligible causes, eked out by a vanity and cunning which are always inherent in natures of an inferior type, are quite sufficient to account for the effects of the mesmeric manipulations on subjects of peculiar softness and pliancy.

"It’s only for those individuals who, without being foolish, are teetering on the edge of foolishness, that the magnetic phenomena and the mesmeric fainting can be considered real to any significant degree. They may be real to some extent; they are certainly not wonderful. Weakness of the nervous system, a quick giving up of the will, an ease in letting go of every quality that makes someone human—these understandable causes, combined with a vanity and trickery that are always found in inferior personalities, are more than enough to explain the effects of mesmeric techniques on subjects who are particularly gentle and compliant."

"In those persons of a better organized structure, who yield themselves up to the mesmeric degradation, the physical causes are less operative; but the moral causes are still more influential. In all cases the prostration is self-induced. But in the subjects of whom we have spoken, it is mainly induced by physical depravity, although moral frailties concur to bring about the condition. In persons of a superior type, the condition is mainly due to moral causes, although physical imbecility has some share in facilitating the result. These people have much vanity, much curiosity, and much credulity, together with a weak imagination—that is to say, an imagination which is easily excited by circumstances which would produce no effect upon people of stronger imaginative powers. Their vanity shows itself in the desire to astonish others, and get themselves talked about. They think it rather creditable to be susceptible subjects. It is a point in their favor! Their credulity and curiosity take the form of a powerful wish to be astonished themselves. Why should they be excluded from a land of wonders which others are permitted to enter? The first step is now taken. They are ready for the sacrifice, which various motives concur to render agreeable. They resign themselves passively, mind and body, into the hands of the manipulator; and by his passes and grimaces, they are cowed pleasurably, bullied delightfully, into so much of the condition which their inclinations are bent upon attaining, as justifies them, they think, in laying claim to the whole condition, without bringing them under the imputation of being downright impostors. Downright impostors they unquestionably are not. We believe that their condition is frequently, though to a very limited extent, real. We must also consider, that, in a matter of this kind, which is so deeply imbued with the ridiculous, a mesmeric patient may, and doubtless often does, justify to his own conscience a considerable deviation from the truth, on the ground of waggery or hoaxing. Why should an audience, which has the patience to put up with such spectacles, not be fooled to the top of its bent?

"In people with a better-organized structure who give in to mesmerism, the physical causes are less impactful; however, the moral causes are even more significant. In every case, the breakdown is self-induced. But in the individuals we've discussed, it is mainly triggered by physical depravity, even though moral weaknesses also contribute to the situation. In those of a higher caliber, the condition is primarily caused by moral factors, although some physical weakness helps facilitate it. These individuals possess a lot of vanity, curiosity, and gullibility, along with a weak imagination—meaning an imagination that can be easily stirred by circumstances that would have no effect on those with stronger imaginative abilities. Their vanity manifests in the desire to impress others and to be the topic of conversation. They see it as somewhat respectable to be susceptible subjects. It’s a point in their favor! Their gullibility and curiosity manifest as a strong desire to be amazed themselves. Why should they miss out on a world of wonders that others can access? The first step is now taken. They are ready for the experience, which various motives make appealing. They willingly surrender both mind and body into the hands of the manipulator; through his gestures and antics, they are pleasantly intimidated, charmed delightfully, into enough of the state they are eager to attain, which they believe justifies claiming the whole state without being labeled outright impostors. Outright impostors they definitely are not. We believe that their condition is often, though in a very limited way, real. We also need to consider that in a situation like this, which is so filled with the absurd, a mesmerized person may, and likely often does, rationalize a considerable departure from the truth as a form of playful trickery. Why shouldn’t an audience that can tolerate such performances be fooled to the fullest extent?"

"II. How, then, is the miserable nonsense to be disposed of? It can only be put a stop to by the force of public opinion, guided of course by reason and truth. Let it be announced from all authoritative quarters that the magnetic sensibility is only another name for an unsound condition of the mental and bodily functions—that it may be always accepted as an infallible index of the position which an individual occupies in the scale of humanity—that its manifestation (when real) invariably betokens a physique and a morale greatly below the average, and a character to which no respect can be attached. Let this announcement—which is the undoubted truth—be made by all respectable organs of public opinion, and by all who are in any way concerned in the diffusion of knowledge, or in the instruction of the rising generation, and the magnetic superstition will rapidly decline. Let this—the correct and scientific explanation of the phenomena—be understood and considered carefully by all young people of both sexes, and the mesmeric ranks will be speedily thinned of their recruits. Our young friends who may have been entrapped into this infatuation by want of due consideration, will be wiser for the future. If they allow themselves to be experimented upon, they will at any rate take care not to disgrace themselves by yielding to the follies to which they may be solicited both from within and from without; and we are much mistaken if, when they know what the penalty is, they will abandon themselves to a disgusting condition which is characteristic only of the most abject specimens of our species."

II. So, how do we deal with this ridiculous nonsense? We can only put an end to it through the power of public opinion, guided by reason and truth. It should be declared from all credible sources that magnetic sensitivity is just another term for an unhealthy state of mental and physical functions—that it can always be seen as a sure indication of a person's standing in the scale of humanity—that its real manifestation always signifies a physique and a morale well below average and a character that deserves no respect. This announcement—which is undoubtedly true—should be made by all reputable outlets of public opinion and by anyone involved in spreading knowledge or educating the next generation, and the magnetic superstition will quickly fade. If everyone understands and carefully considers this accurate and scientific explanation of the phenomena, the ranks of mesmerism will soon lose their new members. Our young friends who may have been caught up in this obsession due to a lack of thought will be more cautious in the future. If they allow themselves to be experimented on, they will at least ensure they don't embarrass themselves by succumbing to the foolishness they might face from both inside and outside; and we would be greatly mistaken if, knowing the consequences, they choose to subject themselves to a repulsive state that is characteristic only of the most miserable examples of our species.

A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[1]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

John Ayliffe, as we may now once more very righteously call him, was seated in the great hall of the old house of the Hastings family. Very different indeed was the appearance of that large chamber now from that which it had presented when Sir Philip Hastings was in possession. All the old, solid, gloomy-looking furniture, which formerly had given it an air of baronial dignity, and which Sir Philip had guarded as preciously as if every antique chair and knotted table had been an heir-loom, was now removed, and rich flaunting things of gaudy colors substituted. Damask, and silk, and velvet, and gilt ornaments in the style of France, were there in abundance, and had it not been for the arches overhead, and the stone walls and narrow windows around, the old hall might have passed for the saloon of some newly-enriched financier of Paris.

John Ayliffe, as we can rightly call him again, was sitting in the grand hall of the old Hastings family house. The look of that large room was very different now from how it had been when Sir Philip Hastings owned it. All the old, solid, gloomy-looking furniture that used to give it a sense of noble dignity, and which Sir Philip had treasured as if each antique chair and knotted table were a family heirloom, had been taken away and replaced with flashy, colorful pieces. There were plenty of damask, silk, velvet, and gilt decorations in the French style, and if it weren't for the arches above, the stone walls, and the narrow windows around, the old hall could have easily been mistaken for the salon of a newly-rich financier from Paris.

The young man sat at table alone—not that he was by any means fond of solitude, for on the contrary he would have fain filled his house with company—but for some reason or another, which he could not divine, he found the old country gentlemen in the neighborhood somewhat shy of his society. His wealth, his ostentation, his luxury—for he had begun his new career with tremendous vehemence—had no effect upon them. They looked upon him as somewhat vulgar, and treated him with mere cold, supercilious civility[Pg 29] as an upstart. There was one gentleman of good family, indeed, at some distance, who had hung a good deal about courts, had withered and impoverished himself, and reduced both his mind and his fortune in place-hunting, and who had a large family of daughters, to whom the society of John Ayliffe was the more acceptable, and who not unfrequently rode over and dined with him—nay, took a bed at the Hall. But that day he had not been over, and although upon the calculation of chances, one might have augured two to one John Ayliffe would ultimately marry one of the daughters, yet at this period he was not very much smitten with any of them, and was contemplating seriously a visit to London, where he thought his origin would be unknown, and his wealth would procure him every sort of enjoyment.

The young man sat at the table alone—not that he particularly liked being by himself, quite the opposite, he would have loved to fill his house with company—but for some reason he couldn't figure out, the old country gentlemen in the neighborhood seemed to hesitate around him. His wealth, showiness, and lavish lifestyle—he had started his new life with a lot of energy—didn't make any difference to them. They considered him somewhat tacky and treated him with a cold, disdainful politeness as if he were a social climber. There was, however, one gentleman of decent lineage, a bit distant, who had spent a lot of time in courts, had worn himself out and gone broke, sacrificing both his intellect and his fortune to seek advantageous positions, and who had a large family of daughters. The company of John Ayliffe was more appealing to them, and he often rode over to dine with him—sometimes even staying overnight at the Hall. But that day he hadn't come by, and although one might bet two to one that John Ayliffe would eventually marry one of the daughters, at that moment he wasn't very taken with any of them and was seriously considering a trip to London, where he believed his background would be unknown and his wealth would provide him with all kinds of pleasures.

Two servants were in the Hall, handing him the dishes. Well-cooked viands were on the table, and rich wine. Every thing which John Ayliffe in his sensual aspirations had anticipated from the possession of riches was there—except happiness, and that was wanting. To sit and feed, and feel one's self a scoundrel—to drink deep draughts, were it of nectar, for the purpose of drowning the thought of our own baseness—to lie upon the softest bed, and prop the head with the downiest pillow, with the knowledge that all we possess is the fruit of crime, can never give happiness—surely not, even to the most depraved.

Two servants were in the hall, serving him the dishes. Well-cooked food was on the table, along with rich wine. Everything John Ayliffe had dreamed about from having wealth was there—except happiness, and that was missing. To sit down and eat while feeling like a scoundrel—to drink deeply, no matter how fine the drink, just to forget our own shame—to lie on the softest bed, using the plushest pillow, knowing that everything we have is the result of wrongdoing can never bring happiness—definitely not, not even to the most corrupted.

That eating and drinking, however, was now one of John Ayliffe's chief resources—drinking especially. He did not actually get intoxicated every night before he went to bed, but he always drank to a sufficient excess to cloud his faculties, to obfuscate his mind. He rather liked to feel himself in that sort of dizzy state where the outlines of all objects become indistinct, and thought itself puts on the same hazy aspect.

That eating and drinking, however, was now one of John Ayliffe's main ways to cope—especially drinking. He didn’t actually get drunk every night before bed, but he always drank enough to dull his senses and cloud his thoughts. He enjoyed being in that dizzy state where everything became a blur, and his thoughts took on the same fuzzy quality.

The servants had learned his habits already, and were very willing to humor them; for they derived their own advantage therefrom. Thus, on the present occasion, as soon as the meal was over, and the dishes were removed, and the dessert put upon the table—a dessert consisting principally of sweetmeats, for which he had a great fondness, with stimulants to thirst. Added to these were two bottles of the most potent wine in his cellar, with a store of clean glasses, and a jug of water, destined to stand unmoved in the middle of the table.

The staff had already picked up on his habits and were more than happy to accommodate them since it benefited them too. So, on this occasion, as soon as the meal was finished and the plates were cleared, the dessert was served—a dessert mainly made up of the sweet treats he loved, along with some drinks to quench his thirst. There were also two bottles of the strongest wine from his cellar, along with a bunch of clean glasses and a pitcher of water, which was meant to stay untouched in the center of the table.

After this process it was customary never to disturb him, till, with a somewhat wavering step, he found his way up to his bedroom. But on the night of which I am speaking, John Ayliffe had not finished his fourth glass after dinner, and was in the unhappy stage, which, with some men, precedes the exhilarating stage of drunkenness, when the butler ventured to enter with a letter in his hand.

After this process, it was usual to leave him alone until, with a somewhat unsteady step, he made his way to his bedroom. But on the night I'm referring to, John Ayliffe hadn't finished his fourth glass after dinner and was in that unfortunate stage that some men go through before they reach the fun part of being drunk, when the butler dared to come in with a letter in his hand.

"I beg pardon for intruding, sir," he said, "but Mr. Cherrydew has sent up a man on horseback from Hartwell with this letter, because there is marked upon it, 'to be delivered with the greatest possible haste.'"

"I’m sorry for barging in, sir," he said, "but Mr. Cherrydew sent a man on horseback from Hartwell with this letter because it’s marked, 'to be delivered as quickly as possible.'"

"Curse him!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, "I wish he would obey the orders I give him. Why the devil does he plague me with letters at this time of night?—there, give it to me, and go away," and taking the letter from the man's hand, he threw it down on the table beside him, as if it were not his intention to read it that night. Probably, indeed, it was not; for he muttered as he looked at the address, "She wants more money, I dare say, to pay for some trash or another. How greedy these women are. The parson preached the other day about the horse-leech's daughter. By —— I think I have got the horse-leech's mother!" and he laughed stupidly, not perceiving that, the point of his sarcasm touched himself.

"Curse him!" John Ayliffe shouted. "I wish he'd just follow my orders. Why on earth is he bothering me with letters at this hour?—just hand it over and leave," he said, snatching the letter from the man's hand and dropping it on the table next to him, as if he wasn't planning to read it that night. Most likely, he wasn’t; he muttered while looking at the address, "She probably wants more money again for some nonsense or other. These women are so greedy. The pastor preached the other day about the horse-leech's daughter. By damn, I think I’ve got the horse-leech's mother!" He laughed foolishly, not realizing that the target of his sarcasm was himself.

He drank another glass of wine, and then looked at the letter again; but at length, after yet another glass, curiosity got the better of his moodiness, and he opened the epistle.

He took another sip of wine and looked at the letter again; but eventually, after one more glass, his curiosity overcame his moodiness, and he opened the letter.

The first sight of the contents dispelled not only his indifference but the effects of the wine he had taken, and he read the letter with an eager and a haggard eye. The substance was as follows:

The first glance at the contents removed not just his indifference but also the effects of the wine he had consumed, and he read the letter with a keen but worn expression. The main points were as follows:

"My dearest boy:

"My dear boy:"

"All is lost and discovered. I can but write you a very short account of the things that have been happening here, for I am under what these people call the surveillance of the police. I have got a few minutes, however, and I will pay the maid secretly to give this to the post. Never was such a time as I have had this morning. Four men have been here, and among them Atkinson, who lived just down below at the cottage with the gray shutters. He knew me in a minute, and told everybody who I was. But that is not the worst of it, for they have got a commissioner of police with him—a terrible looking man, who took as much snuff as Mr. Jenkins, the justice of peace. They had got all sorts of information in England about me, and you, and every body, and they came to me to give them more, and cross-questioned me in a terrible manner; and that ugly old Commissioner, in his black coat and great wig, took my keys, and opened all the drawers and places. What could I do to stop them? So they got all your letters to me; because I could not bear to burn my dear boy's letters, and that letter from old Sir John to my poor father, which I once showed you. So when they got all these, there was no use of trying to conceal it any more, and, besides, they might have sent me to the Bastile or the Tower of London. So every thing has come out, and the best thing you can do is to take whatever money you have got, or can get, and run away as fast as possible, and come[Pg 30] over here and take me away. One of them was as fine a man as ever I saw, and quite gentleman, though very severe.

"Everything is known and revealed. I can only give you a very brief update on what's been happening here because I'm being watched by the police. I have a few minutes, though, and I’ll secretly pay the maid to send this out for me. This morning has been unlike any other. Four men came by, including Atkinson, who lived just down the road at the cottage with the gray shutters. He recognized me immediately and told everyone who I was. But that's not the worst part; they have a police commissioner with him—a frightening-looking man who took as much snuff as Mr. Jenkins, the justice of the peace. They had all sorts of information about me, you, and everyone else in England, and they came to me for more, interrogating me in a really intense way. That ugly old Commissioner, in his black coat and big wig, took my keys and started rummaging through all the drawers and places. What could I do to stop them? So they found all your letters to me because I couldn’t bring myself to burn my dear boy’s letters or that letter from old Sir John to my poor father that I once showed you. Once they had those, there was no point in trying to hide anything anymore, plus they could have sent me to the Bastille or the Tower of London. So everything is out in the open, and the best thing you can do is grab whatever money you have or can get, and run away as fast as possible, then come[Pg 30] here and take me with you. One of them was as fine a man as I've ever seen, very gentlemanly, though quite stern."

"Pray, my dear John, don't lose a moment's time, but run away before they catch you; for they know every thing now, depend upon it, and nothing will stop them from hanging you or sending you to the colonies that you can do; for they have got all the proofs, and I could see by their faces that they wanted nothing more; and if they do, my heart will be quite broken, that is, if they hang you or send you to the colonies, where you will have to work like a slave, and a man standing over you with a whip, beating your bare back very likely. So run away, and come to your afflicted mother."

"Please, my dear John, don’t waste any time; just run away before they catch you. They know everything now, believe me, and nothing will stop them from hanging you or sending you to the colonies. They have all the evidence, and I could see from their faces that they want nothing more. If they do, my heart will be completely broken, especially if they hang you or send you to the colonies, where you’ll have to work like a slave with a man standing over you, ready to whip you. So please, just run away and come to your heartbroken mother."

She did not seem to have been quite sure what name to sign, for she first put "Brown," but then changed the word to "Hastings," and then again to "Ayliffe." There were two or three postscripts, but they were of no great importance, and John Ayliffe did not take the trouble of reading them. The terms he bestowed upon his mother—not in the secrecy of his heart, but aloud and fiercely—were any thing but filial, and his burst of rage lasted full five minutes before it was succeeded by the natural fear and trepidation which the intelligence he had received might well excite. Then, however, his terror became extreme. The color, usually high, and now heightened both by rage and wine, left his cheeks, and, as he read over some parts of his mother's letter again, he trembled violently.

She didn’t seem quite sure what name to sign, so she first wrote "Brown," then changed it to "Hastings," and then again to "Ayliffe." There were a couple of postscripts, but they weren’t very important, and John Ayliffe didn’t bother to read them. The words he directed at his mother—not quietly, but loudly and angrily—were anything but loving, and his outburst lasted a full five minutes before it was followed by the natural fear and anxiety that the news he had received understandably triggered. However, his terror soon became overwhelming. The color, usually vibrant and now intensified by both anger and wine, drained from his cheeks, and as he reread parts of his mother’s letter, he shook violently.

"She has told all," he repeated to himself, "she has told all—and most likely has added from his own fancy. They have got all my letters too, which the fool did not burn. What did I say, I wonder? Too much—too much, I am sure. Heaven and earth, what will come of it! Would to God I had not listened to that rascal Shanks! Where should I go now for advice? It must not be to him. He would only betray and ruin me—make me the scape-goat—pretend that I had deceived him, I dare say. Oh, he is a precious villain, and Mrs. Hazleton knows that too well to trust him even with a pitiful mortgage—Mrs. Hazleton—I will go to her. She is always kind to me, and she is devilish clever too—knows a good deal more than Shanks if she did but understand the law—I will go to her—she will tell me how to manage."

"She has shared everything," he told himself, "she has shared everything—and probably added some of her own imagination. They have my letters too, which the idiot didn’t burn. I wonder what I said? Too much—definitely too much. Good grief, what will happen now! I wish I hadn’t listened to that jerk Shanks! Where should I go for advice now? Not to him. He would just betray me and ruin me—make me the scapegoat—act like I deceived him, I bet. Oh, he’s a real piece of work, and Mrs. Hazleton knows well enough not to trust him even with a measly mortgage—Mrs. Hazleton—I’ll go to her. She’s always nice to me, and she’s incredibly smart too—knows a lot more than Shanks if she just understood the law—I’ll go to her—she’ll help me figure things out."

No time was to be lost. Ride as hard as he could it would take him more than an hour to reach Mrs. Hazleton's house, and it was already late. He ordered a horse to be saddled instantly, ran to his bedroom, drew on his boots, and then, descending to the hall, stood swearing at the slowness of the groom till the sound of hoofs made him run to the door. In a moment he was in the saddle and away, much to the astonishment of the servants, who puzzled themselves a little as to what intelligence their young master could have received, and then proceeded to console themselves according to the laws and ordinances of the servants' hall in such cases made and provided. The wine he had left upon the table disappeared with great celerity, and the butler, who was a man of precision, arrayed a good number of small silver articles and valuable trinkets in such a way as to be packed up and removed with great facility and secrecy.

No time was to be wasted. No matter how hard he rode, it would take him over an hour to reach Mrs. Hazleton's house, and it was already late. He had a horse saddled right away, ran to his bedroom, put on his boots, and then, heading down to the hall, he cursed the groom for being so slow until he heard the sound of hoofs and rushed to the door. In no time, he was in the saddle and off, much to the surprise of the servants, who wondered what news their young master could have received, and then began to comfort themselves according to the customs of the servants' hall in such situations. The wine he had left on the table disappeared quickly, and the butler, a man of precision, arranged several small silver items and valuable trinkets so that they could be packed up and removed easily and discreetly.

In the meanwhile John Ayliffe rode on at a furious pace, avoiding a road which would have led him close by Mr. Shanks's dwelling, and reached Mrs. Hazleton's door about nine o'clock.

In the meantime, John Ayliffe rode on at a breakneck speed, steering clear of a road that would have taken him near Mr. Shanks's house, and arrived at Mrs. Hazleton's door around nine o'clock.

That lady was sitting in a small room behind the drawing-room, which I have already mentioned, where John Ayliffe was announced once more as Sir John Hastings. But Mrs. Hazleton, in personal appearance at least, was much changed since she was first introduced to the reader. She was still wonderfully handsome. She had still that indescribable air of calm, high-bred dignity which we are often foolishly inclined to ascribe to noble feelings and a high heart; but which—where it is not an art, an acquirement—only indicates, I am inclined to believe, when it has any moral reference at all, strength of character and great self-reliance. But Mrs. Hazleton was older—looked older a good deal—more so than the time which had passed would alone account for. The passions of the last two or three years had worn her sadly, and probably the struggle to conceal those passions had worn her as much. Nevertheless, she had grown somewhat fat under their influence, and a wrinkle here and there in the fair skin was contradicted by the plumpness of her figure.

That lady was sitting in a small room behind the drawing-room, which I’ve already mentioned, where John Ayliffe was announced once again as Sir John Hastings. But Mrs. Hazleton, at least in appearance, had changed a lot since she was first introduced to the reader. She was still incredibly beautiful. She still had that indescribable air of calm, noble dignity that we often foolishly attribute to noble feelings and a big heart; but which—when it’s not an act or something learned—only indicates, as I believe, when it has any moral significance at all, strength of character and great self-confidence. However, Mrs. Hazleton was older—she looked a lot older—more so than the time that had passed would solely account for. The emotions of the last two or three years had taken a toll on her, and probably the struggle to hide those emotions had worn her down just as much. Nevertheless, she had become somewhat heavier under their influence, and a wrinkle or two in her fair skin was balanced out by the fullness of her figure.

She rose with quiet, easy grace to meet her young guest, and held out her hand to him, saying, "Really, my dear Sir John, you must not pay me such late visits or I shall have scandal busying herself with my good name."

She got up with quiet, effortless elegance to greet her young guest and extended her hand to him, saying, "Honestly, dear Sir John, you shouldn't come to visit me so late, or I'll have gossip stirring up trouble for my good name."

But even as she spoke she perceived the traces of violent agitation which had not yet departed from John Ayliffe's visage, and she added, "What is the matter? Has any thing gone wrong?"

But even as she spoke, she noticed the signs of strong emotional turmoil that hadn't left John Ayliffe's face, and she added, "What’s wrong? Did something happen?"

"Every thing is going to the devil, I believe," said John Ayliffe, as soon as the servant had closed the door. "They have found out my mother at St. Germain."

"Everything is going to hell, I believe," said John Ayliffe, as soon as the servant had closed the door. "They’ve found my mother at St. Germain."

He paused there to see what effect this first intelligence would produce, and it was very great; for Mrs. Hazleton well knew that upon the concealment of his mother's existence had depended one of the principal points in his suit against Sir Philip Hastings. What was going on in her mind, however, appeared not in her countenance. She paused in silence, indeed, for a moment or two, and then said in her sweet musical voice, "Well, Sir John, is that all?"[Pg 31]

He stopped there to see what impact this initial news would have, and it was significant; for Mrs. Hazleton knew that the concealment of his mother's existence was crucial to his case against Sir Philip Hastings. However, what was going on in her mind didn't show on her face. She paused in silence for a moment or two, and then said in her sweet, melodic voice, "Well, Sir John, is that it?"[Pg 31]

"Enough too, dear Mrs. Hazleton!" replied the young man. "Why you surely remember that it was judged absolutely necessary she should be supposed dead—you yourself said, when we were talking of it, 'Send her to France.' Don't you remember?"

"That's enough, dear Mrs. Hazleton!" replied the young man. "You surely remember that it was considered absolutely necessary for her to be presumed dead—you yourself said, when we were discussing it, 'Send her to France.' Don't you remember?"

"No I do not," answered Mrs. Hazleton, thoughtfully; "and if I did it could only be intended to save the poor thing from all the torment of being cross-examined in a court of justice."

"No, I don't," replied Mrs. Hazleton, reflecting; "and even if I did, it would only be to spare the poor thing from all the stress of being questioned in a court of law."

"Ay, she has been cross-examined enough in France nevertheless," said the young man bitterly, "and she has told every thing, Mrs. Hazleton—all that she knew, and I dare say all that she guessed."

"Ay, she has been cross-examined enough in France though," the young man said bitterly, "and she has revealed everything, Mrs. Hazleton—all that she knew, and I'm sure all that she suspected."

This news was somewhat more interesting than even the former; it touched Mrs. Hazleton personally to a certain extent, for all that Jane Ayliffe knew and all that she guessed might comprise a great deal that Mrs. Hazleton would not have liked the world to know or guess either. She retained all her presence of mind however, and replied quite quietly "Really, Sir John, I cannot at all form a judgment of these things, or give you either assistance or advice, as I am anxious to do, unless you explain the whole matter fully and clearly. What has your mother done which seems to have affected you so much? Let me hear the whole details, then I can judge and speak with some show of reason. But calm yourself, calm yourself, my dear sir. We often at the first glance of any unpleasant intelligence take fright, and thinking the danger ten times greater than it really is, run into worse dangers in trying to avoid it. Let me hear all, I say, and then I will consider what is to be done."

This news was even more interesting than the previous one; it personally affected Mrs. Hazleton to some extent, considering everything Jane Ayliffe knew and what she might have guessed could expose a lot that Mrs. Hazleton wouldn't have wanted anyone to know. However, she kept her composure and replied calmly, "Really, Sir John, I can't form any judgment on these matters or offer you any help or advice, which I’m eager to do, unless you explain everything clearly and in detail. What has your mother done that seems to be affecting you so much? Share all the details, and then I can understand and respond more reasonably. But please, calm down, my dear sir. Often, the first reaction to bad news can make us panic, and we tend to think the situation is much worse than it actually is, leading us to worse troubles while trying to avoid it. So, tell me everything, and then I'll figure out what to do."

Now Mrs. Hazleton had already, from what she had just heard, determined precisely and entirely what she would do. She had divined in an instant that the artful game in which John Ayliffe had been engaged, and in which she herself had taken a hand, was played out, and that he was the loser; but it was a very important object with her to ascertain if possible how far she herself had been compromised by the revelations of Mrs. Ayliffe. This was the motive of her gentle questions; for at heart she did not feel the least gentle.

Now Mrs. Hazleton had already figured out exactly what she was going to do based on what she had just heard. She instantly realized that the clever game John Ayliffe had been playing, and in which she had participated, was over, and he was the loser. However, it was very important for her to find out how much she had been compromised by Mrs. Ayliffe’s revelations. This was the reason for her gentle questions; deep down, she didn’t feel gentle at all.

On the other hand John Ayliffe was somewhat angry. All frightened people are angry when they find others a great deal less frightened than themselves. Drawing forth his mother's letter then, he thrust it towards Mrs. Hazleton, almost rudely, saying, "Read that, madam, and you'll soon see all the details that you could wish for."

On the other hand, John Ayliffe was pretty angry. Everyone who's scared gets angry when they see others not as scared as they are. He pulled out his mother’s letter and shoved it at Mrs. Hazleton, almost rudely, saying, "Read this, ma'am, and you’ll quickly see all the details you want."

Mrs. Hazleton did read it from end to end, postscript and all, and she saw with infinite satisfaction and delight, that her own name was never once mentioned in the whole course of that delectable epistle. As she read that part of the letter, however, in which Mrs. Ayliffe referred to the very handsome gentlemanly man who had been one of her unwished for visitors, Mrs. Hazleton said within herself, "This is Marlow; Marlow has done this!" and tenfold bitterness took possession of her heart. She folded up the letter with neat propriety, however, and handed it back to John Ayliffe, saying, in her very sweetest tones, "Well, I do not think this so very bad as you seem to imagine. They have found out that your mother is still living, and that is all. They cannot make much of that."

Mrs. Hazleton read it from start to finish, including the postscript, and she felt an immense sense of satisfaction and joy when she realized that her name was never mentioned throughout the entire delightful letter. However, when she reached the part where Mrs. Ayliffe talked about the very handsome gentleman who had been one of her unwanted visitors, Mrs. Hazleton thought to herself, "This is Marlow; Marlow has done this!" and a wave of bitterness flooded her heart. Still, she neatly folded the letter and handed it back to John Ayliffe, saying in her sweetest voice, "Well, I don’t think this is as bad as you seem to think. They've just found out that your mother is still alive, and that’s all. They can’t make much of that."

"Not much of that!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, now nearly driven to frenzy, "what if they convict me of perjury for swearing she was dead?"

"Not much of that!" shouted John Ayliffe, now almost driven to madness. "What if they convict me of lying under oath for declaring she was dead?"

"Did you swear she was dead?" exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton with an exceedingly well assumed look of profound astonishment.

"Did you swear she was dead?" Mrs. Hazleton exclaimed with an impressively convincing look of deep surprise.

"To be sure I did," he answered. "Why you proposed that she should be sent away yourself, and Shanks drew out the affidavit."

"Of course I did," he replied. "You were the one who suggested that she should be sent away, and Shanks pulled out the affidavit."

A mingled look of consternation and indignation came into Mrs. Hazleton's beautiful face; but before she could make any reply he went on, thinking he had frightened her, which was in itself a satisfaction and a sort of triumph.

A mixed expression of shock and anger appeared on Mrs. Hazleton's beautiful face; but before she could respond, he continued, believing he had intimidated her, which was, in itself, a source of satisfaction and a kind of victory.

"Ay, that you did," he said, "and not only that, but you advanced me all the money to carry on the suit, and I am told that that is punishable by law. Besides, you knew quite well of the leaf being torn out of the register, so we are in the same basket I can tell you, Mrs. Hazleton."

"Yes, you did," he said, "and not only that, but you also gave me all the money to pursue the case, and I've been told that's against the law. Besides, you were fully aware of the page being ripped out of the register, so we’re both in the same situation, I can assure you, Mrs. Hazleton."

"Sir, you insult me," said the lady, rising with an air of imperious dignity. "The charity which induced me to advance you different sums of money, without knowing what they were to be applied to—and I can prove that some of them were applied to very different purposes than a suit at law—has been misunderstood, I see. Had I advanced them to carry on this suit, they would have been paid to your and my lawyer, not to yourself. Not a word more, if you please! You have mistaken my character as well as my motives, if you suppose that I will suffer you to remain here one moment after you have insulted me by the very thought that I was any sharer in your nefarious transactions." She spoke in a loud shrill tone, knowing that the servants were in the hall hard by, and then she added, "Save me the pain, sir, of ordering some of the men to put you out of the house by quitting it directly."

"You're insulting me," the lady said, standing up with an air of authority. "The kindness that made me lend you various amounts of money without knowing what they would be used for— and I can prove that some were used for very different things than a legal case—has been misunderstood. If I had lent them to support this case, they would have gone to our lawyer, not to you. Not another word, if you please! You've misjudged both my character and my intentions if you think I would allow you to stay here for even a moment after you've insulted me by assuming I was involved in your shady dealings." She spoke in a loud, sharp voice, knowing the servants were close by, and then she added, "Spare me the trouble of having to call the men to throw you out—just leave right now."

"Oh, yes, I will go, I will go," cried John Ayliffe, now quite maddened, "I will go to the devil, and you too, madam," and he burst out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

"Oh, yes, I’m going, I’m going," yelled John Ayliffe, now completely furious, "I’m off to hell, and you can join me, madam," and he stormed out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind him.

"I can compassionate misfortune," cried Mrs. Hazleton, raising her voice to the very highest pitch for the benefit of others, "but I will have nothing to do with roguery and fraud," and as she heard his horse's feet clatter over the terrace, she heartily wished he might break his neck before he passed the[Pg 32] park gates. How far she was satisfied, and how far she was not, must be shown in another chapter.

"I can empathize with misfortune," shouted Mrs. Hazleton, raising her voice to the loudest level for everyone to hear, "but I refuse to get involved with trickery and deceit." As she heard his horse's hooves clatter over the terrace, she sincerely hoped he might break his neck before he reached the[Pg 32] park gates. How much she was satisfied and how much she wasn't will be revealed in another chapter.

CHAPTER XXXV.

John Ayliffe got out of the park gates quite safely, though he rode down the slope covered with loose stones, as if he had no consideration for his own neck or his horse's knees. He was in a state of desperation, however, and feared little at that moment what became of himself or any thing else. With fierce and angry eagerness he revolved in his own mind the circumstances of his situation, the conduct of Mrs. Hazleton, the folly, as he was pleased to term it, of his mother, the crimes which he had himself committed, and he found no place of refuge in all the dreary waste of thought. Every thing around looked menacing and terrible, and the world within was all dark and stormy.

John Ayliffe got out of the park gates safely, even though he rode down the slope covered with loose stones, showing no concern for his own neck or his horse's knees. He was desperate, though, and at that moment, he didn't care much about what happened to him or anything else. With intense and furious eagerness, he replayed the details of his situation in his mind: Mrs. Hazleton's actions, his mother’s foolishness, the mistakes he had made, and he couldn’t find any escape from the bleakness of his thoughts. Everything around him seemed threatening and horrible, and his inner world was dark and chaotic.

He pushed his horse some way on the road which he had come, but suddenly a new thought struck him. He resolved to seek advice and aid from one whom he had previously determined to avoid. "I will go to Shanks," he said to himself, "he at least is in the same basket with myself. He must work with me, for if my mother has been fool enough to keep my letters, I have been wise enough to keep his—perhaps something may be done after all. If not, he shall go along with me, and we will try if we cannot bring that woman in too. He can prove all her sayings and doings." Thus thinking, he turned his horse's head towards the lawyer's house, and rode as hard as he could go till he reached it.

He rode his horse a bit down the road he had come from, but then a new idea hit him. He decided to seek advice and help from someone he had previously planned to avoid. "I’ll go to Shanks," he thought to himself, "he's in the same situation as I am. He has to help me because if my mom was foolish enough to keep my letters, I’ve been smart enough to keep his—maybe we can sort this out after all. If not, he can come with me, and we’ll see if we can bring that woman in too. He can testify about everything she’s said and done." With that in mind, he turned his horse toward the lawyer's house and rode as fast as he could until he got there.

Mr. Shanks was enjoying life over a quiet comfortable bowl of punch in a little room which looked much more tidy and comfortable, than it had done twelve or eighteen months before. Mr. Shanks had been well paid. Mr. Shanks had taken care of himself. No small portion of back rents and costs had gone into the pockets of Mr. Shanks. Mr. Shanks was all that he had ever desired to be, an opulent man. Moreover, he was one of those happily constituted mortals who knew the true use of wealth—to make it a means of enjoyment. He had no scruples of conscience—not he. He little cared how the money came, so that it found its way into his pocket. He was not a man to let his mind be troubled by any unpleasant remembrances; for he had a maxim that every man's duty was to do the very best he could for his client, and that every man's first client was himself.

Mr. Shanks was enjoying life with a relaxed bowl of punch in a little room that looked much tidier and more comfortable than it had a year or eighteen months ago. Mr. Shanks had been well compensated. Mr. Shanks had taken care of himself. A considerable amount of back rent and fees had ended up in Mr. Shanks's pockets. Mr. Shanks was everything he had ever wanted to be: a wealthy man. Moreover, he was one of those fortunate people who understood the real purpose of wealth—to use it for enjoyment. He had no moral qualms—not at all. He didn't care how the money came to him, as long as it ended up in his pocket. He wasn't the type to let his mind be troubled by any unpleasant memories; he believed that every person's duty was to do their best for their client, and that everyone's first client was themselves.

He heard a horse stop at his door, and having made up his mind to end the night comfortably, to finish his punch and go to bed, he might perhaps have been a little annoyed, had he not consoled himself with the thought that the call must be upon business of importance, and he had no idea of business of importance unconnected with that of a large fee.

He heard a horse stop at his door, and having decided to wrap up the night comfortably, finish his drink, and go to bed, he might have felt a bit annoyed, but he comforted himself with the thought that the visit must be for something important, and he couldn't imagine anything important that didn't involve a large fee.

"To draw a will, I'll bet any money," said Mr. Shanks to himself; "it is either old Sir Peter, dying of indigestion, and sent for me when he's no longer able to speak, or John Ayliffe broken his neck leaping over a five-barred gate—John Ayliffe, bless us all, Sir John Hastings I should have said."

"To write a will, I’d bet any amount," said Mr. Shanks to himself; "it’s either old Sir Peter, dying from indigestion, calling for me when he can hardly speak, or John Ayliffe has broken his neck jumping over a five-bar gate—John Ayliffe, bless us all, I should have said Sir John Hastings."

But the natural voice of John Ayliffe, asking for him in a loud impatient tone, dispelled these visions of his fancy, and in another moment the young man was in the room.

But the natural voice of John Ayliffe, calling for him in a loud, impatient tone, pushed these fanciful visions away, and in no time the young man was in the room.

"Ah, Sir John, very glad to see you, very glad to see you," said Mr. Shanks, shaking his visitor's hand, and knocking out the ashes of his pipe upon the hob; "just come in pudding time, my dear sir—just in time for a glass of punch—bring some more lemons and some sugar, Betty. A glass of punch will do you good. It is rather cold to-night."

"Ah, Sir John, great to see you, great to see you," said Mr. Shanks, shaking his visitor's hand and tapping the ashes from his pipe onto the hearth. "You arrived just in time for dessert, my dear sir—just in time for a glass of punch—bring some more lemons and sugar, Betty. A glass of punch will do you good. It’s pretty chilly tonight."

"As hot as h—l," answered John Ayliffe, sharply; "but I'll have the punch notwithstanding," and he seated himself while the maid proceeded to fulfil her master's orders.

"As hot as hell," replied John Ayliffe, sharply; "but I’ll have the punch anyway," and he sat down while the maid went about fulfilling her master's orders.

Mr. Shanks evidently saw that something had gone wrong with his young and distinguished client, but anticipating no evil, he was led to consider whether it was any thing referring to a litter of puppies, a favorite horse, a fire at the hall, a robbery, or a want of some more ready money.

Mr. Shanks clearly noticed that something was off with his young, distinguished client, but not expecting anything serious, he began to wonder if it was related to a litter of puppies, a favorite horse, a fire at the hall, a robbery, or a shortage of cash.

At length, however, the fresh lemons and sugar were brought, and the door closed, before which time John Ayliffe had helped himself to almost all the punch which he had found remaining in the bowl. It was not much, but it was strong, and Mr. Shanks applied himself to the preparation of some more medicine of the same sort. John Ayliffe suffered him to finish before he said any thing to disturb him, not from any abstract reverence for the office which Mr. Shanks was fulfilling, or for love of the beverage he was brewing, but simply because John Ayliffe began to find that he might as well consider his course a little. Consideration seldom served him very much, and in the present instance, after he had labored hard to find out the best way of breaking the matter, his impetuosity as usual got the better of him, and he thrust his mother's letter into Mr. Shanks's hand, out of which as a preliminary he took the ladle and helped himself to another glass of punch.

At last, the fresh lemons and sugar were brought in, and the door was closed. By that time, John Ayliffe had already helped himself to almost all the punch that was left in the bowl. It wasn’t much, but it was strong, and Mr. Shanks started working on making more of the same. John Ayliffe let him finish without saying anything to interrupt him—not out of any deep respect for Mr. Shanks’s role or love for the drink he was preparing, but simply because John Ayliffe realized he should think things over a bit. Thinking things through didn’t usually help him much, and in this case, after struggling to find the best way to bring it up, his impatience got the better of him as usual. He shoved his mother’s letter into Mr. Shanks’s hand and, as a preamble, took the ladle and poured himself another glass of punch.

The consternation of Mr. Shanks, as he read Mrs. Ayliffe's letter, stood out in strong opposition to Mrs. Hazleton's sweet calmness. He was evidently as much terrified as his client; for Mr. Shanks did not forget that he had written Mrs. Ayliffe two letters since she was abroad, and as she had kept her son's epistles, Mr. Shanks argued that it was very likely she had kept his also. Their contents, taken alone, might amount to very little, but looked at in conjunction with other circumstances might amount to a great deal.

The shock on Mr. Shanks' face as he read Mrs. Ayliffe's letter was a stark contrast to Mrs. Hazleton's calm demeanor. He was clearly just as scared as his client because Mr. Shanks remembered he had written two letters to Mrs. Ayliffe while she was away. Since she had preserved her son's letters, Mr. Shanks thought it was very possible she had kept his letters too. On their own, the contents might not mean much, but combined with other factors, they could be very significant.

True, Mr. Shanks had avoided, as far as he could, any discussions in regard to the more delicate secrets of his profession in the presence[Pg 33] of Mrs. Ayliffe, of whose discretion he was not as firmly convinced as he could have desired; but it was not always possible to do so, especially when he had been obliged to seek John Ayliffe in haste at her house; and now the memories of many long and dangerous conversations which had occurred in her presence, spread themselves out before his eyes in a regular row, like items on the leaves of a ledger.

True, Mr. Shanks had tried to avoid discussing the sensitive aspects of his job in front of Mrs. Ayliffe, as he wasn't as sure of her discretion as he wished he could be; but it wasn't always possible, especially when he had to urgently find John Ayliffe at her place. Now, the memories of many long and risky conversations that had taken place in her presence lined up in his mind like entries in a ledger.

"Good God!" he cried, "what has she done?"

"Wow!" he exclaimed, "what has she done?"

"Every thing she ought not to have done, of course!" replied John Ayliffe, replenishing his glass, "but the question now is, Shanks, what are we to do? That is the great question just now."

"Everything she shouldn't have done, of course!" replied John Ayliffe, filling up his glass. "But the question now is, Shanks, what do we do? That's the big question right now."

"It is indeed," answered Mr. Shanks, in great agitation; "this is very awkward, very awkward indeed."

"It really is," replied Mr. Shanks, visibly upset; "this is quite uncomfortable, very uncomfortable indeed."

"I know that," answered John Ayliffe, laconically.

"I know that," John Ayliffe replied, briefly.

"Well but, sir, what is to be done?" asked Mr. Shanks, fidgeting uneasily about the table.

"Well, sir, what should we do?" asked Mr. Shanks, nervously moving around the table.

"That is what I come to ask you, not to tell you," answered the young man; "you see, Shanks, you and I are exactly in the same case, only I have more to lose than you have. But whatever happens to me will happen to you, depend upon it. I am not going to be the only one, whatever Mrs. Hazleton may think."

"That's what I want to ask you, not tell you," replied the young man. "You see, Shanks, we're in the same situation, but I have more at stake than you do. But whatever happens to me will happen to you, trust me. I won't be the only one, no matter what Mrs. Hazleton thinks."

Shanks caught at Mrs. Hazleton's name; "Ay, that's a good thought," he said, "we had better go and consult her. Let us put our three heads together, and we may beat them yet—perhaps."

Shanks paused at Mrs. Hazleton's name. "Yeah, that’s a great idea," he said. "We should go and talk to her. Let’s combine our three minds, and maybe we can outsmart them—hopefully."

"No use of going to her," answered John Ayliffe, bitterly; "I have been to her, and she is a thorough vixen. She cried off having any thing to do with me, and when I just told her quietly that she ought to help me out of the scrape because she had a hand in getting me into it, she flew at my throat like a terrier bitch with a litter of puppies, barked me out of the house as if I had been a beggar, and called me almost rogue and swindler in the hearing of her own servants."

"No point in going to her," John Ayliffe replied bitterly. "I’ve already been, and she’s a complete nightmare. She backed out of having anything to do with me, and when I calmly told her she should help me out of this mess since she played a part in getting me into it, she came at me like a mad dog protecting her pups, yelled me out of the house like I was a beggar, and basically called me a rogue and a swindler in front of her own servants."

Mr. Shanks smiled—he could not refrain from smiling with a feeling of admiration and respect, even in that moment of bitter apprehension, at the decision, skill, and wisdom of Mrs. Hazleton's conduct. He approved of her highly; but he perceived quite plainly that it would not do for him to play the same game. A hope—a feeble hope—light through a loop-hole, came in upon him in regard to the future, suggested by Mrs. Hazleton's conduct. He thought that if he could but clear away some difficulties, he too might throw all blame upon John Ayliffe, and shovel the load of infamy from his own shoulders to those of his client; but to effect this, it was not only necessary that he should soothe John Ayliffe, but that he should provide for his safety and escape. Recriminations he was aware were very dangerous things, and that unless a man takes care that it shall not be in the power or for the interest of a fellow rogue to say tu quoque, the effort to place the burden on his shoulders only injures him without making our own case a bit better. It was therefore requisite for his purposes that he should deprive John Ayliffe of all interest or object in criminating him; but foolish knaves are very often difficult to deal with, and he knew his young client to be eminent in that class. Wishing for a little time to consider, he took occasion to ask one or two meaningless questions, without at all attending to the replies.

Mr. Shanks smiled—he couldn’t help but smile with admiration and respect, even in that moment of intense worry, at how Mrs. Hazleton handled things. He thought highly of her; but he clearly saw that it wouldn’t work for him to play the same game. A weak hope—like a faint light through a crack—appeared regarding the future, inspired by Mrs. Hazleton’s actions. He thought that if he could just clear away some obstacles, he too might shift all the blame onto John Ayliffe and transfer the burden of shame from himself to his client; but to do this, he not only had to calm John Ayliffe but also ensure his safety and escape. He knew that accusations could be very dangerous, and that if a person isn’t careful to prevent a fellow wrongdoer from being able to say tu quoque, the attempt to shift the blame only harms him without improving his own position at all. Therefore, it was crucial for his plans that he removed any reason for John Ayliffe to accuse him; but foolish people are often hard to manage, and he knew his young client was particularly notable in that regard. Wanting some time to think, he took the opportunity to ask a couple of pointless questions, not really paying attention to the answers.

"When did this letter arrive here?" he inquired.

"When did this letter get here?" he asked.

"This very night," answered John Ayliffe, "not three hours ago."

"This very night," John Ayliffe replied, "not even three hours ago."

"Do you think she has really told all?" asked Mr. Shanks.

"Do you think she has really revealed everything?" asked Mr. Shanks.

"All, and a great deal more," replied the young man.

"Everything, and a lot more," replied the young man.

"How long has she been at St. Germain?" said the lawyer.

"How long has she been at St. Germain?" the lawyer asked.

"What the devil does that signify?" said John Ayliffe, growing impatient.

"What the heck does that mean?" said John Ayliffe, getting frustrated.

"A great deal, a great deal," replied Mr. Shanks, sagely. "Take some more punch. You see perhaps we can prove that you and I really thought her dead at the time the affidavit was made."

"A lot, a lot," replied Mr. Shanks, wisely. "Have some more punch. You see, maybe we can show that you and I truly believed she was dead when the affidavit was created."

"Devilish difficult that," said John Ayliffe, taking the punch. "She wrote to me about some more money just at that time, and I was obliged to answer her letter and send it, so that if they have got the letters that won't pass."

"That's really tough," said John Ayliffe, taking the drink. "She contacted me about needing more money right then, and I had to reply to her letter and send it. So if they have the letters, that won’t hold up."

"We'll try at least," said Mr. Shanks in a bolder tone.

"We'll at least give it a try," said Mr. Shanks with more confidence.

"Ay, but in trying we may burn our fingers worse than ever," said the young man. "I do not want to be tried for perjury and conspiracy, and sent to the colonies with the palm of my hand burnt out, whatever you may do, Shanks."

"Ay, but in trying, we might end up hurting ourselves even more," said the young man. "I don’t want to be put on trial for lying and conspiracy, and sent to the colonies with my hand burned, no matter what you do, Shanks."

"No, no, that would never do," replied the lawyer. "The first thing to be done, my dear Sir John, is to provide for your safety, and that can only be done by your getting out of the way for a time. It is very natural that a young gentleman of fortune like yourself should go to travel, and not at all unlikely that he should do so without letting any one know where he is for a few months. That will be the best plan for you—you must go and travel. They can't well be on the look-out for you yet, and you can get away quite safely to-morrow morning. You need not say where you are going, and by that means you will save both yourself and the property too; for they can't proceed against you in any way when you are absent."

"No, no, that won't work," the lawyer replied. "The first thing we need to do, my dear Sir John, is to ensure your safety, and the only way to do that is for you to get out of town for a while. It's completely understandable for a young man of your wealth to go traveling, and it's not at all unusual for you to do it without anyone knowing where you are for a few months. That’s the best plan for you—you should go and travel. They can’t be actively looking for you just yet, and you can leave safely tomorrow morning. You don’t need to mention where you’re going, and that way, you’ll protect both yourself and your assets; because they can’t take any action against you while you’re away."

John Ayliffe was not sufficiently versed in the laws of the land to perceive that Mr. Shanks was telling him a falsehood. "That's a good thought," he said; "if I can live abroad and keep hold of the rents we shall be safe enough."

John Ayliffe wasn’t knowledgeable enough about the laws to realize that Mr. Shanks was lying to him. "That's a good idea," he said; "if I can live overseas and still collect the rents, we should be just fine."

"Certainly, certainly," said Mr. Shanks,[Pg 34] "that is the only plan. Then let them file their bills, or bring their actions or what not. They cannot compel you to answer if you are not within the realm."

"Of course, of course," said Mr. Shanks,[Pg 34] "that's the only way to go. Then let them submit their bills, or take legal action or whatever. They can't force you to respond if you're not in the country."

Mr. Shanks was calling him all the time, in his own mind, a jolter-headed ass, but John Ayliffe did not perceive it, and replied with a touch of good feeling, perhaps inspired by the punch, "But what is to become of you, Shanks?"

Mr. Shanks was constantly thinking of him as a stupid fool, but John Ayliffe didn't realize it. He responded with a bit of genuine concern, maybe influenced by the drink, "But what will happen to you, Shanks?"

"Oh, I will stay and face it out," replied the lawyer, "with a bold front. If we do not peach of each other they cannot do much against us. Mrs. Hazleton dare not commit us, for by so doing she would commit herself; and your mother's story will not avail very much. As to the letters, which is the worst part of the business, we must try and explain those away; but clearly the first thing for you to do is to get out of England as soon as possible. You can go and see your mother secretly, and if you can but get her to prevaricate a little in her testimony it will knock it all up."

"Oh, I'm going to stay and face this head-on," the lawyer replied confidently. "If we don't betray each other, they can't do much to us. Mrs. Hazleton won't dare to implicate us because that would implicate her too, and your mother's story won't hold much weight. As for the letters, which are the worst part of this whole situation, we need to find a way to explain them away. But the first thing you need to do is get out of England as soon as you can. You can visit your mother discreetly, and if you can just get her to twist the truth a little in her testimony, it will all fall apart."

"Oh, she'll prevaricate enough if they do but press her hard," said John Ayliffe. "She gets so frightened at the least thing she does'nt know what she says. But the worst of it is, Shanks, I have not got money enough to go. I have not got above a hundred guineas in the house."

"Oh, she'll dodge the truth plenty if they push her hard," said John Ayliffe. "She gets so scared at the smallest thing that she doesn’t know what she’s saying. But the worst part is, Shanks, I don’t have enough money to go. I only have about a hundred guineas in the house."

Mr. Shanks paused and hesitated. It was a very great object with him to get John Ayliffe out of the country, in order that he might say any thing he liked of John Ayliffe when his back was turned, but it was also a very great object with him to keep all the money he had got. He did not like to part with one sixpence of it. After a few moments' thought, however, he recollected that a thousand pounds' worth of plate had come down from London for the young man within the last two months, and he thought he might make a profitable arrangement.

Mr. Shanks paused and hesitated. He was very focused on getting John Ayliffe out of the country so he could say whatever he wanted about John Ayliffe when he wasn’t around, but he was also very determined to keep all the money he had. He didn’t want to part with even a single sixpence. After thinking for a moment, he remembered that a thousand pounds’ worth of silverware had arrived from London for the young man in the past two months, and he thought he could make a good deal.

"I have got three hundred pounds in the house," he said, "all in good gold, but I can really hardly afford to part with it. However, rather than injure you, Sir John, I will let you have it if you will give me the custody of your plate till your return, just that I may have something to show if any one presses me for money."

"I have three hundred pounds at home," he said, "all in gold, but I can barely afford to let it go. However, to avoid putting you in a tough spot, Sir John, I’ll lend it to you if you let me hold onto your silver until you come back, just so I have something to show if anyone asks me for money."

The predominant desire of John Ayliffe's mind, at that moment, was to get out of England as fast as possible, and he was too much blinded by fear and anxiety to perceive that the great desire of Mr. Shanks was to get him out. But there was one impediment. The sum of four hundred pounds thus placed at his command would, some years before, have appeared the Indies to him, but now, with vastly expanded ideas with regard to expense, it seemed a drop of water in the ocean. "Three hundred pounds. Shanks," he said, "what's the use of three hundred pounds? It would not keep me a month."

The main thing on John Ayliffe's mind at that moment was to leave England as quickly as possible, and he was too overwhelmed by fear and anxiety to realize that Mr. Shanks was eager to help him escape. However, there was one obstacle. The four hundred pounds he had access to would have seemed like a fortune to him a few years ago, but now, with much bigger ideas about spending, it felt like a tiny drop in the ocean. "Three hundred pounds, Shanks," he said, "what good is three hundred pounds? It wouldn't even last me a month."

"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Shanks, horrified at such a notion, "why it would keep me a whole year, and more too. Moreover, things are cheaper there than they are here; and besides you have got all those jewels, and knick-knacks, and things, which cost you at least a couple of thousand pounds. They would sell for a great deal."

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Shanks, shocked by such an idea, "that would take me a whole year, or even longer. Plus, things are cheaper there than they are here; and you've got all those jewels, and trinkets, and stuff, which are worth at least a couple of thousand pounds. They would sell for a lot."

"Come, come, Shanks," said the young man, "you must make it five hundred guineas. I know you've got them in your strong box here."

"Come on, Shanks," said the young man, "you have to make it five hundred guineas. I know you've got them in your safe here."

Shanks shook his head, and John Ayliffe added sullenly, "Then I'll stay and fight it out too. I won't go and be a beggar in a foreign land."

Shanks shook his head, and John Ayliffe added gloomily, "Then I'll stay and fight it out too. I won't go and become a beggar in a foreign land."

Shanks did not like the idea of his staying, and after some farther discussion a compromise was effected. Mr. Shanks agreed to advance four hundred pounds. John Ayliffe was to make over to him, as a pledge, the whole of his plate, and not to object to a memorandum to that effect being drawn up immediately, and dated a month before. The young man was to set off the very next day, in the pleasant gray of the morning, driving his own carriage and horses, which he was to sell as soon as he got a convenient distance from his house, and Mr. Shanks was to take the very best possible care of his interests during his absence.

Shanks wasn't keen on the idea of him staying, and after further discussion, they reached a compromise. Mr. Shanks agreed to lend four hundred pounds. John Ayliffe was to hand over all his silver as collateral and wouldn't object to a letter being drawn up right away, dated a month earlier. The young man was to leave the very next day, bright and early in the morning, driving his own carriage and horses, which he would sell as soon as he was far enough away from his house, and Mr. Shanks promised to take excellent care of his affairs while he was gone.

John Ayliffe's spirits rose at the conclusion of this transaction. He calculated that with one thing or another he should have sufficient money to last him a year, and that was quite as far as his thoughts or expectations went. A long, long year! What does youth care for any thing beyond a year? It seems the very end of life to pant in expectation, and indeed, and in truth, it is very often too long for fate.

John Ayliffe felt a surge of happiness when this deal wrapped up. He figured that with everything he had going on, he would have enough money to last him a year, and that was as far as his thoughts or hopes reached. A whole year! What does youth worry about anything beyond that? It feels like the very limit of life to be anxiously waiting, and honestly, it often turns out to be too long for fate.

"Next year I will"—Pause, young man! there is a deep pitfall in the way. Between you and another year may be death. Next year thou wilt do nothing—thou wilt be nothing.

"Next year I will"—Hold on, young man! There's a serious trap ahead. Between you and another year could be death. Next year you won’t do anything—you won’t be anything.

His spirits rose. He put the money into his pocket, and, with more wit than he thought, called it "light heaviness," and then he sat down and smoked a pipe, while Mr. Shanks drew up the paper; and then he drank punch, and made more, and drank that too, so that when the paper giving Mr. Shanks a lien upon the silver was completed, and when a dull neighbor had been called in to see him sign his name, it needed a witness indeed to prove that that name was John Ayliffe's writing.

His spirits lifted. He stuffed the money in his pocket and, with more cleverness than he realized, referred to it as "light heaviness." Then he sat down and smoked a pipe while Mr. Shanks prepared the paperwork. After that, he enjoyed some punch, made more, and drank that as well. By the time the document giving Mr. Shanks a lien on the silver was finished, and a dull neighbor had been brought in to witness his signature, it definitely required a witness to verify that the name written was indeed John Ayliffe's.

By this time he would very willingly have treated the company to a song, so complete had been the change which punch and new prospects had effected; but Mr. Shanks besought him to be quiet, hinting that the neighbor, though as deaf as a post and blind as a mole, would think him as the celebrated sow of the psalmist. Thereupon John Ayliffe went forth and got his horse out of the stable, mounted upon his back, and rode lolling[Pg 35] at a sauntering pace through the end of the town in which Mr. Shanks's house was situated. When he got more into the country he began to trot, then let the horse fall into a walk again, and then he beat him for going slow. Thus alternately galloping, walking, and trotting, he rode on till he was two or three hundred yards past the gates of what was called the Court, where the family of Sir Philip Hastings now lived. It was rather a dark part of the road, and there was something white in the hedge—some linen put out to dry, or a milestone. John Ayliffe was going at a quick pace at that moment, and the horse suddenly shied at this white apparition—not only shied, but started, wheeled round, and ran back. John Ayliffe kept his seat, notwithstanding his tipsiness, but he struck the furious horse over the head, and pulled the rein violently. The animal plunged—reared—the young man gave the rein a furious tug, and over went the horse upon the road, with his driver under him.

By this time, he would have gladly treated everyone to a song, thanks to how much the punch and new plans had changed things; but Mr. Shanks urged him to be quiet, suggesting that the neighbor, despite being as deaf as a stone and blind as a bat, would think he was like the famous sow from the psalmist. So, John Ayliffe went out to get his horse from the stable, climbed on its back, and rode at a leisurely pace through the part of town where Mr. Shanks's house was located. Once he was further into the countryside, he began to trot, then eased back to a walk, and then urged the horse to speed up again. Alternating between galloping, walking, and trotting, he rode until he was two or three hundred yards past the gates of what was known as the Court, where Sir Philip Hastings’s family now lived. It was a somewhat dark stretch of road, and something white caught his eye in the hedge—some linen drying or a milestone. At that moment, John Ayliffe was going quickly, and the horse unexpectedly shied away from this white sight—not just shied, but jumped back, wheeled around, and took off in the opposite direction. John Ayliffe managed to stay on despite being tipsy, but he hit the wild horse on the head and pulled the reins hard. The horse bucked and reared; the young man gave the reins a strong tug, and the horse toppled over onto the road, with him underneath.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

There was a man lay upon the road in the darkness of the night for some five or six minutes, and a horse galloped away snorting, with a broken bridle hanging at his head, on the way towards the park of Sir Philip Hastings. Had any carriage come along, the man who was lying there must have been run over; for the night was exceedingly dark, and the road narrow. All was still and silent, however. No one was seen moving—not a sound was heard except the distant clack of a water-mill which lay further down the valley. There was a candle in a cottage window at about a hundred yards' distance, which shot a dim and feeble ray athwart the road, but shed no light on the spot where the man lay. At the end of about six minutes, a sort of convulsive movement showed that life was not yet extinct in his frame—a sort of heave of the chest, and a sudden twitch of the arm; and a minute or two after, John Ayliffe raised himself on his elbow, and put his hand to his head.

A man lay on the road in the darkness of the night for about five or six minutes, while a horse galloped away, snorting, with a broken bridle hanging from its head, heading toward Sir Philip Hastings' park. If a carriage had come by, the man lying there would have been run over; the night was pitch black, and the road was narrow. Everything was quiet and still, though. No one was seen moving—not a sound was heard except for the distant clack of a watermill further down the valley. A candle in a cottage window about a hundred yards away cast a dim and feeble light across the road, but it didn’t illuminate the spot where the man lay. After about six minutes, a convulsive movement signaled that he was still alive—a slight rise of the chest and a sudden twitch of the arm. A minute or two later, John Ayliffe propped himself up on his elbow and put his hand to his head.

"Curse the brute," he said, in a wandering sort of way, "I wonder, Shanks, you don't—damn it, where am I?—what's the matter? My side and leg are cursed sore, and my head all running round."

"Curse that guy," he said, somewhat absentmindedly. "I wonder, Shanks, you don't—damn it, where am I?—what’s wrong? My side and leg hurt like hell, and my head feels all dizzy."

He remained in the same position for a moment or two more, and then got upon his feet; but the instant he did so he fell to the ground again with a deep groan, exclaiming, "By ——, my leg's broken, and I believe my ribs too. How the devil shall I get out of this scrape? Here I may lie and die, without any body ever coming near me. That is old Jenny Best's cottage, I believe. I wonder if I could make the old canting wretch hear," and he raised his voice to shout, but the pain was too great. His ribs were indeed broken, and pressing upon his lungs, and all that he could do was to lie still and groan.

He stayed in the same position for a moment longer, then got to his feet; but as soon as he did, he collapsed back to the ground with a deep groan, crying out, "Dammit, my leg's broken, and I think my ribs are too. How the hell am I going to get out of this mess? I could lie here and die, with nobody ever coming to check on me. That’s old Jenny Best’s cottage, I think. I wonder if I can get the old hypocrite to hear me," and he raised his voice to shout, but the pain was too intense. His ribs were indeed broken and pressing down on his lungs, and all he could do was lie still and groan.

About a quarter of an hour after, however, a stout, middle-aged man—rather, perhaps, in the decline of life—came by, carrying a hand-basket, plodding at a slow and weary pace as if he had had a long walk.

About fifteen minutes later, a heavyset, middle-aged man—maybe in the later years of his life—walked by, carrying a handbasket and trudging along at a slow, tired pace, as if he had been walking for a long time.

"Who's that? Is any one there?" said a feeble voice, as he approached; and he ran up, exclaiming, "Gracious me, what is the matter? Are you hurt, sir? What has happened?"

"Who's that? Is anyone there?" said a weak voice as he got closer; and he rushed up, exclaiming, "Oh my, what's going on? Are you okay, sir? What happened?"

"Is that you, Best?" said the feeble voice of John Ayliffe, "my horse has reared and fallen over with me. My leg is broken, and the bone poking through, and my ribs are broken too, I think."

"Is that you, Best?" said John Ayliffe in a weak voice. "My horse reared up and threw me off. I think my leg is broken, with the bone sticking out, and I believe my ribs are broken too."

"Stay a minute, Sir John," said the good countryman, "and I'll get help, and we'll carry you up to the Hall."

"Wait a minute, Sir John," said the kind farmer, "and I'll get some help, and we'll take you up to the Hall."

"No, no," answered John Ayliffe, who had now had time for thought, "get a mattress, or a door, or something, and carry me into your cottage. If your son is at home, he and you can carry me. Don't send for strangers."

"No, no," replied John Ayliffe, who had now had time to think, "get a mattress, or a door, or something, and carry me into your cottage. If your son is home, he and you can carry me. Don’t call for strangers."

"I dare say he is at home, sir," replied the man. "He's a good lad, sir, and comes home as soon as his work's done. I will go and see. I won't be a minute."

"I believe he's at home, sir," the man replied. "He's a good kid, sir, and comes straight home as soon as he's finished with work. I'll go check. I won’t be a minute."

He was as good as his word, and in less than a minute returned with his son, bringing a lantern and a straw mattress.

He kept his promise and, in under a minute, came back with his son, carrying a lantern and a straw mattress.

Not without inflicting great pain, and drawing forth many a heavy groan, the old man and the young one placed John Ayliffe on the paliasse, and carried him into the cottage, where he was laid upon young Best's bed in the back room. Good Jenny Best, as John Ayliffe had called her—an excellent creature as ever lived—was all kindness and attention, although to say truth the suffering man had not shown any great kindness to her and hers in his days of prosperity. She was eager to send off her son immediately for the surgeon, and did so in the end; but to the surprise of the whole of the little cottage party, it was not without a great deal of reluctance and hesitation that John Ayliffe suffered this to be done. They showed him, however, that he must die or lose his limb if surgical assistance was not immediately procured, and he ultimately consented, but told the young man repeatedly not to mention his name even to the surgeon on any account, but simply to say that a gentleman had been thrown by his horse, and brought into the cottage with his thigh broken. He cautioned father and mother too not to mention the accident to any one till he was well again, alluding vaguely to reasons that he had for wishing to conceal it.

Not without causing great pain and eliciting many heavy groans, the old man and the young one laid John Ayliffe on the mattress and carried him into the cottage, where he was placed on young Best's bed in the back room. Good Jenny Best, as John Ayliffe had called her—an excellent person as ever lived—was all kindness and attention, although to be honest, the suffering man had not shown much kindness to her and her family during his prosperous days. She was eager to send her son right away for the surgeon, and eventually did; but to the surprise of everyone in the little cottage, John Ayliffe was very reluctant and hesitant to let this happen. However, they showed him that he would either die or lose his limb if he didn’t get surgical help immediately, and he ultimately agreed. Still, he told the young man over and over not to mention his name to the surgeon under any circumstances, but just to say that a gentleman had been thrown by his horse and brought into the cottage with a broken thigh. He also warned both the father and mother not to mention the accident to anyone until he was well again, vaguely referring to reasons he had for wanting to keep it a secret.

"But, Sir John," replied Best himself, "your horse will go home, depend upon it, and your servants will not know where you are, and there will be a fuss about you all over the country."[Pg 36]

"But, Sir John," Best replied, "your horse will get home, trust me, and your servants won't know where you are, and there will be a commotion about you all over the country."[Pg 36]

"Well, then, let them make a fuss," said John Ayliffe, impatiently. "I don't care—I will not have it mentioned."

"Well, let them make a scene," John Ayliffe said impatiently. "I don't care—I won't have it brought up."

All this seemed very strange to the good man and his wife, but they could only open their eyes and stare, without venturing farther to oppose the wishes of their guest.

All of this felt really odd to the kind man and his wife, but they could only widen their eyes and stare, without daring to go against the wishes of their guest.

It seemed a very long time before the surgeon made his appearance, but at length the sound of a horse's feet coming fast, could be distinguished, and two minutes after the surgeon was in the room. He was a very good man, though not the most skilful of his profession, and he was really shocked and confounded when he saw the state of Sir John Hastings, as he called him. Wanting confidence in himself, he would fain have sent off immediately for farther assistance, but John Ayliffe would not hear of such a thing, and the good man went to work to set the broken limb as best he might, and relieve the anguish of the sufferer. So severe, however, were the injuries which had been received, that notwithstanding a strong constitution, as yet but little impaired by debauchery, the patient was given over by the surgeon in his own mind from the first. He remained with him, watching him all night, which passed nearly without sleep on the part of John Ayliffe; and in the course of the long waking hours he took an opportunity of enjoining secrecy upon the surgeon as to the accident which had happened to him, and the place where he was lying. Not less surprised was the worthy man than the cottager and his wife had been at the young gentleman's exceeding anxiety for concealment, and as his licentious habits were no secret in the country round, they all naturally concluded that the misfortune which had overtaken him had occurred in the course of some adventure more dangerous and disgraceful than usual.

It felt like a really long time before the surgeon arrived, but finally, you could hear the sound of a horse's hooves approaching quickly, and two minutes later, he was in the room. He was a good man, although not the most skilled in his field, and he was genuinely shocked and confused when he saw Sir John Hastings' condition. Lacking confidence in himself, he would have liked to call for more help right away, but John Ayliffe wouldn't hear of it, so the surgeon got to work setting the broken limb as best he could and trying to ease the suffering of the patient. However, the injuries were so severe that, despite a strong constitution that wasn't yet significantly damaged by excess, the surgeon had already concluded in his mind that the patient wouldn’t survive from the start. He stayed with him, watching over him all night, which nearly passed without sleep for John Ayliffe. During those long hours awake, he took the chance to urge the surgeon to keep the accident and the location where the patient was a secret. The surgeon was just as surprised as the cottager and his wife had been by the young man's intense desire for privacy. Given that his reckless behavior was well-known in the area, they all naturally assumed that the unfortunate incident had happened during some sort of adventure that was more dangerous and embarrassing than usual.

Towards morning John Ayliffe fell into a sort of semi-sleep, restless and perturbed, speaking often without reason having guidance of his words, and uttering many things which, though disjointed and often indistinct, showed the good man who had watched by him that the mind was as much affected as the body. He woke confused and wandering about eight o'clock, but speedily returned to consciousness of his situation, and insisted, notwithstanding the pain he was suffering, upon examining the money which was in his pockets to see that it was all right. Vain precaution! He was never destined to need it more.

Towards morning, John Ayliffe fell into a kind of restless, semi-sleep, often talking without really knowing what he was saying. He blurted out many things that, while jumbled and often unclear, revealed to the kind man keeping watch over him that his mind was just as troubled as his body. He woke up feeling confused and disoriented around eight o'clock but quickly became aware of his situation. Despite the pain he was in, he insisted on checking the money in his pockets to make sure it was all there. What a pointless worry! He would never have the chance to need it more.

Shortly after the surgeon left him, but returned at night again to watch by his bedside. The bodily symptoms which he now perceived would have led him to believe that a cure was possible, but there was a deep depression of mind, a heavy irritable sombreness, from the result of which the surgeon augured much evil. He saw that there was some terrible weight upon the young man's heart, but whether it was fear or remorse or disappointment he could not tell, and more than once he repeated to himself, "He wants a priest as much as a physician."

Shortly after the surgeon left him, he returned at night to keep watch by his bedside. The physical signs he noticed made him think that a recovery was possible, but there was a deep mental depression and a heavy, irritable gloom that made the surgeon worry about bad outcomes. He realized there was some heavy burden on the young man's heart, but he couldn't tell if it was fear, guilt, or disappointment. More than once, he told himself, "He needs a priest as much as a doctor."

Again the surgeon would often argue with himself in regard to the propriety of telling him the very dangerous state in which he was. "He may at any time become delirious," he said, "and lose all power of making those dispositions and arrangements which, I dare say, have never been thought of in the time of health and prosperity. Then, again, his house and all that it contains is left entirely in the hands of servants—a bad set too, as ever existed, who are just as likely to plunder and destroy as not; but on the other hand, if I tell him it may only increase his dejection and cut off all hope of recovery. Really I do not know what to do. Perhaps it would be better to wait awhile, and if I should see more unfavorable symptoms and no chance left, it will then be time enough to tell him his true situation and prepare his mind for the result."

Once again, the surgeon found himself debating whether he should reveal to him the very serious condition he was in. "He could become delirious at any moment," he thought, "and lose all ability to make arrangements for things he probably never considered during his healthy and prosperous times. Plus, his house and everything in it is left completely in the hands of the servants—a pretty bad group, mind you, who are just as likely to steal and ruin things as they are to take care of them. But then again, if I tell him, it might only worsen his depression and take away any hope for recovery. Honestly, I’m not sure what to do. Maybe it’s better to wait a bit, and if I start seeing more concerning signs with no chance of recovery, then it will be time to explain his true situation and prepare him for what’s next."

Another restless, feverish night passed, another troubled sleep towards morning, and then John Ayliffe woke with a start, exclaiming, "You did not tell them I was here—lying here unable to stir, unable to move—I told you not, I told you not. By ——" and then he looked round, and seeing none but the surgeon in the room, relapsed into silence.

Another restless, feverish night went by, another troubled sleep leading into the morning, and then John Ayliffe abruptly woke up, exclaiming, "You didn’t tell them I was here—lying here unable to move, unable to get up—I told you not to, I told you not to. Damn it—" and then he looked around and, seeing only the surgeon in the room, fell back into silence.

The surgeon felt his pulse, examined the bandages, and saw that a considerable and unfavorable change had taken place; but yet he hesitated. He was one of those men who shrink from the task of telling unpleasant truths. He was of a gentle and a kindly disposition, which even the necessary cruelties of surgery had not been able to harden.

The surgeon took his pulse, checked the bandages, and noticed a significant and concerning change had occurred; yet he hesitated. He was one of those people who dread delivering bad news. He had a gentle and kind nature, which even the harsh realities of surgery hadn't been able to toughen.

"He may say what he likes," he said, "I must have some advice as to how I should act. I will go and talk with the parson about the matter. Though a little lacking in the knowledge of the world, yet Dixwell is a good man and a sincere Christian. I will see him as I go home, but make him promise secrecy in the first place, as this young baronet is so terribly afraid of the unfortunate affair being known. He will die, I am afraid, and that before very long, and I am sure he is not in a fit state for death." With this resolution he said some soothing words to his patient, gave him what he called a composing draught, and sent for his horse from a neighboring farm-house, where he had lodged it for the night. He then rode at a quiet, thoughtful pace to the parsonage house at the gates of the park, and quickly walked in. Mr. Dixwell was at breakfast, reading slowly one of the broad sheets of the day as an especial treat, for they seldom found their way into his quiet rectory; but he was very glad to see the surgeon, with whom he often contrived to have a pleasant little chat in regard to the affairs of the neighborhood.

"He can say whatever he wants," he said, "but I need some advice on how to proceed. I’ll go talk to the pastor about this. Although Dixwell isn’t very worldly, he’s a good person and a genuine Christian. I’ll see him on my way home, but I have to make him promise to keep it confidential since this young baronet is so afraid of the scandal getting out. I’m worried he might die soon, and he’s definitely not ready for that." With that decision, he spoke some comforting words to his patient, gave him what he called a calming medicine, and sent for his horse from a nearby farmhouse where he had kept it overnight. He then rode slowly and thoughtfully to the parsonage at the park gates and quickly walked inside. Mr. Dixwell was having breakfast, slowly reading one of the daily broadsheets as a special treat, since they rarely arrived at his quiet rectory; but he was very happy to see the surgeon, with whom he often enjoyed a pleasant chat about local matters.

"Ah, Mr. Short, very glad to see you, my[Pg 37] good friend. How go things in your part of the world? We are rather in a little bustle here, though I think it is no great matter."

"Hey, Mr. Short, great to see you, my[Pg 37] good friend. How are things going in your neck of the woods? We're a bit busy here, but I don't think it's anything serious."

"What is it, Mr. Dixwell?" asked the surgeon.

"What is it, Mr. Dixwell?" the surgeon asked.

"Only that wild young man, Sir John Hastings," said the clergyman, "left his house suddenly on horseback the night before last, and has never returned. But he is accustomed to do all manner of strange things, and has often been out two or three nights before without any one knowing where he was. The butler came down and spoke to me about it, but I think there was a good deal of affectation in his alarm, for when I asked him he owned his master had once been away for a whole week."

"Only that wild young man, Sir John Hastings," said the clergyman, "left his house suddenly on horseback the night before last and hasn’t come back. But he usually does all sorts of weird things and has often been gone for two or three nights without anyone knowing where he was. The butler came down and talked to me about it, but I think there was a lot of pretension in his concern, because when I asked him, he admitted his boss had once been away for a whole week."

"Has his horse come back?" asked the surgeon.

"Has his horse returned?" asked the surgeon.

"Not that I know of," replied Mr. Dixwell. "I suppose the man would have mentioned it if such had been the case. But what is going on at Hartwell?"

"Not that I know of," replied Mr. Dixwell. "I guess the guy would have mentioned it if that were the case. But what's happening at Hartwell?"

"Nothing particular," said the surgeon, "only Mrs. Harrison brought to bed of twins on Saturday night at twenty minutes past eleven. I think all those Harrisons have twins—but I have something to talk to you about, my good friend, a sort of case of conscience I want to put to you. Only you must promise me profound secrecy."

"Nothing much," said the surgeon, "just that Mrs. Harrison had twins on Saturday night at twenty minutes past eleven. I feel like all the Harrisons have twins—but I need to talk to you about something, my good friend, a kind of moral dilemma I want to run by you. But you have to promise me complete confidentiality."

Mr. Dixwell laughed—"What, under the seal of confession?" he said. "Well, well, I am no papist, as you know, Short, but I'll promise and do better than any papist does, keep my word when I have promised without mental reservation."

Mr. Dixwell laughed. "What, under the seal of confession?" he said. "Well, well, I’m not a Catholic, as you know, Short, but I promise I’ll do better than any Catholic does—I’ll keep my word when I’ve promised it without any hidden motives."

"I know you will, my good friend," answered the surgeon, "and this is no jesting matter, I can assure you. Now listen, my good friend, listen. Not many evenings ago, I was sent for suddenly to attend a young man who had met with an accident, a very terrible accident too. He had a compound fracture of the thigh, three of his ribs broken, and his head a good deal knocked about, but the cranium uninjured. I had at first tolerable hope of his recovery; but he is getting much worse and I fear that he will die."

"I know you will, my good friend," the surgeon replied, "and this is no joking matter, I assure you. Now listen, my good friend, listen. Not many evenings ago, I was called out suddenly to help a young man who had been in a terrible accident. He had a compound fracture of the thigh, three broken ribs, and his head was quite banged up, though his skull was undamaged. At first, I had some hope for his recovery, but he is getting much worse, and I fear he will die."

"Well, you can't help that," said Mr. Dixwell, "men will die in spite of all you can do, Short, just as they will sin in spite of all I can say."

"Well, you can't change that," Mr. Dixwell said, "men will die no matter what you do, Short, just like they will sin no matter what I say."

"Ay, there's the rub," said the surgeon. "I fear he has sinned a very tolerably sufficient quantity, and I can see that there is something or another weighing very heavy on his mind, which is even doing great harm to his body."

"Yeah, there's the catch," said the surgeon. "I’m afraid he’s sinned quite a bit, and I can tell there’s something really weighing heavily on his mind, which is also hurting his body a lot."

"I will go and see him, I will go and see him," said Mr. Dixwell, "it will do him good in all ways to unburden his conscience, and to hear the comfortable words of the gospel."

"I'll go and see him, I'll go and see him," said Mr. Dixwell, "it will do him good in every way to relieve his conscience and hear the comforting words of the gospel."

"But the case is, Mr. Dixwell," said Short, "that he has positively forbidden me to let any of his friends know where he lies, or to speak of the accident to any one."

"But the thing is, Mr. Dixwell," Short said, "that he has absolutely forbidden me to let any of his friends know where he is or to talk about the accident to anyone."

"Pooh, nonsense," said the clergyman, "if a man has fractured his skull and you thought it fit to trepan him, would you ask him whether he liked it or not? If the young man is near death, and his conscience is burdened, I am the physician who should be sent for rather than you."

"Pooh, that's ridiculous," said the clergyman. "If a man has a fractured skull and you think it's necessary to perform surgery, would you ask him if he’s okay with it? If the young man is on the verge of death and struggling with his conscience, I'm the one who should be called, not you."

"I fancy his conscience is burdened a good deal," said Mr. Short, thoughtfully; "nay, I cannot help thinking that he was engaged in some very bad act at the time this happened, both from his anxiety to conceal from every body where he now lies, and from various words he has dropped, sometimes in his sleep, sometimes when waking confused and half delirious. What puzzles me is, whether I should tell him his actual situation or not."

"I think he’s carrying a lot of guilt," Mr. Short said thoughtfully. "I can't shake the feeling that he was involved in something really wrong when this happened, both because of his eagerness to hide where he is now and from the various things he’s said, sometimes while sleeping, other times when he’s awake and confused. What confuses me is whether I should tell him what his real situation is or not."

"Tell him, tell him by all means," said Mr. Dixwell, "why should you not tell him?"

"Go ahead, tell him for sure," said Mr. Dixwell, "why wouldn't you tell him?"

"Simply because I think that it will depress his mind still more," replied the surgeon, "and that may tend to deprive him even of the very small chance that exists of recovery."

"Just because I believe it will weigh down his mind even more," replied the surgeon, "and that might take away the very slim chance he has of recovering."

"The soul is of more value than the body," replied the clergyman, earnestly; "if he be the man you depict, my friend, he should have as much time as possible to prepare—he should have time to repent—ay, and to atone. Tell him by all means, or let me know where he is to be found, and I will tell him."

"The soul is worth more than the body," replied the clergyman seriously; "if he’s the man you’re describing, my friend, he should have as much time as possible to prepare—he should have time to repent—yes, and to make amends. Definitely tell him, or let me know where he is, and I’ll let him know."

"That I must not do," said Mr. Short, "for I am under a sort of promise not to tell; but if you really think that I ought to tell him myself, I will go back and do it."

"That I can't do," said Mr. Short, "because I sort of promised not to say anything; but if you really believe I should tell him myself, I’ll go back and do it."

"If I really think!" exclaimed Mr. Dixwell, "I have not the slightest doubt of it. It is your bounden duty if you be a Christian. Not only tell him, my good friend, but urge him strongly to send for some minister of religion. Though friends may fail him, and he may not wish to see them—though all worldly supports may give way beneath him, and he may find no strengthening—though all earthly hopes may pass away, and give him no mortal cheer, the gospel of Christ can never fail to support, and strengthen, and comfort, and elevate. The sooner he knows that his tenement of clay is falling to the dust of which it was raised, the better will be his readiness to quit it, and it is wise, most wise, to shake ourselves free altogether from the dust and crumbling ruins of this temporal state, ere they fall upon our heads and bear us down to the same destruction as themselves."

"If I really think about it!" Mr. Dixwell exclaimed, "I have no doubt at all. It’s your duty if you’re a Christian. Not only tell him, my good friend, but also strongly encourage him to reach out to a minister. Even if his friends let him down and he doesn’t want to see them—even when all worldly supports crumble beneath him and he finds no strength—even if all earthly hopes vanish without giving him any comfort, the gospel of Christ will always be there to support, strengthen, comfort, and uplift. The sooner he understands that his physical body is returning to the dust it came from, the better prepared he will be to let it go. It’s very wise to free ourselves completely from the dust and crumbling remains of this temporary existence before they fall on us and drag us down to the same destruction."

"Well, well, I will go back and tell him," said Mr. Short, and bidding the good rector adieu, he once more mounted his horse and rode away.

"Alright, I’ll go back and tell him," said Mr. Short, and saying goodbye to the kind rector, he got back on his horse and rode off again.

Now Mr. Dixwell was an excellent good man, but he was not without certain foibles, especially those that sometimes accompany considerable simplicity of character. "I will see which way he takes," said Mr. Dixwell, "and go and visit the young man myself if I can find him out;" and accordingly he marched up stairs to his bedroom, which commanded[Pg 38] a somewhat extensive prospect of the country, and traced the surgeon, as he trotted slowly and thoughtfully along. He could not actually see the cottage of the Bests, but he perceived that the surgeon there passed over the brow of the hill, and after waiting for several minutes, he did not catch any horseman rising upon the opposite slope over which the road was continued. Now there was no cross road in the hollow and only three houses, and therefore Mr. Dixwell naturally concluded that to one of those three houses the surgeon had gone.

Now Mr. Dixwell was a really good guy, but he had his quirks, especially the kind that often come with a straightforward personality. "I'll see which way he goes," Mr. Dixwell said, "and I'll go visit the young man myself if I can track him down," and so he headed up to his bedroom, which had a pretty broad view of the countryside, and spotted the surgeon as he walked slowly and thoughtfully along. He couldn't actually see the Bests' cottage, but he noticed that the surgeon had gone over the hill, and after waiting for several minutes, he didn't see any horseman appear on the opposite slope where the road continued. There wasn't any other road in the hollow and only three houses, so Mr. Dixwell naturally figured that the surgeon had gone to one of those three houses.

In the mean while, Mr. Short rode on unconscious that his movements were observed, and meditating with a troubled mind upon the best means of conveying the terrible intelligence he had to communicate. He did not like the task at all; but yet he resolved to perform it manfully, and dismounting at the cottage door, he went in again. There was nobody within but the sick man and good old Jenny Best. The old woman was at the moment in the outer room, and when she saw the surgeon she shook her head, and said in a low voice, "Ah, dear, I am glad you have come back again, sir, he does not seem right at all."

In the meantime, Mr. Short rode on, unaware that someone was watching him, and he was deeply troubled as he thought about how to deliver the awful news he had to share. He didn’t like the job at all, but he decided to tackle it bravely. Dismounting at the cottage door, he went inside again. There was no one there except for the sick man and the kind old Jenny Best. The old woman was in the outer room, and when she saw the surgeon, she shook her head and said quietly, “Oh, dear, I’m glad you’ve come back, sir; he doesn’t seem right at all.”

"Who's that?" said the voice of John Ayliffe; and going in, Mr. Short closed the doors between the two rooms.

"Who’s that?" said John Ayliffe's voice; and as he entered, Mr. Short closed the doors between the two rooms.

"There, don't shut that door," said John Ayliffe, "it is so infernally close—I don't feel at all well, Mr. Short—I don't know what's the matter with me. It's just as if I had got no heart. I think a glass of brandy would do me good."

"There, don’t close that door," said John Ayliffe, "it’s so incredibly stuffy—I’m not feeling well at all, Mr. Short—I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. It’s like I don’t have a heart. I think a glass of brandy would help."

"It would kill you," said the surgeon.

"It would kill you," the surgeon said.

"Well," said the young man, "I'm not sure that would not be best for me—come," he continued sharply, "tell me how long I am to lie here on my back?"

"Well," said the young man, "I'm not sure that wouldn't be the best for me—come," he continued sharply, "tell me how long I have to lie here on my back?"

"That I cannot tell, Sir John," replied the surgeon, "but at all events, supposing that you do recover, and that every thing goes well, you could not hope to move for two or three months."

"That I can't say, Sir John," the surgeon replied, "but anyway, assuming that you do recover and everything goes well, you shouldn't expect to move for two or three months."

"Supposing I was to recover!" repeated John Ayliffe in a low tone, as if the idea of approaching death had then, for the first time, struck him as something real and tangible, and not a mere name. He paused silently for an instant, and then asked almost fiercely, "what brought you back?"

"Supposing I actually recovered!" John Ayliffe repeated in a low voice, as if the thought of dying had just hit him for the first time as something real and not just a concept. He paused silently for a moment and then asked almost angrily, "What brought you back?"

"Why, Sir John, I thought it might be better for us to have a little conversation," said the surgeon. "I can't help being afraid, Sir John, that you may have a great number of things to settle, and that not anticipating such a very severe accident, your affairs may want a good deal of arranging. Now the event of all sickness is uncertain, and an accident such as this especially. It is my duty to inform you," he continued, rising in resolution and energy as he proceeded, "that your case is by no means free from danger—very great danger indeed."

"Why, Sir John, I thought it might be a good idea for us to have a little chat," said the surgeon. "I can’t help but worry, Sir John, that you might have a lot of things to sort out, and since you didn’t expect such a serious accident, your affairs might need quite a bit of organizing. Now, the outcome of any illness is uncertain, and an accident like this especially so. It’s my responsibility to tell you," he continued, gaining determination and energy as he spoke, "that your situation is by no means free from danger—very serious danger, in fact."

"Do you mean to say that I am dying?" asked John Ayliffe, in a hoarse voice.

"Are you saying that I'm dying?" John Ayliffe asked, his voice hoarse.

"No, no, not exactly dying," said the surgeon, putting his hand upon his pulse, "not dying I trust just yet, but—"

"No, no, not exactly dying," said the surgeon, placing his hand on his pulse, "not dying, I hope, just yet, but—"

"But I shall die, you mean?" cried the other.

"But are you saying I'm going to die?" shouted the other.

"I think it not at all improbable," answered the surgeon, gravely, "that the case may have a fatal result."

"I don't find it unlikely at all," replied the surgeon seriously, "that the situation could end fatally."

"Curse fatal results," cried John Ayliffe, giving way to a burst of fury; "why the devil do you come back to tell me such things and make me wretched? If I am to die, why can't you let me die quietly and know nothing about it?"

"Curse the awful outcomes," shouted John Ayliffe, overwhelmed with rage; "why the hell do you come back to tell me this and make me miserable? If I'm going to die, why can't you just let me die in peace without knowing anything about it?"

"Why, Sir John, I thought that you might have many matters to settle," answered the surgeon somewhat irritated, "and that your temporal and your spiritual welfare also required you should know your real situation."

"Why, Sir John, I figured you might have a lot to deal with," the surgeon replied, a bit annoyed, "and that both your personal and spiritual well-being needed you to understand your true situation."

"Spiritual d——d nonsense!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, furiously; "I dare say it's all by your folly and stupidity that I am likely to die at all. Why I hear of men breaking their legs and their ribs every day and being none the worse for it."

"Spiritual d——d nonsense!" shouted John Ayliffe, angrily. "I bet it’s all your foolishness and stupidity that might get me killed. I hear about guys breaking their legs and ribs every day and they’re fine afterward."

"Why, Sir John, if you do not like my advice you need not have it," answered the surgeon; "I earnestly wished to send for other assistance, and you would not let me."

"Why, Sir John, if you don’t like my advice, you don’t have to take it," replied the surgeon. "I truly wanted to call for additional help, but you wouldn’t allow me to."

"There, go away, go away and leave me," said John Ayliffe; but as the surgeon took up his hat and walked towards the door, he added, "come again at night. You shall be well paid for it, never fear."

"There, go away, go away and leave me," said John Ayliffe; but as the surgeon picked up his hat and walked toward the door, he added, "come back at night. You’ll be well compensated for it, don’t worry."

Mr. Short made no reply, but walked out of the room.

Mr. Short didn’t say anything but just walked out of the room.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Solitude and silence, and bitter thought are great tamers of the human heart. "As ye sow, so shall ye reap," says the Apostle, and John Ayliffe was now forced to put in the sickle. Death was before his eyes, looming large and dark and terrible, like the rock of adamant in the fairy tale, against which the bark of the adventurous mariner was sure to be dashed. Death for the first time presented itself to his mind in all its grim reality. Previously it had seemed with him a thing hardly worth considering—inevitable—appointed to all men—to every thing that lives and breathes—no more to man than to the sheep, or the ox, or any other of the beasts that perish. He had contemplated it merely as death—as the extinction of being—as the goal of a career—as the end of a chase where one might lie down and rest, and forget the labor and the clamor and the trouble of the course. He had never in thought looked beyond the boundary—he had hardly asked himself if there was aught beyond. He had satisfied himself by saying, as so many men do, "Every man must die some time or another," and had never asked his own heart, "What is it to die?"[Pg 39]

Solitude, silence, and painful thoughts are powerful tamers of the human heart. "You reap what you sow," says the Apostle, and John Ayliffe was now forced to face the consequences. Death loomed before him, large, dark, and terrifying, like the unyielding rock in the fairy tale against which the adventurous sailor was bound to crash. For the first time, death showed itself to him in all its grim reality. Before, it had seemed to him just a minor concern—inevitable—destined for all people— for everything that lives and breathes—no more significant to a person than to a sheep, an ox, or any other creature that dies. He had thought of it simply as death—as the end of existence—as the goal of a journey—as the conclusion of a race where one could finally lie down and rest, forgetting the struggles, noise, and troubles of the path. He had never truly considered what lay beyond that boundary—had hardly wondered if anything existed beyond it. He had contented himself with the thought, as so many do, "Everyone has to die eventually," and had never asked himself, "What does it mean to die?"[Pg 39]

But now death presented itself under a new aspect; cold and stern, relentless and mysterious, saying in a low solemn tone, "I am the guide. Follow me there. Whither I lead thou knowest not, nor seest what shall befall thee. The earth-worm and the mole fret but the earthly garment of the man; the flesh, and the bones, and the beauty go down to dust, and ashes, and corruption. The man comes with me to a land undeclared—to a presence infinitely awful—to judgment and to fate; for on this side of the dark portal through which I am the guide, there is no such thing as fate. It lies beyond the grave, and thither thou must come without delay."

But now death appeared in a new light; cold and stern, relentless and mysterious, saying in a low, serious tone, "I am your guide. Follow me. You don't know where I'm taking you, and you can't see what will happen to you. The earth-worm and the mole only bother the earthly shell of a person; the flesh, bones, and beauty turn to dust, ashes, and decay. The person comes with me to a place unknown—to a presence that is infinitely terrifying—to judgment and to destiny; because on this side of the dark door that I guide you through, there is no such thing as destiny. It lies beyond the grave, and you must go there without delay."

He had heard of immortality, but he had never thought of it. He had been told of another world, but he had never rightly believed in it. The thought of a just judge, and of an eternal doom, had been presented to him in many shapes, but he had never received it; and he had lived and acted, and thought and felt, as if there were neither eternity, nor judgment, nor punishment. But in that dread hour the deep-rooted, inexplicable conviction of a God and immortality, implanted in the hearts of all men, and only crushed down in the breasts of any by the dust of vanity and the lumber of the world, rose up and bore its fruits according to the soil. They were all bitter. If there were another life, a judgment, an eternity of weal or woe, what was to be his fate? How should he meet the terrors of the judgment-seat—he who had never prayed from boyhood—he who through life had never sought God—he who had done in every act something that conscience reproved, and that religion forbade?

He had heard about immortality, but he had never considered it. He had been told about another world, but he had never truly believed in it. The idea of a just judge and eternal punishment had been presented to him in many forms, but he had never accepted it; he had lived and acted, thought and felt, as if there were no eternity, no judgment, and no punishment. But in that terrifying moment, the deep-rooted, inexplicable belief in God and immortality, which exists in everyone's heart and is only buried by the dust of vanity and the clutter of the world, surged up and bore its fruits according to the environment. They were all bitter. If there was another life, a judgment, an eternity of reward or punishment, what would his fate be? How could he face the horrors of the judgment seat—he who had never prayed since childhood—he who had never sought God in his life—he who had, in every action, done something that his conscience reproached him for and that religion prohibited?

Every moment as he lay there and thought, the terrors of the vast unbounded future grew greater and more awful. The contemplation almost drove him to frenzy, and he actually made an effort to rise from his bed, but fell back again with a deep groan. The sound caught the ear of good Jenny Best, and running in she asked if he wanted any thing.

Every moment he lay there thinking, the fears of the endless future became more intense and overwhelming. The thought nearly pushed him to the brink of madness, and he actually tried to get out of bed, but collapsed back down with a deep groan. The sound caught the attention of good Jenny Best, who ran in and asked if he needed anything.

"Stay with me, stay with me," said the unhappy young man, "I cannot bear this—it is very terrible—I am dying, Mrs. Best, I am dying."

"Stay with me, stay with me," said the troubled young man, "I can't handle this—it’s really awful—I’m dying, Mrs. Best, I’m dying."

Mrs. Best shook her head with a melancholy look; but whether from blunted feelings, from the hard and painful life which they endured, or from a sense that there is to be compensation somewhere, and that any change must be for the better, or cannot be much worse than the life of this earth, or from want of active imagination, the poorer and less educated classes I have generally remarked view death and all its accessories with less of awe, if not of dread, than those who have been surrounded by luxuries, and perhaps have used every effort to keep the contemplation of the last dread scene afar, till it is actually forced upon their notice. Her words were homely, and though intended to comfort did not give much consolation to the dying man.

Mrs. Best shook her head with a sad expression; but whether it was because of numb feelings, the tough and painful life they had lived, or a belief that there is some form of compensation waiting, and that any change must be better, or at least not much worse than life on this earth, or from a lack of vivid imagination, I've generally noticed that poorer and less educated people tend to see death and all its related issues with less awe, if not less fear, than those who have been surrounded by luxuries and perhaps have made every effort to keep the thought of the final scene at bay until it’s forced into their awareness. Her words were simple, and although they were meant to comfort, they didn't provide much solace to the dying man.

"Ah well, sir, it is very sad," she said, "to die so young; though every one must die sooner or later, and it makes but little difference whether it be now or then. Life is not so long to look back at, sir, as to look forward to, and when one dies young one is spared many a thing. I recollect my poor eldest son who is gone, when he lay dying just like you in that very bed, and I was taking on sadly, he said to me, 'Mother don't cry so. It's just as well for me to go now when I've not done much mischief or suffered much sorrow.' He was as good a young man as ever lived; and so Mr. Dixwell said; for the parson used to come and see him every day, and that was a great comfort and consolation to the poor boy."

"Well, sir, it's really sad," she said, "to die so young; but everyone has to die sooner or later, and it doesn't make much difference whether it's now or later. Life isn't that long to look back on, sir, but it is long to look forward to, and when someone dies young, they miss out on a lot of things. I remember my poor oldest son who is gone; when he was dying just like you are in this very bed, I was grieving hard, and he told me, 'Mother, don't cry so. It's better for me to go now when I haven't caused much trouble or experienced a lot of sorrow.' He was as good a young man as anyone could be; and Mr. Dixwell agreed with that, because the parson used to visit him every day, and that really comforted and consoled the poor boy."

"Was it?" said John Ayliffe, thoughtfully. "How long did he know he was dying?"

"Was it?" John Ayliffe said, deep in thought. "How long did he realize he was dying?"

"Not much above a week, sir," said Mrs. Best; "for till Mr. Dixwell told him, he always thought he would get better. We knew it a long time however, for he had been in a decline a year, and his father had been laying by money for the funeral three months before he died. So when it was all over we put him by quite comfortable."

"Not much more than a week, sir," Mrs. Best said. "Until Mr. Dixwell told him, he always thought he would get better. We knew for a long time, though, because he had been declining for a year, and his father had been saving money for the funeral three months before he died. So when it was all over, we organized everything quite comfortably."

"Put him by!" said John Ayliffe.

"Get him out of the way!" said John Ayliffe.

"Yes, sir, we buried him, I mean," answered Mrs. Best. "That's our way of talking. But Mr. Dixwell had been to see him long before. He knew that he was dying, and he wouldn't tell him as long as there was any hope; for he said it was not necessary—that he had never seen any one better prepared to meet his Maker than poor Robert, and that it was no use to disturb him about the matter till it came very near."

"Yes, sir, we buried him, I mean," replied Mrs. Best. "That's just how we talk. But Mr. Dixwell had visited him long before. He knew he was dying and wouldn’t tell him as long as there was any hope; he said it wasn't needed—he had never seen anyone more ready to meet his Maker than poor Robert, and it was pointless to upset him about it until it was really close."

"Ah, Dixwell is a wise man and a good man," said John Ayliffe. "I should very much like to see him."

"Ah, Dixwell is a smart guy and a good person," John Ayliffe said. "I would really like to meet him."

"I can run for him in a minute sir," said Dame Best, but John Ayliffe replied, in a faint voice, "No, no, don't, don't on any account."

"I can run for him right now, sir," said Dame Best, but John Ayliffe responded weakly, "No, no, don't, under any circumstances."

In the mean while, the very person of whom they were speaking had descended from the up-stairs room, finished his breakfast in order to give the surgeon time to fulfil his errand, and then putting on his three-cornered hat had walked out to ascertain at what house Mr. Short had stopped. The first place at which he inquired was the farm-house at which the good surgeon had stabled his horse on the preceding night. Entering by the kitchen door, he found the good woman of the place bustling about amongst pots and pans and maidservants, and other utensils, and though she received him with much reverence, she did not for a moment cease her work.

In the meantime, the person they were talking about had come down from the upstairs room, finished his breakfast to give the surgeon time to do his job, and then put on his three-cornered hat before heading out to find out where Mr. Short was staying. The first place he asked was the farmhouse where the good surgeon had stabled his horse the night before. Walking in through the kitchen door, he found the woman of the house busy with pots and pans and the maids, and even though she greeted him with great respect, she didn’t stop her work for a second.

"Well, Dame," he said, "I hope you're all well here."

"Well, ma'am," he said, "I hope you’re all doing well here."

"Quite well, your reverence—Betty, empty that pail."[Pg 40]

"Sure thing, your reverence—Betty, please empty that bucket."[Pg 40]

"Why, I've seen Mr. Short come down here," said the parson, "and I thought somebody might be ill."

"Well, I've seen Mr. Short come down here," said the pastor, "and I thought someone might be sick."

"Very kind, your reverence—mind you don't spill it.—No, it warn't here. It's some young man down at Jenny Best's, who's baddish, I fancy, for the Doctor stabled his horse here last night."

"Really kind of you, your reverence—just be careful not to spill it. No, it wasn’t here. It’s a young man over at Jenny Best’s, who seems a bit off, I think, since the Doctor parked his horse here last night."

"I am glad to hear none of you are ill," said Mr. Dixwell, and bidding her good morning, he walked away straight to the cottage where John Ayliffe lay. There was no one in the outer room, and the good clergyman, privileged by his cloth, walked straight on into the room beyond, and stood by the bedside of the dying man before any one was aware of his presence.

"I’m glad to hear that none of you are sick," said Mr. Dixwell, and after wishing her a good morning, he walked directly to the cottage where John Ayliffe was lying. There was no one in the outer room, and the kind clergyman, entitled by his position, walked straight into the room beyond and stood by the bedside of the dying man before anyone noticed he was there.

Mr. Dixwell was not so much surprised to see there on that bed of death the face of him he called Sir John Hastings, as might be supposed. The character which the surgeon had given of his patient, the mysterious absence of the young man from the Hall, and the very circumstance of his unwillingness to have his name and the place where he was lying known, had all lent a suspicion of the truth. John Ayliffe's eyes were shut at the moment he entered, and he seemed dozing, though in truth sleep was far away. But the little movement of Mr. Dixwell towards his bedside, and of Mrs. Best giving place for the clergyman to sit down, caused him to open his eyes, and his first exclamation was, "Ah, Dixwell! so that damned fellow Short has betrayed me, and told when I ordered him not."

Mr. Dixwell wasn't really surprised to see the face of the man he referred to as Sir John Hastings on that deathbed, as one might expect. The description the surgeon had given of his patient, the mysterious disappearance of the young man from the Hall, and the very fact that he was reluctant to have his name and location known all suggested something was off. John Ayliffe's eyes were closed when Dixwell entered, and he looked like he was dozing, though in reality, sleep was far from him. But when Mr. Dixwell moved closer to his bedside and Mrs. Best made room for the clergyman to sit down, Ayliffe opened his eyes. His first words were, "Ah, Dixwell! So that damned fellow Short has betrayed me and told when I specifically told him not to."

"Swear not at all," said Mr. Dixwell. "Short has not betrayed you, Sir John. I came here by accident, merely hearing there was a young man lying ill here, but without knowing actually that it was you, although your absence from home has caused considerable uneasiness. I am very sorry to see you in such a state. How did all this happen?"

"Don't swear at all," Mr. Dixwell said. "Short hasn't let you down, Sir John. I came here by chance, just hearing that there was a young man sick here, but I didn’t actually know it was you, even though your being away from home has caused quite a bit of worry. I'm really sorry to see you like this. What happened?"

"I will not tell you, nor answer a single word," replied John Ayliffe, "unless you promise not to say a word of my being here to any one. I know you will keep your word if you say so, and Jenny Best too—won't you, Jenny?—but I doubt that fellow Short."

"I won’t tell you anything or say a single word," replied John Ayliffe, "unless you promise not to mention that I've been here to anyone. I know you’ll keep your promise if you say so, and Jenny Best will too—won't you, Jenny?—but I'm not so sure about that guy Short."

"You need not doubt him, Sir John," said the clergyman; "for he is very discreet. As for me, I will promise, and will keep my word; for I see not what good it could be to reveal it to any body if you dislike it. You will be more tenderly nursed here, I am sure, than you would be by unprincipled, dissolute servants, and since your poor mother's death—"

"You don’t need to doubt him, Sir John," said the clergyman; "he’s very trustworthy. As for me, I promise to keep my word because I don’t see any point in revealing it to anyone if you don’t want it out there. I’m sure you’ll be cared for here much better than you would by unscrupulous, careless servants, especially since your poor mother passed away—"

John Ayliffe groaned heavily, and the clergyman stopped. The next moment, however, the young man said, "Then you do promise, do you?"

John Ayliffe let out a heavy groan, and the clergyman paused. But the next moment, the young man asked, "So you do promise, right?"

"I do," replied Mr. Dixwell. "I will not at all reveal the facts without your consent."

"I do," Mr. Dixwell replied. "I definitely will not share the details without your permission."

"Well, then, sit down, and let us be alone together for a bit," said John Ayliffe, and Mrs. Best quietly quitted the room and shut the door.

"Alright, then, sit down, and let’s be alone together for a little while," said John Ayliffe, and Mrs. Best quietly left the room and closed the door.

John Ayliffe turned his languid eyes anxiously upon the clergyman, saying, "I think I am dying, Mr. Dixwell."

John Ayliffe anxiously turned his tired eyes toward the clergyman, saying, "I think I'm dying, Mr. Dixwell."

He would fain have had a contradiction or even a ray of earthly hope; but he got none; for it was evident to the eyes of Mr. Dixwell, accustomed as he had been for many years to attend by the bed of sickness and see the last spark of life go out, that John Ayliffe was a dying man—that he might live hours, nay days; but that the irrevocable summons had been given, that he was within the shadow of the arch, and must pass through!

He would have loved to hear some contradiction or even a glimmer of hope; but he got none, because it was clear to Mr. Dixwell, who had spent many years beside sickbeds watching the last spark of life fade, that John Ayliffe was a dying man. He might live for hours, even days; but the irrevocable call had been made, he was in the shadow of the arch, and he had to pass through!

"I am afraid you are, Sir John," he replied, "but I trust that God will still afford you time to make preparation for the great change about to take place, and by his grace I will help you to the utmost in my power."

"I’m afraid you are, Sir John," he replied, "but I trust that God will still give you time to prepare for the big change that’s about to happen, and by His grace, I will help you in every way I can."

John Ayliffe was silent, and closed his eyes again. Nor was he the first to speak; for after having waited for several minutes, Mr. Dixwell resumed, saying in a grave but kindly tone, "I am afraid, Sir John, you have not hitherto given much thought to the subject which is now so sadly fixed upon you. We must make haste, my good sir; we must not lose a moment."

John Ayliffe was quiet and shut his eyes again. He wasn't the first to speak either; after waiting for several minutes, Mr. Dixwell continued in a serious but gentle tone, "I'm afraid, Sir John, you haven't given much thought to the topic that's now weighing on you so heavily. We need to hurry, my good sir; we can't waste a moment."

"Then do you think I am going to die so soon?" asked the young man with a look of horror; for it cost him a hard and terrible struggle to bring his mind to grasp the thought of death being inevitable and nigh at hand. He could hardly conceive it—he could hardly believe it—that he who had so lately been full of life and health, who had been scheming schemes, and laying out plans, and had looked upon futurity as a certain possession—that he was to die in a few short hours; but whenever the wilful heart would have rebelled against the sentence, and struggle to resist it, sensations which he had never felt before, told him in a voice not to be mistaken, "It must be so!"

"Do you really think I’m going to die so soon?" the young man asked, his face filled with horror; it was a hard and terrifying struggle for him to accept the idea that death was inevitable and close at hand. He could barely comprehend it—he could hardly believe it—that he, who had recently been full of life and health, who had been making plans and looking to the future with certainty, was going to die in just a few short hours. Yet, whenever his stubborn heart tried to rebel against this fate and resist it, feelings he had never experienced before whispered in a voice he couldn’t ignore, "It has to be this way!"

"No one can tell," replied Mr. Dixwell, "how soon it may be, or how long God may spare you; but one thing is certain, Sir John, that years with you have now dwindled down into days, and that days may very likely be shortened to hours. But had you still years to live, I should say the same thing, that no time is to be lost; too much has been lost already."

"No one can know," Mr. Dixwell replied, "how soon it might happen, or how long God will keep you around; but one thing is clear, Sir John, the years you have left have now shrunk down to days, and those days could easily be cut down to hours. But even if you still had years ahead of you, I'd say the same thing: we can’t waste any time; too much has already been wasted."

John Ayliffe did not comprehend him in the least. He could not grasp the idea as yet of a whole life being made a preparation for death, and looked vacantly in the clergyman's face, utterly confounded at the thought.

John Ayliffe didn’t understand him at all. He couldn’t yet wrap his head around the idea of an entire life being a preparation for death, and he stared blankly at the clergyman’s face, completely bewildered by the thought.

Mr. Dixwell had a very difficult task before him—one of the most difficult he had ever undertaken; for he had not only to arouse the conscience, but to awaken the intellect to things importing all to the soul's salvation,[Pg 41] which had never been either felt or believed, or comprehended before. At first too, there was the natural repugnance and resistance of a wilful, selfish, over-indulged heart to receive painful or terrible truths, and even when the obstacle was overcome, the young man's utter ignorance of religion and want of moral feeling proved another almost insurmountable. He found that the only access to John Ayliffe's heart was by the road of terror, and without scruple he painted in stern and fearful colors the awful state of the impenitent spirit called suddenly into the presence of its God. With an unpitying hand he stripped away all self-delusions from the young man's mind and laid his condition before him, and his future state in all their dark and terrible reality.

Mr. Dixwell had a very challenging task ahead of him—one of the toughest he had ever faced; he had to not only stir the conscience but also engage the intellect in matters crucial to the soul's salvation,[Pg 41] which had never been truly felt, believed, or understood before. Initially, he encountered the natural resistance of a stubborn, self-centered, overly pampered heart to accept painful or frightening truths. Even after overcoming that obstacle, the young man's complete ignorance of religion and lack of moral understanding proved to be another major challenge. He discovered that the only way to reach John Ayliffe's heart was through fear, and without hesitation, he depicted in harsh and alarming terms the dreadful state of an unrepentant spirit suddenly facing its God. With a relentless hand, he stripped away all self-deceptions from the young man's mind and laid out his condition and future in all their dark and terrifying reality.

This is not intended for what is called a religious book, and therefore I must pass over the arguments he used, and the course he proceeded in. Suffice it that he labored earnestly for two hours to awaken something like repentance in the bosom of John Ayliffe, and he succeeded in the end better than the beginning had promised. When thoroughly convinced of the moral danger of his situation, John Ayliffe began to listen more eagerly, to reply more humbly, and to seek earnestly for some consolation beyond the earth. His depression and despair, as terrible truths became known to him were just in proportion to his careless boldness and audacity while he had remained in wilful ignorance, and as soon as Mr. Dixwell saw that all the clinging to earthly expectations was gone—that every frail support of mortal thoughts was taken away, he began to give him gleams of hope from another world, and had the satisfaction of finding that the doubts and terrors which remained arose from the consciousness of his own sins and crimes, the heavy load of which he felt for the first time. He told him that repentance was never too late—he showed, him that Christ himself had stamped that great truth with a mark that could not be mistaken in his pardon of the dying thief upon the cross, and while he exhorted him to examine himself strictly, and to make sure that what he felt was real repentance, and not the mere fear of death which so many mistake for it in their last hours, he assured him that if he could feel certain of that fact, and trust in his Saviour, he might comfort himself and rest in good hope. That done, he resolved to leave the young man to himself for a few hours that he might meditate and try the great question he had propounded with his own heart. He called in Mistress Best, however, and told her that if during his absence Sir John wished her to read to him, it would be a great kindness to read certain passages of Scripture which he pointed out in the house Bible. The good woman very willingly undertook the task, and shortly after the clergyman was gone John Ayliffe applied to hear the words of that book against which he had previously shut his ears. He found comfort and consolation and guidance therein; for Mr. Dixwell, who, on the one subject which had been the study of his life was wise as well as learned, had selected judiciously such passages as tend to inspire hope without diminishing penitence.

This isn't meant to be a religious book, so I’ll skip over the arguments he made and the way he approached things. It’s enough to say that he worked hard for two hours to stir some sense of repentance in John Ayliffe, and he ended up making more progress than expected. Once John Ayliffe realized the moral danger he was in, he started to listen more attentively, reply more humbly, and genuinely search for some hope beyond this world. His feelings of depression and despair grew in response to harsh truths he learned, which matched the careless boldness and audacity he had shown while living in willful ignorance. As soon as Mr. Dixwell noticed that John had let go of his earthly expectations and every fragile support of worldly thoughts, he began to offer him glimpses of hope from a different realm. He felt satisfied when he saw that the lingering doubts and fears came from John’s awareness of his own sins and crimes, a burden he felt for the first time. He told him that it’s never too late to repent, showing him that Christ himself confirmed this powerful truth by forgiving the dying thief on the cross. While encouraging John to seriously examine himself and ensure that his feelings were true repentance and not just the fear of death that many confuse at their final moments, he assured him that if he could be certain of that and trust in his Savior, he could find comfort and hope. Having said that, he decided to leave the young man alone for a few hours to reflect and wrestle with the important question he had raised in his own heart. However, he asked Mistress Best to come in and told her that if Sir John wanted her to read to him during his absence, it would be a great kindness to read certain passages from the Bible he indicated. The kind woman was more than happy to take on the task, and shortly after the clergyman left, John Ayliffe asked to hear the words from that book he had previously ignored. He found comfort, solace, and guidance there; for Mr. Dixwell, who was both wise and learned on the topic he had devoted his life to, had carefully chosen passages that encourage hope without undermining the need for repentance.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Continued from page 488, vol. iii.

THE CASTLE OF BELVER.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF ARAGO.

The castle of Belver is the state prison of the island of Majorca. The Rev. Henry Christmas, F.R.S., has just published in London three volumes entitled The Shores and Islands of the Mediterranean, in which he gives the following account of the confinement within its walls of the illustrious Arago:

The castle of Belver is the state prison of the island of Majorca. The Rev. Henry Christmas, F.R.S., has just published three volumes in London titled The Shores and Islands of the Mediterranean, in which he provides the following account of the imprisonment of the notable Arago within its walls:

"Charged by the Emperor Napoleon with the admeasurement of the meridian, Arago was in 1808 in Majorca, and occupying a cottage on the mountain called Clot de Galatzo, when the news came to the island of the recent events at Madrid, and the carrying away of the king. The populace of Palma, never very favorably disposed towards the French, and altogether incapable of comprehending either the merits or the mission of Arago, easily mistook the great astronomer for a political spy, and exasperated at the insult offered to their king and country, determined to take a signal vengeance on the only Frenchman within their power. They took their way in great numbers towards the mountain on which Arago had taken up his abode, fortified in their belief of his evil designs by the fact that he frequently made fires on the mountain-side, and which they took for signals to an imaginary French fleet just about to land an army for the reduction of the island.

"Commissioned by Emperor Napoleon to measure the meridian, Arago was in Majorca in 1808, staying in a cottage on the mountain called Clot de Galatzo when he received news of the recent events in Madrid and the king's abduction. The people of Palma, who were never particularly friendly toward the French and completely unable to understand either Arago's purpose or his accomplishments, mistakenly identified the renowned astronomer as a political spy. Angered by the insult to their king and country, they decided to take revenge on the only Frenchman they could reach. A large group made their way to the mountain where Arago was living, convinced of his sinister intentions because he often made fires on the mountainside, which they interpreted as signals to a fictional French fleet preparing to invade the island."

"The mountain rises just above the coast on which Don Jaime the Conqueror made his descent, and thus it will seem that the islanders were not destitute of some grounds for the suspicions which they entertained, nor without some palliating circumstances in the outrage which they contemplated. It was, however, happily only a design, for M. Arago, warned in time, left his mountain, and directed his steps towards Palma. The person who advertised him of his peril was a man named Damian, the pilot of the brig placed by the Spanish Government at the disposal of the philosopher. Himself a Majorcan, he was taken into the counsel of the plotters, and was thus enabled to save the life of his master.

"The mountain rises just above the coast where Don Jaime the Conqueror landed, so it seems that the islanders had some reasons for their suspicions and some mitigating factors regarding the outrage they were considering. Thankfully, it was only a plan, as M. Arago, warned in time, left the mountain and made his way to Palma. The person who alerted him to his danger was a man named Damian, the pilot of the brig provided by the Spanish Government for the philosopher. Being a Majorcan himself, he was involved in the plot and was able to save his master's life."

"Dressed in the clothes of a common seaman, with which Damian had provided him, he met on his way the mob, who were bent on his destruction, and who stopped him to inquire about that maldito gabacho, of whom they meant to rid the island. As he spoke the language of the country fluently, he gave them that kind of information which was most desirable both to him and to them, and as soon as he arrived at Palma, he made his way to the Spanish brig; but the captain, Don Manual de Vacaro, a Catalonian, (his name ought to be known, to his disgrace, as well as that of Damian to his credit,) absolutely refused to take the astronomer to Barcelona, alleging that he was at Palma for a specific purpose, and could not leave without orders from his Government. When Arago pointed out the danger which threatened his life, and of which the captain was as well aware as himself, the latter coolly pointed[Pg 42] out a chest, in which he proposed that M. Arago should take refuge. To this Arago replied by measuring the chest, and showing that there was not room for him in the inside. The next day a frantic mob was assembled on the shore, and it became clear that it was their intention to board the brig. Alarmed now for himself as well as for his colleague, Don Manual assured Arago that he would not answer for his life, and recommended him to constitute himself a prisoner in the castle of Belver, offering to conduct him hither in one of the ship's boats. Seeing what kind of a man, as well as what kind of a mob, he had to do with, Arago accepted the proposal, and just arrived time enough to hear the castle gates closed against his furious pursuers. It seems that all the motions of those on board were watched from the shore, and as soon as the boat was seen to depart, and to take the direction of Belver, the populace poured forth, towards the castle, and had not Arago been a little in advance, his life would have been sacrificed.... He was there as a prisoner two months.

"Dressed like a regular sailor, thanks to Damian, he ran into the mob intent on his destruction, who stopped him to ask about that maldito gabacho they wanted to get rid of on the island. Since he spoke the local language fluently, he provided them with the kind of information that benefited both him and them. As soon as he got to Palma, he headed for the Spanish brig, but the captain, Don Manual de Vacaro, a Catalonian (his name is infamous, unlike Damian's, which is well-regarded), flatly refused to take the astronomer to Barcelona, claiming he was in Palma for a specific reason and couldn't leave without orders from his government. When Arago pointed out the threat to his life, of which the captain was just as aware, the captain calmly indicated[Pg 42] a chest for M. Arago to hide in. In response, Arago measured the chest and showed that there wasn’t enough space for him inside. The next day, a frantic mob gathered on the shore, clearly intending to board the brig. Now concerned for himself as well as for his companion, Don Manual told Arago he couldn't guarantee his safety and suggested he surrender himself as a prisoner in the castle of Belver, offering to take him there in one of the ship's boats. Assessing the situation and the mob, Arago accepted the offer and arrived just in time to hear the castle gates close against his furious pursuers. It appeared that everyone on board was being watched from the shore, and as soon as the boat was seen leaving towards Belver, the crowd rushed to the castle. If Arago hadn’t gotten there a moment early, his life would have been lost…. He spent two months as a prisoner there."

"During that time he was told, and he seems to have believed the report, that the monks in the island had attempted to bribe the soldiers to poison him, but that the latter would not consent. It is likely enough that monks, considered as monks, would think it rather meritorious than otherwise to destroy a Frenchman, and a free-thinker, but it would be less probable of Majorcan monks than of any other, and poisoning is not the custom of the island. At the same time the very vehement feeling of the people against him, might put it into the minds of the monks to use monastic arts, and there is an additional probability given to the notion by the conduct of the Captain-general, who, after two months of captivity, sent a message to the prisoner that he would do well to make his escape, and that if he did, it would be winked at. Arago took this excellent advice, sent for M. Rodriguez, who had been appointed by the Spanish Government to aid him in his scientific labors, and by his aid opened a communication with Damian. This worthy man procured a fishing-boat, and took him to Algiers, not daring to land him in France or Spain, and absolutely refusing very large offers made to him for that purpose."

"During that time, he was told—and he seemed to believe the report—that the monks on the island had tried to bribe the soldiers to poison him, but the soldiers refused. It's likely that monks, viewed as monks, might think it somewhat virtuous to eliminate a Frenchman and a free-thinker, but this would be less probable for Majorcan monks than for others, and poisoning isn't common on the island. At the same time, the strong animosity of the people toward him might inspire the monks to use their monastic skills, and there's added weight to this idea because of the Captain-general's actions. After two months of captivity, he sent a message to the prisoner suggesting he should escape, assuring him that it would be overlooked. Arago took this great advice, called for M. Rodriguez, who had been appointed by the Spanish Government to assist him in his scientific work, and with his help, established a communication with Damian. This honorable man secured a fishing boat and took him to Algiers, refusing to land him in France or Spain, despite receiving substantial offers to do so."

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[2]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DE ST. GEORGES.

XVI.—MADEMOISELLE CREPINEAU'S LOVER.

About the end of May, 1819, on one of those bright sunny days which bring out the blossoms of the lilac, make invalids strong, and young girls healthy, the Duchess of Palma was sitting in the garden of her hotel, in the same place and under the same tree in which we saw her take refuge, to conceal her sorrow and tears, a few months before, on the evening of the brilliant festival when all the principal personages of our story met. A general languor and oppression with complete weakness, the ordinary consequences of her unhappy attempt to commit suicide, had ensued. The deep distress which gnawed at her heart added moral to physical tortures. The Duke of Palma at last perceived the deep indifference of La Felina towards him, and without divining the cause, said that having married without love, all his cares and tenderness had not sufficed to win her heart. He therefore said, that he should be a fool to devote himself any longer to her, and to consecrate his life to a woman to whom, notwithstanding the prejudices of the world, he had given his title and name, without having, as yet, received the most trifling acknowledgment in return!

About the end of May 1819, on one of those bright sunny days that bring out the lilac blossoms, make the sick feel better, and keep young girls healthy, the Duchess of Palma was sitting in the garden of her hotel, in the same spot and under the same tree where we saw her seek refuge a few months earlier, to hide her sorrow and tears on the evening of the grand festival when all the main characters of our story gathered. A general sense of fatigue and heaviness, along with complete weakness, followed her unfortunate attempt to take her own life. The deep anguish that gnawed at her heart added to her physical suffering. The Duke of Palma finally noticed La Felina's deep indifference toward him, and without understanding the reason, stated that since he had married without love, all his care and affection had not been enough to win her heart. He concluded that it would be foolish to continue devoting himself to her and to dedicate his life to a woman to whom, despite societal prejudices, he had given his title and name, without having received even the slightest acknowledgment in return!

Yet young, immensely rich, volatile and handsome, it was probable that the Duke would not look in vain for some one to console him for the severity of his Duchess. Like many other persons in Paris, the Duke lived en garçon with two houses, two establishments, and, morally speaking, two wives. His second wife was a celebrated danseuse of the Royal Academy of Music, Mlle. G., known as a very agreeably thin woman, and arms rather larger than the true academic proportions—which, however, enabled her to entwine her partner, with an undulous grace that highly excited the old habitués of the opera. The reign of Louis XVIII. was also emphatically the reign of the danseuses. Princes, marshals, generals, and nobles, selected their mistresses in the seraglio of the opera. The reign of these ladies was, however, almost emphyteotic, that is to say, permanent, and often resulted in the consecration of illegitimate pleasures. MM. de Lauraguais, de Conti, de Letoriers, and others, would have laughed at this. The external life of the Duke was full of attention to the Duchess, with whom he dined regularly. He never, however, breakfasted at the embassy, nor was he there except at his regular receptions. The pious people who had been so shocked at his marriage, took care to say that the Duchess's conduct was the sole cause of her husband's misbehavior. There was nothing, though, in the world to sustain this; for no one had the slightest idea of the secret liaison of Monte-Leone and the embassadress. That was a transient affair, and the shores of the Lago di Como alone had been witnesses of it. Some excuse, however, was indispensably necessary for him.

Yet young, incredibly rich, impulsive, and attractive, it was likely that the Duke would find someone to comfort him for the strictness of his Duchess. Like many others in Paris, the Duke lived en garçon with two homes, two households, and, morally speaking, two wives. His second wife was a famous danseuse from the Royal Academy of Music, Mlle. G., recognized for being pleasantly slender, with arms a bit larger than standard academic proportions, which allowed her to wrap herself around her partner with an undulous grace that greatly excited the old habitués of the opera. The reign of Louis XVIII. was also unmistakably the era of the danseuses. Princes, marshals, generals, and nobles chose their lovers from the seraglio of the opera. However, the reign of these women was almost emphyteotic, meaning it was long-lasting and often led to the legitimization of illicit pleasures. MM. de Lauraguais, de Conti, de Letoriers, and others would have laughed at this. The Duke’s public life was filled with attentiveness to the Duchess, with whom he regularly dined. He never, however, had breakfast at the embassy nor was he there except for his regular receptions. The pious individuals who had been so appalled by his marriage claimed that the Duchess's behavior was the sole reason for her husband's misconduct. There was, however, no evidence to support this; no one had the slightest clue about the secret liaison between Monte-Leone and the embassadress. That was a fleeting affair, witnessed only by the shores of the Lago di Como. Still, some justification was absolutely necessary for him.

La Felina, as isolated as ever, then sat in a beautiful garden which overlooked the Champs Elysées, on the morning we have described. Her face was pale and wearied, and her eyes red from want of sleep. With her head resting on her chest, she seemed a prey to the greatest sorrow. Just then they came to tell her of the visit of Taddeo Rovero.

La Felina, as isolated as ever, sat in a beautiful garden overlooking the Champs Elysées on the morning we described. Her face was pale and tired, and her eyes were red from lack of sleep. With her head resting on her chest, she seemed to be overwhelmed by deep sadness. Just then, they came to inform her about Taddeo Rovero's visit.

"At last," said she, gladly, "I will know all."

"Finally," she said happily, "I'll know everything."

Taddeo was close behind the servant who had announced him. He could not repress his surprise, when he saw how changed the Duchess was. The latter saw it and said, "You did not expect, signor, to see an old and ugly woman instead of her you once thought, so beautiful. I have, however, suffered a great deal during the three months you have been away. Without meaning to[Pg 43] reproach you, let me say it is three months since I saw you."

Taddeo was right behind the servant who had introduced him. He couldn’t hide his shock at how much the Duchess had changed. She noticed his reaction and said, "You didn’t expect, sir, to see an old and unattractive woman instead of the beautiful one you once knew. However, I have gone through a lot in the three months you’ve been away. Without intending to[Pg 43] blame you, let me mention that it’s been three months since I saw you."

"Ah! Signora, to me you may assume any guise you please; for neither my eyes, nor heart, distinguish any alteration."

"Ah! Madam, you can take whatever form you want; because neither my eyes nor my heart can tell the difference."

"So much the better," said the Duchess with a smile, "for you are perhaps the only person who think me as beautiful as once was. It is something to be thought beautiful when we are not. What, though, is come over you? Why have you been so long in Italy?"

"So much the better," said the Duchess with a smile, "because you might be the only person who thinks I'm as beautiful as I once was. It's nice to be considered beautiful even when we aren't. But what's happened to you? Why have you been in Italy for so long?"

"Alas! Signora, bad inducements took me from Paris and from yourself."

"Unfortunately, madam, bad influences drove me away from Paris and away from you."

"All they say, then, is true?" said the Duchess, making Taddeo sit by her; "the Marquise de Maulear has lost her husband? She is a widow?" said she, sadly, and with an effort.

"Is everything they're saying true?" asked the Duchess, motioning for Taddeo to sit next to her. "The Marquise de Maulear has lost her husband? She's a widow?" she said, sadly and with difficulty.

"The Marquis died three months since at Rome," said Taddeo.

"The Marquis died three months ago in Rome," said Taddeo.

"It is terrible," said the ambassadress, "public rumor said so—I, though, live so much alone that I know nothing more. Excuse me, if I inquire into family secrets—were it not for the interest I entertain for your sister and yourself, I would not do so—"

"It’s awful," said the female ambassador, "public opinion says so—I, however, live so much alone that I don’t know anything more. Please excuse me for asking about your family secrets—if it weren’t for the concern I have for your sister and you, I wouldn’t bring it up—"

"The death of the Marquis," said Taddeo, "is really a family secret. There is no reason, however, why you should not know it. I am aware to whom I confide it, and have no hesitation in doing so. My story will be brief. The Marquis and I set out for Rome three months ago, to receive the estate of my uncle, Cardinal Felippo Justiniani. We met with many difficulties, but eventually received it. The total was a million of francs, in bonds of the principal bankers of Rome. The half of this sum was paid in cash. I was in mourning, and did not go into society. Besides," added Taddeo, looking tenderly at La Felina, "I had left my heart in Paris—and society and the Carnival pleasures had no charms for me. The Marquis seemed more anxious for amusement than propriety permitted. A few days after having received the half of our inheritance, of which the Marquis had possession, I was surprised to hear that he had not returned home at night. I did not, however, dare to question him; for I thought that he had been tempted by some pleasure party and might be unwilling to answer me. I pretended not to be aware that he was away. For several successive nights this occurred, and at last I ventured to speak to him, telling him what danger he exposed himself to, by straying thus in the streets of Rome. 'I am well armed,' said he, 'and can protect myself against robbers.' Day after day the Marquis seemed more and more engaged. He avoided me, and scarcely ever returned home. One day he was absent. Afraid lest he might have been attacked in the night, I went to the French minister's and caused a minute search to be made—and learned that my brother-in-law had put an end to his own life. He had been enticed by some of his French friends into a gaming house, which foreign speculators had obtained leave to open during the Carnival, and had there lost the five hundred thousand francs which belonged to his wife. In his despair he had drowned himself in the Tiber."

"The death of the Marquis," Taddeo said, "is actually a family secret. But there's no reason why you shouldn't know. I trust who I'm telling this to, and I'm fine sharing it. I'll keep it brief. The Marquis and I left for Rome three months ago to settle my uncle’s estate, Cardinal Felippo Justiniani. We faced many challenges but eventually succeeded. The total was a million francs in bonds from the main bankers in Rome. Half of that was paid in cash. I was in mourning and didn’t socialize. Plus," Taddeo added, looking fondly at La Felina, "I had left my heart in Paris—and the social scene and Carnival festivities held no appeal for me. The Marquis seemed more focused on having fun than what was proper. A few days after we received half of our inheritance, which the Marquis had, I was shocked to find out he hadn't come home one night. I didn't feel bold enough to ask him about it, thinking he might have gotten carried away with some outing and wouldn’t want to explain. I acted like I didn’t notice he was gone. This happened for several nights, and finally, I gathered the courage to talk to him about the danger he was putting himself in by wandering the streets of Rome. 'I'm well-armed,' he replied, 'and can defend myself against robbers.' Day by day, the Marquis seemed more caught up in his activities. He avoided me and barely came home. One day he was missing again. Worried that he might have been attacked, I went to the French minister's office and had them conduct a thorough search—and found out that my brother-in-law had taken his own life. He had been led by some French friends into a gaming house that foreign speculators had been allowed to open during the Carnival, and there he lost the five hundred thousand francs that belonged to his wife. In his despair, he drowned himself in the Tiber."

"This is terrible," said the Duchess, "are you sure this is so?"

"This is awful," said the Duchess, "are you really sure about this?"

"Too sure," said Taddeo, "for not long after, the discovery of the body put all beyond doubt. These, Signora, are the facts of the case; though to save the Marquise's honor we attribute his death to a natural cause."

"Too certain," said Taddeo, "because shortly after, the discovery of the body made everything clear. These, ma'am, are the facts of the case; although to protect the Marquise's honor, we say his death was due to natural causes."

"I thank you, Signor, for your confidence; especially since it gives me a right to pity the sister you love so well, yet more—and also to console you for the death of M. de Maulear. But when did you return?"

"I appreciate your trust, Sir, especially because it allows me to feel sympathy for the sister you care for so deeply, even more—and also to comfort you for the loss of Mr. de Maulear. But when did you get back?"

"A few days ago. I was forced to remain yet longer in Rome to get possession of the remnant of the Cardinal's fortune. My mother also came to Rome to tell Aminta of her misfortune."

"A few days ago, I had to stay longer in Rome to take possession of what was left of the Cardinal's fortune. My mother also came to Rome to inform Aminta about her misfortune."

"How cruelly the young Marquise must suffer," said the Duchess; "how she must need compassion and care!"

"How cruelly the young Marquise must be suffering," said the Duchess; "how much she must need compassion and care!"

"She will have ours; and her father-in-law, overcoming his own sorrow, is as tender and fond of her as ever."

"She will have our support; and her father-in-law, pushing through his own sadness, cares for her just as deeply as before."

"Then," said the Duchess, concealing a distress she could not lay aside, "she yet has true and excellent friends—the Count Monte-Leone, for instance, who was so fond of her—"

"Then," said the Duchess, hiding a worry she couldn't shake, "she still has real and wonderful friends—the Count Monte-Leone, for example, who cared for her so much—"

"The Count," said Taddeo, looking strangely at the Duchess, who did not meet his glance, "was received a few days ago by the Marquise."

"The Count," Taddeo said, looking strangely at the Duchess, who didn’t meet his gaze, "was seen by the Marquise a few days ago."

"He will make up for lost time," said La Felina, bitterly, "for now, or perhaps some day, his old hopes may again arise, and perhaps be realized."

"He will make up for lost time," La Felina said bitterly, "for now, or maybe someday, his old hopes might come back and possibly become a reality."

Taddeo understood why she spoke thus. For a long time his forbearance had been pushed to extremities, and this passion of the Duchess for his friend had given rise to new tortures, too severe to repress the idea of vengeance. He was cruel and barbarous; but he had too severely suffered from La Felina. By a violent course, also, he perhaps wished to crush the love which tortured him.

Taddeo understood why she spoke that way. For a long time, he had been pushed to his limits, and the Duchess's passion for his friend had caused him new pain, too intense to ignore the thought of revenge. He was cruel and brutal, but he had suffered too much because of La Felina. In a violent way, he maybe wanted to destroy the love that tormented him.

He remarked: "Even though I afflict you, I must say your fancy is likely enough to be realized. The Count possesses rank and a spotless reputation—for without the latter—"

He said, "Even though I cause you pain, I have to admit your dreams are likely to come true. The Count has high status and a flawless reputation—because without that—"

"With but the latter," said the Duchess, "he could not enter our family."

"Without the latter," said the Duchess, "he couldn’t join our family."

"Certainly, the Count prepares the Marquise for a future courtship by very constant visits now."

"Definitely, the Count is getting the Marquise ready for a future courtship with his regular visits now."

"He comes every day to the Hotel to see the Prince and myself. My sister loves to hear him speak of Italy, of which you know he talks so well."

"He visits the hotel every day to see the Prince and me. My sister loves listening to him talk about Italy, which he describes so well."

La Felina could bear no more. She gave her hand to Taddeo, and with a voice trembling with emotion said: "For the present, adieu! You owe me some compensation for your long absence, and if the lonely life I lead[Pg 44] does not afflict you, if you are not too much afraid of an anchorite, come to see me, and you will find me always glad to see you."

La Felina could take it no longer. She held out her hand to Taddeo and, with a voice shaking with emotion, said: "For now, goodbye! You owe me something for your long absence, and if the lonely life I lead[Pg 44] doesn't bother you, if you're not too afraid of a hermit, come visit me, and you’ll always find me happy to see you."

Taddeo kissed her hand and left her, almost repenting in his generous mind that he had spoken as he did. He was fully avenged, for the Duchess's grief was so great that she felt her heart grow chilled, her limbs stiffen, and her eyes close. Her conversation with Taddeo soon returned to her mind, and she uttered a cry of agony. Her femme de chambre bore her to the Hotel. When alone in her room she said to herself: "He swore to me that he would never be her lover. She may now be his wife. Ah!" continued she, "with cruel and sombre fury, it would have been better for both of us had he let me die."

Taddeo kissed her hand and left, almost regretting in his generous mind that he had said what he did. He felt completely avenged, as the Duchess's sorrow was so intense that she felt her heart grow cold, her limbs stiffen, and her eyes shut. Her conversation with Taddeo quickly came back to her, and she let out a cry of anguish. Her maid carried her to the hotel. Once alone in her room, she said to herself, "He promised me he would never be her lover. She might now be his wife. Ah!" she continued, filled with cruel and dark rage, "it would have been better for both of us if he had just let me die."

"Tell him who waits to come," said she to the servant.

"Tell him who's waiting to come," she said to the servant.

The woman left, and soon after came in with a man whom the Duchess made sit beside her. The woman left the room. We will leave the Duchess with the stranger and go to No. 13 rue de Babylonne, where one month after we shall find Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, a prey to the tenderest emotions. We must say for about two months the heart of that lady had been speaking. This lady's heart, like that of old thorough-bred horses, of whom we read every once in a while, had a return of ardor, and laid aside all its ascetic devotion to become intense living and burning, as it had been in youth. This was the sure premonition of old age. If anything could justify this resurrection, it is what we are about to tell.

The woman left, and shortly after, she came back with a man whom the Duchess had sit next to her. The woman exited the room. We will leave the Duchess with the stranger and head to No. 13 rue de Babylonne, where, a month later, we'll find Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, experiencing the most tender feelings. It's worth noting that for about two months, this lady's heart had been speaking. Her heart, much like those old thoroughbred horses we hear about from time to time, experienced a revival of passion and put aside all its austere devotion to become intense and fiery, just like it had been in her youth. This was a clear sign of aging. If anything could explain this revival, it’s what we’re about to share.

A new star shone in la rue de Babylonne. A beautiful stranger calling himself a Spaniard, a statement made probable by his dark complexion, sun-burnt brow, black hair, and brilliant eyes, established himself in a modest garret of No. 12, just opposite the house of the hangman, now occupied by Matheus. The charming Spaniard had no decided profession. His dress was that of an artisan in his Sunday best: and his velvet vest covered a prominent and Herculean torso. He was tall; and walked squarely on his large feet; a circumstance which made Mlle. Crepineau think him majestic. He said he was a bear-hunter from the Pyrenees, who had been forced to expatriate himself because in a duel he had wounded the governor of his province. It may be imagined that so rare a profession excited much admiration among the natives of la rue Babylonne, especially as the famous Nimrod passed his time at the door of No. 12, under the pretext that he was accustomed to the pure mountain air, and that he did not wish any of the neighbors anxious to make inquiries about his terrible profession, to have the trouble of asking for him. At one of these hall-door entertainments one summer night, the handsome Nuñez saw and captivated Mlle. Celestine Crepineau. Do not let any one fancy the modest girl had given any encouragement to the stranger. They had restricted themselves to glances, double entendres, and the countless amiable pioneers of the army of Cupid. Mlle. Crepineau saw the stranger come every day to assist her in opening the heavy door of No. 13. Nuñez took charge of the watering pot of which the commissaries are so fond, and dispersed an agreeable freshness in front of the house during the warm hours of the day, to protect, he said, the color and complexion of his mistress. Often Mlle. Celestine's nerves were refreshed by a delicate perfume which strayed through the bars of her lodge, and on inquiry saw a sprig of some sweet and odorous plant which had been placed there by the Spaniard. At last Mlle. Crepineau gave him permission to visit her. This was an important favor, and was the passage of the rubicon. By doing so, Celestine placed her reputation in the power of her evil-disposed neighbors. She was, however, in love. "Besides," said she, with noble pride, "my conscience sustains me, and envy will fall abashed before the sacred torch of hymen." This respectable phrase was the last remnant of the romances of Ducray-Dumenil, the first books Celestine ever read when she was cook of the advocate her god-father.

A new star appeared on la rue de Babylonne. A beautiful stranger claiming to be a Spaniard—his dark skin, sun-kissed forehead, black hair, and bright eyes made this believable—settled into a small attic at No. 12, right across from the house of the hangman, now occupied by Matheus. This charming Spaniard didn’t have a specific profession. He dressed like an artisan in his Sunday best, and his velvet vest showcased a strong, muscular torso. He was tall and walked firmly on his large feet, which made Mlle. Crepineau think he was impressive. He claimed to be a bear hunter from the Pyrenees, forced to leave his homeland because he had injured the governor of his province in a duel. It’s easy to see how such a rare profession drew admiration from the locals of la rue Babylonne, especially since the famed Nimrod spent his time at the door of No. 12, pretending he was used to the fresh mountain air and didn’t want his curious neighbors asking about his dangerous profession. One summer night during one of these doorstep gatherings, the handsome Nuñez saw and enthralled Mlle. Celestine Crepineau. Don’t mistake her modesty for encouragement toward the stranger; they only exchanged glances, double entendres, and the countless friendly gestures typical of love’s first army. Mlle. Crepineau noticed him coming by daily to help her open the heavy door of No. 13. Nuñez took care of the watering can that the neighbors loved, sprinkling a pleasant freshness in front of her house during the warm hours, claiming it was to protect his lady’s complexion. Often, Mlle. Celestine was refreshed by a delicate scent wafting through the bars of her lodge; upon checking, she found a sprig of a fragrant and sweet plant left there by the Spaniard. Eventually, Mlle. Crepineau granted him permission to visit her. This was a significant favor and a crossing of the Rubicon. By doing this, Celestine risked her reputation with her ill-intentioned neighbors. Still, she was in love. “Besides,” she said with noble pride, “my conscience supports me, and envy will be ashamed in the face of the sacred flame of marriage.” This respectable phrase was the last remnant of the romances of Ducray-Dumenil, the first books Celestine ever read when she was the cook for her godfather, the advocate.

But this interesting love passion was suddenly brought to a close by a very painful circumstance for the vanity of the young lady. Whether Mlle. Crepineau had laced herself more tightly even than usual, or that in aspirations after sylphic grace, she had been rather too active when Señor Nuñez was by—she was seized one fine day with a pain in the small of her back, translatable only by the word rheumatism—a constant attendant of her delicate organization. A forced construction was put on the pain—which became a cold or a strain, but she had, in spite of the effort to get rid of it by an euphonism, to go to bed. Then the devotion of the Spaniard became heroic. He was unwilling that Mlle. Celestine should intrust any one else with her daily occupation, and undertook to replace her in the menage of Doctor Matheus. The proposition did not awaken much of the doctor's gratitude; and though he accepted the substitute, he promised to watch him very closely. One morning the doctor was forced to leave very suddenly, just as the Spaniard was cleaning and dusting the consultation room. Matheus had been sent for by the Duke d'Harcourt, and apprehending some new indisposition of his young patient, Von Apsberg, for the first time left the Señor Nuñez in his room.

But this intriguing love affair came to an abrupt end due to a very painful situation for the young woman’s vanity. Whether Mlle. Crepineau had laced herself tighter than usual or had been too active in pursuing a graceful figure while Señor Nuñez was around, one fine day she was hit with a pain in her lower back, which could only be described as rheumatism—a constant companion of her delicate health. The pain was interpreted as something else—a cold or a strain—but despite her attempts to downplay it with a nicer term, she had to go to bed. Then the Spaniard’s devotion became heroic. He didn’t want Mlle. Celestine to rely on anyone else for her daily tasks and took it upon himself to assist in the household of Doctor Matheus. The doctor didn’t show much gratitude for the offer. While he accepted the replacement, he promised to keep a close eye on him. One morning, the doctor had to leave abruptly just as the Spaniard was cleaning and dusting the consultation room. Matheus had been summoned by the Duke d'Harcourt and, fearing a new health issue with his young patient, Von Apsberg, left Señor Nuñez in the room for the first time.

For a few moments, the Spaniard continued his occupation. When, however, he saw the doctor leave, and from the window saw him turn down the rue de Bac, he said, "Now what I have so long sought for is in my grasp." Looking on every side of the room, lifting up the papers, opening the portfolios and examining the furniture, he discovered a secret drawer in a bureau, within which he found a key.[Pg 45]

For a few moments, the Spaniard kept working. But when he saw the doctor leave and watched him turn down the rue de Bac from the window, he said, "Now what I've been searching for is finally within reach." He looked around the room, lifted the papers, opened the portfolios, and checked the furniture. He discovered a hidden drawer in a bureau where he found a key.[Pg 45]

"Here," said he, "is the key of the laboratory—of the mysterious room in which I shall find all I need. This is it," said he, looking anxiously at the key, "I know it by its shape." Hurrying to the third floor of the house, he paused at the door. His hand trembled—the key entered—turned—the wards moved, and the stranger entered the laboratory.

"Here," he said, "is the key to the lab—the secret room where I’ll find everything I need. This is it," he said, glancing nervously at the key, "I recognize it by its shape." Rushing up to the third floor of the house, he stopped at the door. His hand shook—the key went in—turned—the locks clicked, and the stranger stepped into the lab.

The table which, when we paid our first visit to Matheus, was covered with maps, pamphlets, etc., now had nothing on it. "All is locked up," said the man. "I have bad luck." He soon, however, aroused himself, and taking a ball of wax from his pocket, and pointing to a massive secretary, said, "There they are—there are their plans and papers, their lists and names." Approaching the secretary again, he took an exact impression of the lock, and also made a copy of the key of the laboratory. He then uttered a cry of joy. "I have them all," said he. "I am their master, and not one of the accursed Carbonari can escape me." He then left the room as expeditiously as he had entered, went to the first story, replaced the key where he had found it in the secret drawer, and hurried to find Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, who had become very uneasy about her lover.

The table that, when we first visited Matheus, was covered with maps, pamphlets, and so on, was now completely empty. "Everything is locked up," said the man. "I have bad luck." However, he quickly regained his composure, took a ball of wax from his pocket, and pointed to a large cabinet, saying, "There they are—those are their plans and documents, their lists and names." Approaching the cabinet again, he made an exact impression of the lock and also copied the key to the laboratory. Then he let out a cry of joy. "I have them all," he said. "I am their master, and not one of those cursed Carbonari can escape me." He then left the room as quickly as he had entered, went to the first floor, put the key back where he had found it in the secret drawer, and rushed to find Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, who was becoming very anxious about her lover.

XVIII. RUIN.

A few days after the pretended bear-hunter, the handsome Spaniard, adored by the amiable Mlle. Crepineau, had gone stealthily into the studio of Dr. Matheus to obtain possession of the secrets of the Carbonari, our three friends Taddeo Rovero, Von Apsberg, and the Vicomte d'Harcourt, were at the Count's hotel. The house of Monte-Leone was in Verneuil street. It was small, mysterious, and recherché. The court-yard was of modest size, with turf in the centre, and sanded walks around it. The steps had a balcony at the top and several marble vases, from which grew geraniums in summer and heath in the winter. It was a regular bachelor's house, having every thing demanded by the exigencies of a tenant of that condition. It had all the broad, tall, low, narrow, visible, and invisible doors, for troublesome cases and exits, for the actors and actresses of the every day drama of the life of a young, rich, and independent man. No love drama was ever performed, though, on this theatre. One of another and more brilliant kind was being prepared. He gave a dinner to young men, a regular one, without a single woman. Men alone were welcomed by the noble Amphytrion. The house was furnished as luxuriously as possible, for only recently have people conceived the happy idea of making dining-rooms comfortable. Of this our fathers were entirely ignorant. Once people eat much or little, well or badly; they breakfasted, dined, or took tea—that was all. They sat on straw or hair chairs; they were warmed by bad stoves, the smell of which was intolerable; the feet rested on marble blocks, bright, but cold as ice. Such was the gastronomical trilogy of Parisians. The large hotels, and even the smaller establishments of our renowned libertines had a more splendid refectory, which, however, was not more favorable to the comfort of the guests. The dark and rich tapestries which hung on the walls, the marble on the floor, the pictures, though by Boucher or Watteau, were artistic and costly, but nothing less than the eyes of La Guimard, the lips of Sophie Arnould, those of La Maupin or La Duthé, could warm those cold arenas, where Bernis, Larenaudie, Fronsac, Bouret, and Beaujon sacrificed to Comus in the company of the Loves. Now all is changed. Not only gastronomy, but the art of living well has been discovered not to exist alone in wines and cookery, and it has become a proverb, that "beans in china are better than truffles in earthenware." In 1819 Count Monte-Leone had a presentiment of our taste in 1848, and he was therefore spoken of as a foreign sybarite, whose extravagant tastes never would be imitated. Though people blamed, they envied, and tried to imitate.

A few days after the fake bear-hunter, the charming Spaniard adored by the lovely Mlle. Crepineau, sneaked into Dr. Matheus’s studio to grab the secrets of the Carbonari, our three friends Taddeo Rovero, Von Apsberg, and the Vicomte d'Harcourt, were at the Count's hotel. The Monte-Leone house was on Verneuil Street. It was small, mysterious, and upscale. The courtyard was modestly sized, with grass in the center and sandy paths around it. The steps had a balcony at the top and several marble planters filled with geraniums in summer and heather in winter. It was a quintessential bachelor pad, equipped with everything required for a tenant of that lifestyle. It had all types of doors—broad, tall, low, narrow, visible, and hidden—for tricky situations and exits, tailored for the actors and actresses in the everyday drama of a young, wealthy, and independent man. However, no love dramas ever took place on this stage. A different and more glamorous kind was in the works. He hosted a dinner party for young men, a proper one, with no women invited. Only men were welcomed by the noble Amphytrion. The house was furnished as luxuriously as possible, since it has only recently become a trend to make dining rooms comfortable, something our fathers knew nothing about. Back then, people just ate a lot or a little, well or poorly; they had breakfast, lunch, or tea—that was it. They sat on straw or hair chairs; they were heated by awful stoves that smelled terrible; their feet rested on marble blocks—shiny but as cold as ice. That was the dining experience for Parisians. The large hotels, as well as the smaller establishments of our famous libertines, boasted more splendid dining halls, but they were no more comfortable for the guests. The dark, rich tapestries hanging on the walls, the marble floors, the paintings—though by Boucher or Watteau—were artistic and expensive, but nothing could warm those cold spaces like the eyes of La Guimard, the lips of Sophie Arnould, or those of La Maupin or La Duthé could. Bernis, Larenaudie, Fronsac, Bouret, and Beaujon made sacrifices to Comus in the presence of the Loves. Now everything has changed. Not only has gastronomy evolved, but the art of living well has been recognized to involve more than just wines and cooking, leading to the saying that "beans in china are better than truffles in earthenware." In 1819, Count Monte-Leone had a hunch about our tastes in 1848, making him known as a foreign sybarite, whose extravagant tastes would never be duplicated. While people criticized him, they envied him and tried to imitate.

The dining-room of the Count, therefore, glittered with lights, and around a table filled with the rarest glass, from which was exhaled the perfume of a dinner fit for Lucullus, were about a dozen men, some of whom, Matheus, Taddeo, and d'Harcourt, we know already. The others, of whom we will hereafter speak more fully, were famous Carbonari, the founders of the French order, General A...., the banker H...., Count de Ch...., the merchant Ober, the Avocat C...., and the illustrious Professor C.... Two of these gentlemen had come from Italy, and brought to Monte-Leone new orders from the central Venta of Naples, and also curious details about the progress or rather maturity of Carbonarism in the Two Sicilies and the neighboring countries. It had however been by common consent determined among the guests that none of the grave secrets of the order should be revealed at their joyous repast—that political questions should be postponed to more serious conferences: not that the members were not satisfied of the prudence of each other, but inquisitive ears hovered around this table, and with the exception of those of the prudent old Giacomo none could be trusted. There was especial reason for this, as vague rumors had for some time made the Carbonari distrustful. It was said that the Minister of Police had placed Count Monte-Leone under the strictest surveillance in consequence of his previous history. The objects of this dinner, which beyond doubt was subjected to some particular notice, was to prove that all the persons assembled were men of pleasure,[Pg 46] and not agents of discord or conspirators.

The Count's dining room was sparkling with lights, and around a table filled with the finest glassware, emitting the aroma of a feast worthy of Lucullus, sat about a dozen men, including Matheus, Taddeo, and d'Harcourt, whom we already know. The others, whom we’ll discuss in more detail later, were prominent Carbonari, founders of the French order, General A..., banker H..., Count de Ch..., merchant Ober, lawyer C..., and the renowned Professor C.... Two of these gentlemen had arrived from Italy, bringing new orders from the central Venta of Naples, along with intriguing updates on the development—or rather the maturity—of Carbonarism in the Two Sicilies and surrounding areas. However, it had been collectively agreed among the guests that no serious secrets of the order would be disclosed at their festive meal—that political discussions should be saved for more serious talks: not that the members doubted each other’s prudence, but curious ears were listening around this table, and with the exception of the cautious old Giacomo, none could be trusted. There was a particular reason for this, as vague rumors had led the Carbonari to be wary. It was said that the Minister of Police had placed Count Monte-Leone under strict surveillance due to his past. The purpose of this dinner, which was undoubtedly under some scrutiny, was to show that everyone gathered were people of pleasure,[Pg 46] and not agents of strife or conspirators.

"To our host," said d'Harcourt, filling his glass, "to his loves and conquests!"

"To our host," said d'Harcourt, filling his glass, "to his loves and victories!"

"You will get drunk," said one of the guests, "if you drink to all of his conquests."

"You'll get drunk," said one of the guests, "if you drink to all of his victories."

"All calumny," said Matheus. "The conversion of St. Augustine is no miracle since that of Monte-Leone. The gallant Italian is now a fresh anchorite, avoiding the pomps of Satan and the opera in this Thebais. With his friends he atones for past errors."

"All lies," said Matheus. "St. Augustine's conversion is no miracle compared to that of Monte-Leone. The brave Italian is now a new hermit, steering clear of the temptations of evil and the opera in this Thebais. With his friends, he makes up for past mistakes."

"The fact is, no one knows any thing about the Count's amours," said one of the guests.

"The truth is, no one knows anything about the Count's romances," said one of the guests.

"Well, then," said another, "that for one in society, as Monte-Leone is, he makes bad use of his eyes. The very mention of his Neapolitan adventures would turn the heads of ten Parisian women."

"Well, then," said another, "for someone in society like Monte-Leone, he sure doesn’t use his eyes wisely. Just talking about his Neapolitan escapades would drive ten Parisian women crazy."

"You are wrong, my dear B....," said the Count. "The women of Paris are not so headlong as you think. They reason with their hearts, and pay attention to convenances without regard to inclination. Besides, the man they love occupies only the second place in their hearts. They come first and he afterwards. Often, too, the toilette occupies the second place with amusements and pleasures. They prefer the attention of one to the love of all. Liasons in France are elegant, recherché, and refined. They never violate good taste, and even in their despair French women are charming. They quarrel behind a fan, tear a bouquet to pieces, and shred the lace of a handkerchief. They weep, and stop soon enough not to stain the eyes, and when they have fainting-fits, are very careful not to disturb their curls. Great suffering just stops short of a nervous attack, and fury never breaks either china bracelets or jewelry, though it is merciless on lovers' miniatures. Three months after, if the offended lady meet the gentleman in a drawing-room, she will ask the person next her, 'Pray tell me who that gentleman is, I think I have seen him somewhere.' In Spain and Italy they avenge themselves, and do not pardon men who are inconstant until they too are false. Woe to him whose love is the first to end. He henceforth has but the storm and the thunder-bolt. Hatred and vengeance—the first is found in France—women in Italy kill. I tell you your countrywomen are not romantic, and suffer themselves to be led astray only after due reflection."

"You’re mistaken, my dear B....," said the Count. "The women of Paris aren't as impulsive as you think. They follow their hearts while still being mindful of social norms, regardless of their feelings. Besides, the man they love usually comes second in their hearts. They take priority, and he comes afterward. The latest fashion often ranks higher than love and pleasures. They prefer to have the attention of one rather than the affection of many. Liasons in France are sophisticated, recherché, and refined. They never cross the line of good taste, and even when they are distressed, French women remain charming. They argue behind a fan, tear apart a bouquet, and rip the lace of a handkerchief. They cry, but stop quickly enough to avoid ruining their makeup, and when they faint, they make sure not to mess up their curls. Intense suffering stops just short of a breakdown, and rage never breaks china bracelets or jewelry, although it can be ruthless to lovers' portraits. Three months later, if the slighted lady runs into the gentleman at a gathering, she’ll ask the person next to her, 'Excuse me, who is that gentleman? I feel like I've seen him somewhere.' In Spain and Italy, they seek revenge and don’t forgive unfaithful men until they too have been deceitful. Woe betide the one whose love is the first to fade. From then on, he only gets storms and lightning. Hatred and revenge—the first is found in France—while women in Italy can kill. I’m telling you, your countrywomen aren’t romantic and only stray after careful consideration."

"Well, for my own part," said d'Harcourt to Monte-Leone, "I know a woman who adores you in secret, who never speaks of you without blushing, who looks down when your name is mentioned, and who looks up when she sees you."

"Well, as for me," d'Harcourt said to Monte-Leone, "I know a woman who secretly adores you, who blushes every time your name comes up, who looks away when she's mentioned, and who lifts her gaze when she sees you."

Taddeo looked at the Vicomte with surprise. Two names occurred to him, that of the Duchess, and yet of another person. Monte-Leone, like Taddeo, was afraid that the young fool, whose greatest virtue was not temperance, would be indiscreet.

Taddeo looked at the Vicomte in surprise. Two names came to mind: the Duchess and another person. Monte-Leone, like Taddeo, was worried that the young fool, whose biggest strength was definitely not self-control, would be careless.

"Gentlemen," said he, "the Vicomte is about to be stupid. In the name of our friendship I beg him to be silent."

"Gentlemen," he said, "the Vicomte is about to be foolish. In the name of our friendship, I ask him to be quiet."

"Bah, bah!" said d'Harcourt, becoming yet more excited, and draining his glass of champagne, in vino veritas. "The proof of what I say is that Monte-Leone is afraid. I shall name the victim of the passion he has inspired. I wish to reinstate him in your eyes, for he has represented himself as deserted and abandoned by the fair sex, when one of the fairest adores him, and would sacrifice name and rank for him."

"Bah, bah!" said d'Harcourt, getting even more excited and finishing his glass of champagne, in vino veritas. "The proof of what I'm saying is that Monte-Leone is scared. I’m going to name the victim of the passion he’s inspired. I want to restore how you see him because he’s portrayed himself as alone and rejected by women, when in reality one of the most beautiful women loves him and would give up her name and status for him."

"Vicomte," said Monte-Leone, enraged and rising, "do not make me forget my intimacy with you of five years' duration."

"Vicomte," Monte-Leone said, furious and standing up, "don’t make me forget our close friendship of five years."

"You will not forget it—you will like me all the better for what I am about to say. Besides it is nothing but humanity. You would not let the poor woman die when you can save her?"

"You won't forget this—you'll appreciate me even more for what I'm about to say. Besides, it's just basic humanity. Would you really let the poor woman die when you have the chance to save her?"

"Again I ask you to stop," said Monte-Leone.

"Once again, I'm asking you to stop," said Monte-Leone.

"You are too late," said the Vicomte, taking another glass of wine. "I drink to the Attala, the Ariana, the Psyche of our illustrious host, to a charming widow we all admire, to Madame de Bruneval."

"You’re too late," said the Vicomte, pouring himself another glass of wine. "I’m raising my glass to the Attala, the Ariana, the Psyche of our remarkable host, to a lovely widow we all admire, to Madame de Bruneval."

One shout of joy burst from all. Monte-Leone felt a burden of trouble lifted from him, and Taddeo breathed more freely.

One shout of joy erupted from everyone. Monte-Leone felt a weight of trouble lifted from him, and Taddeo breathed easier.

"Gentlemen," said Monte-Leone, resuming his sangfroid, "I protest that I was not aware of the happiness with which I am menaced. Though I do justice to the precious qualities of Mme. de Bruneval—to her lofty virtue, with which all of you are familiar—I should be afraid of following in the footsteps of the illustrious dead. Since, however, the widow has been spoken of, I will propose a toast to the speedy cure of her heart, provided I am not expected to become its surgeon."

"Gentlemen," said Monte-Leone, regaining his composure, "I must say that I wasn’t aware of the happiness that threatens to overwhelm me. While I recognize the wonderful qualities of Mme. de Bruneval—her high virtues, which you all know well—I would hesitate to follow in the footsteps of those who have passed. That said, since the widow has been brought up, I’d like to propose a toast to the quick healing of her heart, as long as I’m not expected to be the one to fix it."

All drank; and amid the sound of their laughter, Giacomo entered, and on a salver handed the Count a letter. "It is from Naples," said he; and having opened, he read it. As he did so he grew pale.

All drank; and amidst their laughter, Giacomo walked in and handed the Count a letter on a tray. "It's from Naples," he said; and after opening it, he read it. As he read, his face went pale.

"Any bad news?" said Matheus.

"Any updates?" said Matheus.

"No," said Monte-Leone, with an effort to restrain himself; "no, my friends"—taking advantage of the temporary absence of the servants, who had placed the dessert on the table, and who then retired, as is the custom in all well regulated households—"No bad news to our cause. This letter is on private business. I have another toast," said he, in a lower tone. "To the brethren who are my guests to-day!"

"No," said Monte-Leone, trying to keep his composure; "no, my friends"—taking advantage of the brief moment when the servants had set the dessert on the table and then left, as is the norm in any well-managed household—"There’s no bad news for our cause. This letter is about personal matters. I have another toast," he said in a quieter tone. "To the brothers who are my guests today!"

"To the absent!" said Taddeo.

"To the absent!" Taddeo said.

"Well, well," said Dr. Matheus, looking uneasily around; "let us have done with toasts. As a doctor, I may speak. Too many of this kind may endanger our lives,"[Pg 47] added he, emphasizing the last words. "Let us enjoy the pleasures heaven has granted us. Our first masters in good cheer, the Greeks and Romans, surrounded their tables with flowers and crowned their cups with roses. Let us laugh, then, my friends, at fools, intriguers, and apostates. Let us laugh at each other, and especially at unreasonable d'Harcourt, who can drown his own mind in a single bottle of champagne, and which makes him about as sensible as a fly."

"Well, well," Dr. Matheus said, glancing around nervously. "Let's stop with the toasts. As a doctor, I can speak up. Too many of these might put our lives at risk,"[Pg 47] he added, stressing his last words. "Let's enjoy the pleasures that heaven has given us. Our early masters of good times, the Greeks and Romans, filled their tables with flowers and topped their cups with roses. So, let's laugh, my friends, at fools, schemers, and turncoats. Let's laugh at each other, especially at the unreasonable d'Harcourt, who can drown his own thoughts in a single bottle of champagne, which makes him as sensible as a fly."

The sallies and follies of after dinner followed this pompous harangue of Matheus. Had any one witnessed this scene, they would have fancied the actors a party of young mousquetaires of the regency, rather than conspirators who aspired to convulse the world. When the guests of Monte-Leone were gone, and only d'Harcourt, Matheus, and Taddeo remained, the Count took his dispatch out of his bosom, and bade the latter read it. It was as follows:

The jokes and antics after dinner followed Matheus's pompous speech. If someone had seen this scene, they would have thought the people involved were a group of young musketeers from the regency, not conspirators aiming to shake the world. When the guests of Monte-Leone had left and only d'Harcourt, Matheus, and Taddeo were left, the Count pulled a document from his jacket and asked Taddeo to read it. It said:

Naples, September 10, 1819.

"Count:—I am sorry to inform you that the banker Antonio Lamberti, to whom you had confided your fortune, and with whom you bade me deposit the price of your palace, sold for six hundred thousand francs, has failed, and fled with all your fortune.

"Count:—I'm sorry to tell you that the banker Antonio Lamberti, whom you trusted with your fortune and asked me to deposit the money from the sale of your palace, which was sold for six hundred thousand francs, has gone bankrupt and disappeared with all your money."

"Your respectful lawyer,

"Guiseppe Farnucci."

The three friends embraced Monte-Leone, and Von Apsberg said, "You knew this, yet could share our gayety. Did you not say yourself laughter is as necessary for digestion as it is to the heart?"

The three friends hugged Monte-Leone, and Von Apsberg said, "You knew this, yet you could share in our joy. Didn't you say yourself that laughter is as important for digestion as it is for the heart?"

"I fulfilled my duties of host to the letter. I needed all my courage, though, having lost more than my fortune—my happiness. The morning's papers will announce the failure of Antonio Lamberti, and all Paris will know of the ruin of the brilliant Count Monte-Leone."

"I carried out my responsibilities as a host perfectly. I had to muster all my courage because I lost more than just my fortune—I lost my happiness. The morning papers will report the failure of Antonio Lamberti, and everyone in Paris will be aware of the downfall of the impressive Count Monte-Leone."

With fortune, the Count had also lost the hope of happiness. The widowhood of the Marquise de Maulear had revived all his hopes, as La Felina had foreseen, and his rank and title enabled him again to aspire to Aminta's hand. All this prospect his misfortune annihilated. What had he to offer now to Aminta? The name, the eclat of which he could sustain no longer—an existence endangered by a political plot, the triumph of which was far from certain—sumptuous tastes, which he would not be permitted to gratify—privations, especially cruel as they would follow closely on luxury and opulence, of which he had, so to say, built himself a temple.

With his good fortune gone, the Count had also lost all hope for happiness. The widowhood of the Marquise de Maulear had rekindled all his dreams, just as La Felina had predicted, and his rank and title allowed him to once again aim for Aminta's hand. Unfortunately, his misfortune shattered that possibility. What could he offer Aminta now? A name he could no longer uphold, a reputation that was in danger due to a political plot whose success was uncertain, extravagant tastes he wouldn’t be able to indulge, and harsh hardships that would come right after a life of luxury and wealth he had essentially built for himself.

Ten months had passed by since the Marquis's death, and the grief of his widow had been most sincere. Though Aminta had never entertained a very profound love for her husband, she had been much attached to him from a reason common enough: she was strong and he unusually weak. When, therefore, a terrible vice had seized on him, and sought, as it were, to wrest him from her arms, not a reproach had been uttered by Aminta against the sacrifice of her money and his neglect to an ignoble propensity. She forgave the gamester who was faithful to her, and had wept over him when she would have had no tears for the unfaithful husband. This soul so full of love was not slumbering in the arms of marriage. The energetical character which Aminta had often exhibited would, had it found traits of manhood properly expanded in her husband, have possibly modified her feelings, if he had possessed that burning imagination, that secret imagination which creates deep love, and for which too she seemed to have been created. She might have said this. She was too chaste to do so. Yet sometimes, in her long and dreamy solitudes, an image rose before her, especially when her husband was away. She dreamed of an exalted love, full of ardor and devotion, indomitable courage, sacrifice of life to duty, a noble and generous soul, which divined her own, and linked itself to it. All this assumed the form of the man she had rejected, of whom she had been afraid, and for her ingratitude to whom she now blushed.

Ten months had gone by since the Marquis's death, and his widow's grief had been very genuine. Although Aminta had never really loved her husband deeply, she had been quite attached to him for a common reason: she was strong and he was unusually weak. So, when a terrible addiction took hold of him and seemed to try to pull him away from her, Aminta never complained about sacrificing her money or his neglect for this lowly habit. She forgave the gambler who remained loyal to her and cried for him when she wouldn't have shed tears for her unfaithful husband. This loving soul was not at rest in the confines of marriage. The strong character that Aminta had often shown could have changed her feelings had she found genuine manliness in her husband, had he possessed that passionate imagination that creates profound love, which she also seemed to be made for. She could have expressed this. She was too modest to do so. Yet sometimes, in her long, reflective solitude, an image appeared before her, especially when her husband was away. She dreamed of a profound love, full of passion and devotion, unyielding bravery, a commitment to duty, a noble and generous spirit that understood her own and connected with it. All this took the shape of the man she had turned down, the one she had feared, and for whom her ingratitude now made her feel ashamed.

The Count had been received by Aminta, in the early months of her widowhood, but he had refrained, from respectful motives, to allude to his feelings. His visits to the Marquise were short and ceremonious, feeling that love should not be veiled by the crape of mourning. Like the Prince de Maulear, and all Paris in fact, Aminta had heard of the Count's misfortune, and the blow made a deep impression on her. The absence of the Count became prolonged. He had not visited her since his misfortune, and she could not but feel a deep interest for him to whom fate reserved such severe trials. One evening, when she was more melancholy than usual, and sat in the saloon with her head leaning on her hand, and dreaming over the incidents of her life in which Monte-Leone had figured, she thought without remorse of scenes it had been once her duty to forget. A stifled sigh escaped from her bosom, and a kind of moan near her induced her to shake off her reverie. She saw Scorpione lying at her feet as he used to, and looking fixedly and sadly at her.

The Count had visited Aminta in the early months after she became a widow, but out of respect, he chose not to express his feelings. His visits to the Marquise were brief and formal, as he believed that love shouldn’t be hidden beneath the sorrow of mourning. Like the Prince de Maulear and indeed all of Paris, Aminta had heard about the Count’s misfortune, and it made a lasting impact on her. The Count’s absence stretched on; he hadn’t seen her since his tragedy, and she couldn’t help but feel a deep concern for him, given the harsh trials fate had handed him. One evening, when she felt more melancholic than usual, sitting in the parlor with her head resting on her hand and lost in thoughts about her past experiences with Monte-Leone, she found herself reflecting on moments she once thought she should forget. A stifled sigh escaped her chest, and a soft sound nearby brought her back to reality. She saw Scorpione lying at her feet as he used to, gazing up at her with a sad, steady look.

Tonio, whom, like the children of Sorrento, we have often called Scorpione, after having wandered along the sea-shore at the time of Aminta's marriage, had been found exhausted on the sands, and been taken to Signora Rovero, on the very day that Aminta set out for France. Since then, vegetating rather than living with the mother of Aminta, Signora Rovero was unwilling to trust her daughter's preserver to servants, when she heard of the death of her son-in-law. Signora Rovero had such delicate health as to be unable to bear the climate of Paris, and had six months before returned[Pg 48] to Italy; but Tonio was unwilling to leave her, and yielding to his mute prayers, Aminta had consented for him to remain, for his sufferings to save her had made a deep impression on her. Tonio was in fact but the shadow of himself, the soul alone seeming to support him. Even his soul was changed. Fearful and timid when with Aminta, the passion the unfortunate boy had once experienced for her became humble and respectful submission. His very mind became extinct; and the only glimmerings of it now seemed to be a kind of instinctive sympathy with his mistress. He smiled when the Marquise did, and that was but rarely. He wept when tears hung on her eyelids. When he looked as we have described at Aminta, her sadness was perfectly mirrored on his face. Scorpione was, in fact, less than man, and more than a brute—he was an idiot.

Tonio, whom we often referred to as Scorpione like the kids from Sorrento, had been found exhausted on the beach after wandering there during Aminta's wedding and was taken to Signora Rovero on the very day Aminta left for France. Since then, living rather than truly existing with Aminta's mother, Signora Rovero didn't want to leave her daughter's savior in the care of servants when she learned about her son-in-law's death. Signora Rovero had such fragile health that she couldn't handle the climate in Paris and had returned[Pg 48] to Italy six months prior; however, Tonio refused to leave her side, and giving in to his silent pleas, Aminta agreed for him to stay because his sacrifice for her deeply affected her. Tonio was essentially just a shadow of his former self, only his spirit seemed to keep him going. Even his spirit had changed. When with Aminta, he became fearful and timid, his once-passionate feelings for her now a humble and respectful submission. His mind seemed to fade, and the only hints of it appeared to be an instinctive connection with his mistress. He smiled whenever the Marquise did, but that was rare. He cried when tears filled her eyes. When he looked at Aminta as we've described, her sadness was perfectly reflected on his face. Scorpione was, in fact, less than a man and more than a beast—he was an idiot.

"You suffer, because I suffer," said Aminta.

"You’re in pain because I am," said Aminta.

He replied, "Yes."

He said, "Yes."

By one of those ideas which take possession of the time, but which it shrinks to confess, she said in a weak and almost tender voice to the idiot, as children do to toys, "If I were happy, would you be?" Scorpione looked fixedly at her, as if trying to understand her; and she added, "If any one loved me, and I loved him also, would you wish me to be happy?" blushing as she spoke.

By one of those ideas that capture the moment but which people hesitate to admit, she said in a soft and almost gentle voice to the fool, like kids do with their toys, "If I were happy, would you be?" Scorpione stared at her, as if trying to grasp what she meant; and she continued, "If someone loved me, and I loved him too, would you want me to be happy?" feeling shy as she spoke.

Heavy tears rolled down his cheeks, and he said, taking Aminta's hand, "Yes."

Heavy tears rolled down his cheeks, and he said, taking Aminta's hand, "Yeah."

"Poor child!" said she, with tears also, "once he loved me for his own sake—now he loves me for my own."

"Poor child!" she said, tears in her eyes, "he once loved me for himself—now he loves me for me."

"Yes," said the idiot, hiding his face with his hands.

"Yeah," said the fool, covering his face with his hands.

Just then the Prince de Maulear was announced.

Just then, Prince de Maulear was announced.

XVIII. THE KING.

The Prince adored his daughter-in-law, and with tears in his eyes he besought Signora Rovero not to take her from him. "Remember," said he, "that I am old, and have but a few years more to live before I reach the end of my journey, to which the death of my unfortunate son has brought me years nearer. Do not, Signora, deprive me of the only being I love on earth. Make this sacrifice to Rovero's friend. In his name I ask you to do so. Have a little patience with the old man, and let Aminta close his eyes. I will soon restore her to you."

The Prince loved his daughter-in-law deeply, and with tears in his eyes, he pleaded with Signora Rovero not to take her away from him. "Remember," he said, "I’m old and have just a few years left before I reach the end of my journey, which has been brought closer by my unfortunate son's death. Please, Signora, don’t take away the only person I love on this earth. Make this sacrifice for Rovero's friend. I’m asking you to do this in his name. Have a little patience with the old man, and let Aminta be there for me at the end. I will return her to you soon."

The mother made this sacrifice to the broken-hearted father, who almost on his knees besought her to give him her daughter to replace his lost son. In his suffering the Prince seemed to become doubly fond of the young woman. Her own father could not have been more anxious to spare her pain and to satisfy her least desires.

The mother made this sacrifice to the heartbroken father, who was almost on his knees begging her to let him have her daughter to take the place of his lost son. In his pain, the Prince appeared to become even more attached to the young woman. Her own father couldn't have been more eager to ease her suffering and meet her every desire.

"She is my Antigone," said he, proudly, to all who met him leaning on the Marquise's arm. "I am, though, happier than Œdipus, for I can look at and admire her."

"She is my Antigone," he said proudly to everyone he met while leaning on the Marquise's arm. "I am, however, happier than Œdipus because I can look at and admire her."

"When the Prince came into the drawing-room of his daughter he seemed excited. The Marquise bade Scorpione leave her, and the idiot crawled rather than walked to the door, through which he disappeared; not, however, until he had cast one glance on the young woman, as if to become satisfied that her features expressed neither menace nor anger.

"When the Prince entered his daughter's drawing room, he appeared excited. The Marquise asked Scorpione to leave her, and the idiot crawled more than walked to the door, disappearing through it; however, not before he glanced at the young woman, as if to ensure that her expression showed neither threat nor anger."

"Good and kind as ever," said the Prince to Aminta; "you certainly appear to advantage with that hideous and deformed being. No one but a person generous as you are would keep so awful a being by you."

"Good and kind as always," said the Prince to Aminta; "you really look good with that ugly and deformed creature. No one but someone as generous as you would be willing to keep such an awful being around."

"To do so, father, I need only appeal to memory, and that will aid me. I cannot forget that I am indebted to him for my life, and above all, for the boon of being loved by you."

"To do that, dad, I just need to think back, and that will help me. I can't forget that I'm grateful to him for giving me life, and most importantly, for the gift of being loved by you."

"Certainly," said the Prince, "I know all that; but you might take care of and watch over him, and make his life pleasant, without keeping him ever before you. I, who am not at all timid, assure you that I never see him without apprehension at your feet, hugging the fire like a serpent to quicken the icy blood in his veins."

"Sure," said the Prince, "I get all that; but you could take care of him and look out for him, and make his life enjoyable, without having him constantly in front of you. I, who am not at all afraid, promise you that I never see him without feeling anxious, like he's curled up by the fire like a serpent trying to warm the cold blood in his veins."

"I will send him away if you wish me to."

I'll

"I wish you to do as you please. That you know well enough, my child. Keep the Scorpione, as you sometimes call him, and nurse up any horrible monster you please besides, and I will think it charming, or at least will not reproach you. My dear child, I have few amusements for you, and now your life must be sad indeed."

"I want you to do what you want. You know that, my child. Keep the Scorpione, as you sometimes call him, and take care of any horrible monster you want, and I will find it delightful, or at least I won’t blame you. My dear child, I don’t have many fun things for you, and now your life must be really sad."

"No, no! dear father, I do not complain. The hotel is only sad when you are not here."

"No, no! dear dad, I'm not complaining. The hotel only feels dull when you’re not here."

"Alas!" said the Prince, "there can be found but little interest in one as old as I am, and so unhappy too. Listen to me, Aminta, it is cruel to make children die before their parents. It reverses the order of nature to see the flower wither while the parent stem is green. I spoke to you of fate, because I was unwilling to mention God. Grief makes us pious. I dare not object to your decrees."

"Alas!" said the Prince, "there's hardly any interest in someone as old as I am, and so unhappy too. Listen to me, Aminta, it's cruel to make children die before their parents. It's against the natural order to see the flower wither while the parent stem is still green. I mentioned fate because I didn't want to bring up God. Grief brings us closer to faith. I can't go against your decisions."

"Have you not yet a daughter?" said Aminta, passing her arm around the Prince's neck; "have you not a daughter who loves you?"

"Don't you have a daughter yet?" Aminta asked, putting her arm around the Prince's neck. "Don't you have a daughter who loves you?"

"Yes, yes, my daughter." The Prince laid an emphasis on the last word. "You are now my only child, and I wish to secure your happiness; and for that purpose will consecrate to you the remnant of my life. Yet I do not know what to do."

"Yes, yes, my daughter." The Prince stressed the last word. "You are now my only child, and I want to ensure your happiness; to that end, I will dedicate the rest of my life to you. But I don't know what to do."

The young woman blushed—for perhaps she could have made a suggestion. The Prince, though, did not remark it, and continued:

The young woman felt embarrassed—maybe she could have made a suggestion. The Prince, however, didn’t notice and went on:

"Our life is sadder even than it was. The friends of this world are like bees who hover only around flowers when they bloom, and scorn those which begin to wither. They avoid this house—"[Pg 49]

"Our life is even sadder than it used to be. Friends in this world are like bees that only gather around flowers when they're in bloom and ignore those that start to wilt. They stay away from this house—"[Pg 49]

"All friends do not act thus," said Aminta, concealing her emotion; "one of them, one who pleases you most, whom you love, Signor Monte-Leone, often comes hither to see you alone—"

"Not all friends act like that," Aminta said, hiding her feelings; "one of them, the one you like the most, the one you love, Signor Monte-Leone, often comes here to see you alone—"

"To see me?" said the Prince, looking shrewdly at his daughter-in-law; "perhaps he comes to see you. Since, however, his misfortune, the Count never comes near us. Perhaps he judges us incorrectly. He may have fancied the loss of fortune involved the sacrifice of our friendship. It is a bad judgment, and I say it with regret, of a bad heart."

"To see me?" the Prince asked, looking keenly at his daughter-in-law. "Maybe he’s here to see you. However, ever since his misfortune, the Count has stayed away from us. Maybe he thinks we’re not on good terms anymore. He might believe that losing his fortune meant losing our friendship. That’s a poor assumption, and I say this sadly, coming from a bad heart."

"Ah father," said Aminta, "the Count must have had another reason to keep him away."

"Ah, Dad," Aminta said, "the Count must have had another reason to keep him away."

"Certainly," said M. de Maulear, "but these reasons have not kept him from seeing me. During the last fortnight, I have been ten times to his house. I am, however, glad he has acted thus, for his conduct will diminish my sorrow at his departure—"

"Sure," said M. de Maulear, "but those reasons haven't stopped him from meeting with me. Over the past two weeks, I've been to his house ten times. However, I'm glad he's done this because his actions will lessen my sadness about his leaving—"

"His departure?" said Aminta, unable to restrain an expression of surprise.

"His departure?" Aminta asked, unable to hide her surprise.

"His departure for Italy," said the Prince; "he was ordered this morning, by the French government, to leave France within twenty-four hours."

"His departure for Italy," said the Prince; "he was told this morning by the French government that he has to leave France within twenty-four hours."

"And why?" said Aminta.

"And why?" Aminta asked.

"He is accused," said Maulear, "of being concerned in some conspiracy contrary to the safety of the country."

"He is accused," said Maulear, "of being involved in a conspiracy against the safety of the country."

"Ah, my God!" said the young woman, "then he is exiled and expelled from the kingdom."

"Wow, oh my God!" said the young woman, "so he's exiled and kicked out of the kingdom."

"Decidedly; and he is forbidden ever to return."

"Definitely; and he is not allowed to ever come back."

Aminta, as she heard these words, felt as if her heart would burst. The Prince saw her agitation.

Aminta felt like her heart was going to burst when she heard those words. The Prince noticed her distress.

"What is the matter my child?" said he. "Why are you so sad?"

"What’s wrong, my child?" he asked. "Why are you so sad?"

"Nothing, nothing, but a nervous attack, to which I am used."

"Nothing, just a panic attack, which I'm used to."

Maulear looked at the Marquise for a few moments, and then said: "My child, there is no true love without confidence. My love gives me sacred rights over you. Do not be afraid to confide in me. Let not even the memory of the departed restrain you. You are twenty years of age; and your life has not approached its end. I am now about to tell you what I have often intended to: your happiness is the main object of my life, and never forget that, whatever may be your name, I shall always look on you as a daughter!"

Maulear glanced at the Marquise for a moment and then said, "My dear, there’s no real love without trust. My love gives me special rights over you. Don’t be afraid to share your thoughts with me. Don’t let even the memory of those who have passed hold you back. You’re twenty years old, and your life is far from over. I’m about to tell you something I’ve meant to say many times: your happiness is the most important thing to me, and remember, no matter what your name is, I will always see you as a daughter!"

Aminta threw herself into the Prince's arms and hid there her tears of gratitude and her blushes. De Maulear took his beautiful daughter-in-law on his knee, as he would have taken a child, and then lifting up Aminta's head with exquisite kindness, said: "Does he love you?"

Aminta threw herself into the Prince's arms, hiding her tears of gratitude and her blushes. De Maulear lifted his beautiful daughter-in-law onto his knee, like he would a child, and then gently raised Aminta's chin with great kindness, asking, "Does he love you?"

"He did before I was married," said the young woman, looking down.

"He did before I got married," said the young woman, looking down.

"And since then?"

"And what happened after that?"

"He has never spoken of love."

"He has never talked about love."

"He should not have done so," said the Prince; "often, though, the eyes say such things; and his, probably, are not inexpressive."

"He shouldn't have done that," said the Prince; "still, eyes often express things like that; and his are probably not without meaning."

Aminta did not reply.

Aminta didn't respond.

"All is clear," said the Prince; "the Count avoids us from a sentiment of delicacy which does him honor. He has no longer reason to hope, being ruined, for what, when rich, he would have given his life and fortune."

"Everything is clear," said the Prince; "the Count is staying away from us out of a sense of honor, which is commendable. He no longer has any reason to hope, being ruined, for what, when he was rich, he would have given his life and fortune for."

"He will go," said Aminta faintly.

"He will go," Aminta said softly.

"He will not, he shall not go. This conspiracy is, after all, only one of the phantoms ever arising before a terrified government. If the really revolutionary mind of Count Monte-Leone has involved him, I will promise to make him listen to reason, especially if you will aid me—as for this order to leave so abruptly, I hope my arm is long enough to interpose."

"He won’t, he can’t go. This conspiracy is just another one of the ghosts that pop up in front of a scared government. If Count Monte-Leone’s truly revolutionary thoughts have dragged him into this, I promise to make him see reason, especially if you help me—about this order to leave so suddenly, I hope my arm is long enough to intervene."

"What then will you do?" asked Aminta, anxiously.

"What are you going to do now?" asked Aminta, nervously.

"Parbleu! I will go to the King himself—not to the ministers, but to the King—to GOD, not to the saints. Mind, for the proverb's sake alone I apply that word to those gentry. The King is an old friend, a brother in exile. I never asked a favor of him, though he has often asked me to do so. We will see if he will refuse me."

"Good grief! I will go to the King himself—not to the ministers, but to the King—to God, not to the saints. Just so you know, I only use that term for those folks because of the proverb. The King is an old friend, a brother in exile. I’ve never asked him for a favor, even though he’s often asked me to. Let’s see if he turns me down."

"But," said Aminta, "time is short."

"But," Aminta said, "time is running out."

"Then," said the Prince, "to-morrow morning I will go to the Tuileries, and we will see what the minister will say when he hears Louis XVIII. say, I will!"

"Then," said the Prince, "tomorrow morning I will go to the Tuileries, and we’ll see what the minister will say when he hears Louis XVIII. say, I will!"

"Think you he will say so?"

"Do you think he will say that?"

"He must," said the Prince, kissing her; "for you and I say, we will. What a woman wills——To-morrow you shall have good news." He went away....

"He must," said the Prince, kissing her; "because you and I say, we will. What a woman wants—Tomorrow you will hear good news." He walked away...

At that time the appearance of the Tuileries was very imposing. To the forms of the empire had succeeded the more luxurious and aristocratic ones of the restoration.

At that time, the Tuileries were quite impressive. The styles of the empire had been replaced by the more opulent and aristocratic ones of the restoration.

The stern military garb of the Imperial Guard, and of the Dragoons of the Empress, was replaced by the brilliant uniforms of the King's body-guards, of the hundred Swiss, an old name now replaced by the almost grotesque appellation of the Gardes à pied ordinaires du corps du roi, a species of giants, commanded by the Count of Tisseuil, a person only about four feet high, but an excellent soldier for all that. Then came the Swiss, the Royal guard, and on days of public ceremonies, the Gardes de la Manche, whose duty had special relation to the religious ceremonies of the chapel of the palace. The reception rooms, the great gallery, the hall of the marshals, glittered with embroidered dresses, cordons, collars and orders of every kind, both French and foreign. There were the stars of the empire—those of the monarchy—Russian, English, Austrian, Italian—the stars of all Europe. A large portion of the continent was in Paris. This portion was the most brilliant of all; for having tasted of Parisian refinement it was not at all anxious to[Pg 50] return home. His majesty Louis XVIII., dressed in blue and wearing the royal cordon of the Saint Esprit, with his hair a l'oisseu-royal, and his legs hidden in broad pantaloons, which concealed their size, with his feet in shoes of buckskin, and pleasant and agreeable as ever, had been rolled by his footman from the room where he breakfasted, to his study. MM. de Blacas, d'Escars, and de Damas, his gentlemen in waiting, and many courtiers, had followed his majesty's chair to the very door of his study, where they paused. Then the human horses, who dragged the chair, having turned him around on his own pivot, bore him into the recesses of the room. The object of the manœuvre we have described was to place the King vis-a-vis to his courtiers, to whom he bowed graciously. This was a signal for them to leave. The doors then closed with not a little noise, and this was all the public knew of royal life. Private matters, interviews with the ministers, audiences, had particular modes of entrance leading to the King's rooms and office. The latter was the sanctuary of royal thought, where great and petty acts were consummated, and where many confessions and audiences had been heard and given. There this literary King, better educated than half of his academy, had made commentaries on many learned Latins, especially on Horace. The King appropriated several hours of every day to study. To derange the distribution of this time, to take him from Juvenal, Tacitus, or Cicero, to discuss a plan of Villèle or Angles, was almost high treason. One person alone dared to do this, and this person was above law. The reason was, he was more powerful than the King, having even majesty in subjection. The name of this man was Father Elysée. It was his business to keep the King alive. This was, as will be seen, a very important matter.

The strict military uniforms of the Imperial Guard and the Empress's Dragoons were swapped for the vibrant attire of the King's bodyguards, known as the hundred Swiss, a term now replaced by the rather ridiculous name Gardes à pied ordinaires du corps du roi. They were like giants, led by the Count of Tisseuil, who stood only about four feet tall but was an excellent soldier nonetheless. Next came the Swiss, the Royal guard, and during public ceremonies, the Gardes de la Manche, who had duties tied to the religious services at the palace chapel. The reception rooms, the grand gallery, and the hall of the marshals dazzled with embroidered gowns, cordons, collars, and various awards from both France and abroad. The hall was adorned with the stars of the empire and monarchy—Russian, English, Austrian, Italian—the stars from all across Europe. A significant portion of the continent was gathered in Paris, and it was the most dazzling group of all; after experiencing Parisian elegance, they had little desire to [Pg 50] head back home. His majesty Louis XVIII., dressed in blue and sporting the royal cordon of the Saint Esprit, his hair styled a l'oisseu-royal, and his legs concealed in broad pantaloons that hid their size, wore buckskin shoes and had his usual pleasant demeanor. He had been wheeled by his footman from the breakfast room to his study. MM. de Blacas, d'Escars, and de Damas, his attendants, along with several courtiers, followed his chair to the door of his study, where they paused. After turning him around on his own pivot, the men who carried the chair brought him into the room. This maneuver aimed to position the King facing his courtiers, to whom he graciously bowed. This gesture signaled them to leave. The doors closed with a loud thud, and this was all the public knew about royal life. Private matters, meetings with ministers, and audiences had specific entries leading to the King's chambers and office. The latter was the sacred space of royal contemplation, where significant decisions and everyday business were carried out, and many secrets and audiences took place. In this space, the King, more educated than half of his academy, had commented on various learned Latin texts, particularly Horace. The King dedicated several hours daily to study, and to disrupt this schedule just to pull him away from Juvenal, Tacitus, or Cicero to discuss a plan by Villèle or Angles was seen as nearly treasonous. Only one person dared to interrupt him, and that person was above the law. He was more powerful than the King, even having authority over majesty itself. This man's name was Father Elysée. It was his responsibility to keep the King engaged and alive, which was, as will be understood, a very significant task.

This man went into the King's room without notice, and without even tapping at his door. He did so, by virtue of the sovereign power of the patient over the invalid—by virtue of science over suffering humanity. The King, however, sometimes used to say, when Elysée made a very brusque entrance: "I only wish one thing, that disease may not break in on me brusquely as you do."

This man walked into the King's room without any warning and without even knocking on his door. He did so because of the King’s authority over the sick man—because of the power of knowledge over human suffering. However, the King sometimes used to say when Elysée made a very brusque entrance: "I just wish for one thing, that illness wouldn't barge in on me as you do."

As a fine and acute courtier, as an old slouth-hound of the palace with a keen scent, the Prince de Maulear went to Father Elysée for the purpose of obtaining a speedy audience.

As a sharp and clever courtier, like an old hound of the palace with a keen sense of smell, the Prince de Maulear went to Father Elysée to get a quick audience.

"Is it you?" said the King, behind whom opened a door looking into the reception room.

"Is it you?" said the King, as a door opened behind him, leading into the reception room.

"Yes," said the doctor, "I wish your majesty would not pay too much attention to your Latin and study. Nothing injures the digestive organs like study, especially after meals. Mind and matter then contend, and the body is almost always overcome."

"Yes," said the doctor, "I wish your majesty wouldn't focus too much on your Latin and studying. Nothing harms the digestive system like studying, especially after meals. The mind and body then clash, and the body usually ends up losing."

"If I had to do only with my old friends, Horace and Petronius," said the King, "my digestion would be all right. Unfortunately I have found a few modern subjects well calculated to annoy Master Gaster—for the vermin of Juvenal and Persius would be honey of Hymethus compared with the bile of the books I speak of—"

"If I were just hanging out with my old friends, Horace and Petronius," the King said, "my digestion would be fine. Unfortunately, I've come across some modern topics that really upset Master Gaster—because the bugs in Juvenal and Persius would be like sweet honey compared to the anger from the books I’m talking about—"

The King pointed out to the doctor a few open pamphlets which lay about the table.

The King pointed out to the doctor a few open pamphlets that were spread across the table.

"Norman Letters. The Man in the Grey Coat—Minerva," said the doctor, looking at them; "who dared to bring these books hither?"

"Norman Letters. The Man in the Grey Coat—Minerva," said the doctor, looking at them; "who had the guts to bring these books here?"

"My majesty dared. I am as good a doctor as you are, but I have more patients. I have a whole nation to cure, and to administer a tonic we must at least be aware of the debility. Look hither," said the King, "here is an antidote to poison. The Conservative, edited by the most learned doctors of the political faculty—by de Chateaubriand, de Bonald, de Villèle, Fiévée. Castelbajac, and a certain Abbé de Lamennais, an eloquent, sharp, and able man, I am sure, who has, though, one fault, he is a greater royalist than his King."

"My majesty took a risk. I'm just as good a doctor as you are, but I have way more patients. I have an entire nation to heal, and to give a solution, we need to at least recognize the weakness first. Look here," said the King, "this is an antidote to poison. The Conservative, edited by the most knowledgeable experts in political science—by de Chateaubriand, de Bonald, de Villèle, Fiévée, Castelbajac, and a certain Abbé de Lamennais, a talented, sharp, and skilled man, I assure you, who unfortunately has one flaw: he is a bigger royalist than his King."

"And may I venture to ask your majesty how the works of Etienne, Jay, Jony and company, came hither?"

"And may I ask your majesty how the works of Etienne, Jay, Jony, and the others arrived here?"

"Smuggled in," said Louis XVIII., with a smile; "F——, one of my valets de chambre, whom I have placed at the head of what I call my secret ministry, brings them to me. The fellow has taste. He said to me the other day: 'I have something devilish good here. The scoundrels do not spare your majesty.' But," continued the King, "no man can be great to his valet or his physician, and I will therefore confess that the works of these liberal gentlemen trouble my digestion not a little, and I wish my good friend the Duke d'Escars to bring me back that purée de cailles truffées, of which he is the inventor. He is the Prince of Gourmands."

"Smuggled in," Louis XVIII said with a smile; "F——, one of my valets de chambre, whom I've put in charge of what I call my secret ministry, brings them to me. The guy has good taste. He told me the other day: 'I have something really good here. The scoundrels aren't holding back on you, Your Majesty.' But," the King continued, "no one can be great to their valet or their doctor, so I admit that the works of these liberal gentlemen upset my digestion quite a bit, and I want my good friend the Duke d'Escars to bring me back that purée de cailles truffées, which he invented. He is the Prince of Gourmands."

"Then," said Père Elysée, glad to be able thus to pass to the principal object of his visit, "I am just in time to amuse your majesty, and to announce the visit of one of your best friends—the Prince de Maulear."

"Then," said Père Elysée, happy to finally get to the main reason for his visit, "I’m just in time to entertain your majesty and to announce the visit of one of your closest friends—the Prince de Maulear."

"Just in time," said the King; "he is a gentleman of the old school, and has chosen for fifty years to be such. He yet believes in a King of France, fully, perhaps more fully, than he does in God. He is a true enemy of the Jacobins and Revolutionists. Tell him to come in, doctor, and we will be able to bear up against the attacks of the authors of those books."

"Just in time," said the King; "he's a gentleman from the old days and has chosen for fifty years to remain that way. He still believes in a King of France, maybe even more than he believes in God. He is a true opponent of the Jacobins and Revolutionists. Tell him to come in, doctor, and we’ll be able to withstand the attacks from the writers of those books."

The doctor soon brought the Prince de Maulear, and then left.

The doctor quickly brought in Prince de Maulear and then left.

"Come in, my dear Prince," said the King; "you do not spoil your friends, and I see you too rarely, as I see others too frequently, to be able to forget you."

"Come in, my dear Prince," said the King; "you don't spoil your friends, and I see you too infrequently, just like I see others too often, to be able to forget you."

Kings, however unpleasant they may be, have this analogy with the sun, all come to warm themselves by his rays.[Pg 51]

Kings, no matter how unpleasant they are, have this comparison with the sun; everyone comes to bask in their rays.[Pg 51]

"I thank your majesty for your kind reception."

"I appreciate your majesty for your warm welcome."

"You were my friend and shared my exile."

"You were my friend and went through my exile with me."

"It was a sad season," said the Prince, sitting on the chair the King pushed towards him.

"It was a sad season," said the Prince, sitting in the chair the King had pushed towards him.

"Not so, Prince; then we had no cares and no enemies, above all we had no court. We were independent, calm, and happy."

"Not at all, Prince; back then we had no worries and no foes, and most importantly, we had no court. We were free, relaxed, and content."

"Perhaps you had health, but you had no crown."

"Maybe you were healthy, but you didn't have a crown."

"Think you that a great misfortune?"

"Do you think that's a big mistake?"

"Perhaps not to your majesty, but it was to France."

"Maybe not to you, but it was to France."

"How? Does our friend the Prince de Maulear, contrary to every expectation, become a flatterer in his old age? In what part of the Tuileries did he contract that disease? Listen, my dear de Maulear. You as well as I know that love of France is but a word. Once in France, people loved the King—now, though, France above all other things loves itself. This love is, if you please, egotistical, but after all it is the only real positive good in this selfish age. Mind I speak only of the owners, and therefore conservatives of the kingdom. The other portion of the kingdom, anxious at any risk to acquire, estimates the country cheaply. A few faithful hearts who welcomed me as a Messiah expected for twenty years, true and noble believers, looked on my return as the realization of their long and secret hopes. To the majority of my people the Bourbon lily has been only the olive-branch of peace purchased by twenty years of war. This peace I would not have brought back by the bayonets of the Austrians and Russians. But God, Buonaparte, and the Allies, so willed it. You see, my dear Prince, that I am not mistaken in relation to my subjects' love, and that the gems of a crown do not conceal its thorns."

"How? Has our friend the Prince de Maulear, against all odds, become a flatterer in his old age? Where in the Tuileries did he catch that disease? Listen, my dear de Maulear. You, like me, know that love of France is just a phrase. Once, people loved the King in France—now, though, France loves itself above everything else. This love is, if you will, self-centered, but it’s the only real and positive good in this selfish time. I’m only talking about those who own and thus preserve the kingdom. The other part of the kingdom, eager to gain at any cost, doesn’t value the country much. A few loyal hearts who welcomed me as a long-awaited Messiah, true and steadfast believers, saw my return as the fulfillment of their long and hidden hopes. To most of my people, the Bourbon lily has merely been the olive branch of peace bought at the cost of twenty years of war. I would not have brought back this peace with the bayonets of the Austrians and Russians. But God, Buonaparte, and the Allies decided otherwise. You see, my dear Prince, I am not wrong about my subjects' love, and the jewels of a crown don’t hide its thorns."

"The King," said M. de Maulear, "at least deigns to reckon me among the faithful subjects of whom he spoke just now?"

"The King," M. de Maulear said, "at least acknowledges me as one of the loyal subjects he just mentioned?"

"Yes, yes," said the King, "among the most faithful and most disinterested. When I came back, there was established a very partition of offices and places, or honors, titles, crosses and stars, in which you took no part. Now you know you are one of those to whom I could refuse nothing."

"Yeah, yeah," said the King, "among the most loyal and selfless. When I returned, there was a clear division of roles and positions, or honors, titles, crosses, and stars, in which you were not involved. Now you know you’re one of those I could deny nothing."

"Well," said the Prince, "your majesty gives me courage to make one request, to obtain which I come hither."

"Well," said the Prince, "your majesty gives me the courage to make one request, which is why I have come here."

"Bah!" said the King, "speak out my old friend, if the matter depends on me—"

"Ugh!" said the King, "just say it, my old friend, if it’s up to me—"

"Cannot the King do any thing?" said the Prince.

"Can't the King do anything?" said the Prince.

"The King can do very little," said Louis XVIII.

"When your majesty says 'I will—'"

"When you say, 'I will—'"

"Others say, 'We will not.'"

"Others say, 'We won't.'"

"Who will dare to use such language?"

"Who would be brave enough to use that kind of language?"

"The true Kings of France—the ministers—for they are responsible while I am not. To tell the fact, though, I have credit with them and will use it—"

"The real rulers of France—the ministers—because they bear the responsibility while I don’t. To be honest, I have their trust and I intend to use it—"

"Yet the King is King," said the Prince.

"Still, the King is the King," said the Prince.

"Ah, Prince!" said Louis XVIII, "I see plainly enough that you do not read my books. What could you say worse to an author? Open the charter and look—here it is: 'He reigns, but does not govern.' This is my Bible, my code—and I can accuse no one but myself, if I do sigh sometimes. For all this emanates from me, and was conceived and written by my own hand. Unfortunately," said he, with bitterness, "in France every thing is interpreted literally."

"Ah, Prince!" said Louis XVIII, "It's clear that you don't read my books. What could be worse for an author to hear? Open the charter and see—here it is: 'He reigns, but does not govern.' This is my Bible, my guide—and I can only blame myself if I sometimes sigh. Everything comes from me, and was conceived and written by my own hand. Unfortunately," he said, with bitterness, "in France, everything is taken literally."

"The favor I ask your majesty to grant me will I hope be within your reserved powers. Count Monte-Leone, a noble Neapolitan of my acquaintance, has been accused, beyond doubt unjustly, of political plots, and been abruptly ordered to leave France. I come to ask the king to remit this mortification."

"The favor I’m asking you, Your Majesty, I hope is within your authority. Count Monte-Leone, a nobleman from Naples that I know, has been accused, without a doubt unfairly, of plotting against the government and has been suddenly ordered to leave France. I’m here to request that the king lift this humiliation."

"Ah, ah!" said Louis XVIII, gravely, "an anarchist. This is serious, very serious. Perhaps the safety of the monarchy depends on this, as the Timid[3] say. My dear brother retails a conspiracy a day to me; perhaps, after all, he is not far wrong. I will see, Prince. I will examine and consult a very important personage, without whom I cannot act."

"Ah, ah!" said Louis XVIII seriously, "an anarchist. This is serious, very serious. The safety of the monarchy might depend on this, as the Timid[3] says. My dear brother shares a new conspiracy with me every day; maybe he isn't entirely wrong. I will look into this, Prince. I will check in with a very important person, without whom I can't move forward."

"Will his Majesty," said the usher, who had just arrived, "receive the prime minister?"

"Will His Majesty," said the usher, who had just arrived, "meet with the prime minister?"

"Exactly," said the King, "that is the person of whom I spoke."

"Exactly," said the King, "that's the person I was talking about."

"Go in there," said the King to the Prince, pointing to the waiting-room. "You shall have my, or rather his, answer, in a quarter of an hour. The result though will be the same."

"Go in there," said the King to the Prince, pointing to the waiting room. "You'll get my, or actually his, answer in about fifteen minutes. But the outcome will be the same."

The Prince obeyed, and his excellency the prime minister was received.

The Prince agreed, and his excellency the prime minister was welcomed.

XIX. A REVELATION.

The audience the King gave his prime minister lasted nearly an hour. M. de Maulear began to grow impatient at his long delay, when the usher came to tell him the King waited for him....

The audience the King gave his prime minister lasted almost an hour. M. de Maulear started to get impatient with the long wait when the usher came to inform him that the King was waiting for him....

When the Prince entered, Louis XVIII. had a smile on his lips. A skilful observer of countenances would however have remarked a shade of malice.

When the Prince entered, Louis XVIII had a smile on his lips. A keen observer of expressions would, however, have noticed a hint of malice.

"You are then very fond of Count Monte-Leone?" said the King to the Prince, again telling him to be seated.

"You really like Count Monte-Leone, don’t you?" the King said to the Prince, gesturing for him to sit down again.

"Very, Sire," said the Prince. "Signor Monte-Leone is really a nobleman, with old blood, a kind heart, brilliant mind, and elegant manners. One of a race now rare. If your Majesty would but permit me to present him to you—"

"Absolutely, Your Majesty," said the Prince. "Signor Monte-Leone is truly a nobleman, with a distinguished lineage, a kind heart, a sharp mind, and graceful manners. He belongs to a breed that is now quite rare. If Your Majesty would allow me to introduce him to you—"

"No, no," said the King; "I had rather not. Besides," continued he, "with his reputation as a dreamer and a revolutionist, as an enemy of our cousin Fernando of Naples—"

"No, no," said the King; "I'd rather not. Besides," he went on, "with his reputation as a dreamer and a revolutionary, as an enemy of our cousin Fernando of Naples—"

[Pg 52]

"The Count is in the way of conversion, Sire; and if the important person to whom your Majesty yields will suffer us to keep the Count in Paris, I am sure we will soon be able to restore him to favor."

"The Count is blocking the conversion, Your Majesty; and if the important person you’re yielding to allows us to keep the Count in Paris, I'm sure we can quickly bring him back into favor."

"The important person," said Louis, with a smile, "was very much inclined to send your dear friend to his own country. New information in relation to this honorable and loyal noble," continued the King, "has completely changed the intentions entertained in relation to him."

"The important person," Louis said with a smile, "was really keen on sending your dear friend back to his own country. New information about this honorable and loyal noble," the King continued, "has completely changed the plans we had for him."

"Indeed," said the Prince, with delight; "and will your Majesty deign to tell me what this information is?"

"Sure," said the Prince, happily, "will you please tell me what this information is?"

"No, no, my dear friend. This is strictly a political question, which cannot be divulged. One thing is certain, the Italian is no longer our enemy, but is devoted to us. He is a lamb in a lion's hide. Not only will we keep him in France, but will grant him immunity for all he may do in future and has done as yet. Thus you see," said the King, "I have done more than you asked."

"No, no, my dear friend. This is strictly a political matter, which cannot be revealed. One thing is clear: the Italian is no longer our enemy, but is loyal to us. He’s a lamb in a lion’s skin. Not only will we keep him in France, but we will also give him immunity for everything he may do in the future and has done so far. So you see," said the King, "I have done more than you asked."

"Such kindness," said the Prince, "overwhelms me with pleasure and gratitude."

"Such kindness," said the Prince, "fills me with joy and gratitude."

"Ah, Prince," said the King, ironically, "how you love your friends! Yet distrust your heart in relation to these Italians. They are cunning, and sometimes treacherous, but always mild and winning, so as to lead astray our French honesty. They do not wear at their belt their most dangerous stiletto, but have another between their jaws which is often poisoned. God keep me from saying this of your dear Count. I would not hurt him at all, but on the other hand wish him to be well received and to be honored every where. This advice, however, I wish you to consider general, and not with reference to any particular case."

"Ah, Prince," the King said with irony, "how you cherish your friends! But be careful of your feelings about these Italians. They can be clever and sometimes duplicitous, but they're always charming and persuasive, leading our French integrity astray. They don’t openly display their most dangerous knife at their waist, but they keep another hidden in their mouths that is often poisoned. God forbid I say this about your beloved Count. I wouldn’t want to harm him at all; rather, I hope he is well received and honored everywhere. That said, I want you to take this advice as general and not aimed at any specific situation."

"Count Monte-Leone," continued the Prince, "is worthy of your Majesty's kindest wishes. He has only the noble qualities of his nation, energy, enthusiasm, and courage. His is an exalted mind, which a cruel family sorrow may for a time have led astray, but I will answer for him as I would for myself."

"Count Monte-Leone," the Prince continued, "is deserving of your Majesty's best wishes. He embodies all the noble traits of his nation: energy, enthusiasm, and courage. He has an elevated mind, which a harsh family tragedy may have temporarily distracted, but I vouch for him as I would for myself."

"Ah," said the King, "that is indeed saying much."

"Ah," said the King, "that really says a lot."

"Not enough for his merit. I would be proud if I resembled him."

"Not enough for his worth. I would feel proud if I were like him."

At this the King could not repress his laughter, and the Prince looked at him with surprise, and almost with anger. The King soon resumed. "Excuse me, Prince, but you exhibited so extravagant an anxiety—no, no, virtuous as Monte-Leone may be, I like you as you are. Do not therefore envy his devotion, great as that may be to us. I like yours best."

At this, the King couldn't help but laugh, and the Prince looked at him with surprise and a hint of anger. The King quickly continued, "Sorry, Prince, but you were so overly worried—no, no, as virtuous as Monte-Leone might be, I like you just the way you are. So don't be envious of his devotion, no matter how great it is to us. I prefer yours."

"I will then tell the Count," said the Prince, "the favor your Majesty has deigned to grant him."

"I'll tell the Count," said the Prince, "about the favor Your Majesty has graciously given him."

"No, no—not I. With affairs of that kind I have nothing to do. I leave that honor to the minister. Adieu, Prince," said he, "and come soon to see me again. Then ask something of me which may be worth granting." The Prince bowed respectfully, and left.

"No, no—not me. I have nothing to do with matters like that. I leave that privilege to the minister. Goodbye, Prince," he said, "and do come to visit me again soon. When you do, ask me for something worth giving." The Prince bowed respectfully and left.

"Excellent man," said Louis XVIII., as he left. "He would have been surprised had I told him.... That Italian has bewitched him...."

"Great guy," said Louis XVIII as he was leaving. "He would have been shocked if I told him... That Italian has him under a spell..."

On the evening before the day on which this scene took place, a man wrote in his office by the light of a shaded lamp, which made every thing but half visible. It was ten o'clock. A door opened, and an officer of one of the courts appeared. M. H...., the chief of the political police of whom we have already spoken, lifted up his head.

On the evening before this scene occurred, a man was writing in his office under the soft light of a shaded lamp, making everything only partly visible. It was ten o'clock. A door swung open, and an officer from one of the courts stepped in. M. H...., the head of the political police we've mentioned before, looked up.

"What is the matter? and who is now come to interrupt me?" said he, with marked ill-humor.

"What’s going on? And who has come to interrupt me now?" he said, clearly in a bad mood.

The officer who had come in, and who was a Huissier, said, "'The Stranger,' and as Monsieur receives him always—"

The officer who came in, and who was a Huissier, said, "'The Stranger,' and since Monsieur always receives him—"

"Let him come in," said M. H...., eagerly. "You were right to announce him."

"Let him come in," said M. H...., excitedly. "You did the right thing by announcing him."

The person whom we have previously seen with a mask at the house of M. H...., entered, and looked carefully around to see that he was with the Chief of Police alone. Many months had passed, and all we have described had taken place. For since then, we have gone, like a sound logician, backwards, in order to expose our data distinctly before we proceed to define their consequences. Now the first appearance of the masked man in the cabinet of M. H.... coincided with the painful scene in which Taddeo Rovero had crushed the hopes of the Duchess of Palma by revealing to her the probability of the marriage of Monte-Leone and Aminta.

The person we previously saw wearing a mask at M. H....'s house came in and looked around carefully to make sure he was alone with the Chief of Police. Many months had passed since then, and everything we've described has happened. Since then, we've gone back logically to clearly present our data before we define what it means. Now, the first sighting of the masked man in M. H....’s office happened at the same time as the painful moment when Taddeo Rovero dashed the Duchess of Palma's hopes by telling her about the likelihood of Monte-Leone marrying Aminta.

"Monsieur," said the stranger to M. H...., "have I kept my promise?"

"Mister," said the stranger to M. H...., "did I keep my promise?"

"Yes," said H....

"Yeah," said H....

"Have I unfolded the plot of Carbonarism?"

"Have I revealed the story of Carbonarism?"

"You have satisfied me of the existence of the French Venta, and of their identity with those of Italy and Spain. We have written to the police of those nations, and all was discovered to be exact, so that in a few days the governments of those countries will have acted."

"You have convinced me about the existence of the French Venta and that they are the same as those in Italy and Spain. We have contacted the police in those countries, and everything has been found to be correct, so in a few days, the governments of those nations will take action."

"Have I named you the chief Carbonari in Paris?"

"Did I make you the main Carbonari in Paris?"

"You have."

"You've got."

"Have I given you their secret notes and books?"

"In relation to that, I am but partially satisfied, but I do not need the copies but the documents themselves, in the handwriting of their authors."

"In that regard, I'm only partially satisfied. What I need are the original documents, written in the authors' own handwriting, not just copies."

"You will have them—but there is an Italian proverb, Chi va piano, va sano! e chi va sano, va lontano. I told you the fruit was not yet ripe. I think, however, the time is approaching to gather it, and in a month I will—"[Pg 53]

"You will have them—but there's an Italian saying, Haste makes waste! I told you the fruit wasn't ready yet. However, I think the time is coming to gather it, and in a month I will—"[Pg 53]

"But," said H...., "does not this delay endanger all? May they not act, while we pause?"

"But," said H...., "doesn't this delay put everything at risk? Can't they take action while we hesitate?"

"Do you wish to know by your own observation who are the conspirators?" said the stranger.

"Do you want to see for yourself who the conspirators are?" said the stranger.

"I do," said H....

"Do you wish to see—to hear them?"

"Do you want to see them—to hear them?"

"Yes, and to arrest them."

"Yes, and to take them in."

"Not yet—it is too soon. While your fowlers entrapped a few fledgelings the rest of the covey would escape."

"Not yet—it’s too soon. While your bird catchers caught a few young birds, the rest of the flock would get away."

"How can I see and hear them?"

"I alone can enable you to do so, or rather not I, but the person whose agent I am."

"I can make it happen for you, or more accurately, it’s the person I represent who can."

"And when?" said M. H...., impatiently.

"And when?" asked M. H...., impatiently.

"In three days. It is, however, first necessary to repair a grave error which endangers all our hopes."

"In three days. However, it's essential to correct a serious mistake that threatens all our hopes."

"What fault?"

"What's the issue?"

"The Minister of the Interior," continued the man, "has ordered three foreigners, a German, a Spaniard, and an Italian, to leave France. Those persons are Dr. Spellman of Berlin, the Duke D.... of Madrid, and Count Monte-Leone of Naples."

"The Minister of the Interior," the man continued, "has ordered three foreigners, a German, a Spaniard, and an Italian, to leave France. Those individuals are Dr. Spellman from Berlin, the Duke D.... from Madrid, and Count Monte-Leone from Naples."

"True," said M. H.... "This is at the request of the ministers of those three nations."

"True," said M. H.... "This is at the request of the ministers from those three countries."

"Well," said the mysterious man, "it must be at once revoked."

"Well," said the mysterious man, "it needs to be revoked immediately."

"Why?"

"Because, if one of these men leave Paris, you have nothing to expect from me."

"Because if one of these guys leaves Paris, you shouldn't expect anything from me."

"What say you?" asked H...., with surprise.

"What do you say?" asked H...., surprised.

"I am," said the stranger, in a low tone, "as I told you, the agent of one of those strangers. In his name alone I can tell you what you are so anxious to know—without him I can do nothing. The elevated position of this man, his rank, his connection with Carbonarism, enable him to hear and know all. Without him I am reduced to silence and inertness; for I repeat to you, that he is the thought of which I am the action. Destroy him, and the other is valueless, and you return to ignorance—become especially dangerous as the time approaches for the mine to explode beneath your feet and those of the French monarchy."

"I am," said the stranger in a低声, "as I mentioned, the agent of one of those outsiders. I can only share what you’re so eager to know in his name—without him, I can’t do anything. This man’s elevated position, his rank, and his ties to Carbonarism allow him to hear and know everything. Without him, I’m left speechless and inactive; I emphasize, he is the thought and I am the action. Eliminate him, and the other becomes worthless, and you’ll be back in the dark—especially dangerous as the time draws near for the mine to go off beneath your feet and those of the French monarchy."

"Why not name that man? why does he not name himself?"

"Why not call that guy out? Why doesn't he speak up for himself?"

"Because he wishes to preserve his reputation—because he would rather die than avow his services."

"Because he wants to keep his reputation—because he would rather die than admit to what he has done."

"Ah, indeed!" said H.... "The matter is difficult. The minister will not revoke these orders: for, while one of the men ceases to be an enemy of the country, the other two yet are."

"Ah, definitely!" said H.... "This situation is tough. The minister won't cancel these orders: because, even though one of the men is no longer an enemy of the country, the other two still are."

"More than two—twenty of the most powerful, and two hundred thousand others to follow them."

"But what interest," asked M. H...., who hoped to arrive by a round about way at a discovery of the one of the three, the presence of whom was so necessary at Paris. "What reason can your patron have to serve us, if he asks for neither gold, place, nor favor?"

"But what interest," asked M. H...., who hoped to find out through a roundabout method which one of the three was necessary in Paris. "What reason could your patron have to help us if he doesn't ask for gold, a position, or any favors?"

"A far deeper interest than any of them. That I can confide to you—revenge."

"A much deeper interest than any of them. I can share this with you—revenge."

"On whom?"

"On who?"

"His associates—ungrateful men, who have humiliated him in his self-esteem."

"His associates—ungrateful people, who have embarrassed him in his self-worth."

"How?"

"That is my secret and his."

"That's my secret and his."

"Well," said H...., "I can understand that. Hatred and revenge make as many informers as cupidity. Our criminal archives prove that."

"Well," H.... said, "I get that. Hatred and revenge create just as many informers as greed does. Our criminal records show that."

"Well, to the purpose."

"Alright, let's get to it."

"All three will leave Paris to-morrow."

"All three are leaving Paris tomorrow."

"Then with one of them will go the safety of France. His name must be a mystery. Revoke the orders, so that our man may remain, unless you prefer by their departure to break the only thread to guide you in this inextricable labyrinth."

"Then one of them will ensure the safety of France. His name has to remain a secret. Cancel the orders so our man can stay, unless you'd rather cut the only thread that would guide you through this complicated maze."

"But you are here," said H...., unable to repress his anger, and wearied of the bravado and menaces of the man. "What can be obtained neither by money nor by persuasion, is often to be had by rigor."

"But you are here," said H...., unable to hold back his anger, and tired of the bravado and threats from the man. "What can't be achieved through money or persuasion can often be obtained through force."

"Very well, Monsieur," said the stranger. "I forgot I was in a country of treason, and you forget that you swore to use neither violence nor trickery. You can act as you please. I will however tell you what will be the result of your investigations. I am an humble man, and belong to my employer as the body does to the soul, as the hand does to the arm. It will be useless to follow me, for I have no objection to tell you whither I go. You may inquire into my past life; that will be vain, for I will tell you all. You may inquire into my resources, but you will lose your time, for I will satisfy you myself. There, however, you will lose your guide—all else will be a mystery to you, my relations with this man being of such a nature that God alone knows them. They can be penetrated only by my consent."

"Alright, sir," said the stranger. "I forgot I was in a land of betrayal, and you forget that you promised not to use violence or deceit. You can do whatever you want. I will, however, tell you what will come from your investigations. I’m just a simple man, and I belong to my employer like the body belongs to the soul, like the hand belongs to the arm. It’ll be pointless to follow me, because I have no problem telling you where I’m going. You can look into my past; that will be futile because I’ll share everything with you. You can ask about my resources, but you'll be wasting your time, because I’ll explain that myself. However, there you’ll lose your guide—all else will remain a mystery to you, as my relationship with this man is so unique that only God knows it. It can only be understood with my permission."

"Listen to me," said M. H...., changing his tone: "I was wrong—I was wrong to menace you, for I am weak, and you are strong. I have nothing, and you have every thing. I have only control of a few people whom I suspect, unauthenticated documents, and mere suspicions. In a time when party spirit runs as high as it does now, after the too frequent mistakes of our police, we must act on facts and evidence. I see that I need you. My power, however, gives way to that of another, and the minister alone can revoke the order of expulsion. Perhaps I may be able to cause him to revoke it, but I must enforce that demand by a serious motive, and must satisfy him of the necessity of resisting the demands of the allied sovereigns, and of keeping two dangerous men in Paris as the price of one useful one. I now understand[Pg 54] the meaning of the mystery which surrounds your patron, and to prevent suspicion there must be three pardons. Give me then an argument which cannot be contradicted. Give me the name which you now keep secret. You know that I have kept my first oath with you, and I swear the minister alone shall be informed of the secret."

"Listen to me," said M. H...., changing his tone: "I was wrong—I was wrong to threaten you, because I'm weak and you're strong. I have nothing, and you have everything. I only have control over a few people I suspect, some unverified documents, and just my hunches. In a time when political tensions are as high as they are now, especially after our police have made too many mistakes, we need to rely on facts and evidence. I realize I need you. However, my power is overshadowed by another, and only the minister can lift the expulsion order. Perhaps I can persuade him to revoke it, but I need to back that up with a serious reason, and I must convince him that it's necessary to resist the demands of the allied sovereigns, and that keeping two dangerous men in Paris is worth one useful one. I now understand[Pg 54] the meaning of the mystery surrounding your patron, and to avoid suspicion, there must be three pardons. So give me an argument that's undeniable. Reveal the name you’re currently keeping secret. You know I've kept my first promise to you, and I swear the minister will be the only one informed of the secret."

As he listened to M. H..., the stranger thought profoundly. He then seemed to adopt an energetic resolution, and uttered these strange words—"True, the higher the eminence from which a body falls, the more crushing the blow."

As he listened to M. H..., the stranger thought deeply. He then seemed to make an energetic decision and said these unusual words—"It's true, the higher the place a person falls from, the harder the impact."

"What do you say?" said H...

What do you say?" said H...

"That your idea is correct, and changes my plan. When I came hither, I thought your will alone could correct the mistake which has been made. I now see it cannot, and have made up my mind. Sit there," said he to H...., who was astonished at his unceremonious tone, "sit there." He pointed out an arm-chair before the desk.

"You're right, and it's changing my plan. When I came here, I thought your decision was enough to fix the mistake that was made. I now realize it isn't, and I've made my decision. Sit there," he said to H..., who was surprised by his casual tone, "sit there." He indicated an armchair in front of the desk.

"What do you want now?" said H....

"What the favor you have asked from me authorizes me to demand. An arm," said he, "the blows of which cannot be parried. I wish you to sign me a letter of mark or a pass, as you please to call it, which permits those whom you employ to pass without disturbance."

"What the favor you asked from me allows me to request. An arm," he said, "the blows of which can't be avoided. I want you to sign me a letter of marque or a pass, whatever you prefer to call it, that allows those you employ to pass without any trouble."

"Beautiful!" said M. H...., with a smile; "now I understand you."

"Beautiful!" said M. H...., smiling; "now I get you."

He wrote: "I recognize as a member of my police, employed by me, Monsieur...." He paused, and looked anxiously at the stranger. The latter leaned towards the Chief of Police, and in so low a tone that H.... could scarcely hear him, uttered a name which made the latter drop his pen. He however rallied himself, and wrote down the name. This document he afterwards authenticated by the seal of the police, and gave to the stranger.

He wrote: "I acknowledge as part of my police, working for me, Monsieur...." He paused and anxiously glanced at the stranger. The stranger leaned closer to the Chief of Police and spoke in such a low voice that H.... could barely hear him, mentioning a name that caused H.... to drop his pen. However, he composed himself and wrote down the name. He then authenticated this document with the police seal and handed it to the stranger.

"This is well," said the latter, as he received it. "Now be quick, for time presses, and the three persons will in a few hours have left Paris."...

"This is good," said the other, as he took it. "Now hurry, because time is short, and the three people will be leaving Paris in a few hours."

When the man had left, and was alone, an atrocious smile appeared on his lips. This smile, however, was interrupted by an acute pain in his left arm. Then taking the paper which H.... had given him, he placed it on the wound, and said, "This is a cure for a wound I thought incurable—for steel and poison."

When the man was alone after leaving, a terrible smile spread across his face. However, this smile was cut short by a sharp pain in his left arm. He then took the paper that H.... had given him, pressed it against the wound, and said, "This is a remedy for a wound I thought was hopeless—for steel and poison."

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Continued from page 504, vol. iii.

[3] At this time one or the ultra-royalist factions, called Les Timides.

[3] At this time, one of the ultra-royalist groups, known as Les Timides.

From Fraser's Magazine.

A TROT ON THE ISLAND.

BY CHARLES ASTOR BRISTED.

Ashburner did leave Oldport, after all, before the end of the season, being persuaded to accompany a countryman and schoolmate of his (whom he had last seen two years before in Connaught, and who now happened to pass a day at Oldport, on his way Canada-ward from the south) in a trip to the White Mountains of New-Hampshire; though his American acquaintances, especially the ladies, tried hard to dissuade him from starting before the grand fancy ball, with which the season terminated, assuring him that most of "our set" would come back, if only for that one night, and that it would be a very splendid affair, and so forth. Nature had more charms for him than art, and he went away to New Hampshire, making an appointment with Benson by letter to meet him at Ravenswood early in September. But a traveller cannot make sure of his movements a fortnight ahead. On his return from the White Mountains, Ashburner had his pocket picked at a railway station (these little incidents of highly civilized life are beginning to happen now and then in America. The inhabitants repudiate any native agency therein, and attribute them all to the swell-mob emigrants from England), and, in consequence, was obliged to retrace his steps as far as New-York to visit his banker. Almost the first person he ran against in the street was Harry Benson.

Ashburner did leave Oldport before the end of the season, after all, being convinced to join a fellow countryman and schoolmate (who he hadn’t seen in two years while in Connaught and who happened to stop by Oldport for a day on his way to Canada from the south) on a trip to the White Mountains of New Hampshire. His American friends, especially the women, really tried to convince him to wait until after the big fancy ball that would wrap up the season, assuring him that most of "our group" would return, even just for that one night, and that it would be an incredible event, and so on. However, nature appealed to him more than art, so he went to New Hampshire, writing to Benson to meet him at Ravenswood early in September. But a traveler can’t always predict his plans two weeks ahead. On his way back from the White Mountains, Ashburner had his pocket picked at a train station (these little incidents of highly civilized life are starting to happen occasionally in America. The locals deny any involvement and blame it all on the flashy immigrant criminals from England), and as a result, he had to backtrack to New York to see his banker. Almost the first person he bumped into on the street was Harry Benson.

"This is an unexpected pleasure!" exclaimed the New-Yorker. "I never thought to see you here, and you, I presume didn't expect to see me." Ashburner explained his mishap. "Well, I meant to go straight over to Ravenswood after the ball, but we had to come home—all of us this time—on business. Lots of French furniture arrived for our town house. Mrs. B. couldn't rest till she had seen it all herself, and had it properly arranged. So here have I been five days, fussing, and paying, and swearing (legally, you understand, not profanely) at the custom-house, and then 'hazing'—what you call slanging upholsterers; and now that the work is all over, I mean to take a little play, and am just going over to see Lady Suffolk and Trustee trot on the island. Come along. It's a beautiful drive of eight miles, and I have a top-wagon. It is to meet me at the Park in a quarter of an hour." Ashburner assented. "I want to buy some cigars; you have no objection to accompany me a moment."

"This is a surprising delight!" exclaimed the New Yorker. "I never expected to see you here, and I assume you didn't expect to see me either." Ashburner explained his predicament. "Well, I planned to head straight over to Ravenswood after the ball, but we all had to come home this time for business. A lot of French furniture arrived for our townhouse. Mrs. B. couldn't relax until she had seen it all for herself and arranged it properly. So here I’ve been for five days, fussing, paying, and complaining (legally, mind you, not profanely) at the customs house, and then 'hazing'—what you call giving a hard time to upholsterers; and now that the work is all done, I plan to take a little break, and I'm just about to go see Lady Suffolk and Trustee trot on the island. Come along. It’s a lovely eight-mile drive, and I have a carriage with a top. It will meet me at the Park in fifteen minutes." Ashburner agreed. "I want to buy some cigars; do you mind accompanying me for a moment?"

So they turned down one of the cross-streets running out of the lower part of Broadway (which, it may be here mentioned, for the benefit of English readers and writers, is not called the Broadway), and entered a store five or six stories high, with two or three different firms on each floor; and Benson led the way up something between a ladder and a staircase into a small office, with "Bleecker Brothers" dimly visible on a tin plate over the door. Three-fourths of the apartment were filled up with all manner of inviting samples, every wine, liquor, and liqueur under the sun, in every variety of bottle or vial, thick with the dust of years, or open for immediate tasting; and through the dingy panes of a half glass[Pg 55] door a multitudinous array of bottles might be seen loading the numerous shelves of a large store-room beyond. In a small clearing at one corner, where a small desk was kept in countenance by a small table, and three or four old chairs, with a background of shelves groaning under the choicest brands of the fragrant weed, sat the presiding deities of the place—the two little Bleeckers—the dark brother of thirty-five, and the light brother of twenty, like two sketches of the same man in chalk and charcoal; both elegantly dressed—white trousers, patent leather shoes, exuberant cravats, massive chains, and all the usual paraphernalia of young New-York—altogether looking as much in place as a couple of butterflies in an ant-hill.

So they turned onto one of the side streets off the lower part of Broadway (which, for the benefit of English readers and writers, is not called the Broadway) and walked into a store that's five or six stories tall, with two or three different businesses on each floor. Benson led the way up something between a ladder and a staircase into a small office, where "Bleecker Brothers" was faintly visible on a tin sign over the door. Most of the office was filled with all kinds of tempting samples—every wine, liquor, and liqueur imaginable, in every variety of bottle or vial, thick with years of dust or open for immediate tasting. Through the grimy panes of a half glass[Pg 55] door, a vast array of bottles could be seen filling the numerous shelves of a large storage room beyond. In a small clearing at one corner, where a small desk was accompanied by a small table and three or four old chairs, with shelves groaning under the weight of the finest brands of the fragrant herb, sat the ruling figures of the place—the two little Bleeckers. The darker brother, thirty-five, and the lighter brother, twenty, looked like two sketches of the same man in chalk and charcoal; both were sharply dressed—white trousers, patent leather shoes, flashy cravats, heavy chains, and all the usual accessories of young New Yorkers—altogether looking as out of place as a couple of butterflies in an ant hill.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Benson. "Here's our friend Ashburner," and he pushed forward the Englishman. The brothers rose, laid down the morning journals over which they had been lounging, and welcomed the stranger to their place of business. "What's the news this morning?"

"Good morning, guys," said Benson. "Here's our friend Ashburner," and he nudged the Englishman forward. The brothers stood up, set aside the morning papers they had been casually reading, and greeted the newcomer to their workplace. "What's the news this morning?"

"Nothing at all, I believe," replied the elder. "South Carolina has been threatening to dissolve the Union again—and that's no news. Stay, did you see this about Bishop Hughes and Sam Thunderbolt, the Native American member of Congress from Pennsylvania?"

"Not a thing, I think," the elder replied. "South Carolina has been talking about breaking away from the Union again—and that's nothing new. By the way, did you catch this about Bishop Hughes and Sam Thunderbolt, the Native American congressman from Pennsylvania?"

"I haven't seen even a newspaper for the last three days."

"I haven't seen a single newspaper in the last three days."

"Well, '+ John of New-York,'—cross John, as your brother Carl used to call him—was in the same rail-car with Thunderbolt, coming from Philadelphia to New-York; and the Congressman didn't know who he was, but probably suspected he was a priest."

"Well, '+ John of New-York,'—cross John, as your brother Carl used to call him—was in the same train car with Thunderbolt, coming from Philadelphia to New-York; and the Congressman didn't know who he was, but probably suspected he was a priest."

"Yes, you can generally tell a priest by his looks. Even an intelligent horse will do that. Once I was riding with one of our bishops near Boston, and his nag shied suddenly at a man in a broad-brimmed hat. Says the right reverend (we don't call 'em 'my lord' in this country, you know, Ashburner), 'I shouldn't wonder if that was a Romish priest;' and we looked again, and it was. There was a Protestant horse for you! What a treasure he would have been to an Orangeman!"

"Yeah, you can usually recognize a priest by how they look. Even a smart horse can figure that out. One time I was riding with one of our bishops near Boston, and his horse suddenly got spooked by a guy in a wide-brimmed hat. The good bishop said (we don’t call them 'my lord' around here, you know, Ashburner), 'I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s a Catholic priest;' and when we looked again, it turned out it was. Now that was a Protestant horse for you! What a gem he would have been for an Orangeman!"

"So Thunderbolt began to abuse the Roman Catholics generally, and the priests particularly, and that brawling bigot Johnny Hughes most particularly. Hughes, who is a wary man, polite and self-possessed, sat through it all without saying a word; till another gentleman in the car asked Thunderbolt if he knew who that was opposite him. He didn't know. 'It's Bishop Hughes,' says the other, in a half whisper. 'Are you Bishop Hughes?' exclaims the native, quite off his guard. 'They call me so,' answered the other, with a quiet smile, expecting to enjoy the humiliating confusion of his denouncer; and the other passengers shared in the expectation, and were prepared for a titter at Thunderbolt's expense. But instead of attempting any apology, or showing any further embarrassment, he pulled out an eyeglass, and after looking at the Jesuit through it for some time, thus announced the result of his inspection—'Oh, you are, are you? Well, you're just the kind of looking loafer I should have expected Johnny Hughes to be.'"

"So Thunderbolt started to insult the Roman Catholics in general, and the priests in particular, especially that loudmouthed bigot Johnny Hughes. Hughes, who is cautious, polite, and composed, listened quietly without saying a word until another passenger in the car asked Thunderbolt if he knew who was sitting across from him. He didn’t know. 'That’s Bishop Hughes,' the other passenger said in a low voice. 'Are you Bishop Hughes?' the native exclaimed, completely caught off guard. 'They call me that,' Hughes replied with a quiet smile, anticipating the embarrassing reaction from his accuser; the other passengers were also looking forward to a laugh at Thunderbolt's expense. But instead of apologizing or showing any embarrassment, he pulled out an eyeglass and, after examining the Jesuit for a while, announced the result of his inspection—'Oh, you are, huh? Well, you look exactly like the kind of layabout I would expect Johnny Hughes to be.'"

"I don't believe Hughes was much disconcerted either," said the elder brother; "he doesn't lose his balance easily. I never heard of his being put out but once, and that was when Governor Bouck met him. He was a jolly old Dutchman, Mr. Ashburner, who used to go about electioneering, and asking every man he came across—how he was, and how his wife and family were. When Bishop Hughes was introduced to him, they thought the governor would know enough to vary the usual question a little; but he didn't, and asked after the Romish bishop's wife and family with all possible innocence; and Hughes, for once in his life, was nonplussed what to answer."

"I don't think Hughes was too bothered either," said the older brother; "he doesn’t easily lose his cool. I only heard about him getting flustered once, and that was when Governor Bouck met him. He was a cheerful old Dutchman, Mr. Ashburner, who would go around campaigning and asking every man he met how he was doing and how his wife and kids were. When Bishop Hughes was introduced to him, they assumed the governor would know to switch up his usual question a bit; but he didn’t, and asked about the Catholic bishop's wife and family with complete innocence; and for once, Hughes was at a loss for what to say."

"Ah, but you haven't told the end of that," put in Benson. "When the governor's friends tried to explain to him the mistake he had made, and the category the Romish ecclesiastics were in, he said, 'O yas, I see, I should have asked after de children only, and said nossing about de woman.' As you say, Hughes generally has his wits about him, no doubt. He played our custom-house a trick that they will not forget in a hurry. Soon after General Harrison and the Whigs came in, and Curtis was made collector of our port, there arrived a great lot of what the French call articles de religion, robes, crucifixes, and various ornaments, for Hughes' cathedral. Now these were all French goods, and subject to duty, and a notification to that effect was sent to the proper quarter. Down comes Hughes in a great rage. 'Mr. Curtis, Mr. Curtis, we never had to do this before. Your predecessor, Mr. Hoyt, always let our articles of religion in free of duty.' 'Can't help what my predecessor, Mr. Hoyt, used to do,' says Curtis; 'the law is so and so, as I understand it, and these articles are subject to duty. If you like, you may pay the duties under protest, and bring a suit against Uncle Sam [4] to recover the money.' (You see, the Loco Focos had always favored the Romish priests to get the Irish vote. The Whigs didn't in those days—it was before our side had been corrupted by Seward, and such miserable demagogues; and Curtis wasn't sorry to see his political opponent the Bishop in a tight place.) After Hughes had blustered awhile, and found it did no good, he tried the other tack, and began to expostulate. 'Is there no way at all, Mr. Curtis,' says he, 'by which these articles may be passed, free of duty?' 'None at all,' says the other, 'unless'—and he paused, hardly knowing whether it would do to hint at such a thing, even in jest—'unless,[Pg 56] bishop, you are willing to swear that these are tools of your trade.' 'And sure they are that!' quoth Hughes, snapping him up, 'bring on your book;' and he had the goods sworn through in less than no time, before Curtis could recover himself."

"Ah, but you haven't told the end of that," Benson interjected. "When the governor's friends tried to explain the mistake he made and the category the Catholic clergy belonged to, he said, 'Oh yes, I see, I should have asked only about the children and said nothing about the women.' As you mentioned, Hughes usually has his wits about him, no doubt. He pulled a fast one on our customs that they won't forget anytime soon. Shortly after General Harrison and the Whigs took over, and Curtis became our port collector, a huge shipment of what the French call articles de religion, like robes, crucifixes, and various ornaments for Hughes' cathedral, arrived. These were all French goods and were subject to duty, so a notification was sent to the appropriate department. Hughes came down in a fit of rage. 'Mr. Curtis, Mr. Curtis, we never had to do this before. Your predecessor, Mr. Hoyt, always let our articles of religion in duty-free.' 'I can't help what my predecessor, Mr. Hoyt, did,' Curtis replied, 'the law is as such, as I understand it, and these articles are subject to duty. If you want, you can pay the duties under protest and sue Uncle Sam [4] to get your money back.' (You see, the Loco Focos had always supported the Catholic priests to win the Irish vote. The Whigs didn't in those days—it was before our side got corrupted by Seward and other pathetic demagogues; and Curtis wasn't sorry to see his political opponent, the Bishop, in a tough spot.) After Hughes had blustered for a while and realized it was no use, he tried a different approach and began to reason with Curtis. 'Is there no way at all, Mr. Curtis,' he asked, 'that these articles could be passed duty-free?' 'None at all,' Curtis replied, 'unless'—he paused, unsure if it was even appropriate to suggest such a thing, even as a joke—'unless,[Pg 56] bishop, you are willing to swear that these are tools of your trade.' 'And sure they are that!' Hughes shot back, 'bring on your book;' and he had the goods sworn through in no time, before Curtis could gather his thoughts."

"Not a bad hit," said the Englishman. "Tools of his trade! So they were, sure enough; but one would not have expected him to own it so coolly."

"Not a bad hit," said the Englishman. "His tools of the trade! They really were, no doubt; but you wouldn't expect him to admit it so casually."

"Unless there was something to be got by it," continued Benson. "Now this is true—every word of it, though it has been in the newspapers; and the way I came to find it out was this. One day I saw in the advertising columns of the Blunder and Bluster, a circular from the Secretary of the Treasury, stating that 'crucifixes, whether of silver or copper, images, silk and velvet vestments, and theological books, did not come under the head of tools of trade, but were subject to duty.' It was a funny looking notice, and there was evidently something behind it; so I took the trouble to inquire, and found that the cause of the order was this clever stroke of Hughes. Going to the trot to-day?"

"Unless there was something to gain from it," Benson continued. "Now this is true—every word of it, even though it has been in the newspapers; and the way I discovered it was like this. One day I saw in the ads of the Blunder and Bluster a circular from the Secretary of the Treasury, stating that 'crucifixes, whether made of silver or copper, images, silk and velvet vestments, and theological books, do not fall under the category of tools of trade, but are subject to duty.' It was a strange notice, and there was clearly something more to it; so I took the time to look into it, and found that the reason behind the order was this clever tactic by Hughes. Are you going to the trot today?"

The younger brother was going, and it was near the time when he expected his wagon. Dicky wasn't. He had given up trots ten years ago—thought them low.

The younger brother was on his way, and it was almost time for his wagon to arrive. Dicky wasn't moving. He had ditched trots ten years ago — considered them beneath him.

"Give me a few cigars before we go," said Benson. "What have you here that's first rate? Carbagal, Firmezas, Antiguëdad. H—m. I'll take a dozen Firmezas, and you may send me the rest of the box."

"Give me a few cigars before we leave," said Benson. "What do you have that’s top-notch? Carbagal, Firmezas, Antiguëdad. Hmm. I'll take a dozen Firmezas, and you can send me the rest of the box."

"Don't you want some champagne—veritable Cordon Bleu—only fourteen dollars a dozen, and a discount if you take six cases?"

"Don’t you want some champagne—real Cordon Bleu—only fourteen bucks a dozen, and you get a discount if you buy six cases?"

"And if you wish to secure some tall Lafitte, we bought some odd bottles at old Van Zandt's sale the other day. You remember drinking that wine at Wilson's last summer?"

"And if you want to get some tall Lafitte, we picked up some random bottles at old Van Zandt's sale the other day. Do you remember having that wine at Wilson's last summer?"

Benson remembered it perfectly, and would take the Lafitte by all means. "Put that down, Mr. Snipes;" and for the first time, Ashburner was aware of the clerk—a very young gentleman, who appeared from behind the desk, and booked the order at it. "And how about the champagne?"

Benson remembered it clearly and was determined to get the Lafitte no matter what. "Put that down, Mr. Snipes," he said; and for the first time, Ashburner noticed the clerk—a very young man who emerged from behind the desk and took the order. "What about the champagne?"

"J'y penserai. Time to go. Vamos." And Benson carried off his friend.

"I’ll think about it. Time to go. Let’s go." And Benson took his friend away.

"You were a little taken aback, weren't you?" he asked, as they went in quest of the wagon. "When you saw these men figuring in the German cotillion, and helping to lead the fashion at Oldport, you hardly expected to encounter them in such a place. Well, now, let me tell you something that will astonish you yet more. So far from its being against these brothers in society that they are, what you would call in plain English a superior order of grocers, it is positively in their favor; that is to say, they are more respected, better received, and stand a better chance of marrying well, than if they did nothing. They might do nothing if they chose. They had enough to live very well on en garçon. The Bleeckers are of our best known and most thoroughly respectable families. The sons had no taste for books; they have a very good taste for wine and cigars, and have undertaken what they are best fit for. It's better than being nominal lawyers?"

"You were a bit surprised, weren't you?" he asked, as they looked for the wagon. "When you saw these guys participating in the German dance and setting the trends at Oldport, you probably didn't expect to find them here. Well, let me tell you something that will surprise you even more. Far from being looked down on for being, what you might call in simple terms, upper-class grocery owners, it actually works in their favor; in other words, they are more respected, better welcomed, and have a better chance of marrying well than if they did nothing. They could choose to do nothing if they wanted. They have enough to live quite comfortably on their own. The Bleeckers are from one of our best-known and most respectable families. The sons didn't have much interest in books; they have a great taste for wine and cigars, and they’ve taken on what they’re actually suited for. It’s better than just being pretend lawyers?"

"Pecuniarily, no doubt; but is it as good for the whole development of the man? Was it you, or your friend Harrison, who instanced Richard Bleecker as a man who had made no progress in any thing manly for fifteen years?"

"Pecuniarily, no doubt; but is it as good for the overall development of the man? Was it you or your friend Harrison who mentioned Richard Bleecker as someone who hadn’t made any progress in anything manly for fifteen years?"

"That is the fault of his natural disposition, which would not be bettered by his making believe to be a professional man, or being an avowedly idle one. He is frivolous and ornamental for a part of his time—during the rest, he has his business to occupy him. If he had not that, he would spend all his time in elegant idleness, and know no more than he does now. His pursuits bring him in money, which will be a comfort to his wife and family when he marries—though, to be sure, he is rather ancient for that; a single man at thirty-five is with us a confirmed old bachelor. But his brother is in a fair way to form a nice establishment."

"That's just how he is, and pretending to be a professional or openly being lazy won’t change that. He spends part of his time being superficial and flashy, but the rest is taken up by his work. Without it, he'd just lounge around and wouldn’t know any more than he does now. His work earns him money, which will help support his wife and family when he gets married—though, to be honest, he’s getting a bit old for that; being single at thirty-five makes you a confirmed bachelor in our eyes. But his brother is on track to set up a nice life."

"Now tell me another thing. Suppose the Bleeckers had chosen to become jewellers, or merchant tailors—they might be good judges of either business, and make money by it—how would that affect their position?"

"Now tell me another thing. Suppose the Bleeckers had decided to become jewelers or custom tailors—they might be good judges of either business and make money from it—how would that change their position?"

"Unfavorably, I confess," replied Benson. "But we Gothamites have so thorough a respect for, and appreciation of, good wine and cigars, that the importation of them is considered particularly laudable."

"Unfortunately, I have to admit," replied Benson. "But we New Yorkers have such a deep respect for and appreciation of good wine and cigars that importing them is considered particularly commendable."

Any further discussion was stopped by their arrival at that dreary triangular square (more hibernico loqui) called the Park, where Benson's wagon awaited him—not the red-wheeled one; this vehicle was of a uniform dark green, furnished with a top (a desirable appendage when the thermometer stands 85° in the shade,) and lined throughout with drab. The ponies were carefully enveloped to the very tips of their ears in white fly-nets. As the groom saw Benson approaching, he put himself and the top through a series of queer evolutions, which ended in the latter being lowered—a very necessary operation, to allow any one to get in with comfort; and after Benson and Ashburner were in, he put it up again with some ado, and then went his way, the concern only holding two. Then Benson turned the wagon round by backing and locking, and making it undergo a series of contortions as if he wanted to double it up into itself, and run over himself with his own wheels, and drove to the Fulton Ferry; for to arrive at the Centreville Course on Long Island—familiarly designated as the island—you first pass through Brooklyn, that trans-Hudsonian suburb of New York, which thirty years ago was a miserable little village,[Pg 57] and now contains upwards of ninety thousand inhabitants.

Any further conversation was interrupted by their arrival at that gloomy triangular square (more hibernico loqui) called the Park, where Benson's wagon was waiting for him—not the one with red wheels; this vehicle was a uniform dark green, equipped with a top (a must-have when the temperature is 85° in the shade) and lined with drab fabric. The ponies were carefully wrapped up to the tips of their ears in white fly nets. As the groom spotted Benson coming, he performed a series of odd movements with himself and the top, which ended with the top being lowered—a necessary step to allow anyone to get in comfortably; after Benson and Ashburner were inside, he put it back up again with some effort, then went his way, as the wagon only fit two. Then Benson turned the wagon around by backing it up and making it go through a series of maneuvers as if he wanted to fold it in on itself and run over himself with his own wheels, and drove to the Fulton Ferry; to get to the Centreville Course on Long Island—commonly referred to as the island—you first pass through Brooklyn, that neighborhood across the Hudson from New York, which thirty years ago was a tiny little village,[Pg 57] and now has over ninety thousand residents.

"And how did the ball go off?" asked Ashburner, as they rolled up the main avenue of Brooklyn, at the slowest possible trot, according to the well known rule, always to take a fast horse easy over pavement. On board the ferry-boat there had not been much conversation, the horses being so worried by the flies as to require all Benson's attention.

"And how did the ball turn out?" asked Ashburner, as they slowly made their way up the main avenue of Brooklyn at the slowest trot possible, following the well-known rule to always take a fast horse easy over pavement. On the ferry boat, there hadn’t been much conversation since the horses were so bothered by the flies that Benson had to focus all his attention on them.

"Oh, it was rather a fiasco, but we had some fun. Some predicted that the fashionables would come back, but they didn't, except a few of the young men; and all of our set that were there threatened to go out of costume; but then we recollected that would have been a very Irish way of serving out Mr. Grabster, as by the established regulation in such cases, we should have had to pay double for tickets; so most of us took sailors' or firemen's dresses—the cheapest and commonest disguises we could get; and the ladies made some trivial addition to their ordinary ball-dresses—a wreath or a few extra flowers—and called themselves brides, or Floras, and so on. And some of the crack Bostonians blasphemed the expense, and went in plain clothes. So we had the consolation of making fun of all the outsiders, and their attempts at costume—such supernumeraries as most of them were! And none of the comme-il-faut people would serve on the committee, so Grabster had nobody to get up the room in proper style, and it looked like a 'Ripton' ball-room; and The Sewer reporters were there, in all their glory. The Irishman had borrowed or stolen a uniform somewhere, and the Frenchman was appropriately arrayed in red as a devil, and he went about taking notes of all the people's dresses, especially the ladies'; and as our ladies were not in costume, he thought he must have something to do with them, and so presented some of them with bouquets, which they wouldn't take, of course; and the young men trod on his toes and elbowed him off till he swore he would put them all in his paper. And we danced away, notwithstanding The Sewer and all its works. Tom Edwards was accoutred as Mose the fireman, and Sumner had an old French débardeur dress of his, just the thing for the occasion, only his shoes were too big; and after tripping up himself and his partner four times, he kicked them off clean into the orchestra, and fearfully aggravated the fiddlers; and he took it as coolly as he does every thing—put on a pair of ordinary boots, and was polking away again in five minutes. And we kept it up till two in the morning, polka chiefly, with a sprinkling of deuxtemps, and then had a very bad supper, and some very bad wine, of Mr. Grabster's providing—genuine New Jersey champagne. How we looked after the dancing! Sumner's débardeur shirt might have been wrung out, it was so wet; and Mrs. Harrison—she had got herself up as Undine—was dripping enough for half-a-dozen water-nymphs; and Miss Friskin had a shiny green silk dress; we had been polking together, and my white waistcoat, and pants, and cravat, were all stained green, as if I had been playing with a gigantic butterfly. And then after supper, when there was no one but our German cotillion set left, and just as we had put the chairs in order, the musicians struck work, and would not play any more (you know what an impracticable, conceited, obstinate brute a third-rate German musician is), saying they were only bound to play just so long; so I gave them a good slanging in their own tongue (I know German enough to blow up a man, and a fine strong language it is for the purpose); and White swore it was too bad, and Edwards tried to make them a conciliatory speech—only he was too tipsy to talk straight; and Sumner offered them fifty dollars to go on playing. Thereupon, up and spake the big bass-viol,—'We ton't want your money; we want to be dreated like chentlemens;' and then Frank lost his temper. 'I'll treat you,' says he; and with that he delivered right and left into the bass-viol, and knocked him through his own instrument; and then some one knocked Sumner over the head with a trombone;—then we all set to, and gave the musicians their change (we owed them a little before, for it wasn't the first time they had been saucy to us,) and we thrashed them essentially, and comminuted a few of their instruments. And half-a-dozen of the Irish waiters came out, with their sleeves rolled up, to fight for the honor of the house, and protect Mr. Grabster's property—meaning the musicians, I suppose;—and Haralson of Alabama, one of your regular six-feet-two-in-his-stockings South Western men, who had come North to learn the polka, and become civilized—Haralson pulled out a Bowie and swore he would whistle them up if they didn't make themselves scarce. By Jove! you should have seen the Paddies scud! And I caught The Sewer reporter (the Irish one) in the mêlée, and let him have a kick that landed him in the middle of the floor, telling him he might put that into his next letter, and afterwards go to a place worse even than The Sewer office. Then, after all the enemy were fairly routed, we adjourned to my parlor. I had some good champagne of my own, and a pâté or two, and some Firmezas, and we held a jolly revel till four o'clock, and then the ladies retired, and we quiet married men did the same, and the boys went to fight the tiger, and Edwards lost 1400 dollars, and some of them took to running foot-races for a bet on the post-road. Haralson outran all the rest—and his senses too—and was found next evening about five miles up the road with no coat or hat, and one stocking off and the other stocking on, like my son John in the nursery rhyme, and his watch and purse gone. And The Sewer and Inexpressible said[Pg 58] that it was the most brilliant ball that had occurred within the memory of the oldest inhabitants. And that's a pretty fair synopsis of the whole proceedings."

"Oh, it was quite a fiasco, but we had a good time. Some people thought the fashionable crowd would return, but they didn't, except for a few young men; and all of our group that were there threatened to leave without costumes; but then we remembered that would be a very Irish way of getting back at Mr. Grabster, as by the rules in such cases, we would have had to pay double for tickets; so most of us opted for sailor or fireman outfits—the cheapest and most common disguises we could find; and the ladies added some small touches to their regular ball dresses—a wreath or a few extra flowers—and called themselves brides, or Floras, and so on. Some of the snobby Bostonians grumbled about the cost and came in plain clothes. So we had the satisfaction of laughing at all the outsiders and their costume attempts—most of them were just extras! And none of the comme-il-faut crowd would join the committee, so Grabster had no one to set up the room properly, and it looked like a 'Ripton' ballroom; and The Sewer reporters were present, all in their glory. The Irishman had borrowed or stolen a uniform from somewhere, and the Frenchman was decked out in red like a devil, and he went around taking notes on everyone's outfits, especially the ladies'; and since our ladies weren't in costumes, he thought he should engage with them, and presented a few with bouquets, which they, of course, refused; and the young men stepped on his toes and elbowed him until he swore he would write about them in his paper. And we danced on, despite The Sewer and all its trappings. Tom Edwards was dressed as Mose the fireman, and Sumner had an old French débardeur outfit of his that was just right for the occasion, except his shoes were too big; after tripping over himself and his partner four times, he kicked them clean off into the orchestra, thoroughly annoying the fiddlers; he handled it as calmly as he does everything—put on a pair of regular boots, and was back to polkaing in five minutes. And we kept going until two in the morning, mostly polka with a bit of deuxtemps, then had a terrible supper and some awful wine provided by Mr. Grabster—genuine New Jersey champagne. How we looked after dancing! Sumner's débardeur shirt was soaking wet; and Mrs. Harrison—who had dressed up as Undine—was drenched enough for half a dozen water nymphs; and Miss Friskin had a shiny green silk dress; we had been polkaing together, and my white waistcoat, pants, and cravat were all stained green, as if I’d been playing with a giant butterfly. Then after supper, when there was only our German cotillion group left, and just as we had arranged the chairs, the musicians stopped playing and refused to continue (you know how impossible, arrogant, and stubborn a third-rate German musician can be), saying they were only obligated to play so long; so I gave them a good dressing-down in their own language (I know enough German to give someone a good talking to, and it's quite effective for that); and White said it was too bad, and Edwards tried to make a conciliatory speech—only he was too drunk to talk straight; and Sumner offered them fifty dollars to keep playing. That’s when the big bass viol spoke up, ‘We don't want your money; we want to be treated like gentlemen’; and then Frank lost his temper. ‘I’ll treat you,’ he said, and with that, he punched the bass viol, knocking him over and through his own instrument; then someone hit Sumner over the head with a trombone, and we all jumped in and gave the musicians their due (they owed us some from before, as it wasn’t the first time they’d been rude to us), and we beat them soundly and broke a few of their instruments. Half a dozen Irish waiters came out, sleeves rolled up, ready to fight for the honor of the house and protect Mr. Grabster’s property—meaning the musicians, I suppose;—and Haralson from Alabama, one of those typical six-feet-two-in-his-stockings South Western guys, who came North to learn the polka and become civilized—pulled a Bowie knife and swore he would make them leave if they didn’t skedaddle. By Jove! you should have seen the Irishmen bolt! I caught the Irish The Sewer reporter in the chaos and kicked him, sending him flying out onto the dance floor, telling him he could include that in his next letter, then go to a place worse even than The Sewer office. Finally, once the foes were thoroughly defeated, we headed to my parlor. I had some good champagne of my own, and a couple of pâtés, and some Firmezas, and we had a great time until four o'clock, then the ladies left, and we quiet married men did the same, while the boys went out to hit the town, and Edwards lost 1400 dollars, and some of them started running foot races for bets on the post road. Haralson outran everyone—and his common sense—and was found the next evening about five miles up the road with no coat or hat, one stocking off and the other still on, like my son John in the nursery rhyme, with his watch and wallet gone. And The Sewer and Inexpressible said[Pg 58] it was the most brilliant ball that had happened in the memory of the oldest inhabitants. And that’s a pretty fair summary of the whole event."

By this time they were off the pavement,—a change very sensible and desirable to man and horse, for an American pavement is something beyond imagination or description, and must be experienced to be understood. The ponies, without waiting for the word, went off on their long steady stroke at three-quarters speed, and though the day was warm and the road heavy, stepped over the first three miles in twelve minutes, as Benson took care to show Ashburner by his watch. They challenged wagon after wagon, but no one seemed inclined to race at this stage of the proceedings, and they glided quietly by every thing. Only once was heard the sound of competing feet, when a black pacer swept up, with two tall wheels behind him, and a man mysteriously balanced between them. "After the sulky is manners," said Harry, slackening his speed, and giving the pacer a wide berth; and the man on the wheels whizzed by like a mammoth insect, and was soon lost to view amid a cloud of dust.

By this time, they were off the pavement—a change that both the man and horse found very noticeable and welcome, because an American pavement is something beyond imagination or description; you really have to experience it to understand. The ponies, without waiting for a command, took off at a steady three-quarters speed, and even though it was a warm day and the road was heavy, they made the first three miles in twelve minutes, as Benson made sure to show Ashburner on his watch. They challenged wagon after wagon, but no one seemed interested in racing at this point, so they glided quietly past everything. The only time they heard competing hooves was when a black pacer came up, with two tall wheels behind it and a man mysteriously balanced between them. "After the sulky is manners," said Harry, slowing down and giving the pacer plenty of room, while the man on the wheels zipped by like a giant insect and quickly disappeared in a cloud of dust.

And now they arrived at a tavern where the owners of "fast crabs" were wont to repose, to water their horses, and brandy-and-water themselves. The former operation is performed very sparingly, the supply of liquid afforded to the animals consisting merely of a spongeful passed through their mouths; the latter is usually conducted on more liberal principles. But as our friends felt no immediate desire to liquor, Benson amused himself while the horses rested by putting down his top, for the sky had slightly clouded over,—a favorable circumstance, he remarked, for the trot. Just as he was starting his ponies, with a chirrup, a tandem developed itself from under the shed, and its driver greeted him with a friendly nod.

And now they arrived at a tavern where the owners of "fast crabs" often relaxed, watered their horses, and enjoyed some brandy and water themselves. The first task was done very sparingly, with the animals getting only a spongeful of water passed through their mouths; the second was usually done with more generosity. But since our friends didn't have an immediate urge to drink, Benson entertained himself while the horses rested by putting down his top, as the sky had become slightly overcast—something he noted was good for trotting. Just as he was about to start his ponies with a chirrup, a tandem came out from under the shed, and its driver gave him a friendly nod.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Losing," quoth Harry, raising his whip-hand in answer to the salute; then, sotto voce to Ashburner, "a Long-Island fancy man: lots of money, and no end of fast horses."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Losing," Harry said, raising his whip in response to the greeting; then, in a low voice to Ashburner, "a Long Island guy: he’s got plenty of money and a ton of fast horses."

Mr. Losing had a thin hatchety face, and a very yellow complexion, with hair and beard to match. He wore a yellow straw-hat, and a yellowish-gray summer paletot, with yellowish-brown linen trousers. His light gig (of the kind technically called a double-sulky) was painted a dingy yellow-ochre; the horses were duns, the fly-nets drab, and what little harness there was, retained the original law-calf color of its leather; in short, the whole concern had a general pervading air of dun, which but for the known wealth of its owner might have been suggestive of unpleasant Joe-Millerisms. The only exception was his companion, a gay horse-dealer and jockey, who acted as amateur groom on this occasion. Mr. Van Eyck had sufficient diversity of color in his dress to relieve the monotony of a whole landscape,—blue coat and gilt buttons, lilac waistcoat and ditto, red cravat and red-striped check shirt, white hat and trousers. His apparel might have been a second-hand suit of Bird Simpson's. As the gig came out close at the wheels of the wagon, the two whips interchanged glances, as much as to say, "Here's at you!" and "Come on!" and Losing tightened his reins; then, as his leader ranged up alongside Benson's horses, the latter drew up his lines also, and the teams went off together.

Mr. Losing had a thin, sharp face and a very yellow complexion, with hair and beard to match. He wore a yellow straw hat and a yellowish-gray summer coat, with yellowish-brown linen trousers. His light gig (the type called a double-sulky) was painted a dull yellow-ochre; the horses were a dull color, the fly nets were drab, and the little harness that existed was the original law-calf color of its leather. In short, the whole setup had an overall dull vibe, which, if it weren't for the known wealth of its owner, could have suggested some unpleasant jokes. The only exception was his companion, a flashy horse dealer and jockey who was playing the role of amateur groom that day. Mr. Van Eyck had enough variety in his outfit to stand out in a whole landscape—blue coat with gold buttons, lilac waistcoat and matching accessories, red cravat, and a red-striped check shirt, plus white hat and trousers. His clothes could have easily been hand-me-downs from Bird Simpson. As the gig pulled up close to the wagon's wheels, the two drivers exchanged glances that seemed to say, "Bring it on!" and "Let's go!" Losing tightened his reins; as he lined up alongside Benson's horses, the latter also tightened his reins, and the teams took off together.

A good team race is more exciting to both the lookers-on and the performers than any contest of single horses; there is twice as much noise, twice as much skill in driving, and apparently greater speed, though in reality less. Neither had started at the top of their gait, but they kept gradually and proportionally crowding the pace, till they were going about seventeen miles an hour, and at that rate they kept for the first half-mile exactly in the same relative position as they had started. No one spoke a word; the close contact of horses in double harness excites them so, that they require checking rather than encouragement; but Benson with a rein in his hand was feeling every inch of his ponies, and watching every inch of the road. Losing sat like a statue, and his horses seemed to go of themselves. Then, as the ground began to rise, Losing drew gradually ahead, or rather Benson's team came back to him; still it was inch by inch; in the next quarter the wheeler instead of the leader was alongside the other team, and that was all Losing had gained. Then Harry, with some management, got both reins into one hand, and lifted his nags a little with the whip. At the same time Losing altered his hold for the first time, and shook up his horses. There was a corresponding increase of speed in both parties, which kept them in the same respective position, and so they struggled on for a little while longer, till just before the road descended again, Benson made another effort to recover his lost ground. In so doing, he imprudently loosened his hold too much, and his off horse went up.

A good team race is more thrilling for both the spectators and the competitors than any single horse contest; there’s twice as much noise, twice as much skill in driving, and seemingly greater speed, although in reality it’s less. Neither had started at full speed, but they gradually increased the pace until they were going about seventeen miles an hour, maintaining the same relative positions as they had at the start for the first half-mile. No one said a word; the close contact of the horses in double harness excites them so much that they need to be held back rather than encouraged. However, Benson with a rein in his hand was feeling every inch of his ponies and watching every inch of the road. Losing sat like a statue, and his horses seemed to move on their own. Then, as the ground began to slope upward, Losing moved gradually ahead, or rather, Benson's team fell back to him; it still was by inches. In the next quarter, the wheeler instead of the leader was side by side with the other team, and that was all Losing had gained. Then Harry, with some skill, got both reins into one hand and lifted his horses a bit with the whip. At the same moment, Losing changed his grip for the first time and urged his horses on. There was a corresponding increase in speed for both teams, keeping them in the same positions, and they struggled on for a little while longer. Just before the road went downhill again, Benson made another attempt to regain his lost ground. In doing so, he carelessly loosened his grip too much, and his off horse took off.

The moment Firefly lost his feet Benson threw his whole weight upon the horses, and hauled them across the road, close in behind Losing's gig, the break having lost him just a length, so that when they struck into their trot again they were at the Long-Islander's wheel. Down the hill they went, faster than ever; the wagon could not gain an inch on the gig, or the gig shake the wagon off. But Losing had manifestly the best of it, as all his dust went into the face of Benson and Ashburner, enveloping and powdering them and their equipage completely. Their only consolation was, that they were bestowing a similar one on every wagon that they passed. As both teams were footing their very best, Benson's only chance of getting by was in case one of the tandems should happen to[Pg 59] break, a chance which he kept ready to take advantage of. By and by the leader went up, but Losing, who had his horses under perfect command, let him run a little way, and caught him again into his trot without losing any thing. Nevertheless Benson, who had seen the break, made a push to go by, and with a great shout crowded his team up to the wheeler, but there they broke,—this time both horses,—and before he could bring them down he was two lengths in the rear. Then Losing drew on one side, and slackened his speed, and Benson also pulled up almost to a walk.

The moment Firefly lost his footing, Benson put all his weight onto the horses and pulled them across the road, right behind Losing's gig. The break had made him lose just a length, so when they started trotting again, they were right at the Long-Islander's wheel. Down the hill they went, faster than ever; the wagon couldn't gain an inch on the gig, nor could the gig shake off the wagon. However, Losing clearly had the upper hand, as all his dust flew into the faces of Benson and Ashburner, covering them and their vehicle completely. Their only consolation was that they were doing the same to every wagon they passed. Since both teams were giving it their all, Benson's only chance of getting ahead was if one of the tandems happened to break, a possibility he was ready to capitalize on. Eventually, the leader stumbled, but Losing, who had perfect control over his horses, let him run a bit before getting him back into a trot without losing any ground. Nevertheless, seeing the stumble, Benson made a move to slip by, shouted loudly, and pushed his team next to the wheeler, but that's when both horses broke, and before he could regain control, he found himself two lengths behind. Then Losing moved to the side and slowed down, and Benson also eased off almost to a crawl.

"His double sulky is lighter than my wagon," said Harry, "even without the top, and the top makes fifty pounds difference. The machine is built a little heavier than the average, purposely because it rides easier, and shakes the horses less when there are inequalities in the road, so that besides being pleasanter to go in, a team can take it along about as fast as any thing lighter for a short brush, but when the horses are so nearly equal, and you have some miles to go on a heavy road, the extra weight tells. However, it is no disgrace to be beaten by Losing, any way, for his horses are his study and specialité. Every fortnight the bolts and screws of his wagon are re-arranged; his collars fit like gloves; he has a particular kind of watering-pot made on purpose to water his horses' legs. Every trifle is rigorously attended to. You ought to visit his, or some other sporting man's stable here, just to note the difference between that sort of thing with us and with you. Instead of hunters and steeple-chasers, you will see fine trotters together that can all beat 2´ 50´´."

"His double sulky is lighter than my wagon," Harry said, "even without the top, and the top adds a fifty-pound difference. The machine is built a bit heavier than average on purpose because it rides smoother and causes less jostling for the horses when the road is uneven, so not only is it more comfortable to ride in, but a team can pull it about as quickly as anything lighter for a short sprint. However, when the horses are almost equal and you have to travel several miles on a heavy road, the extra weight makes a difference. Still, it’s no shame to lose to Losing, anyway, because his horses are his focus and expertise. Every two weeks, he rearranges the bolts and screws of his wagon; his collars fit perfectly; he even has a special watering can designed to water his horses' legs. Every detail is carefully attended to. You should visit his stable, or that of another sportsman around here, just to see the difference between what we do and what you do. Instead of hunters and steeplechasers, you'll find fine trotters that can all beat 2:50."

The road happened just then to be pretty clear, so they proceeded leisurely for some miles further, till just as they were quitting the turnpike for a lane which led to the course, the rattle of wheels and the shouts of drivers came up behind them. Benson, not disposed to swallow any more of other people's dust if he could help it, waked up his horses at once, and they clattered along the lane, up hill and down, and over a railroad track, and past numerous wagons, at a faster rate than ever. "Do get out of the way!" shouted Henry to one primitive gentleman, with a very tired horse, who was occupying exactly the centre of the road. "You go to ——." The individual addressed was probably about to say something very bad, when Benson, who was a moral man, and had the strongest wheels, cut short any possible profanity for the moment by driving slap into him, and knocking him into the ditch, with the loss of a spoke or two. This collision hardly delayed their speed an instant; and though some of the pursuers were evidently gaining, no one overhauled them for three-quarters of a mile, at the end of which Starlight and Firefly swept proudly up to the course, with a long train in their rear.

The road happened to be pretty clear at that moment, so they continued at a relaxed pace for a few more miles. Just as they were leaving the turnpike for a lane that led to the course, they heard the rattle of wheels and the shouts of drivers coming up behind them. Benson, not wanting to breathe in any more dust from others if he could avoid it, urged his horses to go faster, and they clattered along the lane, up and down hills, over a railroad track, and past several wagons. "Get out of the way!" Henry yelled at one old-school gentleman with a very tired horse who was taking up the whole road. "You go to ——." The man was probably about to say something inappropriate when Benson, a moral man with the strongest wheels, cut him off by driving right into him, sending him into the ditch and losing a spoke or two. This collision barely slowed them down for a moment. Although some of their pursuers were clearly catching up, no one managed to overtake them for three-quarters of a mile, at which point Starlight and Firefly proudly entered the course, with a long line behind them.

All the vicinity of the Centreville Course—not the stables and sheds merely, but the lanes leading to it, the open ground about it, the whole adjacent country, one might almost say—was covered with wagons stowed together as closely as cattle in a market. If it had been raining wagons and trotters the night before just over the place, like showers of frogs that country editors short of copy fill a column with, or if they had grown up there ready harnessed, there could not have been a more plentiful supply. Wagons, wagons, wagons everywhere, of all weights, from a hundred and eighty pounds to four hundred, with here and there a sulky for variety—horses of all styles, colors, and merits—no sign of a servant or groom of any kind, but a number of boys, mostly blackies, about one to every ten horses, who earned a few shillings by looking after the animals, and watching the carpets, sheets, and fly-nets. The only other movables, the long-handled short-lashed whips, were invariably carried off by their proprietors. Whips and umbrellas are common property in America; they are an exception to the ordinary law of meum and tuum, and strictly subject to socialist rules. Woe to the owner of either who lets his property go one second out of his sight!

All around the Centreville Course—not just the stables and sheds, but also the paths leading to it, the surrounding open land, and practically the entire nearby area—was filled with wagons packed together as tightly as cattle in a market. If it had been raining wagons and trotters the night before, like those showers of frogs that country editors write about when they need filler for their columns, or if they had somehow sprouted there fully harnessed, there couldn’t have been a more abundant supply. Wagons, wagons, wagons everywhere, weighing anywhere from one hundred eighty to four hundred pounds, with a few sulkies mixed in for variety—horses of all types, colors, and qualities—no sign of a servant or groom around, just a bunch of boys, mostly Black, about one for every ten horses, earning a few bucks by taking care of the animals and keeping an eye on the carpets, sheets, and fly-nets. The only other items lying around were the long-handled, short-lashed whips, which were always taken away by their owners. Whips and umbrellas are considered communal property in America; they stand as an exception to the usual rules of meum and tuum, and are strictly governed by social norms. Woe to the owner of either who lets their belongings out of sight for even a second!

"Now then, Snowball!" quoth Benson, as a young gentleman of color rushed up on the full grin, stimulated to extra activity by the recollection of the past and the vision of prospective "quarters,"—"take care of the fliers, and don't let any one steal their tails! I ought to tell you," he continued to Ashburner, leading the way towards the big, dilapidated,[5] unpainted, barn-like structure, which appeared to be the rear of the grandstand, "you won't find any gentlemen here—that is, not above half-a-dozen at most."

"Alright, Snowball!" said Benson, as a young guy of color rushed up with a big grin, energized by memories of the past and the idea of upcoming "quarters." "Keep an eye on the fliers, and don’t let anyone steal their tails! I should mention," he continued to Ashburner, leading the way toward the large, rundown, unpainted barn-like building, which seemed to be the back of the grandstand, "you won’t find many gentlemen here—maybe only half a dozen at most."

"I was just wondering whether we should see any ladies."

"I was just thinking about whether we should see any women."

Benson pointed over his left shoulder; and they planked their dollar a-piece at the entrance.

Benson pointed over his left shoulder, and they each placed a dollar at the entrance.

Ashburner's first impression, when fairly inside, was that he had never seen such a collection of disreputable looking characters in broad daylight, and under the open sky. All up the rough broad steps, that were used indifferently to sit or stand upon; all around the oyster and liquor stands, that filled the recess under the steps; all over the ground between the stand and the track, was a throng of low, shabby, dirty men, different in their ages, sizes, and professions; for some were farmers, some country tavern-keepers, some city ditto, some horse-dealers, some gamblers, and some loafers in general; but alike in their slang and "rowdy" aspect. There is something peculiarly disagreeable in an American crowd, from the fact that no class[Pg 60] has any distinctive dress. The gentleman and the working-man, or the "loafer," wear clothes of the same kind, only in one case they are new and clean, in the other, old and dirty. The ragged dress-coats and crownless beavers of the Irish peasants have long been the admiration of travellers; now, elevate these second-hand garments a stage or two in the scale of preservation—let the coats be not ragged, but shabby, worn in seam, and greasy in collar; the hats whole, but napless at edge, and bent in brim; supply them with old trousers of the last fashion but six, and you have the general costume of a crowd like the present. But ordinary collections of the οι πολλοι are relieved by the very superior appearance of the women; pretty in their youth, lady-like and stylish even when prematurely faded, always dressed respectably, and frequently dressed in good taste, they form a startling relief and contrast to their cavaliers; and not only the stranger, but the native gentleman, is continually surprised at the difference, and says to himself, "Where in the world could such nice women pick up those snobs?" Here, where there is not a woman within a mile (unless that suspicious carriage in the corner contains some gay friends of Tom Edwards'), the congregated male loaferism of these people, without even a decent looking dog among them, is enough to make a man button his pockets instinctively.

Ashburner's first impression, once he stepped inside, was that he had never seen such a group of shady characters in broad daylight, out in the open air. All up the rough, wide steps, used casually for sitting or standing; all around the oyster and liquor stands filling the space beneath the steps; all over the ground between the stand and the train tracks, there was a crowd of lowly, shabby, dirty men, varying in age, size, and occupation; some were farmers, some were country tavern owners, some from the city, some were horse dealers, some gamblers, and some were just loafers in general; but they all shared the same slang and rough demeanor. There’s something particularly unpleasant about an American crowd, partly because no class[Pg 60] has a distinctive style of dress. Gentlemen and working-class men, or "loafers," wear similar types of clothing, with one being new and clean, and the other old and dirty. The tattered dress coats and felt hats of Irish peasants have long impressed travelers; now, take these second-hand clothes up a notch—let the coats be shabby instead of ragged, worn at the seams, and greasy at the collar; the hats intact, but worn out around the edges and misshapen; paired with dated trousers, and you have the typical look of a crowd like this. But ordinary groups of the many are brightened by the superior appearance of the women; young and pretty, elegant and stylish even when they’ve aged too quickly, always dressed respectably, and often well put together, they provide a striking contrast to their partners; both outsiders and local gentlemen are constantly surprised by this difference and find themselves thinking, "Where in the world do such nice women find these losers?" Here, where there isn’t a woman within a mile (unless that suspicious carriage in the corner holds some friends of Tom Edwards), the gathered male loafers, without even a decent-looking dog among them, is enough to make a man instinctively button his pockets.

Amid this wilderness of vagabonds may be seen grouped together at the further corner of the stand the representatives of the gentlemanly interest, numbering, as Benson had predicted, about half-a-dozen. Losing, with his yellow blouse and moustache to match; Tom Edwards, in a white hat and trousers, and black velvet coat; Harrison, slovenly in his attire, and looking almost as coarse as any of the rowdies about, till he raises his head, and shows his intelligent eyes; Bleecker, who had just arrived; and a few specimens of Young New-York like him. Benson carries his friend that way, and introduces him in due form to the Long Islander, who receives him with an elaborate bow. Ashburner offers a cigar to Losing, who accepts the weed with a nod of acknowledgment (for he rarely opens his mouth except to put something into it, or to make a bet), and offers one of his in return, which Ashburner trying, excoriates his lips at the first whiff, and is obliged to throw it away after the third, for Charley Losing has strong tastes, will rather drink brandy than wine, any day, and smokes tobacco that would knock an ordinary man down.

Amid this crowd of drifters, you can see the representatives of the upper class gathered at the far corner of the stand, numbering, as Benson had predicted, about six. Losing, sporting a yellow blouse and matching mustache; Tom Edwards, dressed in a white hat and pants with a black velvet coat; Harrison, looking rather sloppy and almost as rough as the rowdies around him until he lifts his head to reveal his sharp eyes; Bleecker, who had just arrived; and a few others like him from Young New York. Benson guides his friend over and properly introduces him to the Long Islander, who greets him with a deep bow. Ashburner offers a cigar to Losing, who accepts it with a nod of acknowledgment (since he rarely speaks unless it’s to eat or make a bet) and returns the gesture by offering one of his own, which Ashburner tries but ends up grimacing at the first puff and has to discard it after the third, as Charley Losing has strong preferences—he’d rather drink brandy than wine any day and smokes tobacco that could knock an average person out.

The stranger glances his eye over the scene of action. A barouche and four does not differ more from a trotting wagon, or a blood courser from a Canadian pacer, than an English race-course from an American "track." It is an ellipse of hard ground, like a good and smooth piece of road, with some variations of ascent and descent. The distance round is calculated at a mile, according to the scope of turning requisite for a horse before a sulky—that being the most usual form of trotting; for a saddle-horse that has the pole,[6] it comes practically to a little less; for a harness-horse (especially if to a wagon) with an outside place, to a little, or sometimes a good deal more. Around the inclosure, within the track (which looks as if it were trying hard to grow grass and couldn't), a few wagons, which obtained entrance by special favor, are walking about; they belong to the few men who have brought their grooms with them. Harrison's pet trotter is there, a magnificent long-tailed bay, as big as a carriage-horse, equal to 2´ 50´´ on the road before that wagon, and worth fifteen hundred dollars, it is said. Just inside the track, and opposite the main stand outside, is a little shanty of a judge's stand, and marshalled in front of it are half a dozen notorious pugilists, and similar characters, who, doubtless on the good old principle of "set a thief," &c., are enrolled for the occasion as special constables, with very special and formidable white bludgeons to keep order, and precise suits of black cloth to augment their dignity.

The stranger takes a look at the scene unfolding around him. A fancy carriage with four horses is no more different from a trotting wagon, or a racehorse from a Canadian pacer, than an English racetrack is from an American "track." It's an oval of hard ground, like a well-maintained road, with some ups and downs. The distance around is measured at a mile, based on the turning space needed for a horse pulling a sulky—that being the most common type of trotting; for a saddle horse that has the pole, it comes out to a little less; for a harness horse (especially if pulling a wagon) from an outside position, it might be a little more, or sometimes quite a bit more. Around the enclosure, within the track (which looks like it's desperately trying to grow grass but failing), a few wagons that were allowed in by special permission are moving around; they belong to the few men who brought their grooms with them. Harrison's prized trotter is there, a stunning long-tailed bay, as big as a carriage horse, capable of 2’ 50” on the road in front of that wagon, and supposedly worth fifteen hundred dollars. Just inside the track, across from the main stand, is a small makeshift judge's stand, with half a dozen well-known fighters and similar characters lined up in front of it, who, likely following the old saying "it takes one to catch one," are appointed for the occasion as special constables, armed with very noticeable white clubs to maintain order, and dressed in matching black suits to add to their authority.

"To come off at three o'clock," said the handbills. It is now thirty-five minutes past three, and no signs of beginning. An American horse and an American woman always keep you waiting an hour at least. One of the judges comes forward, and raps on the front of the stand with a primitive bit of wood resembling a broken boot-jack. "Bring out your horses!" People look towards the yard on the left. Here is one of them just led out; they pull off his sheets, his driver climbs up into the little seat behind him. He comes down part of the stand at a moderate gait. Hurrah for old Twenty-miles-an-hour! Trustee! Trustee!

"To start at three o'clock," said the flyers. It’s now thirty-five minutes past three, and there’s no sign of beginning. An American horse and an American woman always make you wait at least an hour. One of the judges steps up and knocks on the front of the stand with a makeshift piece of wood that looks like a broken shoehorn. "Bring out your horses!" People turn their heads towards the yard on the left. Here comes one of them, just led out; they remove his covers, and his driver climbs up into the small seat behind him. He descends part of the stand at a steady pace. Hooray for old Twenty-miles-an-hour! Trustee! Trustee!

The old chestnut is half-blood; but you would never guess it from his personal appearance, so chunky, and thick-limbed, and sober-looking is he. His action is uneven, and seemingly laborious; you would not think him capable of covering one mile in three minutes, much less of performing twenty at the same rate. No wonder he hobbles a little behind, for his back sinews are swelled, and his legs scarred and disfigured—the traces of injuries received in his youth, when a cart ran into him, and cut him almost to pieces. Veterinary surgeons, who delight in such relics, will show you pieces of sinew taken from him after the accident. That was six or seven years ago: since then he has solved a problem for the trotting world.

The old chestnut is a mixed breed, but you’d never know it from his appearance; he’s so chunky, thick-limbed, and serious-looking. His movements are uneven and seem hard work; you wouldn't believe he could cover one mile in three minutes, let alone do twenty at that pace. It’s no surprise he limps a bit because his back tendons are swollen, and his legs are scarred and disfigured—evidence of injuries he suffered in his youth when a cart crashed into him and nearly tore him apart. Veterinarians, who love these kinds of cases, will show you bits of tendon they took from him after the accident. That was six or seven years ago, and since then, he’s solved a big problem for the trotting community.

"There," says Benson, with a little touch of triumph, "is the only horse in the world that ever trotted twenty miles in an hour. I[Pg 61] saw it done myself. He was driven nearly two miles before he started, to warm him up, and make him limber. When the word was given, he made a skip, and though his driver, not the same that he has now, caught him before he was fairly off his feet, he was more than three minutes doing the first mile, which looked well for the backers of time; but as the old fellow went on, he did every mile better than the preceding, and the last in the best time of all, winning with nearly half a minute to spare."

"There," Benson says with a hint of triumph, "is the only horse in the world that ever trotted twenty miles in an hour. I[Pg 61] saw it happen myself. He was warmed up and limbered up by being driven nearly two miles before he started. When the signal was given, he made a move, and even though his driver, who isn't the same one he has now, caught him before he had fully taken off, he took more than three minutes to do the first mile, which looked promising for the time bettors. But as the old guy kept going, he completed each mile faster than the one before, finishing the last in the best time of all, winning with almost half a minute to spare."

"Has the experiment been often tried?"

"Has this experiment been tried often?"

"Not more than two or three times, I believe; and the horses who attempted it broke down in the eighteenth or nineteenth mile. Nevertheless, I think that within the last twelve years we have had two or three horses beside Trustee who could have accomplished the feat; but as such a horse is worth two thousand dollars and upwards, a heavy bet would be required to tempt a man to risk killing or ruining his animal; and our sporting men, though they bet frequently, are not in the habit of betting largely. That is one reason why it has not been tried oftener; and I am inclined to think that there is another and a better motive. The owner of a splendid horse does not like to risk his life; and it is a risk of life to attempt to trot him twenty miles an hour."

"Not more than two or three times, I believe; and the horses that tried it broke down in the eighteenth or nineteenth mile. Still, I think that in the last twelve years we've had two or three horses besides Trustee that could have pulled it off; but since a horse like that is worth two thousand dollars or more, it would take a big bet to convince someone to risk killing or ruining their animal. Our bettors, even though they frequently gamble, usually don’t bet huge amounts. That’s one reason it hasn’t been attempted more often; and I think there’s another, better reason. The owner of a great horse doesn't want to risk its life, and trying to trot him at twenty miles an hour is a life-threatening risk."

Pit, pat! pit, pat! The old mare is coming down to the score. A very ordinary looking animal in repose, the magnificence of her action converts her into a beauty when moving. How evenly her feet rise and fall, regularly as a machine, though she is nearly at the top of her speed! She carries her head down, and her neck stretched out, and from the tip of her nose to the end of her long white tail, that streams out in the breeze made by her own progress, you might draw a straight line, so true and right forward does she travel. Perched over her tail, between those two tall, slender wheels, sits her owner, David Bryan, the only man that ever handles her, in something like a jockey costume, blue velvet jacket and cap to match, and his white hair, whiter than his horse's tail, streaming in the wind—a respectable and almost venerable looking man; but a hard boy for all that, say the knowing ones. Great applause from the Long Island men, who swear by "the Lady," and are always ready to "stake their pile" on her, for her owner is a Long-Islander, and she is a Suffolk county, Long-Island mare. Some eight years ago Lady Suffolk was bought out of a baker's cart for 112 dollars, and since then she has won for "Dave" upwards of 30,000 dollars. That is what the possessor of a fast trotter most prides himself on—to have bought the animal for a song on the strength of his own eye for his points, and then developed him into a "flier." When a colt is bred from a trotting stallion, put into training at three or four years old, and sold the first time for a high price, if he turns out well there is no particular wonder or merit in it; if he does not, the disappointment is extreme.

Pit, pat! pit, pat! The old mare is coming down to the score. At rest, she looks pretty ordinary, but her graceful movement transforms her into a beauty. Her feet rise and fall evenly, as regular as a machine, even at almost full speed! She carries her head low and stretches her neck out, and from the tip of her nose to the end of her long white tail, which flows in the breeze created by her own movement, you could draw a straight line; she travels so true and straight. Perched over her tail, in between those two tall, slender wheels, sits her owner, David Bryan, the only person who rides her, dressed in something like a jockey outfit, a blue velvet jacket and matching cap, with his white hair, whiter than his horse's tail, streaming in the wind—a respectable and almost venerable-looking man; but a tough guy nonetheless, say those in the know. Great cheers come from the Long Island folks, who swear by "the Lady" and are always ready to "stake their pile" on her, since her owner is from Long Island, and she’s a Suffolk County mare. About eight years ago, Lady Suffolk was bought from a baker's cart for $112, and since then she has won "Dave" over $30,000. That's what someone who owns a fast trotter really takes pride in—to have bought the horse for a steal based on his own ability to spot a good one, and then turn it into a "flier." When a colt is bred from a trotting stallion, trained at three or four years old, and sold for a high price the first time, if he turns out well, it’s no big surprise; if he doesn’t, the disappointment is intense.

Ah, here comes Pelham at last—a clean little bay, stepping roundly, and lifting his legs well; you might call it a perfect action, if we had not just seen Lady Suffolk go by—but so wicked about the head and eyes! Behind the little horse sits a big Irishman, in his shirt sleeves; and they are hauling away at each other, pull Pat, pull Pelham, as if the man wanted to jerk the horse's head off, and the horse to draw the man's arms out. You see the driver is holding by little loops fastened to the reins, to prevent his grasp from slipping. Pelham is a young horse for a trotter, say seven years old, and has already done the fastest mile ever made in harness; but his temper is terribly uncertain, and to-day he seems to be in a particularly bad humor.

Ah, here comes Pelham at last—a neat little bay, stepping nicely and picking up his legs well; you could call it a perfect stride if we hadn't just seen Lady Suffolk go by—but so naughty with his head and eyes! Behind the little horse sits a big Irishman in his shirt sleeves; and they're tugging at each other, "pull Pat, pull Pelham," as if the man wants to yank the horse's head off, and the horse wants to pull the man's arms out. You can see the driver is holding on with little loops attached to the reins to keep his grip from slipping. Pelham is a young horse for a trotter, about seven years old, and has already set the record for the fastest mile ever done in harness; but his temper is really unpredictable, and today he seems to be in a particularly bad mood.

Trustee, who requires much warming up, goes all round the track, increasing his speed as he goes, till he has reached pretty nearly his limit. Pelham also completes the circuit, but more leisurely. The Lady trots about a quarter of a mile, then walks a little, and then brushes back. Her returning is even faster and prettier than her going. "2´ 33´´," says Losing, speaking for the first time, as she crosses the score (the line in front of the judge's stand). His eye is such that, given the horse and the track, he can tell the pace at a glance within half a second.

Trustee, who takes a while to warm up, goes all the way around the track, picking up speed as he goes until he almost hits his max. Pelham also finishes the circuit, but at a more relaxed pace. The Lady jogs for about a quarter of a mile, then walks for a bit, and then speeds back. Her return is even faster and more graceful than her initial pace. "2´ 33´´," says Losing, speaking for the first time as she crosses the finish line (the line in front of the judge's stand). His eye is such that, considering the horse and the track, he can estimate the pace at a glance within half a second.

The gentry about are beginning to bet on their respective favorites, and some upon time—trifling amounts generally—five, ten, or twenty dollars; and there is much pulling out, and counting, and depositing of greasy notes. Bang! goes the broken boot-jack again. This time it is not "Bring out your horses!" but "Bring up your horses!"—a requisition which the drivers comply with by turning away from the stand. This is to get a start, a flying start being the rule, which obviously favors the backers of time, and is, in some respects, fairer to the horses, but is very apt to create confusion and delay, especially when three or four horses are entered. So it happens in the present instance: half way up the quarter, the horses turn, not all together, but just as they happen to be; and off they go, some slower and some faster, trying to fall into line as they approach the score. "Come back!" It's no go, this time; Pelham has broken up, and is spreading himself all over the track. Trustee, too, is a length or more behind the gray mare, and evidently in no hurry. They all go back, the mare last, as she was half-way down the other quarter before the recall was understood.

The gentry around are starting to place bets on their favorite horses, usually small amounts—five, ten, or twenty dollars—and there’s a lot of pulling out, counting, and stashing away of crumpled bills. Bang! The broken boot-jack goes off again. This time it’s not “Bring out your horses!” but “Bring up your horses!”—a request that the drivers fulfill by turning away from the stand. They’re doing this to get a jump start because a flying start is the norm, which clearly benefits those betting on time and is, in some ways, fairer to the horses, but it often leads to confusion and delays, especially when three or four horses are involved. That’s what's happening now: halfway through the quarter, the horses turn, not all at once, just as they happen to be; and off they go, some slower and some faster, trying to line up as they near the score. “Come back!” This time it doesn’t work; Pelham has broken loose and is spreading himself all over the track. Trustee is also a length or more behind the gray mare and clearly not in a rush. They all head back, with the mare being the last one, as she was halfway down the other quarter before the recall was understood.

"What a beauty she is!" says Harry. "And she has the pole too."

"What a beauty she is!" Harry says. "And she's got the pole too."

"Will you bet two to three on her against the field?" asks Edwards, who knew very well that Trustee is the favorite. Benson[Pg 62] declines. "Then will you go on time? Will you bet on 7´ 42´´, or that they don't beat 7´ 47´´" (three mile heats, you will recollect, reader). No, Harry won't bet at all; so Edwards turns to Losing. "Will you bet three to five in hundreds on the Lady?" Losing will. They neither plank the money, nor book the bet, but the thing is understood.

"Will you bet two to three on her against the others?" asks Edwards, knowing full well that Trustee is the favorite. Benson[Pg 62] declines. "Then will you bet on whether they'll finish in 7 minutes 42 seconds, or not beat 7 minutes 47 seconds?" (three-mile heats, as you might remember, reader). No, Harry won't bet at all; so Edwards turns to Losing. "Will you bet three to five in hundreds on the Lady?" Losing agrees. They don't put down the money or officially book the bet, but it's understood.

Pelham's driver has begged the judges to give the word, even if he is two lengths behind; he would rather do that than have his horse worried by false starts. So this time, perhaps, they will get off. Not yet! Bryan's mare breaks up just before they come to the score. Harrison hints that he broke her on purpose, because Trustee was likely to have about a neck advantage of him in the start. "Of course they never go the first time," says Benson, "and very seldom the second."

Pelham's driver has pleaded with the judges to call the start, even if he’s two lengths behind; he’d prefer that over having his horse stressed by false starts. So maybe this time, they’ll finally get off. Not yet! Bryan's mare stumbles just before they reach the line. Harrison suggests he did it on purpose because Trustee was likely to have a neck lead on him at the start. "Of course, they never get going the first time," says Benson, "and rarely the second."

"I saw nine false starts once, at Harlaem," says Bleecker, "where there were but three horses. Better luck next time."

"I saw nine false starts once at Harlaem," says Bleecker, "where there were only three horses. Better luck next time."

It is better luck. Pelham lays in the rear full two lengths, but Trustee and the mare come up nose and nose to the score, going at a great pace. "Go!" At the word Trustee breaks. "Bah! take him away! Where's Brydges?" The superior skill of his former driver, is painfully remembered by the horse's friends. But he soon recovers, and catches his trot about two lengths behind the mare, and as much in advance of Pelham; for the little bay is going very badly, seems to have no trot in him, and his driver dares not hurry him. In these respective positions they complete the first quarter.

It’s a stroke of luck. Pelham is two lengths behind, but Trustee and the mare are neck and neck, racing at full speed. "Go!" At the command, Trustee takes off. "Ugh! Get him out of here! Where’s Brydges?" The horse's friends painfully remember the superior skill of his former driver. But Trustee quickly regains his pace, settling into a trot about two lengths behind the mare and ahead of Pelham; the little bay is struggling, appears to have no energy, and his driver is hesitant to push him. They finish the first quarter in these respective positions.

As they approach the half mile, the distance renders their movements indistinct, and their speed, positive or relative, difficult to determine. You can only make out their position. Pelham continues to lose, and Trustee has gained a little; but the gray mare keeps the lead gallantly.

As they near the half mile, the distance makes their movements unclear, and it's hard to figure out their speed, whether it's absolute or relative. You can only see where they are. Pelham is still falling behind, and Trustee has gained a bit; but the gray mare is holding the lead confidently.

"I like a trot," says Benson, "because you can watch the horses so long. In a race they go by like a flash, once and again, and it's all over."

"I enjoy a trot," says Benson, "because you can see the horses for a longer time. In a race, they zoom past in a blur, once and then again, and it's all done."

In the next quarter they are almost lost to view, and then they appear again coming home, and you begin once more to appreciate the rate at which they are coming. Still it is not the very best pace; the Lady is taking it rather easy, as if conscious of having it all her own way; and her driver looks as careless and comfortable as if he were only taking her out to exercise, when she glides past the stand.

In the next quarter, they nearly vanish from sight, and then they show up again on their way home, making you once again notice the speed at which they're moving. However, it's not the fastest pace; the Lady is taking it pretty easy, almost like she knows she's in control; and her driver looks relaxed and at ease, as if he's just giving her a casual ride when they glide past the stand.

"2´ 35´´," says Losing. He doesn't need to look at his watch; but there is great comparing of stop-watches among the other men for the time of the first mile. Hardly half a length behind is Trustee; he has been gradually creeping up without any signs of being hurried, and, clumsily as he goes, gets over the ground without heating himself.

"2:35," Losing says. He doesn't need to check his watch, but the other guys are all comparing their stopwatches for the first mile. Close behind, Trustee is steadily closing the gap without appearing rushed, and even though he moves awkwardly, he makes good progress without getting tired.

"John Case knows what he's about, after all," Edwards observes, "He takes his time, and so does the old horse; wait another round, and, at the third mile, they'll be there."

"John Case knows what he's doing, after all," Edwards notes, "He takes his time, and so does the old horse; wait for another round, and by the third mile, they'll be there."

"But where's Pelham? Is he lost? No, there he comes; and, Castor and Pollux, what a burst! Something has waked him up after the other horses have passed the stand, and while he is yet four or five lengths from it. There's a brush for you! Did you ever see a horse foot it so?—as if all the ideas of running that he may ever have had in his life were arrested, and fastened down into his trot. How he is closing up the gap! If he can hold to that stroke he will be ahead of the field before the first quarter of this second mile is out. A mighty clamor arises, shouts from his enemies, who want to break him, cheers from his injudicious friends. There, he has lapped Trustee—he has passed him; tearing at the bit harder than ever, he closes with Lady Suffolk. Bryan does not begin to thrash his mare yet, he only shows the whip over her; but yells like a madman at her, and at Pelham, whose driver holds on to him as a drowning man holds on to a rope. They are going side by side at a terrific pace. It can't last; one of them must go up. The bay horse does go up just at the quarter pole, having made that quarter, Benson says, in the remarkably short time of thirty-six seconds and a half."

"But where's Pelham? Is he lost? No, there he comes; and wow, what a burst! Something has woken him up after the other horses have passed the stand, and he’s still four or five lengths away from it. What a surprise! Have you ever seen a horse run like that?—as if all his past ideas about racing were suddenly jolted into action. Look how he’s closing the gap! If he can keep that pace, he’ll be ahead of the pack before the first quarter of this second mile is over. A huge uproar rises, shouts from his rivals who want to stop him, cheers from his overly enthusiastic supporters. There, he has caught up to Trustee—he’s passed him; pulling on the bit harder than ever, he’s closing in on Lady Suffolk. Bryan hasn’t started to whip his mare yet, he’s just showing the whip over her; but he’s yelling like a madman at her and at Pelham, whose driver is holding on tight like a drowning man clutching a rope. They’re going side by side at a breakneck pace. It can't last; one of them is going to falter. The bay horse does falter right at the quarter pole, having completed that quarter, Benson says, in an impressively short time of thirty-six and a half seconds."

Pelham's driver can't jerk him across the track; by doing so, he would foul Trustee, who is just behind; so he has to let the chestnut go by, and then sets himself to work to bring down his unruly animal; no easy matter—for Pelham, frightened by the shouting, and excited by the noise of the wheels, plunges about in a manner that threatens to spill or break down the sulky; and twice, after being brought almost to a full stop, goes off again on a canter. Good bye, little horse! there's no more chance for you. By this time, the Lady is nearly a quarter of a mile ahead, and going faster than ever. Somehow or other, Trustee has increased his speed too, and is just where he was, a short half-length behind her. The way in which he hangs on to the mare begins to frighten the Long-Islanders a little, but they comfort themselves with the hope that she has something left, and can let out some spare foot in the third mile, or whenever it may be necessary.

Pelham's driver can't pull him across the track; if he did that, he’d block Trustee, who is right behind them. So, he has to let the chestnut go by and then focuses on getting his wild horse under control, which isn’t easy—Pelham, startled by the shouting and hyped up by the noise of the wheels, is acting out in a way that could tip over or break the sulky. Twice, after nearly coming to a complete stop, he takes off again at a canter. Goodbye, little horse! There’s no saving you now. By this point, the Lady is almost a quarter of a mile ahead and picking up speed. Somehow, Trustee has also picked up his pace and is just where he was, a short half-length behind her. The way he clings to the mare is starting to worry the Long-Islanders a bit, but they reassure themselves with the thought that she must have some energy left and can speed up when it becomes necessary in the third mile or whenever it’s needed.

Some forty seconds more elapse; a period of time that goes like a flash when you are training your own flier, or "brushing" on the road, but seems long enough when you are waiting for horses to come round, and then they appear once more coming home. The mare is still leading, with her beautiful, steady, unfaltering stroke; but she is by no means so fresh-looking as when she started; many a dark line of sweat marks her white hide. Close behind her comes Trustee; the half-length gap has disappeared, and his nose is ready to touch Bryan's jacket. There is[Pg 63] hardly a wet hair discernible on him; he goes perfectly at his ease, and seems to be in hand. "He has her now," is the general exclamation, "and can pass her when he pleases." As the mare crosses the score, (in 2´ 34´´, according to Edwards's stop-watch,) Bryan "looks over his left shoulder," like the knights in old ballads, and becomes aware for the first time that the horse at his wheel is not Pelham, as he had supposed, but Trustee.

About forty seconds pass; a time that flies by when you're training your own horse or cruising down the road, but feels much longer when you're waiting for the horses to come back. Then they appear again, racing home. The mare is still in the lead, with her beautiful, steady, relentless stride, but she doesn't look as fresh as when she started; there are many dark streaks of sweat marking her white coat. Right behind her is Trustee; the half-length gap has closed, and his nose is almost touching Bryan's jacket. There's hardly a damp hair on him; he’s completely at ease and seems perfectly controlled. "He's got her now," is the general shout, "and can pass her whenever he wants." As the mare crosses the finish line, (in 2´ 34´´, according to Edwards's stop-watch), Bryan "looks over his left shoulder," like the knights in old tales, and realizes for the first time that the horse next to him isn’t Pelham, as he thought, but Trustee.

The old fellow is another man. His air of careless security has changed to one of intense excitement. Slash! slash! slash! falls the long whip, with half a dozen frantic cuts and an appropriate garnish of yells. Almost any other trotter would go off in a run at one such salute, to say nothing of five or six; but the old mare, who "has no break in her," merely understands them as gentle intimations to go faster—and she does go faster. How her legs double up, and what a rush she has made! There is a gap of three lengths between her and Trustee. He never hurries himself, but goes on steadily as ever. See, as he passes, how he straddles behind like an old cow, and yet how dexterously he paddles himself along, as it were, with one hind foot. What a mixture of ugliness and efficiency his action is! At the first quarter the Lady has come back to him. Three times during this, the last and decisive mile, is the performance repeated. You may hear Bryan's voice and whip completely across the course, as he hurries his mare away from the pursuer; but each succeeding time the temporary gap is shorter and sooner closed.

The old guy is a different man now. His relaxed confidence has turned into intense excitement. Slash! slash! slash! goes the long whip, with a frenzy of cuts and a fitting mix of shouts. Almost any other trotter would bolt at just one of those signals, let alone five or six; but the old mare, who "has no break in her," simply takes them as gentle nudges to speed up—and she does speed up. Just look at her legs working hard and the rush she makes! There’s a gap of three lengths between her and Trustee. He never rushes, but keeps moving steadily as always. Look how he lumbers along like an old cow, but still manages to push himself forward with one hind foot. It’s such a mix of awkwardness and efficiency in his movements! By the first quarter, the Lady has caught up with him. Three times during this final, crucial mile, that scene repeats. You can hear Bryan's voice and whip all the way across the course as he urges his mare away from the chaser; but each time, the temporary gap gets shorter and closes quicker.

Now they are coming down the straight stretch home. The mare leads yet. Case appears to be talking to his horse, and encouraging him; if it is so, you cannot hear him, for the tremendous row Lady Suffolk's driver is making. She had the pole at starting, has kept it throughout, and Trustee must pass her on the outside. This circumstance is her only hope of winning. All her owner's exertions, and all the encouraging shouts of her friends, which she now hears greeting her from the stand, cannot enable her to shake off Trustee, but if she can only maintain her lead for six or seven lengths more, it is enough. The chestnut is directly in her rear; every blow gets a little more out of her. Half the short interval to the goal is passed, when Trustee diverges from his straight course, and shows his head along side Bryan's wheel. Catching his horse short, Case puts his whip upon him for the first time, shakes him up with a great shout, and crowds him past the mare, winning the heat by a length.

Now they’re coming down the final stretch home. The mare is still in the lead. Case seems to be talking to his horse and encouraging him; if that's the case, you can’t hear him because of the massive noise being made by Lady Suffolk’s driver. She had the pole at the start and has maintained it the whole time, so Trustee has to pass her on the outside. This is her only chance of winning. All her owner’s efforts and all the cheers from her friends, which she can now hear from the stands, can't help her shake off Trustee, but if she can just hold her lead for another six or seven lengths, that will be enough. The chestnut horse is right behind her; every push is getting a little more out of her. Half the short distance to the finish line is gone when Trustee shifts from his straight path and shows his nose alongside Bryan’s wheel. Pulling his horse up short, Case uses his whip for the first time, shakes him up with a loud shout, and powers him past the mare, winning the heat by a length.

The little bay was so far behind at the end of the second mile, that no one took any notice of him, and he was supposed to have dropped out somewhere on the road. His position, however, was much improved on the third mile; still, as there was a strong probability of his being shut out, the judges dispatched one of their number to the distance-post with a flag; a very proper proceeding, only they thought of it rather late, for the judge arrived there only just before Pelham, and also just before Trustee crossed the score; in fact, the three events were all but simultaneous; the judge dropped the flag in Pelham's face, and Pelham in return nearly ran over the judge. This episode attracted no attention at the time of its occurrence, all eyes being directed to the leading horses; but now it affords materials for a nice little row, Pelham's driver protesting violently against the distance. There is much thronging, and vociferating, and swearing about the judge's stand, into which our burly Irishman endeavors to force his way. One of the specials favors him with a rap on the head, that would astonish a hippopotamus. Pat doesn't seem to mind it, but he understands it well enough (the argument is just suited to his capacity), and remains tolerably quiet. Finally, it is proclaimed that "Trustee wins the heat in 7´ 45´´, and Pelham is distanced."

The small bay was so far behind by the end of the second mile that no one noticed him, and it was thought he had dropped out somewhere along the road. However, his position improved during the third mile; still, since there was a strong chance he would be shut out, the judges sent one of their members to the distance post with a flag. This was a reasonable action, but they thought of it a bit late, as the judge arrived just before Pelham and also just before Trustee crossed the finish line; in fact, the three events were almost simultaneous. The judge dropped the flag right in front of Pelham, and Pelham almost ran over the judge in response. This moment didn’t attract any attention at the time since everyone was focused on the leading horses, but now it has led to quite a commotion, with Pelham's driver protesting loudly about the distance call. There’s a lot of pushing, shouting, and swearing around the judge's stand, where our bulky Irishman tries to make his way through. One of the special officials gives him a whack on the head that would surprise even a hippopotamus. Pat doesn’t seem to mind it, but he understands it well enough (the argument fits his level of understanding) and stays relatively calm. In the end, it's declared that "Trustee wins the heat in 7' 45'', and Pelham is distanced."

"Best three miles ever made in harness," says Harrison, "except when Dutchman did it in 7´ 41´´."

"Best three miles ever run in harness," says Harrison, "except when the Dutchman did it in 7' 41''."

Edwards doubts the fact, and they bet about it, and will write to the Spirit of the Times (the American Bell's Life).

Edwards is skeptical about it, and they make a bet on it, planning to write to the Spirit of the Times (the American Bell's Life).

Ashburner and Benson descended from the stand. The horses, panting and pouring with sweat, are rubbed and scraped by their attendants, three or four to each. Then they are clothed, and walked up and down quietly. They have a rest of nominally half-an-hour, and practically at least forty minutes. Some of the crowd are eating oysters, more drinking brandy and water, and a still greater number "loafing" about without any particular employment. There are two or three thimble-riggers on the ground, but they seem to be in a barren county; nobody there is green enough for them; the very small boys take sights at them. There is a tradition that Edwards once in his younger days tried his fortune with them. He looked so dandified, green, and innocent, that they let him win five dollars the first time, and then, on the rigger's proposing to bet a hundred, his supposed victim applied the finger of scorn to the nose of derision, and strutted off with his V.,[7] to the great amusement of the bystanders. Tom is very proud of this story, and likes to tell it himself. That, and his paying a French actress with a check when he had nothing at his banker's, are two of the great exploits of his life.

Ashburner and Benson got off the stand. The horses, panting and soaked in sweat, were tended to by their helpers, three or four for each horse. Then they were dressed and walked around calmly. They took a break of about half an hour, but really it was at least forty minutes. Some people in the crowd were eating oysters, others were drinking brandy and water, and even more were just hanging around without any specific plans. There were a couple of con artists trying to scam people, but they didn't seem to have any luck; no one there was naive enough to fall for it. The little kids were taking shots at them. There’s a story that Edwards, when he was younger, tried to gamble with them. He looked so flashy, naive, and innocent that they let him win five dollars the first time. Then, when one of the scammers suggested a bet of a hundred, Edwards, pretending to be confident, pointedly walked away with his winnings, much to the amusement of everyone watching. Tom loves this story and enjoys telling it. This and the time he paid a French actress with a check when he had no money in the bank are two of the biggest achievements of his life.

"This is rather a low assemblage, certainly," says Ashburner, after he has contemplated it from several points of view, and observed a great many different points of character. "Do they ever have races here?"

"This is definitely a pretty low gathering," says Ashburner, after he has looked at it from various angles and noticed a lot of different personality traits. "Do they ever have races here?"

[Pg 64]

"Yes, every spring and fall, here, or on the Union Course adjoining. They are rather more decently attended, but not over respectable, much less fashionable. At the South, it is different; there ladies go, and the club races are some of the most marked features of their city life. I recollect when I was a boy, that these trotting matches were nice things, and gentlemen used to enter their own horses; but gradually they have gone down hill to what they are now, and the names of the best trotters are associated with the hardest characters and the most disreputable species of balls."

"Yeah, every spring and fall, either here or at the Union Course next door. They get decent attendance, but they're not exactly classy or fashionable. Down South, it’s a different story; ladies go there, and the club races are some of the most prominent parts of city life. I remember when I was a kid, these trotting matches were great, and gentlemen would enter their own horses. But over time, they’ve declined to what they are now, and the names of the best trotters are linked to the toughest characters and the most disreputable kind of events."

"And when they race, do the horses run on ground like this?" asked Ashburner, stamping on the track, which was as hard as Macadam.

"And when they race, do the horses run on ground like this?" asked Ashburner, stamping on the track, which was as hard as asphalt.

"Precisely on this, and run four-mile heats, too, and five of them sometimes."

"Exactly on this, and run four-mile races, too, and sometimes five of them."

"Five four-mile heats on ground like this?" The Englishman looked incredulous.

"Five four-mile heats on ground like this?" The Englishman looked shocked.

"Exactly. It has happened that each of three has won a heat, and then there was one dead heat. You will remember, though, that we run old horses, not colts. There is no extra weight for age; they begin at four or five years old, and go on till twelve or fourteen."

"Exactly. Each of the three has won a heat, and then there was one tie. But remember, we race older horses, not young ones. There’s no extra weight for age; they start at four or five years old and can continue racing until they’re twelve or fourteen."

"But they must be very liable to accidents, going on such hard soil."

"But they must be really prone to accidents, walking on such tough ground."

"Yes, they do break their legs sometimes, but not often. Our horses are tougher than yours."

"Yeah, they do break their legs sometimes, but not that often. Our horses are tougher than yours."

As they stroll about, Benson points out several celebrated fliers that have gained admission inside of the stand, but prefer remaining outside the track; some pretty well worn-out and emeriti like Ripton, an old rival of Lady Suffolk (the mare has outlasted most of her early contemporaries), some in their prime, like the trotting stallion, Black Hawk, beautifully formed as any blood-horse, but singularly marked, being white-stockinged all round to the knee. "There," says Harry, "is a fellow that belies the old horse-dealer's rhyme:

As they walk around, Benson points out several famous horses that have made their way inside the stands but still like to hang out outside the track; some are pretty worn out and retired, like Ripton, an old rival of Lady Suffolk (the mare has outlived most of her early competitors), and some are in their prime, like the trotting stallion, Black Hawk, as well-formed as any thoroughbred, but distinctly marked with white stockings up to the knees. "Look," says Harry, "there's a guy who proves the old horse dealer's saying:

'Four white legs and a white nose,
"Take him away and toss him to the crows."

Time is up, and they return to the stand. Edwards is bantering Losing, and asks him if he will repeat his bet on this heat. He will fast enough, and double it on the final result. Edwards wants nothing better.

Time's up, and they head back to the stand. Edwards is joking around, losing, and asks him if he'll repeat his bet on this heat. He’ll do it quickly and double it for the final outcome. Edwards couldn't ask for more.

This time, for a wonder, the horses got off at the first start, and a tremendous pace they make, altogether too much for Trustee, who is carried off his feet in the first half-quarter, and the Lady goes ahead three, four, five lengths, and has taken the pole before he can recover. Bryan continues to crowd the pace. The mare comes round to the score in 2´ 33´´, leading by four lengths, and her driver threshing her already. "She can't stand it," say the knowing ones; "she must drop out soon." But she doesn't drop out in the second mile at least, for at the end of that, she is still three lengths in advance, and Trustee does not appear so fresh as he did last heat. The Long-Islanders are exultant, and the sporting men look shy. When they come home in the last quarter, the chestnut has only taken one length out of the gap; nevertheless, he goes for the outside, and makes the best rush he can. It's no use. He can't get near her; breaks up again, and crosses the score a long way behind. Much manifestation of boisterous joy among the farmers. Edwards looks sold, and something like a smile passes over Losing's unimpassioned countenance. It is plain sailing for the judges this time. "Lady Suffolk has the heat in 7' 49´´," and there is no mistake or dispute about it.

This time, surprisingly, the horses took off right at the start, and they’re moving at an incredible pace, way too much for Trustee, who is left behind in the first quarter mile. The Lady pulls ahead by three, four, five lengths, and has already claimed the pole before he can regain his stride. Bryan keeps pushing the pace. The mare comes around to the finish in 2´ 33´´, leading by four lengths, and her driver is already working her hard. "She can't keep this up," say the experts; "she's bound to fall behind soon." But she doesn’t fall behind in the second mile at least, because by the end of that, she’s still three lengths ahead, and Trustee doesn’t look as fresh as he did in the last heat. The Long-Islanders are cheering, while the seasoned gamblers look worried. As they come home in the final quarter, the chestnut horse has only cut down the gap by one length; still, he goes for the outside and makes the best charge he can. But it's no use. He can't catch up; he falters again and crosses the finish line well behind. The farmers show plenty of exuberant joy. Edwards looks defeated, and a slight smile crosses Losing's usually expressionless face. The judges have it easy this time. "Lady Suffolk has won the heat in 7' 49´´," and there’s no doubt or argument about it.

Another long pause. Eight minutes' sport and three quarters of an hour intermission among such a company begins to be rather dull work. All the topics of interest afforded by the place have been exhausted. Harrison and Benson begin to talk stocks and investments; the juveniles are comparing their watering place experiences during the summer. Ashburner says nothing, and smokes an indefinite number of cigars; Losing says rather less, and smokes more. Edwards has disappeared; gone, possibly, to talk to the doubtful carriages. It is growing dark before they are ready for the third and decisive heat.

Another long pause. Eight minutes of action and three-quarters of an hour of waiting among this group is starting to feel pretty dull. They've talked about everything interesting the place has to offer. Harrison and Benson start discussing stocks and investments; the younger ones are sharing their summer vacation experiences at the resort. Ashburner doesn’t say anything and smokes an endless number of cigars; Losing says even less and smokes more. Edwards has vanished; probably off to chat with the iffy carriages. It's getting dark before they’re ready for the third and final race.

One false start, and at the second trial they are off. The mare has the inside, in right of having won the preceding heat. She crowds the pace from the start, as usual; but Trustee is better handled this time, and does not break. Case allows the Lady to lead him by three lengths, and keeps his horse at a steady gait, in quiet pursuit of her. For two miles their positions are unaltered; Bryan's friends cheer him vociferously every time as he comes round; he replies by a flourish of his long whip and additional shouts to his mare. In the third mile, Trustee begins to creep up, and in the third quarter of it, just before he gets out of sight from the stand, is only a length and a half behind. When they appear again, there are plenty of anxious lookers-out; and men like our friend Edwards, who have a thousand or more at stake on the result, cannot altogether restrain their emotions. Here they come close enough together! Trustee has lapped the mare on the outside; his head is opposite the front rim of her wheel. Bryan shouts and whips like one possessed; Case's small voice is also lifted up to encourage Trustee. The chestnut is gaining, but only inch by inch, and they are nearly home. Now Case has lifted him with the whip, and he makes a rush and is at her shoulder. Now he will have her. Oh, dear, he has gone up! Hurrah for the old gray! Stay! Case has caught him beautifully; he is on his trot again opposite her wheel. One desperate effort on the part of man and horse, and Trustee shoots by the mare; but not till after she has crossed the score. Lady Suffolk is quite done up; she could not go another quarter; but she has held out long enough to win the heat and the money.[Pg 65]

One false start, and on the second try, they’re off. The mare has the inside advantage because she won the last heat. She pushes the pace from the beginning, as usual; but Trustee is handled better this time and doesn’t break. Case lets the Lady lead him by three lengths and keeps his horse at a steady pace, quietly pursuing her. For two miles, their positions stay the same; Bryan's friends loudly cheer for him each time he comes around; he responds with a flourish of his long whip and more shouts to his mare. In the third mile, Trustee starts to creep up, and in the third quarter of it, just before he disappears from view, he’s only a length and a half behind. When they appear again, there are many anxious watchers; men like our friend Edwards, who have a thousand or more at stake, can’t completely hide their excitement. Here they come close enough together! Trustee has drawn even with the mare on the outside; his head is even with the front rim of her wheel. Bryan shouts and whips like he’s on fire; Case’s small voice also rises to cheer on Trustee. The chestnut is gaining, but only inch by inch, and they’re almost home. Now Case has lifted him with the whip, and he rushes up to her shoulder. Now he’ll have her. Oh no, he’s fallen back! Hurrah for the old gray! Wait! Case has beautifully caught him; he’s back to his trot beside her wheel. One last desperate push from man and horse, and Trustee zooms past the mare; but not until after she’s crossed the finish line. Lady Suffolk is completely spent; she couldn’t go another quarter, but she held on long enough to win the heat and the money.[Pg 65]

And now, as it was somewhere in the neighborhood of seven, and neither Ashburner nor Benson had eaten any thing since eight in the morning, they began to feel very much inclined for dinner, or supper, or something of the sort; and the team travelled back quite as fast as it was safe to go by twilight; a little faster, the Englishman might have thought, if he had not been so hungry. Then, after crossing the Brooklyn ferry, Benson announced his intention of putting up his horses for the night at a livery stable, and himself at Ashburner's hotel, as it was still a long drive for that time of night to Devilshoof; which being agreed upon, they next dived into an oyster cellar, of which there are about two to a block all along Broadway, and ordered an unlimited supply of the agreeable shellfish, broiled;—oyster chops, Ashburner used to call them; and the term gives a stranger a pretty good idea of what these large oysters look like, cooked as they are with crumbs, exactly in the style of a cotelette panée. And they make very nice eating, too; only they promote thirst and induce the consumption of numerous glasses of champagne or brandy and water, as the case may be. Whether this be an objection to them or not, is matter of opinion. Then having adjourned to Ashburner's apartment in the fifth story of the Manhattan hotel (it was a room with an alcove, French fashion), and smoked numerous Firmezas there, the Englishman turned in for the night; and Benson, who had no notion of paying for a bed when he could get a sofa for nothing, disposed himself at full length upon Ashburner's, without taking off any thing except his hat, and was fast asleep in less time than it would take The Sewer to tell a lie.

And now, around seven o'clock, with neither Ashburner nor Benson having eaten anything since eight that morning, they started to feel really hungry for dinner, or supper, or something like that. The team traveled back as quickly as it was safe to go in the twilight—maybe even a bit faster, the Englishman might have thought, if he hadn't been so hungry. After crossing the Brooklyn ferry, Benson said he planned to put his horses up for the night at a livery stable and stay at Ashburner's hotel since it was still a long drive to Devilshoof at that hour. Once they agreed on that, they headed into an oyster cellar, which are about two every block along Broadway, and ordered an unlimited supply of delicious shellfish, broiled;—oyster chops, Ashburner used to call them, and that name gives newcomers a pretty good idea of what these large oysters look like, cooked with crumbs, just like a côtelette panée. They’re also really tasty, but they do make you thirsty, leading to many glasses of champagne or brandy and water, depending on your preference. Whether that’s a downside is up for debate. Afterward, they moved to Ashburner's room on the fifth floor of the Manhattan hotel (it was a room with a French-style alcove), and smoked a bunch of Firmezas there. Then the Englishman turned in for the night, while Benson, who wasn’t interested in paying for a bed when he could crash on a sofa for free, stretched out on Ashburner's couch without taking off anything except his hat, and was fast asleep in less time than it would take for The Sewer to tell a lie.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] The United States government, (U. S.)

The U.S. government,

[5] A very critical friend wants to know if the term dilapidated can, with strict propriety, be applied to a wooden building.

[5] A very critical friend wants to know if the word dilapidated can, with strict accuracy, be used to describe a wooden building.

[6] A horse will "go the pole" in such a time, means that he will go in double harness. A horse "has the pole," means that he has drawn the place nearest the inside boundary fence of the track.

[6] A horse will "go the pole" in such a time, which means that he will go in double harness. A horse "has the pole" means that he is positioned closest to the inside boundary fence of the track.

[7] A five-dollar bill is so called from the designation in Roman numerals upon it.

[7] A five-dollar bill gets its name from the Roman numeral notation printed on it.

From Chamber's Edinburgh Journal.

PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A DUTCH POET.

The name of Wilhelm Bilderdyk is scarcely known beyond the boundaries of his own country; and yet those who are conversant with the Dutch language place him in a very high rank as a poet. The publication of his first poem, Elicus, formed quite an era in the history of Dutch literature. It was speedily followed by a faithful and spirited translation of the Œdipus of Sophocles, and versions of other Greek writers. Besides his imaginative pursuits, he engaged with ardor in the study of geology, and almost rivalled Cuvier in his acquaintance with natural history. War and invasion, however, interrupted the labors of Bilderdyk. He quitted Holland, travelled through Germany, crossed over to England, and finally spent some time amongst the Scottish Highlands, where he employed himself in translating Ossian's poems into Dutch verse. He then went to the principality of Brunswick, and there composed a very extraordinary work, The Maladies of Wise Men, a poem whose mild, lofty sublimity, unearthly interest, and grasp of gloomy thought, entitle it to rank with the Inferno of Dante.

The name Wilhelm Bilderdyk isn't widely known outside his own country, but those familiar with Dutch literature consider him a top poet. The release of his first poem, Elicus, marked a significant moment in Dutch literary history. It was quickly followed by an accurate and lively translation of Sophocles' Œdipus, along with translations of other Greek authors. In addition to his creative work, he passionately studied geology and nearly matched Cuvier in his knowledge of natural history. However, war and invasion disrupted Bilderdyk's efforts. He left Holland, traveled through Germany, went to England, and eventually spent some time in the Scottish Highlands, where he worked on translating Ossian's poems into Dutch verse. He then moved to the principality of Brunswick, where he wrote a remarkable work, The Maladies of Wise Men, a poem that, with its gentle yet profound beauty, otherworldly captivation, and deep themes, deserves to be compared to Dante's Inferno.

Bilderdyk at length was able to return to his country. Louis Napoleon, who then reigned at the Hague, chose him as his instructor in the Dutch language, and named him president of the second class in the Institute of Amsterdam. About this time he married a beautiful and clever girl, named Wilhelmina; and for several years they enjoyed together as perfect happiness as this world can give—she occupied in domestic and maternal duties, and he adding to his fame and fortune by the publication of several works. But at length death visited their dwelling, and removed within a brief space three lovely children. Their loss was commemorated in two poems—Winter Flowers, and The Farewell. Not long afterwards, public misfortune came to aggravate his private sorrows. Louis Napoleon left Holland, and Bilderdyk took refuge at Groningen, where he stayed for some time, and then, rejecting a liberal offer of employment made him by William of Orange, he set out for France, accompanied by his wife.

Bilderdyk was finally able to return to his country. Louis Napoleon, who was ruling in The Hague at that time, chose him to be his Dutch language teacher and appointed him as president of the second class at the Institute of Amsterdam. Around this time, he married a beautiful and intelligent woman named Wilhelmina, and for several years, they enjoyed as much happiness as this world can offer—she took care of their home and children while he gained fame and fortune by publishing several works. However, death soon touched their home, taking away three of their lovely children in a short period. Their loss was memorialized in two poems—Winter Flowers and The Farewell. Not long after, public misfortune added to his personal grief. Louis Napoleon left the Netherlands, and Bilderdyk sought refuge in Groningen, where he stayed for a while. Then, turning down a generous job offer from William of Orange, he left for France with his wife.

When they entered the diligence, they found it occupied but by one person, a young female of mild and engaging appearance. No sooner did the heavy machine begin to move than she began to scream, and testified the most absurd degree of terror. Public carriages then were certainly far inferior, both in safety and accommodation, to those of modern times; yet the probable amount of danger to be apprehended did not by any means justify the excessive apprehension manifested by the fair traveller. On arriving at Brussels, the lady was so much overcome that she announced her intention of stopping some days in that city to recruit her strength before venturing again to encounter the perils of a diligence; and taking leave of Bilderdyk and his wife, she gratefully thanked the latter for the kind attention she had shown her during the journey. The two Hollanders proceeded on their way to Paris, laughing heartily from time to time at the foolish cowardice of a woman who saw a precipice in every rut, and a certain overturn in every jolt of the wheels.

When they got into the coach, they found it occupied by just one person, a young woman with a gentle and appealing look. As soon as the heavy vehicle started moving, she began to scream, showing an absurd level of fear. Back then, public carriages were definitely much less safe and comfortable than those today; however, the likely danger involved didn’t at all justify the extreme fear displayed by the young traveler. Upon arriving in Brussels, the woman was so overwhelmed that she decided to stay for a few days in the city to regain her strength before daring to face the dangers of traveling by coach again. After saying goodbye to Bilderdyk and his wife, she expressed her gratitude to the latter for the kind care she had given her during the trip. The two Dutch travelers continued on to Paris, laughing heartily now and then at the silly cowardice of a woman who saw a cliff in every bump and a certain crash in every jolt of the wheels.

Arrived at their journey's end, the travellers took up their abode in a humble dwelling in the Rue Richelieu, and commenced with the utmost delight visiting all the wonderful things in Paris. Bilderdyk soon found himself completely in his element. He breakfasted with Cuvier at the Jardin des Plantes, passed his afternoon at the Bibliothèque Richelieu, dined in the Faubourg St. Germain with Dr. Alibert, and finished the evening at the play or the opera. One day he and his wife were given excellent places for witnessing the ascent in a balloon of a young woman, Mme. Blanchard, whose reckless courage enabled her to undertake aërial voyages,[Pg 66] despite the sad fate which befell Pilastre de Rosiers, her own husband, and several other aëronauts. Our Hollanders amused themselves for some time with watching the process of inflating the balloon, and following with their eyes the course of the tiny messenger-balloons sent up to ascertain the direction of the upper currents of wind. At length all is ready, the band strikes up a lively air, and Mme. Blanchard, dressed in white and crowned with roses, appears, holding a small gay flag in her hand. With the most graceful composure she placed herself in the boat, the cords were loosed, and the courageous adventuress, borne rapidly upwards in her perilous vehicle, soon appeared like a dark spot in the sky.

Arriving at the end of their journey, the travelers settled into a modest home on Rue Richelieu and eagerly began exploring all the amazing sights in Paris. Bilderdyk quickly found himself in his element. He had breakfast with Cuvier at the Jardin des Plantes, spent his afternoon at the Bibliothèque Richelieu, dined in Faubourg St. Germain with Dr. Alibert, and ended the evening at the theater or the opera. One day, he and his wife were given great seats to watch the ascent of a young woman, Mme. Blanchard, who, with her daring spirit, took to the skies despite the tragic fate that had befallen Pilastre de Rosiers, her husband, and several other balloonists. The Dutch couple entertained themselves for a while by watching the process of inflating the balloon and following the tiny messenger balloons sent up to check the direction of the upper wind currents. Finally, everything was ready, the band began to play a lively tune, and Mme. Blanchard, dressed in white and adorned with roses, appeared, waving a small colorful flag. With graceful poise, she got into the basket, the ropes were released, and the brave adventurer, quickly rising in her risky craft, soon became just a dark spot in the sky.

When he returned to his lodging, Bilderdyk composed a poem in honor of the brave woman who adventured her life so boldly, rivalling the free birds of heaven in her flight, and beholding the stars face to face. Next morning he hastened to get his production printed, and without considering that Mme. Blanchard most likely did not understand Dutch, he repaired to her lodgings with a copy of the poem in his hand, intending to ask permission to present it to her. He was courteously invited to enter the drawing-room, and there, to his great amazement, he found himself tête-à-tête with the silly, frightened lady, whose nervous tremors in the Brussels diligence had afforded so much amusement to him and his wife. Surprised and disconcerted, he was beginning to apologize, when the lady interrupted him.

When he got back to his place, Bilderdyk wrote a poem to honor the brave woman who risked her life so fearlessly, soaring like the free birds of the sky and gazing at the stars up close. The next morning, he rushed to get his poem printed, and without thinking that Mme. Blanchard probably didn't understand Dutch, he went to her place with a copy of the poem in hand, planning to ask for her permission to present it to her. He was politely invited into the living room, and there, to his great surprise, he found himself alone with the silly, anxious lady, whose nervous fidgeting on the Brussels coach had amused him and his wife so much. Taken aback and flustered, he started to apologize when the lady interrupted him.

"Monsieur," she said, "you are not mistaken. I am Mme. Blanchard. You see how possible it is for the same person to be cowardly in a coach, and courageous in a balloon."

"Monsieur," she said, "you’re not wrong. I am Mme. Blanchard. You can see how it’s possible for someone to be cowardly in a carriage and brave in a hot air balloon."

A good deal of conversation ensued, the poem was timidly offered, and graciously accepted; and the fair aëronaut accepted an invitation to dine that day with Bilderdyk and his wife. In the course of the evening Mme. Blanchard related to them some curious circumstances in her life. Her mother kept a humble wayside inn near La Rochelle, while her father worked in the fields. One day a balloon descended near their door, and out of it was taken a man, severely but not dangerously bruised. Her parents received him with the utmost hospitality, and supplied him with all the comforts they could give. He had no money wherewith to repay them, but as he was about to depart, he remarked that the mistress of the house was very near her confinement, and he said: "Listen, and mark my words. Fortune cannot always desert me. In sixteen years, if alive, I will return hither. If the child who will soon be born to you should be a boy, I will then adopt him; if a girl, I will marry her!"

A lot of conversation followed, the poem was shyly shared, and graciously accepted; and the lovely aëronaut accepted an invitation to dinner that day with Bilderdyk and his wife. During the evening, Mme. Blanchard shared some interesting stories from her life. Her mother ran a small inn near La Rochelle, while her father worked in the fields. One day, a balloon landed near their door, and a man, badly but not seriously hurt, was taken out. Her parents welcomed him with great hospitality and provided him with all the comforts they could offer. He had no money to repay them, but as he was about to leave, he noted that the lady of the house was very close to giving birth, saying: "Listen and remember my words. Fortune will not always be against me. In sixteen years, if I'm still alive, I will return here. If the child who is about to be born is a boy, I will adopt him; if it’s a girl, I will marry her!"

The worthy peasants laughed heartily at this strange method of paying a bill; and although they allowed their guest to depart, they certainly built very little on his promise. The aëronaut, however, kept his word, and at the end of sixteen years re-appeared at the inn, then inhabited by only a fair young girl, very lately left an orphan. She willingly accepted Jean Pierre Blanchard as a husband, and for a short time they lived happily together; but during an ascent which he made in Holland, he was seized with apoplexy, and fell to the ground from a height of sixty feet. The unhappy aëronaut was not killed on the spot, but lingered for some time in frightful torture, carefully and fondly attended by his wife, whom at length he left a young and penniless widow.

The honest farmers laughed heartily at this odd way of settling a bill; and although they let their guest leave, they didn’t really count on his promise. However, the balloonist kept his word and returned to the inn after sixteen years, which was now run by a young girl who had recently become an orphan. She gladly accepted Jean Pierre Blanchard as her husband, and for a little while, they enjoyed a happy life together; but during a flight he made in Holland, he suffered a stroke and fell from a height of sixty feet. The unfortunate balloonist didn’t die immediately but endured horrific pain for some time, being cared for lovingly by his wife, whom he eventually left as a young and broke widow.

Marie Madeleine Blanchard, despite her natural timidity, resolved to adopt her husband's perilous profession. Pride and necessity combined do wonders; and not only did she succeed in maintaining perfect composure while in the air, but she also displayed wonderful presence of mind during the time of danger. On one occasion she ascended in her balloon from Nantes, intending to come down at about four leagues from that town, in what she believed to be a large meadow. While rapidly descending, the cordage of the balloon became entangled in the branches of a tree, and she found herself suspended over a vast green marsh, whose treacherous mud would infallibly ingulf her. Drawn to the spot by her cries, several peasants came to her assistance, and with considerable difficulty and danger succeeded in placing her on terra firma.

Marie Madeleine Blanchard, despite being naturally shy, decided to take on her husband's dangerous profession. A mix of pride and necessity can lead to amazing results; not only did she manage to stay calm while in the air, but she also showed incredible quick thinking during times of danger. One time, she took off in her balloon from Nantes, planning to land about four leagues away in what she thought would be a big meadow. As she was descending quickly, the balloon's ropes got caught in the branches of a tree, leaving her hanging over a vast green marsh, where the dangerous mud would surely swallow her up. Hearing her cries, several peasants rushed to help her and, despite facing significant difficulty and risk, managed to get her safely back on solid ground.

On the day following the one on which she dined with M. and Mme. Bilderdyk, Mme. Blanchard left Paris, promising her two friends, as she bade them farewell, that she would soon return. Time passed on, however, and they heard nothing of her. They were preparing to return to Holland, when some of Bilderdyk's countrymen residing in Paris resolved to give him a banquet on the eve of his departure.

On the day after her dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Bilderdyk, Mrs. Blanchard left Paris, telling her two friends goodbye and promising that she would return soon. However, time went by, and they heard nothing from her. They were getting ready to go back to Holland when some of Bilderdyk's fellow countrymen living in Paris decided to throw him a farewell dinner the night before his departure.

The entertainment took place at a celebrated restaurant, situated at the angle formed by the Rue Cauchat and the Rue de Provence. While enjoying themselves at table, the guests suddenly perceived the windows darkened by the passing of some large black object. With one accord they rose and ran out: a woman lay on the pavement, pale, crushed, and dead. Bilderdyk gave a cry—it was Mme. Blanchard! In what a guise to meet her again! Encouraged by the constant impunity of her perilous ascensions, the unhappy aëronaut (the word I believe has no feminine), finding a formidable rival in Mlle. Garnerin, resolved to surpass her in daring by augmenting the risk of her aërial voyages. For this purpose she lighted up her balloon car with colored lamps, and carried with her a supply of fireworks. On the sixth of July, 1819, she rose from amid a vast concourse of spectators. The balloon caught in one of the[Pg 67] trees in the Champs-Elysées, but without regarding the augury, Mme. Blanchard threw out ballast, and as she rose rapidly in the air she spilled a quantity of lighting spirits of wine, and then sent off rockets and Roman candles. Suddenly, with horror, the mass of upturned eyes beheld the balloon take fire. One piercing shriek from above mingled with the affrighted cries of the crowd below, and then some object was seen to detach itself from the fiery globe. As it came near the earth, it was recognized as the body of the ill-fated Mme. Blanchard.

The entertainment was held at a famous restaurant located at the corner of Rue Cauchat and Rue de Provence. While the guests were enjoying their meal, they suddenly noticed the windows darkening due to the passing of a large black object. They all got up and ran outside: a woman lay on the pavement, pale, crushed, and dead. Bilderdyk screamed—it was Mme. Blanchard! What a shocking way to see her again! Encouraged by the repeated success of her dangerous ascents, the unfortunate aviator (I believe there's no feminine form of that term), facing fierce competition from Mlle. Garnerin, decided to outdo her by increasing the risk of her aerial exploits. To do this, she lit her balloon car with colored lamps and brought along fireworks. On July 6, 1819, she took off in front of a large crowd of spectators. The balloon got caught in one of the trees in the Champs-Elysées, but ignoring the bad omen, Mme. Blanchard discarded ballast, and as she rapidly ascended into the sky, she spilled a considerable amount of flammable spirits and then launched rockets and Roman candles. Suddenly, in horror, the crowd looked up to see the balloon catch fire. A piercing scream from above mingled with the terrified cries of the crowd below, and then something detached itself from the burning balloon. As it neared the ground, it was recognized as the body of the doomed Mme. Blanchard.

Weeping and trembling, Bilderdyk aided in raising the disfigured corpse, and wrapped it up in the net-work of the balloon, which the hands still grasped firmly. The shock, acting on his excitable temperament, threw him into a dangerous illness, from which, however, he recovered, and returned to his native country. There he published an admirable treatise, "The Theory of Vegetable Organization," and a poem entitled, "The Destruction of the Primeval World." A French critic has placed this latter work in the same rank with "Paradise Lost," and says: "Old Milton has nothing finer, more energetic, or more vast, in his immortal work." An English critic, however, would probably scarcely concur in this judgment.

Weeping and trembling, Bilderdyk helped lift the disfigured body and wrapped it in the network of the balloon, which the hands still held tightly. The shock, affecting his sensitive temperament, caused him to fall seriously ill, but he eventually recovered and returned to his home country. There, he published an excellent treatise titled "The Theory of Vegetable Organization" and a poem called "The Destruction of the Primeval World." A French critic has rated this latter work alongside "Paradise Lost," stating, "Old Milton has nothing finer, more powerful, or more vast in his immortal work." An English critic, however, would probably not agree with this assessment.

Bilderdyk died in the town of Haarlem on the 18th of December, 1831.

Bilderdyk passed away in the town of Haarlem on December 18, 1831.

From Household Words.

OUR PHANTOM SHIP: CHINA.

Since a typhoon occurs not much oftener than once in about three years, it would be odd if we should sail immediately into one; but we are fairly in the China seas, which are the typhoon's own peculiar sporting ground, and it is desperately sultry, and those clouds are full of night and lightning, to say nothing of a fitful gale and angry sea. Look out! There is the coast of China. Now for a telescope to see the barren, dingy hills, with clay and granite peeping out, with a few miserable trees and stunted firs. That is our first sight of the flowery land, and we shall not get another yet, for the spray begins to blind us; it is quite as much as we can do to see each other. Now the wind howls and tears the water up, as if it would extract the great waves by their roots, like so many of old Ocean's teeth; but he kicks sadly at the operation. We are driven by the wild blast that snaps our voices short off at the lips and carries them away; no words are audible. We are among a mass of spars and men wild as the storm on drifting broken junks; a vessel founders in our sight, and we are cast, with dead and living, upon half a dozen wrecks entangled in a mass, upon the shore of Hong Kong;—ourselves safe, of course, for we have left at home whatever could be bruised upon the journey. How many houses have been blown away like hats, how many rivers have been driven back to swell canals and flood the fields, (whose harvest has been prematurely cropped on the first warning of the typhoon's intended visit,) we decline investigating. The evening sky is very wild, and we were all last night under the typhoon at sea; to-night we are in the new town of Victoria, and will be phantom bed-fellows to any Chinaman who has been eating pork for supper. The Chinese are very fond of pork, or any thing that causes oiliness in man. A lean man forfeits something in their estimation; for they say, "He must have foolishness; why has he wanted wisdom to eat more?"

Since a typhoon happens only about once every three years, it would be strange if we sailed straight into one; but we're deep in the China seas, which are the typhoon's favorite playground, and it's really sultry, with those clouds heavy with night and lightning, not to mention a restless wind and choppy sea. Look out! There’s the coast of China. Now we need a telescope to see the barren, dull hills, with clay and granite peeking through, along with a few scraggly trees and stunted pines. That’s our first glimpse of the beautiful land, and we won’t get another for a while, as the spray starts to blind us; it’s tough to even see each other. Now the wind is howling, ripping up the water as if trying to uproot the huge waves, like old Ocean’s teeth; but it’s not happy about it. We're being tossed by the wild wind, which cuts off our words before we can even say them; no one can hear anything. We're caught among a jumble of broken masts and men just as wild as the storm on drifting wreckage; we see a ship sinking before our eyes, and we end up, with the dead and the living, clinging to several wrecks tangled together on the shore of Hong Kong;—of course we’re safe since we’ve left behind anything that could get damaged on the journey. We won’t even look into how many houses have been swept away like hats, or how many rivers have been forced back to swell canals and flood fields (whose crops have been harvested prematurely at the first hint of the typhoon’s approach). The evening sky is quite dramatic, and we were all out at sea under the typhoon last night; tonight we find ourselves in the new town of Victoria, and we’ll be like ghostly bedmates to any Chinaman who had pork for dinner. The Chinese really like pork, or anything that makes a person oily. A lean man loses points in their eyes; they say, "He must be foolish; why doesn't he have the sense to eat more?"

Hong Kong was one of the upshots of our cannonading in the pure and holy Chinese war; and as for the new town of Victoria, we shall walk out of it at once, for we have not travelled all this way to look at Englishmen. The island itself is eight or ten miles long, and sometimes two or sometimes six miles broad. It is the model of a grand mountain region on a scale of two inches to the foot. There are crags, ravines, wild torrents, fern-covered hills; but the highest mountain does not rise two thousand feet.—We stand upon it now. Quite contrary to usual experience, we found, in coming up, the richest flowers at the greatest elevation. The heat and dryness of the air below, where the sun's rays are reflected from bare surfaces, is said to be oppressive, and perhaps the flowers down there want a pleasant shade. From our elevation we can see few patches of cultivation, but leaping down the rocks are many picturesque cascades. Hong Kong is christened from its own waters, its name signifying in Chinese "the Island of Fragrant Streams." There is a goat upon the nearest rock; but look beyond. On one side is the bay, with shipping, and behind us the broad expanse of the ocean; and before us is the sea, studded as far as our eyes can reach with mountainous islands, among which we must sail to reach Canton. Now we float onward in the Phantom, and among these islands our sharp eyes discover craft that have more hands on board than usually man an honest vessel. In the holes and corners of the islands pirates lurk to prey upon the traffic of Canton. We pass Macao on our way into the Canton river. Portugal was a nation of quality once, with a strong constitution, and in those days, once upon a time, wrecked Portuguese gained leave to dry a cargo on the Island of Macao. They erected sheds a little stronger than were necessary for that temporary purpose; in fact, they turned the accident to good account, and established here an infant settlement, which soon grew to maintain itself, and sent money home occasionally to assist its mother. Twice the Emperor of China offered to make Macao an emporium for European trade; the Portuguese preferred to be exclusive. So the settlement fell sick, and since the English made Hong Kong a place of active trade, very few[Pg 68] people trouble themselves to inquire whether Macao be dead yet, or only dying. The Portuguese town has a mournful aspect, marked as it is by strong lines of character that indicate departed power.

Hong Kong was one of the results of our bombardment in the so-called righteous Chinese war, and as for the new town of Victoria, we'll just walk right out of it because we didn't come all this way to see English people. The island is about eight to ten miles long and varies between two and six miles wide. It’s like a miniature version of a grand mountain range. There are cliffs, valleys, rushing streams, and hills covered in ferns; but the highest peak doesn’t reach two thousand feet.—We’re standing on it now. Contrary to what we usually find, we discovered the most vibrant flowers at the highest altitudes. The heat and dryness below, where the sun beats down on bare surfaces, are said to be unbearable, and maybe the flowers down there are looking for some nice shade. From up here, we can see only a few small patches of farmland, but there are many beautiful waterfalls cascading down the rocks. Hong Kong gets its name from its waters, meaning in Chinese "the Island of Fragrant Streams." There’s a goat on the nearest rock; but look further. On one side is the bay with ships, and behind us stretches the ocean; ahead of us is the sea, dotted with mountainous islands that we must navigate through to reach Canton. Now we’re moving ahead in the Phantom, and among these islands, we notice boats that have more crew on board than typically man a legitimate vessel. In the nooks and crannies of the islands, pirates lie in wait to target the trade from Canton. We pass by Macao on our way into the Canton river. Portugal used to be a powerful nation with a strong presence, and in the past, shipwrecked Portuguese were allowed to dry their goods on the Island of Macao. They built shelters a bit sturdier than what was needed for that temporary purpose; in fact, they turned that mishap into a good opportunity and created an early settlement, which soon became self-sustaining and occasionally sent money back home to help its mother country. Twice, the Emperor of China offered to make Macao a hub for European trade, but the Portuguese chose to keep it exclusive. As a result, the settlement declined, and since the English made Hong Kong a bustling trade center, very few people bother to check if Macao is completely dead or just fading away. The Portuguese town has a gloomy look, marked by strong characteristics that show its once-great power.

Still sailing among islands, mountainous and barren, we soon reach the Bocca Tigris, or mouth of the Canton river, guarded now with very formidable forts. The Chinese, since their war with England, have been profiting by sore experience. If their gunnery be as completely mended as their fortifications, another war with them would not be quite so much like an attack of grown men upon children. The poor Chinese, in that war, were indefatigable in the endeavor to keep up appearances. Steam ships were scarcely worth attention—they had "plenty all the same inside:" and when the first encounter, near the spot on which we are now sailing, between junks and men-of-war, had exhibited the tragedy, in flesh and bone, of John Bull in a China-shop, the Chinese Symonds, at Ningpo, was ordered to build ships exactly like the British. He could not execute the order, and played, therefore, executioner upon himself. Cannon were next ordered, that should be large enough to destroy a ship at one burst. They were made, and the first monster tried, immediately burst and killed its three attendants; nobody could be induced to fire the others. One morning, a British fleet was very much surprised to see the shore look formidable with a line of cannon mouths. The telescope, which had formed no part of the Chinese calculations, discovered them to be a row of earthern pots. Forts, in the same way, often turned out to be dummies made of matting, with the portholes painted; and sometimes real cannon, mere three pounders, had their fronts turned to the sea, plugged with blocks of wood, cut and so painted as to resemble the mouths of thirty-two pounders shotted. However, we have passed real strong forts and veritable heavy cannon, to get through the Bocca Tigris. Nothing is barren now; the river widens, and looks like an inland sea; the flat land near the shores is richly cultivated; rice is there and upon the islands, all protected with embankments to admit or exclude the flood in its due season, or provided with wheels for raising water where the land is too high to be flooded in a simpler manner. The embankments, too, yield plantain crops. The water on each side is gay with water lilies, which are cultivated for their roots. Banyan and fig-trees, cypress, orange, water-pines, and weeping willows, grow beside the stream, with other trees; but China is not to be called a richly timbered country; most of its districts are deficient in large trees. There is the Whampoa Pagoda; there are more pagodas, towers, joss-houses; here are the European factories, and here are boats, boats, boats, literally, hundreds of thousands of boats—the sea-going junk, gorgeous with griffins, and with proverbs, and with painted eyes; the flower boat; boats of all shapes, and sizes, down to the barber's boat, which barely holds the barber and his razor. There is a city on the water, and the dwellers in these boats, who whether men or women, dive and swim so naturally that they may all be fishes, curiously claim their kindred with the earth. On every boat, a little soil and a few flowers, are as essential as the little joss-house and the little joss. Canals flow from the river through Canton; every where, over the mud, upon the water side are wooden houses built on piles. But here we will not go ashore; the suburbs of Canton are full of thieves, and little boys who shout fan-qui (foreign devil) after all barbarians, and we should not be welcome in the city; so we will not go where we shall not be welcome. After floating up and down the streets and lanes of water made between the boats upon the Canton river, pleased with the strange music, the gongs, and the incessant chattering of women, (Chinese women are pre-eminent as chatterers,) we sail away. We do not wait even till night to wonder at the scene by lantern light; but returning by the way we came, repass the rice fields, the water lilies, and the forts, the islands, and Macao, and Hong Kong, and have again before us the expanse of ocean. Canton lies within the tropic; sugar-cane grown in its vicinity yields brown sugar and candy; but our lump sugar is a luxury to which the Chinese have not yet attained. Canton lying within the tropic, we shall change our climate on the journey northward. An empire that engrosses nearly a tenth part of the globe, and includes the largest population gathered under any single government, will have many climates in its eighteen provinces. Now we are sailing swiftly northward by a barren rocky coast, with sometimes hills of sand, and sometimes cultivated patches, and, except for the pagodas on the highest elevations, we might fancy we were off the coast of Scotland.

Still sailing among mountainous and barren islands, we soon reach the Bocca Tigris, the mouth of the Canton River, now guarded by very formidable forts. The Chinese, after their war with England, have learned from painful experience. If their artillery is as improved as their fortifications, another war with them wouldn’t feel like an attack on children anymore. During that war, the Chinese put in relentless effort to maintain appearances. Steam ships barely caught their attention—they claimed to have “plenty all the same inside.” When the first encounter near where we are now sailing, between junks and warships, showed the chaos of John Bull in a china shop, the Chinese Symonds at Ningpo was instructed to build ships just like the British ones. He couldn’t carry out the order and consequently took his own life. Next, they ordered cannons that would be powerful enough to destroy a ship with one blast. They were made, but the first one exploded and killed three attendants; no one would fire the others. One morning, a British fleet was surprised to see the shore lined with cannon. However, a telescope—which hadn't been part of the Chinese calculations—revealed they were just a row of earthen pots. Similarly, forts often turned out to be dummies made of matting with painted portholes, and sometimes real cannons, mere three pounders, were facing the sea, with their barrels blocked with wood cut to look like the fronts of thirty-two pounders. Nevertheless, we have passed real strong forts and genuine heavy cannons to get through the Bocca Tigris. Now nothing is barren; the river widens and resembles an inland sea. The flat land near the shores is richly cultivated, with rice growing both there and on the islands, all protected by embankments to manage floods or equipped with wheels to raise water where the ground is too high. The embankments also yield plantain crops. The water on each side is vibrant with water lilies, cultivated for their roots. Banyan and fig trees, cypress, orange, water-pines, and weeping willows grow alongside the stream, along with other trees, but China isn’t considered a richly timbered country; many areas lack large trees. There’s the Whampoa Pagoda; there are more pagodas, towers, joss-houses; here are the European factories, and here are boats—literally, hundreds of thousands of them—the sea-going junk, adorned with griffins, proverbs, and painted eyes; the flower boat; boats of all shapes and sizes, down to the barber's boat, which barely holds the barber and his razor. There’s a floating city, and the people in these boats, regardless of whether they're men or women, dive and swim so effortlessly that they could easily be mistaken for fish, yet they still have ties to the land. On every boat, having a little soil and a few flowers is as essential as the small joss-house and the little joss. Canals flow from the river through Canton; everywhere, over the mud and along the water’s edge are wooden houses built on stilts. But we won’t go ashore here; the outskirts of Canton are filled with thieves and little boys who shout fan-qui (foreign devil) after all foreigners, and we wouldn't be welcome in the city; so we won’t go where we won’t be welcomed. After drifting through the water streets and lanes among the boats on the Canton River, enjoying the strange sounds of gongs and the nonstop chatter of women (Chinese women are well-known for their chattiness), we set sail again. We don’t even wait until night to marvel at the scene by lantern light; instead, we head back the way we came, passing the rice fields, water lilies, forts, islands, and then Macao and Hong Kong, and again we face the vast ocean. Canton lies within the tropics; the sugar cane grown nearby produces brown sugar and candy, but our lump sugar remains a luxury the Chinese haven’t yet achieved. Being that Canton is within the tropics, we will change climates as we travel northward. An empire covering nearly a tenth of the globe, with the largest population under a single government, has many climates across its eighteen provinces. Now we’re sailing swiftly northward alongside a barren rocky coast, with occasional hills of sand and cultivated patches, and if it weren't for the pagodas on the highest points, we might think we were off the coast of Scotland.

Five ports are open to our trade upon the coast of China; one of these, Canton, we have merely looked at, and the next, Amoy, we pass unvisited in sailing up between the mainland and Formosa. Amoy produces the best Chinese sailors, and it is in this port that the native junks have most experience of foreign trade; it is a dirty, densely-peopled town, too distant from the tea and silk regions to be of prominent importance to the Europeans. As soon as we have passed through the Formosa channel, we direct our course towards the river Min, and steering safely among rocks and sand-banks, among which is a rock cleft into five pyramids, regarded with a sort of worship by the sailors, we float up the river to the third of the five cities, Foo-chow-foo. The river varies in width, sometimes a mile across, where it is flowing between plains, sometimes confined between the hills; a hilly[Pg 69] country is about us, with some mountains nearly twice as high as those up which we clambered at Hong-Kong. We pass, after a few miles' sail, the little town and fort of Mingan; we sail among pagodas and temples, near which the priests plant dark spreading fig-trees, terraced hills, yielding earth-nuts and sweet potatoes; we see cultivation carried up some mountain sides beyond two thousand feet, and barren mountains, granite rocks, islands, and villages; here and there more wooded tracts than usually belong to a Chinese landscape, rills of water and cascades that tumble down into the Min. We have sailed up the river twenty miles, and here is Foo-chow-foo. We have met on our way a good many junks, having wood lashed to their sides; and here we see acres of wood (chiefly pine) afloat before the suburbs, for here wood is a main article of trade. We pass under the bridge Wanshow ("myriads of ages"), which connects the suburbs on each bank; it is a bridge of granite slabs, supported upon fifty pillars of strong masonry, the whole about two thousand feet in length. The suburbs happen just now to be flooded, and the large Tartar population here delights in mobbing a barbarian. This inhospitable character repels men, while the floods and rapids of the river and its tributaries, causes an uncertainty of transit, tend also to keep European traders out of Foo-chow-foo. True, the bohea tea hills are in the vicinity, but their bohea tea has not a first-rate character, and the great seat of the tea trade is yet farther north. The city walls are eight or nine miles in circumference; but we will not enter their gates for all Chinese cities have a close resemblance to each other; it is enough to visit one, and we can do better than visit this. We sail back to the sea again, and there resume our northward voyage. We have seen part of the mountainous or hilly half of China; farther north, between the two great rivers, and beyond them to the famous Wall, is a great plain studded in parts with lakes or swamps, and very fertile.

Five ports are open to our trade along the coast of China; one of these, Canton, we have only glanced at, and the next, Amoy, we pass by without stopping as we sail between the mainland and Formosa. Amoy is known for having the best Chinese sailors, and it’s here that the local junks have the most experience with foreign trade; however, it’s a dirty, crowded town and too far from the tea and silk regions to be of significant importance to Europeans. After passing through the Formosa channel, we head toward the river Min, carefully navigating through rocks and sandbanks, including one rock split into five pyramid-like shapes, which sailors regard with a sort of reverence. We then float up the river to the third of the five cities, Foo-chow-foo. The river changes in width, sometimes stretching a mile across as it flows between plains and at other times narrowing between hills; a hilly countryside surrounds us, with some mountains nearly twice as tall as those we climbed in Hong Kong. After sailing a few miles, we pass the small town and fort of Mingan; we navigate among pagodas and temples, where priests plant dark, sprawling fig trees, and terraced hills yield earth-nuts and sweet potatoes. We observe cultivation extending up some mountain sides beyond two thousand feet, along with barren mountains, granite rocks, islands, and villages. There are areas with more wooded tracts than typically found in a Chinese landscape, with streams and waterfalls cascading into the Min. After sailing up the river for twenty miles, we arrive at Foo-chow-foo. Along the way, we’ve encountered a number of junks with wood tied to their sides, and here we see acres of floating wood (mostly pine) in front of the suburbs, as wood is a major trade item here. We pass under the Wanshow ("myriads of ages") bridge, which links the suburbs on either bank; this bridge is made of granite slabs supported by fifty sturdy masonry pillars, and it stretches about two thousand feet in length. Currently, the suburbs are flooded, and the large Tartar population enjoys mobbing a foreigner. This unwelcoming atmosphere discourages visitors, while the floods and rapids of the river and its tributaries create uncertainties in transit, further keeping European traders out of Foo-chow-foo. True, the bohea tea hills are nearby, but their bohea tea isn’t of top-notch quality, and the main hub of the tea trade is even further north. The city walls stretch eight or nine miles in circumference; however, we won’t enter their gates since all Chinese cities have a striking similarity to one another; visiting one is sufficient, and we can find better places to explore. We sail back to the sea and continue our northward journey. We’ve seen part of China’s mountainous or hilly region; further north, between the two great rivers and beyond to the famous Wall, lies a vast plain dotted with lakes or swamps, and it’s very fertile.

Far westward, we might journey to the high central table-land of Asia, where there are extensive levels; but the seaward provinces are the most fertile; and as for the Chinese themselves, they are in all places very much alike—in body as in character. But sailing in our ship, and talking of those plains, we may naturally recall to our minds those ancient days when the Chinese, civilised then as now, guided their chariots across a pathless level on the land by the same instrument that guides our ship across a pathless level on the water.

Far to the west, we could travel to the high central plateau of Asia, where there are vast plains; however, the coastal regions are the most fertile. As for the Chinese people, they are very similar everywhere—in appearance and in character. While sailing in our ship and discussing those plains, we can easily remember those ancient times when the Chinese, just as civilized then as they are now, drove their chariots across a featureless landscape using the same tool that navigates our ship across an open sea.

The coast by which we sail is studded with islands, and to reach Ningpo, the fourth of the five ports, we pass between the mainland and the island of Chusan. The water here is quite hemmed in with islands forming the Chusan Archipelago. Chusan is like a piece of the Scotch Highlands, twenty miles long, and ten or twelve broad, with rich vegetation added. Forty miles' sail from Chusan brings us to Ningpo. Amongst the numerous islands past which we have floated, we should have found, on many, characters not quite Chinese. One island, visited for water by one of our ships, was said to be an Eden for its innocence. Crime was unknown among the islanders: and at a grave look or a slight tap with a fan, the wrong-doer invariably desisted from his evil course. The simplicity of the natives here consisted in the fact, that they expected credit for the character they gave themselves. On another island, the natives entertained snug notions of a warm bed in the winter. Their bed was a stone trough; in winter they spread at the bottom of this trough hot embers, and over these a large stone, over that their bedding, and then tucked themselves comfortably in.

The coast we’re sailing along is dotted with islands, and to reach Ningpo, the fourth of the five ports, we navigate between the mainland and the island of Chusan. The water here is quite confined with islands forming the Chusan Archipelago. Chusan resembles a piece of the Scottish Highlands, twenty miles long and ten or twelve miles wide, with lush vegetation added. After a forty-mile sail from Chusan, we arrive at Ningpo. Among the many islands we’ve passed, we would have found that some had signs of not being entirely Chinese. One island, where one of our ships stopped for water, was said to be like Eden for its innocence. Crime was unknown among the islanders; with just a serious look or a gentle tap with a fan, the wrongdoer would stop their bad behavior. The simplicity of the locals here lay in their expectation that they deserved credit for the good reputation they claimed. On another island, the locals had cozy ideas about a warm bed in winter. Their bed was a stone trough; in winter, they would place hot embers at the bottom of this trough, then put a large stone on top, lay their bedding over that, and then tuck themselves in comfortably.

Ningpo, with its bridge of boats and Chinese shipping and pagodas, has a picturesque appearance from the river. It is large, populous, and wealthy; a place to which the merchant may retire to spend his gains, more than a port for active and hard working commerce. That is the reason why we will not land at Ningpo. Where, then, shall we land? If you have no objection, at Shangae, the fifth and most important, although not the largest, of these ports. But sea life is monotonous, and therefore we will take five minutes' diversion ashore, after we have sailed some twenty miles up this canal. Here we will land under an avenue of pines, and walk up to a Buddhist temple. We are in the centre of the green-tea district.

Ningpo, with its boat bridges, Chinese shipping, and pagodas, looks beautiful from the river. It’s a large, populated, and wealthy place; somewhere a merchant can retire to enjoy his profits, rather than just a busy port for hard commerce. That’s why we won’t be landing at Ningpo. So, where should we go instead? If you don’t mind, let’s land at Shangae, the fifth and most significant, although not the biggest, of these ports. However, sea life can get dull, so we’ll take a quick five-minute break onshore after sailing about twenty miles up this canal. We’ll land under a row of pines and walk up to a Buddhist temple. We’re in the heart of the green-tea region.

The priests, belonging, for a wonder, to a simple-minded class, receive us, of course hospitably. The stranger is at all times welcome to a lodging, and to his portion of the Buddhist vegetable dinner. These priests are like some of our monks in mendicancy charity, and superstition. In the pagodas they always have a meal prepared for the arrival of a hungry traveller. But hungry we are not; and we came hither to see the tea-plantations; these we now seek out. They are small farms upon the lower slopes of hills; the soil is rich; it must be rich, or the tea-plant would not long endure the frequent stripping of its leaves, which usage does of course sooner or later kill it. Each plant is at a distance of about four feet from its neighbors, and the plantations look like little shrubberies. The small proprietors inhabit wretched-looking cabins, in which each of them has fixed a flue and coppers for the drying of his tea. In the appearance of the people there is nothing wretched; old men sit at their doors like patriarchs, expecting and receiving reverence; young men, balancing bales across their shoulders, travel out, and some return with strings of copper money; the chief tea-harvest is over, and the merchants have come down now to the little inns about the district, that each husbandman[Pg 70] may offer them his produce. There are three tea-making seasons. The first is in the middle of April, just before the rains, when the first leaves of spring are plucked; these make the choicest tea, but their removal tries the vigor of the plant. Then come the rains; the tea-plant pushes out new leaves, and already in May the plantation is again dark with foliage; that is the season of the second, the great gathering. A later gathering of coarse leaves yields an inferior tea, scarcely worth exporting. It should be understood that although black and green tea are both made from the same kind of leaf, there really are two tea-plants. The plant cultivated at Canton for black tea, and known in our gardens as Thea Bohea, differs from the Thea viridis, which yields the harvest here. The Canton plant, however, is not cultivated in the North; on the Bohea hills themselves, speaking botanically, there grows no Bohea tea; the plant there, also, is the Thea viridis. The difference between our green and black tea is produced entirely in the making. Green tea is more quickly and lightly dried, so that it contains more of the virtues of the leaf. Black tea is dried more slowly; exposed, while moist, on mats, when it ferments a little, and then subjected in drying to a greater heat, which makes it blacker in its color. The bright bloom on our green tea is added with a dye, to suit the gross taste of barbarians. The black tea will keep better, being better dried. There is a kind of tea called Hyson Pekoe made from the first young buds which keeps ill, being very little fired, but when good it is extremely costly. As for our names of teas,—of the first delicate harvest, the black tea is called Pekoe, and the green, Young Hyson; Hyson being the corruption of Chinese words, that mean "flourishing spring." The produce of the main or second harvest yields, in green tea, Hyson; out of which are picked the leaves that prove to be best rolled for Gunpowder, or as the Chinese call it, pearl-tea. Souchong ("small or scarce sort") is the best black tea of the second crop, followed by Congou (koong-foo, "assiduity"). Twankay is imported largely, a green tea from older leaves, which European retailers employ for mixing with the finer kinds. Bohea, named from the hills we talked of, is the lowest quality of black tea, though good Bohea is better than a middling quality of Congou. The botanical Thea Bohea comes into our pots, with refuse Congou, as Canton Bohea. At Canton, however, Young Hyson and Gunpowder are manufactured out of these leaves, chopped and painted; and this branch of the fine arts is carried on extensively in Chinese manufactories established there. As the tea-merchants go out to collect their produce of the little farmers; so the mercers in the Nankeen districts leave their cities for the purchase, in the same way, of home-woven cloth. It is the same in the silk districts. If we look now into a larger Chinese farm on our way back to the Phantom, we shall find the tenants on a larger scale supplying their own wants, and making profit of the surplus. On such a farm we shall find also familiar friends, fowls, ducks, geese, pigs, goats, and dogs, bullocks, and buffaloes; indoors there will be a best parlor in the shape of a Hall of Ancestors, containing household gods and an ancestral picture, before which is a table or altar with its offerings. There is the head of the family, who built a room for each son as he married, and left each son to add other rooms as they were necessary, till a colony arose under the common roof about the common hall, in which rules, as a high priest and patriarch, the living ancestor. Respect for the past is the whole essence of Chinese religion and morality. The oldest emperors were fountain-heads of wisdom, and he who imitates the oldest doctrine is the wisest man. The tombs of ancestors are visited with pious care; respect and worship is their due. This had at all times been the Chinese principle, to which Confucius added the influence of a good man's support. No nation has been trained into this feeling so completely as the Chinese, and as long as they saw nothing beyond themselves, and were taught to look down upon barbarians out of the heights of their own ignorance concerning them, they were contented to stand still. But the Chinese are a people sharply stimulated by the love of gain; they despised what they had not seen, yet it is evident that they have not been slow to profit by experience of European arts. An emigrant Chinese became acquainted with a Prussian blue manufactory, secretly observed the process of the manufacture, took his secret home, and China now makes at home all the Prussian blue which was before imported. The Chinese emigrant is active, shrewd. In Batavia he ko-toos to the Dutch, and lets his tail down dutifully. In Singapore he readily assumes a freer spirit, keeps his tail curled, and walks upright among the Englishmen.

The priests, surprisingly, belong to a simple-minded group and welcome us, of course, with hospitality. A stranger is always welcome to stay and share in the Buddhist vegetable dinner. These priests resemble some of our monks in their charitable mendicancy and superstitions. In the pagodas, they always have a meal ready for hungry travelers. But we aren’t hungry; we came here to see the tea plantations, which we now seek out. They're small farms on the lower slopes of hills; the soil is rich; it has to be rich, or the tea plants wouldn’t survive the constant harvesting of their leaves, which eventually kills them. Each plant is about four feet apart from the others, and the plantations look like little shrub gardens. The small landowners live in shabby cabins, each with a flue and coppers for drying tea. The people's appearance isn’t wretched; old men sit at their doors like patriarchs, expecting and receiving respect; young men, balancing bales on their shoulders, head out, some returning with strings of copper coins. The main tea harvest is over, and merchants have come down to the little inns in the area so each farmer can offer his produce. There are three tea-making seasons. The first is in mid-April, just before the rains, when the first leaves of spring are picked; these make the finest tea, but taking them taxes the plant's energy. Then come the rains, and the tea plants sprout new leaves, so by May, the plantation is lush again; that’s the time for the second, larger harvest. A later harvest of coarse leaves produces an inferior tea, hardly worth exporting. It’s important to understand that although black and green tea come from the same type of leaf, there are actually two tea plants. The plant grown in Canton for black tea, known in our gardens as Thea Bohea, is different from Thea viridis, which produces the tea here. However, the Canton plant isn’t grown in the North; on the Bohea hills themselves, from a botanical perspective, there is no Bohea tea; instead, Thea viridis grows there too. The difference between our green and black tea happens entirely in the processing. Green tea is dried quickly and lightly, preserving more of the leaf’s benefits. Black tea is dried more slowly; it’s spread out while moist on mats, allowing it to ferment slightly, then it’s dried at a higher heat, giving it a darker color. The bright sheen on our green tea is dye added to cater to the coarse tastes of outsiders. Black tea lasts longer because it’s better dried. There’s a type of tea called Hyson Pekoe made from the first young buds which doesn’t last well since it’s fired very little, but when it’s good, it’s quite expensive. As for our tea names—the first delicate harvest yields black tea called Pekoe, and green tea known as Young Hyson, with "Hyson" being a corrupted version of Chinese words meaning "flourishing spring." The produce from the main or second harvest gives us green tea known as Hyson; from this, the best leaves are selected for rolling into Gunpowder or what the Chinese call pearl tea. Souchong ("small or scarce sort") is the finest black tea from the second crop, followed by Congou (koong-foo, meaning "diligence"). Twankay is widely imported, a green tea made from older leaves, which European retailers use to blend with finer kinds. Bohea, named after the hills we mentioned, is the lowest quality of black tea, though good Bohea is still better than mediocre Congou. The botanical Thea Bohea ends up in our pots along with inferior Congou, known as Canton Bohea. In Canton, however, Young Hyson and Gunpowder are made from these leaves, chopped and dyed, and this fine art is extensively practiced in Chinese factories established there. As tea merchants go out to gather produce from the small farmers, mercers in the Nankeen areas also leave their cities to purchase home-woven cloth in the same way. It’s similar in the silk regions. If we check out a larger Chinese farm on our way back to the Phantom, we’ll see tenants on a bigger scale tending to their needs and profiting from the surplus. On such a farm, we’ll also find familiar animals: chickens, ducks, geese, pigs, goats, dogs, bullocks, and buffaloes; indoors, there will be a main parlor shaped like a Hall of Ancestors, containing household gods and an ancestral portrait, with a table or altar for offerings. There’s the family head who built a room for each son when he married and let each son add rooms as needed, until a community formed under one roof around the common hall, ruled by the living ancestor as a high priest and patriarch. Respect for the past is the essence of Chinese religion and morality. The oldest emperors were seen as sources of wisdom, and those who follow the oldest teachings are regarded as the wisest. Ancestor tombs are visited with care; they deserve respect and worship. This principle has always been part of Chinese culture, which Confucius enhanced by promoting the support of good individuals. No nation has ingrained this feeling as thoroughly as the Chinese, and as long as they focused solely on themselves, looking down on outsiders from their own ignorance, they were content to stay still. But the Chinese are motivated by a desire for gain; they disdain what they haven’t seen, yet it’s clear they haven’t hesitated to adopt aspects of European arts. A Chinese immigrant learned about a Prussian blue manufacturing process, secretly observed it, took that knowledge home, and now China produces all the Prussian blue it once imported. The Chinese immigrant is active and shrewd. In Batavia, he kowtows to the Dutch and dutifully lets his hair hang down. In Singapore, he adopts a freer attitude, keeps his hair tied up, and walks upright among the English.

We are now sailing towards Shangae, no very long way northward from Ningpo, to the last of the five ports we came out to visit. It is not necessary to return to the Yellow Sea, for all this part of China is so freely intersected with canals that we may sail to Shangae among farms and rice-grounds. While among the farmers, we may call to mind that the great lord of the Chinese manor is the Emperor, to whom this ground immediately belongs, and who receives as rent for it a tenth of all the produce. A large part of this tenth is paid in kind. The Emperor is the great father also; his whole care of his enormous family distinctly assumes the paternal form, and embodies a good deal of the maxim, that to spare the rod will spoil the child. To govern is expressed in Chinese by the symbols of bamboo and strike; and the bamboo does, in the way[Pg 71] of striking a vast deal of business. The central legislation is as a rule beneficent, and based upon an earnest desire to do good; for the father is answerable for the welfare of his children. National calamities have, at all times, been ascribed by the Chinese directly to their Emperors; who must by personal humiliation appease the anger of the gods. So large a household as this father has to care for requires many stewards, mandarins, and others; all these officers of state are those sons who have proved themselves to be the wisest, on examination into their attainments. A grand system of education pervades China; and, above the first school, to which all are sent, there is a series of four examinations, through which every Chinese may graduate if he will study. Not to pass the first is to be vile, and the highest degrees qualify for all the offices of state; but Chinese education means, after reading and writing, and moral precepts of Confucius, little beside a knowledge of Chinese ancient history and literature. The Emperor, belonging to a Tartar dynasty, bestows an equal patronage on Tartars and Chinese. The officers throughout the provinces are, as a further precaution, obliged to serve in places distant from their own connections, in order that no private feelings may destroy their power to be just. They are scantily paid, however; and, as a Chinese likes profit with his honor, the minor officials drive a trade in bribery, which often nullifies the central edicts, and which very directly helped to bring about the Opium war. The Emperor himself is, of course, too sublime a person to be often seen; the Son of Heaven, he robes himself in the imperial yellow, because that is the hue of the sun's jacket; but, once a year, in enforcement of a main principle of the Chinese political economy—Honor to Agriculture—he drives the plough before a state procession; and the grain sown in those imperial furrows is afterwards bought up by courtiers, at a most flattering price.

We are now sailing toward Shanghai, which is not too far north of Ningbo, to visit the last of the five ports we came to see. There's no need to return to the Yellow Sea, as this part of China is crisscrossed by canals, allowing us to sail to Shanghai through farmlands and rice fields. While we’re among the farmers, it's worth remembering that the Emperor is the ultimate landlord of the Chinese manor; the land belongs directly to him, and he receives a tenth of all the produce as rent. A significant portion of this rent is paid in kind. The Emperor is also seen as the great father; his care for his vast family takes on a paternal role, echoing the saying that to spare the rod is to spoil the child. In Chinese, the concept of governance is represented by symbols of bamboo and striking; and bamboo indeed suggests a lot about creating order. Central legislation is generally well-intentioned, rooted in a sincere desire to do good, since the father is responsible for the well-being of his children. Disasters faced by the nation are often blamed on the Emperors, who must seek to appease the anger of the gods through personal humiliation. Such a large family requires many stewards, mandarins, and other officials; these state officers are chosen from among the sons who have proven their wisdom through examinations. China has a comprehensive education system, with a primary school that everyone attends, followed by a series of four exams through which any motivated Chinese person can graduate. Failing the first exam marks one as unworthy, while the highest degrees qualify candidates for all government positions; however, education in China, beyond reading, writing, and Confucian moral teachings, mainly focuses on ancient history and literature. The Emperor, part of a Tartar dynasty, provides equal support for both Tartars and Chinese. Additionally, officers are required to serve in regions away from their own connections to ensure that personal feelings do not compromise their fairness. However, they are poorly paid, and since a Chinese person values profit alongside honor, lower officials often engage in bribery, undermining central orders, which significantly contributed to the Opium War. The Emperor himself is a highly revered figure and is rarely seen; as the Son of Heaven, he wears the imperial yellow, representing the sun's color. Nevertheless, once a year, in a show of respect for agriculture—a key principle of Chinese political economy—he plows a field in a state procession, and the grain from these imperial furrows is later bought up by courtiers at a generous price.

Where are we now?—we have shot out upon a grand expanse of water, like an inland sea. An horizon of water is before us—we cannot see the other bank of the Yang-tse-Kiang, the "child of the ocean," the great river of China; the greatest river in the old world, and surpassed only by two on the whole globe. Here, eighty miles above the sea, it is eight miles in breadth, and sixty feet deep, flowing five miles an hour; and far up, off the walls of Nankin, its breadth is three thousand six hundred feet, and its depth twenty-two fathoms, at a distance of fifty paces from either shore. Well, this is something like a river; from its source to its mouth, in a straight line, the distance is one thousand seven hundred and ninety-six miles; and the windings nearly double its real length, making three thousand three hundred and thirty-six English miles; of which two thousand, from the mouth upwards, are said to be quite free from all obstruction. At its mouth it is, comparatively, shallow; much of this vast body of water is diverted from its course and carried through the country in canals. We are not far, now, from the great canal which cuts across this river and the Hoang-Ho, another grand stream farther northward, with a course of two thousand six hundred and thirty miles. Between the Yang-tse-Kiang and Hoang-Ho the country is so flat that, if we may judge by the scene from the mast-head of the Phantom, not a hillock breaks the level waste of fertile land. In ancient times this country was subjected to desolating floods, which, in fact, caused the removal of the capital. The canal system was commenced, then, as a means of drainage, by a wise man, who was made an emperor for his sagacity. Now the canals serve the purposes of commerce, and agriculture also, since water, in abundance, is essential for the irrigation of the rice-fields. We are sailing up the Shangae river, a tributary of the Yang-tse-Kiang; this river, at Shangae, we perceive is about as broad as the Thames at London Bridge; for we are at Shangae. We sail through a water-gate into the centre of the town, and land beside a fleet of junks, into which heaps of rice are being shot; these are grain junks sent from Pekin to receive part of the imperial tribute.

Where are we now?—we’ve come out onto a vast stretch of water, like an inland sea. An endless horizon of water is in front of us—we can't see the other bank of the Yangtze River, the "child of the ocean," China's great river; the largest river in the old world, surpassed only by two on the entire globe. Here, eighty miles upstream from the sea, it's eight miles wide and sixty feet deep, flowing at five miles per hour; farther upstream, near the walls of Nanjing, it measures three thousand six hundred feet across and twenty-two fathoms deep, just fifty paces from either shore. Now, this is what you call a river; from its source to its mouth, in a straight line, it stretches one thousand seven hundred and ninety-six miles; the curves nearly double its actual length to three thousand three hundred and thirty-six English miles, of which two thousand miles from the mouth are said to be completely free from any obstacles. At its mouth, it is relatively shallow; much of this immense body of water is diverted from its path and channeled through the land via canals. We’re not far now from the great canal that connects this river to the Yellow River, another major stream further north, which runs for two thousand six hundred and thirty miles. Between the Yangtze and the Yellow River, the land is so flat that, judging from the view from the Phantom's masthead, not a single hill breaks the endless stretch of fertile ground. In ancient times, this area was ravaged by devastating floods, which eventually led to the relocation of the capital. The canal system was started then as a drainage solution by a wise man, who was later made emperor for his intelligence. Now, the canals serve commercial purposes and are essential for agriculture, as water is crucial for irrigating rice fields. We’re sailing up the Shanghai River, a tributary of the Yangtze; at Shanghai, we see that it's about as wide as the Thames at London Bridge, because we’re in Shanghai. We pass through a water-gate into the heart of the town and disembark next to a fleet of junks, where loads of rice are being unloaded; these are grain junks sent from Beijing to collect a portion of the imperial tribute.

Narrow, dirty streets, low houses, brilliant open shops, painted with red and gold. Here is a fragrant fruit-shop, where a poor Chinese is buying an iced slice of pine-apple for less money than a farthing. Here is the chandler's, gay with candles of the tallow-tree coated with colored wax. The chandler deals in puffs; and what an un-English appeal is this from the candle-maker on behalf of his wares—"Late at night in the snow gallery they study the books." Study the books! Yes; through the crowd of Chinese, in their picturesque familiar dresses, look at that man, with books upon a tray, who dives into house after house. He lends books on hire to the poor people and servants. Who is the puffer here? "We issue and sell Hong Chow tobacco, the name and fame of which has galloped to the north of Kechow; and the flavor has pervaded Keangnan in the south." Here we have "Famous teas from every province;" and you see boiling water handy in the shop, wherewith the customer may test his purchases. Here, on the other side of this triumphal arch, we peep through a gateway hung with lanterns into a small paved paradise with gold fish, (China is the home of gold fish), and exotics, and trellis-work, and vines, and singing birds; that is a mercer's shop, affecting style in China as in England, only in another way. We will walk through the paradise into a grand apartment hung with lanterns, decorated also with gilded tickets, inscribed "Pekin satins and Canton crapes," "Hang-chow reeled silks," and so on. Here a courtly Chinese, skilled in the[Pg 72] lubrication of a customer, produces the rich heavy silks for which his country is renowned, the velvets or the satins you desire, and shaves you skilfully. Talking of shaving, and we run against a barber as we come out of the silk shop. He carries a fire on his head, with water always boiling; on a pole over his shoulder he balances his water, basin, towels, razors. Will you be shaved like a Chinese? he picks you out a reasonably quiet doorway, shaves your head, cleans your ears, tickles your eyes, and cracks your joints in a twinkling. Where heads are shaved, the wipings of the razors are extensive; they are all bought up, and employed as manure. The Chinese have so many mouths to feed, that they can afford to lose nothing that will fertilize the ground. Instead of writing on their walls "Commit no nuisance," they place jars, and invite or even pay the pilgrim.

Narrow, dirty streets, low houses, and vibrant open shops painted in red and gold. Here’s a fruit shop, where a poor Chinese man is buying a chilled slice of pineapple for less than a farthing. Over here is a candle shop, bright with tallow candles covered in colored wax. The chandler sells puffs, and what a unique appeal from the candle maker on behalf of his products—“Late at night in the snow gallery, they study the books.” Study the books! Yes; among the crowd of Chinese in their colorful traditional outfits, look at that man with a tray of books, who ducks into house after house. He lends books for a fee to the poor and their servants. Who’s the one making the big claims here? “We sell Hong Chow tobacco, famous all the way up north to Kechow; and the flavor has reached Keangnan in the south.” Here we have “Famous teas from every province,” and you can see boiling water ready in the shop, so customers can test their purchases. On the other side of this triumphal arch, we peek through a gateway hung with lanterns into a small beautiful space with goldfish (China is home to goldfish), exotic plants, trellises, vines, and singing birds; that is a mercer's shop, showcasing style in China just like in England, but in a different way. Let’s walk through this paradise into a grand room adorned with lanterns, also decorated with gilded signs that read “Pekin satins and Canton crapes,” “Hang-chow reeled silks,” and so on. Here, a courteous Chinese man, skilled in flattering a customer, shows off the rich, heavy silks his country is famous for, as well as the velvets or satins you want, while skillfully grooming you. Speaking of grooming, we bump into a barber as we exit the silk shop. He has a fire on his head, with water always boiling; on a pole over his shoulder, he balances his basin, towels, and razors. Want a Chinese-style shave? He picks a fairly quiet doorway, shaves your head, cleans your ears, tickles your eyes, and cracks your joints in no time. Where heads are shaved, the scraps from the razors are extensive; they’re all collected and used as fertilizer. With so many mouths to feed, the Chinese can't afford to waste anything that helps their crops. Instead of posting signs that say "No littering," they put out jars and invite or even pay passersby.

The long tail that the barber leaves is to the Chinese his sign of manhood. Beards do not form a feature of Mongolian faces; a few stray coarse hairs are all they get, with their square face, high cheek bones, slanting eyes, and long dark hair upon the head. A plump body, long ears, and a long tail, are the respectabilities of a Chinese. The tail is magnified by working in false hair, and it generally ends with silk. There is a man using his tail to thrash a pig along; and one traveler records that he has seen a Chinese servant use the same instrument for polishing a table. It is, of course, the thing to pull at in a street fight. Here is a phrenologist, with a large figure of a human head mapped into regions, inviting Chinese bumpkins to submit to him their bumps. Here is a dentist showing his teeth. Here—we must stop here—with a gong for drum, but raised on the true pedestal, with a man inside, who knows the veritable squeak, are Punch and Judy, all alive. This is their native land. "Pun-tse," the Chinese call our friend, because he is a little puppet, after all—Puntse meaning in Chinese, "the son of an inch." Here is the very Chinese bridge that we have learned by heart along with the pagoda, from a willow-patterned soup-plate; steps up, steps down, and a set of Chinese lanterns. Here is a temple, flaming with red paint. Let us go in. Images, votive candles burning on an altar, and a woman on her face wrestling in prayer. After praying in a sort of agony for a few minutes, she has stopped to take a bit of stick, round on one side, for she purposes therewith to toss up and see whether her prayer is granted. Tails! She loses! She is wrestling on her knees again—praying, doubtless, for a "bull child." Girls are undesirable, because they are of no use except for what they fetch in marriage gifts, and to fetch much they must be good-looking. Poor woman—tails again! Never mind, she must persevere, and she will get heads presently. Here comes a grave man, who prays for half a minute, and pulls out one from a jar of scrolls. Having examined it, he takes one of the little books that hang against the wall, looks happy, and departs. He has been drawing lots to see whether the issue of some undertaking will be fortunate. Poor woman—tails again! We cannot stop for the result; but I have no doubt that if she persevere she will get heads up presently. Here is a man in the street with a whole bamboo kitchen on his head, nine feet long, by six broad, uttering all manner of good things. The poor fellow who drove the pig stops in the street to dine. What a Soyer that fellow is, with his herbs, and his peppers, and his magic stove, and what a magnificent stew he gives the pig driver! Do you know, I doubt whether the Chinese are fools. What place have we here steaming like a boiler? This, sir, is one of the public bath establishments, where a warm bath, towels, and a dressing closet are at the service of the pig driver after his dinner, for five le—less than a farthing. There, too, his wife may go and obtain boiling water for the day's tea, which is to that poor Chinaman his beer, and pay for it but a single le. It would cost far more to boil it for herself; fuel is dear, and except for cooking or for manufactures, is not used in China. There are neither grates nor stoves in any Chinese parlor. The continent of Asia, and with it China, has a climate of extremes, great summer heat and an excessive winter cold; so that even at Canton, within the tropic, snow falls. But the Chinaman warms not his toes at a fire; he accommodates his comfortable costume to the climate; puts on more clothes as the cold makes itself felt, and takes some off again if he should feel too warm. That building on the walls is the temple of Spring, to which ladies repair to dress their hair with flowers when the first buds open. This handsome structure is the temple of Confucius. Yonder is the hall of United Benevolence, which supports a free hospital, a foundling hospital, and makes other provision for the poor. The Chinese charities are supported generously; the Chinese are a liberal and kindly race. Here is a shoemaker's shop, with a huge boot hung over the door, and an inscription which might not suit lovers of a good fit, "All here are measured by one rule." "When favored by merchants who bestow their regards on us, please to notice our sign of the Double Phœnix on a board as a mark; then it will be all right." These signs are in common use on shops in China as they were formerly in England. In this shop there is a wild fellow, who is beating a gong fearfully, and who has rubbed himself with stinking filth, that he may be the greater nuisance. This is his way of extorting charity. That shopkeeper, not having compounded with the king of the beggars for immunity from customers of this kind, seldom lives a day without being compelled to pay as he is now paying for a little peace. The beggar takes his nuisance then[Pg 73] into another shop. This is a vast improvement upon our street fiddle and organ practice. There is a pawnbroker's three-per-cent. per month shop. Here is a tea-house, surrounded with huge vases for rain-water which is kept to acquire virtue by age—of course imaginary virtue—for the making of celestial tea. In that house there is the oven for hatching eggs. Gateways are fitted at the end of the wide streets, locked at night to restrain thieves; and in the first house through the gateway here a girl is screaming dreadfully. Very likely it is a case of sore feet. The small feet of the Chinese women—about three inches long—are essential, for without them a girl cannot get a husband; as a wife, she is her husband's obedient, humble servant, but as a spinster she is her parents' plague. The operation on the feet takes place when the girl is seven or eight years old. A young naval surgeon, in his walks, heard screams (like those) proceeding from a cottage, and went in; he found a little girl in bed, with her feet bandaged; he removed the bandage, found the feet of course bent, and ulcerated. He dressed the wounds, and warned the mother. Passing, another day, he found the child still suffering torment, and in a hectic fever. He again removed the bandages, and warned the mother that her child's life would be sacrificed if she continued with the process. The next time he went by he saw a little coffin at the door.

The long tail that the barber leaves is a symbol of manhood for the Chinese. Beards aren’t a characteristic of Mongolian faces; they typically have just a few coarse hairs, along with their square faces, high cheekbones, slanting eyes, and long dark hair on their heads. A plump body, long ears, and a long tail represent respectability for a Chinese person. The tail is often padded with false hair and usually ends in silk. There’s a man using his tail to drive a pig along; one traveler even noted seeing a Chinese servant use the same tail to polish a table. In a street fight, it’s the first thing to grab. Here’s a phrenologist displaying a large model of a human head divided into areas, inviting Chinese bumpkins to show him their bumps. Here’s a dentist showing off his teeth. And here—let’s pause—there’s a gong for a drum, but raised on a proper pedestal, with a man inside who knows how to make it squeak, are Punch and Judy, fully alive. This is their homeland. The Chinese call our friend “Pun-tse,” because he’s just a little puppet—“Puntse” means “the son of an inch” in Chinese. Here’s the typical Chinese bridge we’ve memorized along with the pagoda from a willow-patterned soup plate; steps going up and down, and a set of Chinese lanterns. Here’s a temple, bright with red paint. Let’s go inside. There are images, votive candles burning on an altar, and a woman on her knees, wrestling in prayer. After praying in a sort of agony for a few minutes, she stops to pick up a stick, rounded on one side, to toss and see if her prayer is granted. Tails! She loses! She’s back on her knees again—likely praying for a “bull child.” Girls are less desirable because they only bring value through marriage gifts, and to fetch a high value they must be good-looking. Poor woman—tails again! But never mind, she must keep trying, and she’ll get heads eventually. Here comes a serious man who prays for half a minute, then pulls one from a jar of scrolls. After examining it, he grabs one of the little books hanging against the wall, looks pleased, and leaves. He drew lots to see if some endeavor would be successful. Poor woman—tails again! We can’t wait for the outcome, but I’m sure if she keeps trying she’ll get heads up soon. There’s a man in the street with an entire bamboo kitchen on his head, nine feet long and six feet wide, selling all sorts of good things. The poor guy driving the pig stops in the street to eat. What a chef that man is, with his herbs, peppers, and magical stove, and what a delicious stew he serves to the pig driver! You know, I’m beginning to think the Chinese aren’t fools. What’s this place steaming like a kettle? This, sir, is one of the public bathhouses, where the pig driver can enjoy a warm bath, towels, and a dressing room after his meal for five le—that's less than a farthing. Here, his wife can also get boiling water for the day’s tea, which is like beer to that poor Chinaman, and pay only a single le. It would cost much more for her to boil it herself; fuel is expensive, and aside from cooking or manufacturing, it isn’t used in China. There aren’t any grates or stoves in a Chinese parlor. The continent of Asia, including China, experiences extreme climates, intense heat in the summer and bitter cold in winter; even in Canton, snow can fall. But the Chinaman doesn’t warm his toes by the fire; he adjusts his comfortable clothing to suit the climate; he adds more layers when it gets cold and removes some if he feels too warm. That building over there is the Temple of Spring, where women go to style their hair with flowers when the first buds bloom. This beautiful structure is the Temple of Confucius. Over there is the Hall of United Benevolence, which supports a free hospital, a foundling hospital, and provides other help for the poor. Chinese charities are generously funded; they are a kind and generous people. Here’s a shoemaker’s shop, with a huge boot hanging over the door, and a sign that might not please those who value a proper fit: “All here are measured by one rule.” “When favored by merchants who bestow their kindness upon us, please notice our Double Phoenix sign on this board; then everything will be just fine.” These signs are commonly used in shops in China, just as they were in England in the past. In this shop, there’s a wild guy banging a gong loudly, having smeared himself with smelly dirt to be a bigger nuisance. This is his method of begging for charity. The shopkeeper, not having made a deal with the king of beggars for protection against such customers, often ends up paying for a little peace, just as he is now. The beggar then takes his hassle to another shop. This is a significant improvement over our street fiddle and organ performances. Here’s a pawnbroker charging three percent per month. Over here is a tea house, surrounded by large vases for collecting rainwater, which is kept to age for supposed virtue—though it’s just imaginary virtue—for making heavenly tea. In that place, there’s an oven for hatching eggs. Gateways are placed at the end of the wide streets, locked at night to deter thieves; through the first house past the gateway here, a girl is screaming terribly. It could very likely be a case of sore feet. The small feet of Chinese women—about three inches long—are essential because without them, a girl cannot find a husband; as a wife, she is her husband’s dutiful servant, but as a single woman, she’s a burden to her parents. The foot-binding process begins when girls are around seven or eight years old. A young naval surgeon, during his walks, heard screams like those coming from a cottage and went in; he discovered a little girl in bed with her feet bandaged. He removed the bandage, revealing that her feet were bent and ulcerated. He treated her wounds and warned her mother. Passing by again another day, he found the child still in agony and suffering from a high fever. He took off the bandages once more and cautioned the mother that her child’s life was at risk if she continued with the practice. The next time he passed by, he saw a tiny coffin at the door.

The tea-gardens are in the centre of the town; we will go thither and rest. We might have dined with a hospitable townsman, where we could have been present at a theatrical entertainment, in which the Chinese delight like children. But a dinner in this country is a work of many hours; the list is very long of things that we should have to touch or eat. Chinese eat almost any thing; their carte includes birds' nests, delicate meal-fed puppies, sea-slugs, sharks' fins and tails, frogs, snails, worms, lizards, tortoises, and water-snakes, with many things that we should better understand, and a great many disguised vegetables. A Chinese dinner is so tediously long that we escape it altogether. Milk is not used; it is thought improper to take it from the calves; and meat plays no very large part of the Chinese diet. During our late war it was seriously stated, by several advisers of the Emperor, that to forbid the English tea and rhubarb would go a great way to destroy the nation; "for it is well known that the barbarians feed grossly on the flesh of animals, by which their bodies are so bound and obstructed," that rhubarb and warm tea were necessary to be taken, daily, as correctives. Now we are in the tea-gardens, and have passed through a happy crowd, sipping tea, smoking, eating melon pips, walking or looking at the jugglers. Into a fairy-like house of bamboo, perched over water, we ascend. Here is an elegant apartment, which we claim as private. We recline, and take our cups of tea; the cups that have been used are wiped, not washed; for washing, say the people here, would spoil their capacity for preserving the pure flavor of this delicate young Hyson; upon a spoonful of which, placed in the cup, hot water is now poured. Opium pipes, bring us! Ha! a hollow cane, closed at one end, with a mouthpiece at the other; near the centre is the bowl, of ample size, but with an outward opening no bigger than a pin's head. We recline luxuriously—looking down on the gay colors of the Chinese crowd, we take our long stilettos, prick off a little pill of opium from its ivory reservoir, and burn it, dexterously, in the spirit lamp; then twist it, judiciously, about the pin's head orifice. Three whiffs, and it is out, and we are more than half deprived of active consciousness. Let us repeat the operation. Practised smokers will go on for hours; a few whiffs are enough for us. Another languid gaze at the pagodas, and the flowers, and the water, and the Chinamen; now some more opium to smoke!

The tea gardens are in the center of town; let's go there and relax. We could have had dinner with a friendly local, and enjoyed a theatrical performance that the Chinese love like kids. But dinner here takes a long time; there’s a huge list of dishes we would have to try. The Chinese eat just about anything; their menu includes bird's nests, tender puppies, sea slugs, shark fins and tails, frogs, snails, worms, lizards, turtles, and water snakes, along with many things we would recognize and plenty of disguised vegetables. A Chinese dinner is so drawn out that we’re skipping it entirely. Milk isn’t used because it’s considered inappropriate to take it from calves, and meat isn’t a major part of the Chinese diet. During our recent war, several of the Emperor's advisors seriously suggested that banning English tea and rhubarb would greatly harm the nation; "for it is well known that the foreigners eat heavily on animal flesh, which makes their bodies so heavy and blocked," that rhubarb and warm tea were essential daily for correction. Now we’re in the tea gardens, having passed through a lively crowd, sipping tea, smoking, eating melon seeds, walking, or watching jugglers. We ascend into a fairy-tale bamboo house above the water. It has a lovely room that we claim as our own. We lie back and enjoy our cups of tea; the cups used are wiped, not washed; for washing, as the locals say, would ruin their ability to keep the pure taste of this delicate young Hyson; hot water is poured over a spoonful placed in the cup. Bring us opium pipes! Ha! It’s a hollow cane, closed at one end, with a mouthpiece at the other; near the center is the bowl, large enough, but with an opening no bigger than a pin’s head. We lounge luxuriously—looking down at the vibrant colors of the Chinese crowd, we take our long picks, slice off a little ball of opium from its ivory container, and burn it skillfully in the spirit lamp; then twist it carefully around the pinhead opening. Three puffs, and it’s gone, leaving us more than half out of it. Let’s do it again. Experienced smokers can go for hours; a few puffs are enough for us. Another dazed look at the pagodas, the flowers, the water, and the Chinese; now some more opium to smoke!

The Phantom finding us intoxicated, like a good servant may have brought us home; for, certainly, we are at home.

The Phantom finding us drunk, like a good servant might have brought us home; because, for sure, we are at home.

From "Reminiscences of an Attorney" in Chambers's Edinburgh Miscellany.

THE CHEST OF DRAWERS.

I am about to relate a rather curious piece of domestic history, some of the incidents of which, revealed at the time of their occurrence in law reports, may be in the remembrance of many readers. It occurred in one of the midland counties, and at a place which I shall call Watley; the names of the chief actors who figured in it must also, to spare their modesty or their blushes, be changed; and should one of those persons, spite of these precautions, apprehend unpleasant recognition, he will be able to console himself with the reflection, that all I state beyond that which may be gathered from the records of the law courts will be generally ascribed to the fancy or invention of the writer. And it is as well, perhaps, that it should be so.

I’m about to share a rather interesting story from domestic history, some of the events of which, detailed in law reports at the time, might be familiar to many readers. It took place in one of the midland counties, at a place I’ll call Watley; the names of the main people involved will also be changed to protect their privacy and modesty. If any of those individuals, despite these precautions, happen to recognize themselves, they can take comfort in knowing that everything I mention beyond what can be found in the legal records will generally be seen as the writer’s imagination or creativity. And perhaps it’s best that way.

Caleb Jennings, a shoemender, or cobbler, occupied, some twelve or thirteen years ago, a stall at Watley, which, according to the traditions of the place, had been hereditary in his family for several generations. He may also be said to have flourished there, after the manner of cobblers; for this, it must be remembered, was in the good old times, before the gutta-percha revolution had carried ruin and dismay into the stalls—those of cobblers—which in considerable numbers existed throughout the kingdom. Like all his fraternity whom I have ever fallen in with or heard of, Caleb was a sturdy Radical of the Major Cartwright and Henry Hunt school; and being withal industrious, tolerably skilful, not inordinately prone to the observance of Saint Mondays, possessed, moreover, of a neatly-furnished sleeping and eating apartment in the house of which the projecting[Pg 74] first-floor, supported on stone pillars, overshadowed his humble work-place, he vaunted himself to be as really rich as an estated squire, and far more independent.

Caleb Jennings, a shoemaker, had a stall at Watley around twelve or thirteen years ago, which, according to local tradition, had been in his family for several generations. He was thriving there, like many cobblers back in those days; it’s important to note that this was before the gutta-percha revolution caused trouble and uncertainty for cobblers, who were found in great numbers across the country. Like all his peers I’ve come across or heard about, Caleb was a firm supporter of the Radical movement, inspired by Major Cartwright and Henry Hunt. He was hardworking, reasonably skilled, not overly fond of taking Mondays off, and also had a nicely furnished living and eating space in a house where the first floor, supported by stone pillars, loomed over his modest workspace. He claimed to be as wealthy as a landowning gentleman and much more independent.

There was some truth in this boast, as the case which procured us the honor of Mr. Jennings's acquaintance sufficiently proved. We were employed to bring an action against a wealthy gentleman of the vicinity of Watley for a brutal and unprovoked assault he had committed, when in a state of partial inebriety, upon a respectable London tradesman who had visited the place on business. On the day of trial our witness appeared to have become suddenly afflicted with an almost total loss of memory; and we were only saved from an adverse verdict by the plain, straight-forward evidence of Caleb, upon whose sturdy nature the various arts which soften or neutralize hostile evidence had been tried in vain. Mr. Flint, who personally superintended the case, took quite a liking to the man; and it thus happened that we were called upon some time afterwards to aid the said Caleb in extricating himself from the extraordinary and perplexing difficulty in which he suddenly and unwittingly found himself involved.

There was some truth to this claim, as the situation that brought us into contact with Mr. Jennings clearly showed. We were hired to sue a wealthy guy from around Watley for a vicious and unprovoked attack he committed, while partially drunk, on a respectable London businessman who had come to the area for work. On the day of the trial, our witness seemed to suffer from an almost complete loss of memory; we narrowly avoided a negative verdict thanks to the straightforward testimony of Caleb, whose solid character resisted all attempts to soften or influence his evidence. Mr. Flint, who personally oversaw the case, took quite a liking to him; so it happened that we were later called to help Caleb untangle himself from an extraordinary and confusing predicament he had unexpectedly found himself in.

The projecting first floor of the house beneath which the humble workshop of Caleb Jennings modestly disclosed itself, had been occupied for many years by an ailing and somewhat aged gentleman of the name of Lisle. This Mr. Ambrose Lisle was a native of Watley, and had been a prosperous merchant of the city of London. Since his return, after about twenty years' absence, he had shut himself up in almost total seclusion, nourishing a cynical bitterness and acrimony of temper which gradually withered up the sources of health and life, till at length it became as visible to himself as it had for some time been to others, that the oil of existence was expended, burnt up, and that but a few weak flickers more, and the ailing man's plaints and griefs would be hushed in the dark silence of the grave.

The first floor of the house, which sheltered the humble workshop of Caleb Jennings, had been home for many years to a sickly and somewhat elderly man named Lisle. Mr. Ambrose Lisle was originally from Watley and had been a successful merchant in London. After returning from about twenty years away, he had secluded himself almost completely, nurturing a cynical bitterness and a sharp temper that gradually drained away his health and vitality. Eventually, it became clear to him, just as it had to others for some time, that the energy of life was exhausted, burned out, and that only a few faint flickers remained before the sick man's complaints and sorrows would be silenced in the dark stillness of the grave.

Mr. Lisle had no relatives in Watley, and the only individual with whom he was on terms of personal intimacy was Mr. Peter Sowerby, an attorney of the place, who had for many years transacted all his business. This man visited Mr. Lisle most evenings, played at chess with him, and gradually acquired an influence over his client which that weak gentleman had once or twice feebly but vainly endeavoured to shake off. To this clever attorney, it was rumored, Mr. Lisle had bequeathed all his wealth.

Mr. Lisle had no family in Watley, and the only person he was close with was Mr. Peter Sowerby, a local attorney who had handled all his business for many years. This man visited Mr. Lisle most evenings, played chess with him, and gradually gained an influence over his client that the weak-willed gentleman had tried, unsuccessfully, to break free from a couple of times. It was rumored that Mr. Lisle had left all his wealth to this clever attorney.

This piece of information had been put in circulation by Caleb Jennings, who was a sort of humble favorite of Mr. Lisle's, or, at all events, was regarded by the misanthrope with less dislike than he manifested toward others. Caleb cultivated a few flowers in a little plot of ground at the back of the house, and Mr. Lisle would sometimes accept a rose or a bunch of violets from him. Other slight services—especially since the recent death of his old and garrulous woman-servant, Esther May, who had accompanied him from London, and with whom Mr. Jennings had always been upon terms of gossiping intimacy—had led to certain familiarities of intercourse; and it thus happened that the inquisitive shoemender became partially acquainted with the history of the wrongs and griefs which preyed upon, and shortened the life of, the prematurely-aged man.

This information had been shared by Caleb Jennings, who was somewhat of a quiet favorite of Mr. Lisle's, or at least was seen by the misanthrope with less dislike than he showed toward others. Caleb tended to a few flowers in a small garden at the back of the house, and Mr. Lisle would sometimes accept a rose or a bunch of violets from him. Other small acts of kindness—especially after the recent passing of his old and chatty housekeeper, Esther May, who had come with him from London, and with whom Mr. Jennings had always gossiped—had led to a certain familiarity between them. As a result, the curious shoemaker became somewhat familiar with the story of the wrongs and sorrows that weighed on and cut short the life of the prematurely aged man.

The substance of this everyday, common-place story, as related to us by Jennings, and subsequently enlarged and colored from other sources, may be very briefly told.

The gist of this ordinary, everyday story, as told by Jennings and later expanded and embellished from other sources, can be summed up pretty quickly.

Ambrose Lisle, in consequence of an accident which occurred in his infancy, was slightly deformed. His right shoulder—as I understood, for I never saw him—grew out, giving an ungraceful and somewhat comical twist to his figure, which, in female eyes—youthful ones at least—sadly marred the effect of his intelligent and handsome countenance. This personal defect rendered him shy and awkward in the presence of women of his own class of society; and he had attained the ripe age of thirty-seven years, and was a rich and prosperous man, before he gave the slightest token of an inclination towards matrimony. About a twelvemonth previous to that period of his life, the deaths—quickly following each other—of a Mr. and Mrs. Stevens threw their eldest daughter, Lucy, upon Mr. Lisle's hands. Mr. Lisle had been left an orphan at a very early age, and Mrs. Stevens—his aunt, and then a maiden lady—had, in accordance with his father's will, taken charge of himself and brother till they severally attained their majority. Long, however, before that she married Mr. Stevens, by whom she had two children—Lucy and Emily. Her husband, whom she survived but two months, died insolvent; and in obedience to the dying wishes of his aunt, for whom he appears to have felt the tenderest esteem, he took the eldest of her orphan children into his home, intending to regard and provide for her as his own adopted child and heiress. Emily, the other sister found refuge in the house of a still more distant relative than himself.

Ambrose Lisle, due to an accident in his childhood, had a slight deformity. His right shoulder, as I understood it—since I never saw him—protruded, giving his figure an awkward and somewhat funny twist, which, in the eyes of women—especially younger ones—sadly detracted from his intelligent and handsome face. This flaw made him shy and uncomfortable around women of his social class, and he reached the age of thirty-seven as a wealthy and successful man before he showed any interest in marriage. About a year before this phase of his life, the quick deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Stevens left their eldest daughter, Lucy, in Mr. Lisle’s care. Mr. Lisle had been an orphan from a young age, and Mrs. Stevens—his aunt, who remained single—had, in line with his father's will, looked after him and his brother until they turned eighteen. However, she married Mr. Stevens long before that, with whom she had two daughters—Lucy and Emily. Her husband, whom she outlived by just two months, died in debt. Fulfilling his aunt's last wishes, for whom he seemed to have the utmost affection, he brought the eldest of her orphaned children into his home, planning to treat her as his own adopted child and heiress. The other sister, Emily, found refuge with an even more distant relative than Ambrose.

The Stevenses had gone to live at a remote part of England—Yorkshire, I believe—and it thus fell out, that till his cousin Lucy arrived at her new home he had not seen her for more than ten years. The pale, and somewhat plain child, as he had esteemed her, he was startled to find had become a charming woman; and her naturally gay and joyous temperament, quick talents, and fresh young beauty, rapidly acquired an overwhelming influence over him. Strenuously but vainly he struggled against the growing infatuation—argued, reasoned with himself—passed in review the insurmountable objections to such a union, the difference of age—he[Pg 75] leading towards thirty-seven, she barely twenty-one; he crooked, deformed, of reserved, taciturn temper—she full of young life, and grace and beauty. It was useless; and nearly a year had passed in the bootless struggle when Lucy Stevens, who had vainly striven to blind herself to the nature of the emotions by which her cousin and guardian was animated towards her, intimated a wish to accept her sister Emily's invitation to pass two or three months with her. This brought the affair to a crisis. Buoying himself up with the illusions which people in such an unreasonable frame of mind create for themselves, he suddenly entered the sitting-room set apart for her private use, with the desperate purpose of making his beautiful cousin a formal offer of his hand. She was not in the apartment, but her opened writing-desk, and a partly-finished letter lying on it, showed that she had been recently there, and would probably soon return. Mr. Lisle took two or three agitated turns about the room, one of which brought him close to the writing-desk, and his glance involuntarily fell upon the unfinished letter. Had a deadly serpent leaped suddenly upon his throat, the shock could not have been greater. At the head of the sheet of paper was a clever pen-and-ink sketch of Lucy Stevens and himself; he, kneeling to her in a lovelorn ludicrous attitude, and she laughing immoderately at his lachrymose and pitiful aspect and speech. The letter was addressed to her sister Emily; and the enraged lover saw not only that his supposed secret was fully known, but that he himself was mocked, laughed at for his doting folly. At least this was his interpretation of the words which swam before his eyes. At the instant Lucy returned, and a torrent of imprecation burst from the furious man, in which wounded self-love, rageful pride, and long pent-up passion, found utterance in wild and bitter words. Half an hour afterwards Lucy Stevens had left the merchant's house—for ever, as it proved. She, indeed, on arriving at her sister's, sent a letter supplicating forgiveness at the thoughtless, and, as he deemed it, insulting sketch, intended only for Emily's eye; but he replied merely by a note written by one of his clerks, informing Miss Stevens that Mr. Lisle declined any further correspondence with her.

The Stevenses had moved to a remote part of England—Yorkshire, I think—and until his cousin Lucy arrived at her new home, he hadn’t seen her for more than ten years. He was shocked to find that the pale, somewhat plain child he remembered had grown into a charming woman; her naturally cheerful and lively personality, quick talents, and youthful beauty quickly had a strong effect on him. He struggled hard but unsuccessfully against his growing infatuation—he argued with himself and reviewed the insurmountable reasons against such a relationship, like the difference in their ages—he was approaching thirty-seven, while she was barely twenty-one; he was crooked, deformed, and reserved—she was full of youth, grace, and beauty. It was all pointless; nearly a year passed while he battled with these feelings when Lucy Stevens, who had tried unsuccessfully to ignore her cousin and guardian's feelings for her, expressed a desire to accept her sister Emily’s invitation to spend two or three months with her. This brought everything to a head. Fueled by the illusions that people in such an irrational state of mind create for themselves, he suddenly entered the sitting room set aside for her use, determined to make a formal proposal to his beautiful cousin. She wasn’t there, but her open writing desk and an unfinished letter on it indicated that she had been there recently and would likely return soon. Mr. Lisle paced anxiously around the room, one turn bringing him close to the writing desk, causing his gaze to fall on the unfinished letter. The shock was like a deadly serpent suddenly lunging at him. At the top of the sheet of paper was a clever sketch of Lucy Stevens and him; he was kneeling in a comically lovelorn way, while she laughed heartily at his tearful and pitiable appearance and words. The letter was addressed to her sister Emily, and the furious lover realized not only that his supposed secret was fully known, but that he himself was being mocked, laughed at for his foolishness. At least, that was how he interpreted the words swimming before his eyes. Just then, Lucy returned, and a flood of curses erupted from the enraged man, where his wounded pride, angry self-esteem, and long-held passion poured out in wild and bitter words. Half an hour later, Lucy Stevens had left the merchant's house—forever, as it turned out. Upon arriving at her sister’s, she sent a letter begging for forgiveness for the thoughtless and, as he saw it, insulting sketch meant only for Emily, but he replied with a note written by one of his clerks, informing Miss Stevens that Mr. Lisle would not continue any correspondence with her.

The ire of the angered and vindictive man had, however, begun sensibly to abate, and old thoughts, memories, duties, suggested partly by the blank which Lucy's absence made in his house, partly by remembrance of the solemn promise he had made her mother, were strongly reviving in his mind, when he read the announcement of her marriage in a provincial journal, directed to him, as he believed, in the bride's handwriting; but this was an error, her sister having sent the newspaper. Mr. Lisle also construed this into a deliberate mockery and insult, and from that hour strove to banish all images and thoughts connected with his cousin from his heart and memory.

The anger of the upset and vengeful man had started to fade a bit, and old thoughts, memories, and responsibilities—partly triggered by the emptiness left by Lucy’s absence in his home and partly by the solemn promise he had made to her mother—were strongly resurfacing in his mind when he saw the announcement of her wedding in a local newspaper, which he believed was directed to him in the bride's handwriting; but that was a mistake, as her sister had sent the paper. Mr. Lisle also saw this as a deliberate mockery and insult, and from that moment on, he tried to erase all images and thoughts related to his cousin from his heart and mind.

He unfortunately adopted the very worst course possible for effecting this object. Had he remained amid the buzz and tumult of active life, a mere sentimental disappointment, such as thousands of us have sustained and afterwards forgotten, would, there can be little doubt, have soon ceased to afflict him. He chose to retire from business, visited Watley, and habits of miserliness growing rapidly upon his cankered mind, never afterwards removed from the lodgings he had hired on first arriving there. Thus madly hugging to himself sharp-pointed memories which a sensible man would have speedily cast off and forgotten, the sour misanthrope passed a useless, cheerless, weary existence, to which death must have been a welcome relief.

He unfortunately took the worst possible approach to achieve his goal. If he had stayed in the hustle and bustle of everyday life, a simple emotional setback, like what many of us have experienced and moved on from, would likely have faded away quickly. Instead, he chose to step back from work, went to Watley, and soon developed a miserly mindset that clung to his troubled thoughts. He never left the small apartment he had rented upon arriving there. By obsessively holding on to painful memories that a rational person would have let go of and forgotten, the bitter misanthrope led a pointless, joyless, exhausting life, where death must have seemed like a welcome escape.

Matters were in this state with the morose and aged man—aged mentally and corporeally, although his years were but fifty-eight—when Mr. Flint made Mr. Jennings's acquaintance. Another month or so had passed away when Caleb's attention was one day about noon claimed by a young man dressed in mourning, accompanied by a female similarly attired, and from their resemblance to each other he conjectured brother and sister. The stranger wished to know if that was the house in which Mr. Ambrose Lisle resided. Jennings said it was; and with civil alacrity left his stall and rang the front-door bell. The summons was answered by the landlady's servant, who, since Esther May's death, had waited on the first-floor lodger; and the visitors were invited to go up-stairs. Caleb, much wondering who they might be, returned to his stall, and thence passed into his eating and sleeping room just below Mr. Lisle's apartments. He was in the act of taking a pipe from the mantel-shelf in order to the more deliberate and satisfactory cogitation on such an unusual event, when he was startled by a loud shout, or scream rather, from above. The quivering and excited voice was that of Mr. Lisle, and the outcry was immediately followed by an explosion of unintelligible exclamations from several persons. Caleb was up stairs in an instant, and found himself in the midst of a strangely-perplexing and distracted scene. Mr. Lisle, pale as his shirt, shaking in every limb, and his eyes on fire with passion, was hurling forth a torrent of vituperation and reproach at the young woman, whom he evidently mistook for some one else; whilst she, extremely terrified, and unable to stand but for the assistance of her companion, was tendering a letter in her outstretched hand, and uttering broken sentences, which her own agitation and the fury of Mr. Lisle's invectives rendered totally incomprehensible. At last the fierce old man struck the letter from her hand, and with frantic rage ordered both the strangers to leave the room. Caleb urged[Pg 76] them, to comply, and accompanied them down stairs. When they reached the street, he observed a woman on the other side of the way, dressed in mourning, and much older apparently—though he could not well see her face through the thick veil she wore—than she who had thrown Mr. Lisle into such an agony of rage, apparently waiting for them. To her the young people immediately hastened, and after a brief conference the three turned up the street, and Mr. Jennings saw no more of them.

Matters were in this state with the gloomy and older man—aging mentally and physically, despite being only fifty-eight—when Mr. Flint met Mr. Jennings. About a month later, Caleb's attention was drawn one day around noon by a young man in mourning, accompanied by a woman dressed the same way, and from their similarity, he guessed they were siblings. The stranger asked if that was the house where Mr. Ambrose Lisle lived. Jennings confirmed it was and quickly left his stall to ring the front doorbell. The summons was answered by the landlady's servant, who had been taking care of the first-floor tenant since Esther May's death, and the visitors were invited upstairs. Caleb, wondering who they could be, returned to his stall and then moved into his eating and sleeping space just below Mr. Lisle's rooms. He was reaching for a pipe from the mantel to think more clearly about this unusual event when he was startled by a loud shout—or more accurately, a scream—from above. The shaky and frantic voice was that of Mr. Lisle, and the shout was quickly followed by a barrage of unintelligible exclamations from several people. Caleb rushed upstairs and found himself in the middle of a confusing and chaotic scene. Mr. Lisle, pale as a sheet, trembling all over, and his eyes burning with anger, was unleashing a flood of insults and accusations at the young woman, who he clearly thought was someone else; she, extremely frightened and barely able to stand without her companion's support, was holding out a letter in her trembling hand and trying to speak in broken sentences, which her own panic and Mr. Lisle's furious outbursts made completely incomprehensible. Finally, the enraged old man slapped the letter from her hand and, in a fit of rage, ordered both strangers to leave the room. Caleb insisted that they comply and accompanied them downstairs. When they reached the street, he noticed a woman across the way, also dressed in mourning and seemingly older—though he couldn't clearly see her face through the thick veil she wore—waiting for them. The young pair hurried over to her, and after a brief discussion, the three walked up the street, leaving Mr. Jennings behind.

A quarter of an hour afterwards the house-servant informed Caleb that Mr. Lisle had retired to bed, and although still in great agitation, and, as she feared, seriously indisposed, would not permit Dr. Clarke to be sent for. So sudden and violent a hurricane in the usually dull and drowsy atmosphere in which Jennings lived, excited and disturbed him greatly: the hours, however, flew past without bringing any relief to his curiosity, and evening was falling, when a peculiar knocking on the floor overhead announced that Mr. Lisle desired his presence. That gentleman was sitting up in bed, and in the growing darkness his face could not be very distinctly seen; but Caleb instantly observed a vivid and unusual light in the old man's eyes. The letter so strangely delivered was lying open before him; and unless the shoemender was greatly mistaken, there were stains of recent tears upon Mr. Lisle's furrowed and hollow cheeks. The voice, too, it struck Caleb, though eager, was gentle and wavering. "It was a mistake, Jennings," he said; "I was mad for the moment. Are they gone?" he added in a yet more subdued and gentle tone. Caleb informed him of what he had seen; and as he did so, the strange light in the old man's eyes seemed to quiver and sparkle with a yet intenser emotion than before. Presently he shaded them with his hand, and remained several minutes silent. He then said with a firmer voice: "I shall be glad if you will step to Mr. Sowerby, and tell him I am too unwell to see him this evening. But be sure to say nothing else," he eagerly added, as Caleb turned away in compliance with his request; "and when you come back, let me see you again."

Fifteen minutes later, the housekeeper informed Caleb that Mr. Lisle had gone to bed, and although he was still very agitated and, as she worried, seriously ill, he refused to let Dr. Clarke be called. Such a sudden and intense upheaval in the usually quiet and sleepy environment where Jennings lived greatly unsettled him. The hours, however, passed without easing his curiosity, and evening was approaching when a peculiar tapping on the floor above indicated that Mr. Lisle wanted to see him. That gentleman was sitting up in bed, and in the dim light, his face wasn't very clear, but Caleb immediately noticed an unusual brightness in the old man's eyes. The letter that had been so oddly delivered was lying open in front of him, and unless the shoemaker was very wrong, there were fresh tear stains on Mr. Lisle's lined and hollow cheeks. Caleb also noticed that, although eager, the old man's voice was gentle and shaky. "It was a mistake, Jennings," he said; "I was mad for a moment. Are they gone?" he added in a softer tone. Caleb told him what he had seen, and as he did, the strange light in the old man's eyes appeared to flicker and shimmer with even deeper emotion than before. After a moment, he covered his eyes with his hand and stayed silent for several minutes. He then spoke with a firmer voice: "I would appreciate it if you could go to Mr. Sowerby and tell him I'm too unwell to see him tonight. But make sure to say nothing else," he added eagerly as Caleb turned to follow his request; "and when you come back, I want to see you again."

When Jennings returned, he found to his great surprise Mr. Lisle up and nearly dressed; and his astonishment increased a hundred-fold upon hearing that gentleman say, in a quick but perfectly collected and decided manner, that he should set off for London by the mail-train.

When Jennings came back, he was really surprised to see Mr. Lisle up and almost dressed. His shock grew even more when he heard Mr. Lisle say, in a quick but completely calm and certain tone, that he was going to leave for London on the mail train.

"For London—and by night!" exclaimed Caleb, scarcely sure that he heard aright.

"For London—and at night!" exclaimed Caleb, hardly able to believe his ears.

"Yes—yes, I shall not be observed in the dark," sharply rejoined Mr. Lisle; "and you, Caleb, must keep my secret from every body, especially from Sowerby. I shall be here in time to see him to-morrow night, and he will be none the wiser." This was said with a slight chuckle; and as soon as his simple preparations were complete, Mr. Lisle, well wrapped up, and his face almost hidden by shawls, locked his door, and assisted by Jennings, stole furtively down stairs, and reached unrecognized the railway station just in time for the train.

"Yes—yes, I won’t be seen in the dark," Mr. Lisle replied sharply. "And you, Caleb, have to keep my secret from everyone, especially Sowerby. I’ll be here to see him tomorrow night, and he won’t have a clue." He said this with a slight chuckle, and as soon as he finished his simple preparations, Mr. Lisle, bundled up and almost hiding his face with shawls, locked his door. With Jennings’ help, he sneaked down the stairs and got to the train station just in time for the train, without being recognized.

It was quite dark the next evening when Mr. Lisle returned; and so well had he managed, that Mr. Sowerby, who paid his usual visit about half an hour afterwards, had evidently heard nothing of the suspicious absence of his esteemed client from Watley. The old man exulted over the success of his deception to Caleb the next morning, but dropped no hint as to the object of his sudden journey.

It was pretty dark the next evening when Mr. Lisle got back; and he had done such a good job that Mr. Sowerby, who came by for his usual visit about half an hour later, clearly hadn't heard anything about the unusual absence of his respected client from Watley. The old man gushed about the success of his trick to Caleb the next morning but didn’t give any hint about the reason for his sudden trip.

Three days passed without the occurrence of any incident tending to the enlightenment of Mr. Jennings upon these mysterious events, which, however, he plainly saw had lamentably shaken the long-since failing man. On the afternoon of the fourth day, Mr. Lisle walked, or rather tottered, into Caleb's stall, and seated himself on the only vacant stool it contained. His manner was confused, and frequently purposeless, and there was an anxious, flurried expression in his face which Jennings did not at all like. He remained silent for some time, with the exception of partially inaudible snatches of comment or questionings, apparently addressed to himself. At last he said: "I shall take a longer journey to-morrow, Caleb—much longer: let me see—where did I say? Ah, yes! to Glasgow; to be sure to Glasgow!"

Three days went by without anything happening that could help Mr. Jennings understand these mysterious events, which he could clearly see had sadly upset the long-ailing man. On the afternoon of the fourth day, Mr. Lisle walked, or more accurately, stumbled, into Caleb's stall and sat down on the only empty stool available. He seemed disoriented and often aimless, with a worried, flustered look on his face that Jennings didn't like at all. He stayed quiet for a while, except for some barely audible remarks or questions, seemingly directed at himself. Finally, he said, "I'm going to take a longer trip tomorrow, Caleb—much longer: let me think—where did I say? Ah, yes! to Glasgow; right, to Glasgow!"

"To Glasgow, and to-morrow!" exclaimed the astounded cobbler.

"To Glasgow, and tomorrow!" exclaimed the shocked cobbler.

"No, no—not Glasgow; they have removed," feebly rejoined Mr. Lisle. "But Lucy has written it down for me. True—true; and to-morrow I shall set out."

"No, no—not Glasgow; they've moved," Mr. Lisle replied weakly. "But Lucy has noted it for me. True—true; and tomorrow I’ll set off."

The strange expression of Mr. Lisle's face became momentarily more strongly marked, and Jennings, greatly alarmed, said: "You are ill, Mr. Lisle; let me run for Dr. Clarke."

The odd look on Mr. Lisle's face became more intense for a moment, and Jennings, deeply concerned, said, "You're not feeling well, Mr. Lisle; let me go get Dr. Clarke."

"No—no," he murmured, at the same time striving to rise from his seat, which he could only accomplish by Caleb's assistance, and so supported, he staggered indoors. "I shall be better to-morrow," he said faintly, and then slowly added: "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow! Ah me! Yes, as I said, to-morrow, I"——He paused abruptly, and they gained his apartment. He seated himself, and then Jennings, at his mute solicitations, assisted him to bed.

"No—no," he murmured, trying to get up from his seat, which he could only do with Caleb's help. Supported by him, he stumbled inside. "I’ll feel better tomorrow," he said weakly, then slowly added, "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow! Oh, how it drags on! Yes, as I said, tomorrow, I"——He stopped suddenly as they reached his room. He sat down, and then Jennings, at his silent request, helped him into bed.

He lay some time with his eyes closed; and Caleb could feel—for Mr. Lisle held him firmly by the hand, as if to prevent his going away—a convulsive shudder pass over his frame. At last he slowly opened his eyes, and Caleb saw that he was indeed about to depart upon the long journey from which there is no return. The lips of the dying man worked inarticulately for some moments; and then, with a mighty effort, as it[Pg 77] seemed, he said, whilst his trembling hand pointed feebly to a bureau chest of drawers that stood in the room: "There—there for Lucy; there, the secret place is"——Some inaudible words followed, and then, after a still mightier struggle than before, he gasped out: "No word—no word—to—to Sowerby—for her—Lucy."

He lay there for a while with his eyes closed, and Caleb could sense—since Mr. Lisle held his hand tightly, as if to keep him from leaving—a shudder ripple through his body. Finally, he slowly opened his eyes, and Caleb realized he was truly about to embark on the long journey from which there is no return. The dying man's lips moved silently for a few moments, and then, with a tremendous effort, it seemed, he said, while his shaking hand weakly pointed to a dresser in the room: "There—there for Lucy; there, the secret place is"——Some inaudible words followed, and then, after an even greater struggle than before, he gasped: "No word—no word—to—to Sowerby—for her—Lucy."

More was said, but undistinguishable by mortal ear; and after gazing with an expression of indescribable anxiety in the scared face of his awestruck listener, the wearied eyes slowly reclosed—the deep silence flowed past; then the convulsive shudder came again, and he was dead!

More was said, but it couldn't be heard by any human. After looking with an indescribable worry at the terrified face of his captivated listener, his tired eyes slowly closed again—the deep silence continued; then the sudden shudder came once more, and he was dead!

Caleb Jennings tremblingly summoned the house-servant and the landlady, and was still confusedly pondering the broken sentences uttered by the dying man, when Mr. Sowerby hurriedly arrived. The attorney's first care was to assume the direction of affairs, and to place seals upon every article containing or likely to contain any thing of value belonging to the deceased. This done, he went away to give directions for the funeral, which took place a few days afterwards; and it was then formally announced that Mr. Sowerby succeeded by will to the large property of Ambrose Lisle; under trust, however, for the family, if any, of Robert Lisle, the deceased's brother, who had gone when very young to India, and had not been heard of for many years—a condition which did not at all mar the joy of the crafty lawyer, he having long since instituted private inquiries, which perfectly satisfied him that the said Robert Lisle had died, unmarried, at Calcutta.

Caleb Jennings nervously called for the house servant and the landlady, still trying to piece together the fragmented words spoken by the dying man, when Mr. Sowerby rushed in. The attorney's first priority was to take charge of the situation and put seals on everything that contained or could potentially contain valuable items belonging to the deceased. Once that was done, he left to make arrangements for the funeral, which happened a few days later. It was then officially announced that Mr. Sowerby was the beneficiary of Ambrose Lisle's large estate, but under the condition that it was held in trust for the family, if any, of Robert Lisle, the deceased's brother, who had gone to India when he was very young and hadn't been heard from in years—a stipulation that didn't dampen the crafty lawyer's spirits at all, as he had already conducted private inquiries that convinced him Robert Lisle had died unmarried in Calcutta.

Mr. Jennings was in a state of great dubiety and consternation. Sowerby had emptied the chest of drawers of every valuable it contained; and unless he had missed the secret receptacle Mr. Lisle had spoken of, the deceased's intentions, whatever they might have been, were clearly defeated. And if he had not discovered it, how could he, Jennings, get at the drawers to examine them? A fortunate chance brought some relief to his perplexities. Ambrose Lisle's furniture was advertised to be sold by auction, and Caleb resolved to purchase the bureau chest of drawers at almost any price, although to do so would oblige him to break into his rent-money, then nearly due. The day of sale came, and the important lot in its turn was put up. In one of the drawers there were a number of loose newspapers, and other valueless scraps; and Caleb, with a sly grin, asked the auctioneer if he sold the article with all its contents. "Oh yes," said Sowerby, who was watching the sale; "the buyer may have all it contains over his bargain, and much good may it do him." A laugh followed the attorney's sneering remark, and the biddings went on. "I want it," observed Caleb, "because it just fits a recess like this one in my room underneath." This he said to quiet a suspicion he thought he saw gathering upon the attorney's brow. It was finally knocked down to Caleb at £5, 10s., a sum considerably beyond its real value; and he had to borrow a sovereign in order to clear his speculative purchase. This done, he carried off his prize, and as soon as the closing of the house for the night secured him from interruption, he set eagerly to work in search of the secret drawer. A long and patient examination was richly rewarded. Behind one of the small drawers of the secrétaire portion of the piece of furniture was another small one, curiously concealed, which contained Bank-of-England notes to the amount of £200, tied up with a letter, upon the back of which was written, in the deceased's handwriting, "To take with me." The letter which Caleb, although he read print with facility, had much difficulty in making out, was that which Mr. Lisle had struck from the young woman's hand a few weeks before, and proved to be a very affecting appeal from Lucy Stevens, now Lucy Warner, and a widow, with two grown-up children. Her husband had died in insolvent circumstances, and she and her sister Emily, who was still single, were endeavoring to carry on a school at Bristol, which promised to be sufficiently prosperous if the sum of about £150 could be raised, to save the furniture from her deceased husband's creditors. The claim was pressing, for Mr. Warner had been dead nearly a year, and Mr. Lisle being the only relative Mrs. Warner had in the world, she had ventured to entreat his assistance for her mother's sake. There could be no moral doubt, therefore, that this money was intended for Mrs. Warner's relief; and early in the morning Mr. Caleb Jennings dressed himself in his Sunday's suit, and with a brief announcement to his landlady that he was about to leave Watley for a day or two on a visit to a friend, set off for the railway station. He had not proceeded far when a difficulty struck him: the bank-notes were all twenties; and were he to change a twenty-pound note at the station, where he was well known, great would be the tattle and wonderment, if nothing worse, that would ensue. So Caleb tried his credit again, borrowed sufficient for his journey to London, and there changed one of the notes.

Mr. Jennings was feeling really unsure and worried. Sowerby had cleared out the chest of drawers of everything valuable it held; and unless he had overlooked the hidden compartment Mr. Lisle had mentioned, the deceased’s plans, whatever they were, had clearly fallen through. And if he had *not* found it, how was Jennings supposed to examine the drawers? Luckily, a stroke of luck eased some of his confusion. Ambrose Lisle’s furniture was going to be auctioned, and Caleb decided he would buy the bureau chest of drawers for nearly any price, even if it meant dipping into his rent money, which was due soon. The auction day arrived, and eventually, the important lot was put up for bidding. One of the drawers held a bunch of loose newspapers and other worthless scraps; and Caleb, with a cheeky grin, asked the auctioneer if he was selling the item with everything inside it. “Oh yes,” replied Sowerby, who was keeping an eye on the sale; “the buyer can take everything that comes with it, and may it bring him good fortune.” Laughter followed the attorney’s sarcastic comment, and the bidding continued. “I want it,” Caleb remarked, “because it fits perfectly in a nook like this one in my room.” He said this to quiet any suspicion he thought was forming on the attorney’s face. It was finally sold to Caleb for £5, 10s., a price well above its actual worth; and he had to borrow a sovereign to finalize his risky purchase. Once that was sorted, he took his prize home, and once the house was closed for the night, ensuring he wouldn't be interrupted, he eagerly began searching for the secret drawer. After a lengthy and detailed examination, he was richly rewarded. Behind one of the small drawers in the *secrétaire* part of the furniture was another small drawer, cleverly hidden, that contained Bank of England notes totaling £200, tied with a letter that had “To take with me” handwritten by the deceased on the back. The letter, which Caleb had a hard time making out despite his ability to read print easily, was the one Mr. Lisle had snatched from the young woman’s hand a few weeks earlier, and it turned out to be a very heartfelt plea from Lucy Stevens, now Lucy Warner, a widow with two grown children. Her husband had passed away in debt, and she and her sister Emily, who was still single, were trying to run a school in Bristol, which looked promising if they could raise around £150 to save the furniture from her late husband's creditors. The need was urgent, as Mr. Warner had been dead for almost a year, and since Mr. Lisle was the only relative Mrs. Warner had, she had dared to ask for his help for her mother's sake. So there was no moral doubt that this money was meant to help Mrs. Warner; early the next morning, Mr. Caleb Jennings got dressed in his Sunday best and briefly told his landlady that he was going to be away from Watley for a day or two visiting a friend, and then he headed to the railway station. He hadn’t gone far when he hit a snag: the banknotes were all twenties, and if he tried to change one at the station, where he was well known, it would cause a lot of gossip and speculation, if not worse. So, Caleb used his credit again, borrowed enough for his trip to London, and there he exchanged one of the notes.

He soon reached Bristol, and blessed was the relief which the sum of money he brought afforded Mrs. Warner. She expressed much sorrow for the death of Mr. Lisle, and great gratitude to Caleb. The worthy man accepted with some reluctance one of the notes, or at least as much as remained of that which he had changed; and after exchanging promises with the widow and her relatives to keep the matter secret, departed homewards. The young woman, Mrs. Warner's daughter, who had brought the letter to Watley, was, Caleb noticed, the very image of her mother, or rather of what her mother must have been[Pg 78] when young. This remarkable resemblance it was, no doubt, which had for the moment so confounded and agitated Mr. Lisle.

He soon arrived in Bristol, and Mrs. Warner was incredibly grateful for the relief that the money he brought provided. She expressed deep sadness over Mr. Lisle's death and immense thankfulness to Caleb. The kind man reluctantly accepted one of the notes, or at least what was left of the one he had exchanged; after promising the widow and her family to keep the matter confidential, he headed home. Caleb noticed that the young woman, Mrs. Warner's daughter, who had delivered the letter to Watley, looked just like her mother or rather like what her mother must have been like[Pg 78] when she was young. This striking resemblance was probably what had so unsettled and disturbed Mr. Lisle.

Nothing occurred for about a fortnight after Caleb's return to disquiet him, and he had begun to feel tolerably sure that his discovery of the notes would remain unsuspected, when, one afternoon, the sudden and impetuous entrance of Mr. Sowerby into his stall caused him to jump up from his seat with surprise and alarm. The attorney's face was deathly white, his eyes glared like a wild beast's, and his whole appearance exhibited uncontrollable agitation. "A word with you, Mr. Jennings," he gasped—"a word in private, and at once!" Caleb, in scarcely less consternation than his visitor, led the way into his inner room, and closed the door.

Nothing happened for about two weeks after Caleb returned to trouble him, and he started to feel pretty confident that no one would find out about his discovery of the notes. Then, one afternoon, Mr. Sowerby burst into his stall so suddenly that Caleb jumped up in surprise and alarm. The attorney's face was pale, his eyes looked wild, and he seemed extremely agitated. "I need a word with you, Mr. Jennings," he gasped—"a word in private, right now!" Caleb, equally startled, led him into his inner room and shut the door.

"Restore—give back," screamed the attorney, vainly struggling to dissemble the agitation which convulsed him—"that—that which you have purloined from the chest of drawers!"

"Restore—give it back," yelled the attorney, desperately trying to hide the turmoil that was overwhelming him—"that—that which you have stolen from the drawer!"

The hot blood rushed to Caleb's face and temples; the wild vehemence and suddenness of the demand confounded him; and certain previous dim suspicions that the law might not only pronounce what he had done illegal, but possibly felonious, returned upon him with terrible force, and he quite lost his presence of mind.

The heat rushed to Caleb's face and temples; the intensity and suddenness of the demand threw him off balance; and some earlier vague worries that the law might not only consider what he did illegal but possibly criminal came back to him with overwhelming intensity, causing him to completely lose his composure.

"I can't—I can't," he stammered. "It's gone—given away"——

"I can't—I can't," he stuttered. "It's gone—given away"——

"Gone!" shouted, or more correctly howled, Sowerby, at the same time flying at Caleb's throat as if he would throttle him. "Gone—given away! You lie—you want to drive a bargain with me—dog!—liar!—rascal!—thief!"

"Gone!" shouted, or more accurately screamed, Sowerby, while lunging at Caleb's throat as if he intended to strangle him. "Gone—given away! You’re lying—you want to make a deal with me—dog!—liar!—scoundrel!—thief!"

This was a species of attack which Jennings was at no loss how to meet. He shook the attorney roughly off, and hurled him, in the midst of his vituperation, to the further end of the room.

This was a type of attack that Jennings knew exactly how to handle. He roughly shoved the attorney away and threw him, in the middle of his insults, to the other side of the room.

They then stood glaring at each other in silence, till the attorney, mastering himself as well as he could, essayed another and more rational mode of attaining his purpose.

They then stood staring at each other in silence until the attorney, gathering himself as best as he could, tried another and more sensible way to achieve his goal.

"Come, come, Jennings," he said, "don't be a fool. Let us understand each other. I have just discovered a paper, a memorandum of what you have found in the drawers, and to obtain which you bought them. I don't care for the money—keep it; only give me the papers—documents."

"Come on, Jennings," he said, "don't be ridiculous. Let's be clear with each other. I just found a paper, a note about what you discovered in the drawers that you bought. I don't care about the money—keep it; just give me the papers—documents."

"Papers—documents!" ejaculated Caleb in unfeigned surprise.

"Papers—documents!" Caleb exclaimed in genuine surprise.

"Yes—yes; of use to me only. You, I remember, cannot read writing; but they are of great consequence to me—to me only, I tell you."

"Yes—yes; they’re only useful to me. I remember you can’t read writing; but they really matter to me—only me, I’m telling you."

"You can't mean Mrs. Warner's letter?"

"You can't be talking about Mrs. Warner's letter?"

"No—no; curse the letter! You are playing with a tiger! Keep the money, I tell you; but give up the papers—documents—or I'll transport you!" shouted Sowerby with reviving fury.

"No—no; forget the letter! You're dealing with a tiger! Keep the money, I'm telling you; but give up the papers—documents—or I'll ship you off!" shouted Sowerby, his anger coming back to life.

Caleb, thoroughly bewildered, could only mechanically ejaculate that he had no papers or documents.

Caleb, completely confused, could only robotically reply that he had no papers or documents.

The rage of the attorney when he found he could extract nothing from Jennings was frightful. He literally foamed with passion, uttered the wildest threats; and then suddenly changing his key, offered the astounded cobbler one—two—three thousand pounds—any sum he chose to name—for the papers—documents! This scene of alternate violence and cajolery lasted nearly an hour; and then Sowerby rushed from the house, as if pursued by the furies, and leaving his auditor in a state of thorough bewilderment and dismay. It occurred to Caleb, as soon as his mind had settled into something like order, that there might be another secret drawer; and the recollection of Mr. Lisle's journey to London returned suggestively to him. Another long and eager search, however, proved fruitless; and the suspicion was given up, or, more correctly, weakened.

The lawyer's rage when he realized he couldn’t get anything from Jennings was terrifying. He was practically foaming at the mouth with anger, shouting the craziest threats; then he abruptly switched tactics, offering the stunned cobbler one—two—three thousand pounds—any amount he wanted—for the papers—documents! This back-and-forth of rage and flattery went on for nearly an hour; then Sowerby bolted out of the house as if he were being chased by demons, leaving his listener completely bewildered and distressed. Once Caleb's thoughts had settled into something resembling order, he wondered if there might be another secret drawer; the memory of Mr. Lisle’s trip to London came back to him suggestively. However, another long and eager search ended up being fruitless, and the suspicion was either abandoned or, more accurately, faded away.

As soon as it was light the next morning, Mr. Sowerby was again with him. He was more guarded now, and was at length convinced that Jennings had no paper or document to give up. "It was only some important memoranda," observed the attorney carelessly, "that would save me a world of trouble in a lawsuit I shall have to bring against some heavy debtors to Mr. Lisle's estate; but I must do as well as I can without them. Good morning." Just as he reached the door, a sudden thought appeared to strike him. He stopped and said: "By the way, Jennings, in the hurry of business I forgot that Mr. Lisle had told me the chest of drawers you bought, and a few other articles, were family relics which he wished to be given to certain parties he named. The other things I have got: and you, I presume, will let me have the drawers for—say a pound profit on your bargain?"

As soon as it was light the next morning, Mr. Sowerby was back with him. He was more cautious now and was finally convinced that Jennings had no papers or documents to hand over. "It was just some important notes," the lawyer mentioned carelessly, "that would save me a lot of trouble in a lawsuit I’ll have to file against some major debtors of Mr. Lisle's estate; but I'll have to manage without them. Good morning." Just as he was about to leave, a sudden thought seemed to occur to him. He paused and said: "By the way, Jennings, in the rush of business I forgot that Mr. Lisle mentioned the chest of drawers you bought, and a few other items, were family heirlooms that he wanted given to certain people he named. I've gotten the other things: and I assume you’ll let me take the drawers for—let's say a pound profit on your deal?"

Caleb was not the acutest man in the world; but this sudden proposition, carelessly as it was made, suggested curious thoughts. "No," he answered; "I shall not part with it. I shall keep it as a memorial of Mr. Lisle."

Caleb wasn't the sharpest guy around; but this unexpected suggestion, made so casually, sparked some interesting thoughts. "No," he replied; "I won't get rid of it. I'm going to keep it as a reminder of Mr. Lisle."

Sowerby's face assumed, as Caleb spoke, a ferocious expression. "Shall you?" said he. "Then, be sure, my fine fellow, that you shall also have something to remember me by as long as you live!"

Sowerby's face took on a fierce look as Caleb spoke. "Oh, really?" he said. "Then, just know, my good man, that you'll have something to remember me by for the rest of your life!"

He then went away, and a few days afterwards Caleb was served with a writ for the recovery of the two hundred pounds.

He then left, and a few days later, Caleb received a notice to recover the two hundred pounds.

The affair made a great noise in the place; and Caleb's conduct being very generally approved, a subscription was set on foot to defray the cost of defending the action—one Hayling, a rival attorney to Sowerby, having asserted that the words used by the proprietor of the chest of drawers at the sale barred his claim to the money found in them.[Pg 79] This wise gentleman was intrusted with the defence; and, strange to say, the jury, a common one—spite of the direction of the judge, returned a verdict for the defendant, upon the ground that Sowerby's jocular or sneering remark amounted to a serious, valid leave and license to sell two hundred pounds for five pounds ten shillings!

The incident created quite a stir in the area, and Caleb's actions were largely praised, leading to a fundraising effort to cover the costs of the lawsuit—some guy named Hayling, who was a rival attorney to Sowerby, claimed that the words spoken by the owner of the chest of drawers at the sale invalidated his claim to the money found inside it.[Pg 79] This clever gentleman was put in charge of the defense; and, surprisingly, the jury, a regular one—despite the judge's instructions—returned a verdict in favor of the defendant, reasoning that Sowerby's joking or sarcastic comment constituted a legitimate, valid permission to sell two hundred pounds for five pounds ten shillings!

Sowerby obtained, as a matter of course, a rule for a new trial; and a fresh action was brought. All at once Hayling refused to go on, alleging deficiency of funds. He told Jennings that in his opinion it would be better that he should give in to Sowerby's whim, who only wanted the drawers in order to comply with the testator's wishes. "Besides," remarked Hayling in conclusion, "he is sure to get the article, you know, when it comes to be sold under a writ of fi. fa." A few days after this conversation, it was ascertained that Hayling was to succeed to Sowerby's business, the latter gentleman being about to retire upon the fortune bequeathed him by Mr. Lisle.

Sowerby got a standard order for a new trial, and a new case was opened. Suddenly, Hayling refused to continue, saying he didn't have enough money. He told Jennings that he thought it would be better to just give in to Sowerby's demands, who only wanted the drawers to respect the testator's wishes. "Besides," Hayling added, "he's definitely going to get the item, you know, when it gets sold under a writ of fi. fa." A few days after this chat, it was found out that Hayling would take over Sowerby's business, as Sowerby was about to retire with the fortune left to him by Mr. Lisle.

At last Caleb, driven nearly out of his senses, though still doggedly obstinate, by the harassing perplexities in which he found himself, thought of applying to us.

At last, Caleb, nearly losing his mind but still stubbornly determined, overwhelmed by the frustrating issues he was dealing with, decided to turn to us for help.

"A very curious affair, upon my word," remarked Mr. Flint, as soon as Caleb had unburdened himself of the story of his woes and cares; "and in my opinion by no means explainable by Sowerby's anxiety to fulfil the testator's wishes. He cannot expect to get two hundred pence out of you; and Mrs. Warner, you say, is equally unable to pay. Very odd indeed. Perhaps if we could get time, something might turn up."

"A really strange situation, I must say," Mr. Flint remarked right after Caleb shared his troubles; "and I don't think it's just Sowerby's concern for fulfilling the deceased's wishes. He can't expect to get two hundred pennies from you, and Mrs. Warner, you say, can't pay either. Very strange indeed. Maybe if we could find some time, something might come up."

With this view Flint looked over the papers Caleb had brought, and found the declaration was in trover—a manifest error—the notes never admittedly having been in Sowerby's actual possession. We accordingly demurred to the form of action, and the proceedings were set aside. This, however, proved of no ultimate benefit: Sowerby persevered, and a fresh action was instituted against the unhappy shoemender. So utterly overcrowed and disconsolate was poor Caleb, that, he determined to give up the drawers, which was all Sowerby even now required, and so wash his hands of the unfortunate business. Previous, however, to this being done, it was determined that another thorough and scientific examination of the mysterious piece of furniture should be made; and for this purpose, Mr. Flint obtained a workman skilled in the mysteries of secret contrivances, from the desk and dressing-case establishment in King-street, Holborn, and proceeded with him to Watley.

With this perspective, Flint looked over the papers Caleb had brought and found that the declaration was in trover—a clear mistake—since the notes had never actually been in Sowerby's possession. We therefore objected to the form of action, and the proceedings were dismissed. Unfortunately, this didn’t help in the end: Sowerby pressed on, and a new lawsuit was filed against the unfortunate shoemaker. Poor Caleb was so overwhelmed and miserable that he decided to give up the drawers, which was all Sowerby still wanted, in order to wash his hands of this unfortunate situation. However, before doing that, it was agreed that another thorough and scientific examination of the mysterious piece of furniture should take place. For this, Mr. Flint got a skilled craftsman who understood secret mechanisms, from the desk and dressing-case store on King Street, Holborn, and went with him to Watley.

The man performed his task with great care and skill: every depth and width was gauged and measured, in order to ascertain if there were any false bottoms or backs; and the workman finally pronounced that there was no concealed receptacle in the article.

The man carried out his task with great care and skill: every depth and width was checked and measured to see if there were any hidden compartments; and the worker finally declared that there was no concealed storage in the item.

"I am sure there is," persisted Flint, whom disappointment as usual rendered but the more obstinate; "and so is Sowerby; and he knows, too, that it is so cunningly contrived as to be undiscoverable, except by a person in the secret, which he no doubt at first imagined Caleb to be. I'll tell you what we will do: you have the necessary tools with you. Split the confounded chest of drawers into shreds: I'll be answerable for the consequences."

"I’m sure there is," Flint kept insisting, as disappointment made him even more stubborn; "and so does Sowerby, who also knows it's hidden so cleverly that only someone in the know could find it, which he probably thought Caleb was at first. Here’s what we’ll do: you have the right tools with you. Just tear that ridiculous chest of drawers apart: I’ll take responsibility for what happens next."

This was done carefully and methodically, but for some time without result. At length the large drawer next the floor had to be knocked to pieces; and as it fell apart, one section of the bottom, which, like all the others, was divided into two compartments, dropped asunder, and discovered a parchment laid flat between the two thin leaves, which, when pressed together in the grooves of the drawer, presented precisely the same appearance as the rest. Flint snatched up the parchment, and his eager eye scarcely rested an instant on the writing, when a shout of triumph burst from him. It was the last will and testament of Ambrose Lisle, dated August 21, 1838—the day of his last hurried visit to London. It revoked the former will, and bequeathed the whole of his property, in equal portions, to his cousins Lucy Warner and Emily Stevens, with succession to their children; but with reservation of one-half to his brother Robert or children, should he be alive, or have left offspring.

This was done carefully and methodically, but for a while, there was no result. Eventually, the large drawer near the floor had to be broken apart; and as it fell apart, one section of the bottom, which, like all the others, was divided into two compartments, came apart and revealed a parchment laid flat between the two thin leaves. When pressed together in the grooves of the drawer, it looked exactly like the rest. Flint quickly grabbed the parchment, and barely pausing on the writing, let out a shout of triumph. It was the last will and testament of Ambrose Lisle, dated August 21, 1838—the day of his last rushed visit to London. It revoked the previous will and left his entire estate in equal parts to his cousins Lucy Warner and Emily Stevens, with succession to their children; but half was reserved for his brother Robert or his children, if he was alive or had left any descendants.

Great, it may be supposed, was the jubilation of Caleb Jennings at this discovery; and all Watley, by his agency, was in a marvelously short space of time in a very similar state of excitement. It was very late that night when he reached his bed; and how he got there at all, and what precisely had happened, except, indeed, that he had somewhere picked up a splitting headache, was, for some time after he awoke the next morn, very confusedly remembered.

Great, it can be assumed, was Caleb Jennings' joy at this discovery; and all of Watley, thanks to him, quickly found themselves in a similar state of excitement. It was very late that night when he finally got to bed; and how he even managed to get there, and what exactly had happened, except that he somehow ended up with a splitting headache, was quite hazy for some time after he woke up the next morning.

Mr. Flint, upon reflection, was by no means so exultant as the worthy shoemender. The odd mode of packing away a deed of such importance, with no assignable motive for doing so, except the needless awe with which Sowerby was said to have inspired his feeble-spirited client, together with what Caleb had said of the shattered state of the deceased's mind after the interview with Mrs. Warner's daughter, suggested fears that Sowerby might dispute, and perhaps successfully, the validity of this last will. My excellent partner, however, determined, as was his wont, to put a bold face on the matter; and first clearly settling in his own mind what he should and what he should not say, he waited upon Mr. Sowerby. The news had preceded him, and he was at once surprised and delighted to find that the nervous, crestfallen attorney was quite unaware of the advantages of his position. On condition of not being called to account for the moneys he had received and expended, about £1200, he destroyed[Pg 80] the former will in Mr. Flint's presence, and gave up at once all the deceased's papers. From these we learned that Mr. Lisle had written a letter to Mrs. Warner, stating what he had done, where the will would be found, and that only herself and Jennings would know the secret. From infirmity of purpose, or from having subsequently determined on a personal interview, the letter was not posted; and Sowerby subsequently discovered it, together with a memorandum of the numbers of the bank-notes found by Caleb in the secret drawer—the eccentric gentleman appears to have had quite a mania for such hiding-places—of a writing-desk.

Mr. Flint, upon thinking it over, wasn’t nearly as happy as the good shoemaker. The strange way of hiding such an important document, with no clear reason for doing so other than the unnecessary fear that Sowerby seemed to have instilled in his timid client, along with what Caleb mentioned about the deceased’s troubled state of mind after the meeting with Mrs. Warner's daughter, raised concerns that Sowerby might challenge the validity of this last will and possibly succeed. My excellent partner, however, decided, as was his usual approach, to remain optimistic; and after clearly determining in his own mind what he would and what he would not say, he met with Mr. Sowerby. The news had already gotten to him, and he was both surprised and pleased to find that the anxious, downcast attorney was completely unaware of his advantageous position. On the condition that he wouldn’t be held accountable for the approximately £1200 he had received and spent, he destroyed[Pg 80] the previous will in Mr. Flint's presence and immediately handed over all the deceased’s papers. From these, we discovered that Mr. Lisle had written a letter to Mrs. Warner explaining what he had done, where the will could be found, and that only she and Jennings would know the secret. Due to a lack of determination, or possibly deciding to arrange a personal meeting instead, the letter was never sent; and Sowerby later found it, along with a note detailing the serial numbers of the banknotes that Caleb had discovered in the secret drawer of a writing desk—the eccentric gentleman seemed to have quite a thing for such hiding spots.

The affair was thus happily terminated: Mrs. Warner, her children, and sister, were enriched, and Caleb Jennings was set up in a good way of business in his native place, where he still flourishes. Over the centre of his shop there is a large nondescript sign, surmounted by a golden boot, which, upon close inspection, is found to bear some resemblance to a huge bureau chest of drawers, all the circumstances connected with which may be heard, for the asking, and in much fuller detail than I have given, from the lips of the owner of the establishment, by any lady or gentleman who will take the trouble of a journey to Watley for that purpose.

The situation ended happily: Mrs. Warner, her kids, and her sister benefited, and Caleb Jennings was established in a good business in his hometown, where he continues to do well. Above the center of his shop hangs a big, unclear sign topped with a golden boot, which, upon closer look, resembles a giant chest of drawers. Anyone interested can hear the full story about it from the shop owner himself by making the trip to Watley.

MY NOVEL:

OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE,[8]

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

BOOK VI.—INITIAL CHAPTER.

"Life," said my father, in his most dogmatical tone, "is a certain quantity in time, which may be regarded in two ways—first, as life Integral; second, as life Fractional. Life integral is that complete whole, expressive of a certain value, large or small, which each man possesses in himself. Life fractional is that same whole seized upon and invaded by other people, and subdivided amongst them. They who get a large slice of it say, 'a very valuable life this!'—those who get but a small handful say, 'so, so, nothing very great!'—those who get none of it in the scramble exclaim, 'Good for nothing!'"

"Life," my father said in his most authoritative tone, "is a specific amount of time that can be viewed in two ways—first, as life Integral; second, as life Fractional. Life integral is the complete whole that represents a certain value, whether large or small, that each person has within them. Life fractional is that same whole taken over and divided among other people. Those who get a big piece of it say, 'What a valuable life this is!'—those who only get a small bit say, 'It's okay, nothing too special!'—and those who get none in the scramble shout, 'Worthless!'"

"I don't understand a word you are saying," growled Captain Roland.

"I don't understand a word you're saying," grumbled Captain Roland.

My father surveyed his brother with compassion—"I will make it all clear even to your understanding. When I sit down by myself in my study, having carefully locked the door on all of you, alone with my books and thoughts, I am in full possession of my integral life. I am totus, teres, atque rotundus—a whole human being—equivalent in value we will say, for the sake of illustration, to a fixed round sum—£100, for example. But when I come forth into the common apartment, each of those to whom I am of any worth whatsoever puts his fingers into the bag that contains me and takes out of me what he wants. Kitty requires me to pay a bill; Pisistratus to save him the time and trouble of looking into a score or two of books; the children to tell them stories; or play at hide-and-seek; the carp for breadcrumbs; and so on throughout the circle to which I have incautiously given myself up for plunder and subdivision. The £100 which I represented in my study is now parcelled out; I am worth £40 or £50 to Kitty, £20 to Pisistratus, and perhaps 30s. to the carp. This is life fractional. And I cease to be an integral till once more returning to my study, and again closing the door on all existence but my own. Meanwhile, it is perfectly clear that, to those who, whether I am in the study or whether I am in the common sitting-room, get nothing at all out of me, I am not worth a farthing. It must be wholly indifferent to a native of Kamschatka whether Austin Caxton be or be not rased out of the great account-book of human beings."

My dad looked at his brother with sympathy—"Let me explain this so you can understand. When I sit by myself in my study, having locked the door on all of you, alone with my books and thoughts, I'm fully in control of my whole life. I’m totus, teres, atque rotundus—a complete person—let's say, for example, I have a set value of £100. But when I come out to the main room, each person who finds me valuable takes what they want from me. Kitty needs me to pay a bill; Pisistratus wants me to help him with a few books; the kids want stories or to play hide-and-seek; and the carp want breadcrumbs. This continues with everyone I've carelessly let take from me. The £100 I represented in my study is now divided up; I’m worth £40 or £50 to Kitty, £20 to Pisistratus, and maybe 30s. to the carp. This is a fragmented life. I stop being whole until I go back to my study and shut the door on everything except my own existence. Meanwhile, it's clear that to those who don’t gain anything from me, whether I'm in the study or in the living room, I'm worth nothing at all. It wouldn’t matter at all to someone from Kamschatka whether Austin Caxton exists or not."

"Hence," continued my father—"hence it follows that the more fractional a life be—id est, the greater the number of persons among whom it can be subdivided—why, the more there are to say, 'a very valuable life that!' Thus, the leader of a political party, a conqueror, a king, an author who is amusing hundreds or thousands, or millions, has a greater number of persons whom his worth interests and affects than a Saint Simon Stylites could have when he perched himself at the top of a column; although, regarded each in himself, Saint Simon, in his grand mortification of flesh, in the idea that he thereby pleased his Divine Benefactor, might represent a larger sum of moral value per se than Bonaparte or Voltaire."

"Therefore," my father continued, "it follows that the more fragmented a life is—meaning, the more people it can be divided among—the more there are to say, 'What a valuable life that is!' So, the leader of a political party, a conqueror, a king, or an author entertaining hundreds, thousands, or even millions has a larger number of people whose lives he impacts and interests than a Saint Simon Stylites could have when he sat atop a column. However, if we look at each individual by themselves, Saint Simon, in his intense self-denial, believing that he was pleasing his Divine Benefactor, may represent a greater amount of moral value in and of himself than Bonaparte or Voltaire."

Pisistratus.—"Perfectly clear, sir, but I don't see what it has to do with My Novel."

Pisistratus.—"That makes complete sense, sir, but I don’t understand how it relates to my novel."

Mr. Caxton.—"Every thing. Your novel, if it is to be a full and comprehensive survey of the 'Quicquid agunt homines', (which it ought to be, considering the length and breadth to which I foresee, from the slow development of your story, you meditate extending and expanding it,) will embrace the two views of existence, the integral and the fractional. You have shown us the former in Leonard, when he is sitting in his mother's cottage, or resting from his work by the little fount in Riccabocca's garden. And in harmony with that view of his life, you have surrounded him with comparative integrals, only subdivided by the tender hands of their immediate families and neighbors—your Squires and Parsons, your Italian exile and his Jemima. With all these, life is more or less the life natural, and this is always more or less the life integral. Then comes the life artificial, which is always more or less the life fractional. In the life natural, wherein we are swayed but by our own native impulses and desires, subservient only to the great silent law of virtue, (which has pervaded the universe since it swung out of chaos,) a man is of worth from what he is in himself—Newton[Pg 81] was as worthy before the apple fell from the tree as when all Europe applauded the discoverer of the principle of gravity. But in the life artificial we are only of worth in as much as we affect others. And, relative to that life, Newton rose in value more than a million per cent. when down fell the apple from which ultimately sprang up his discovery. In order to keep civilization going, and spread over the world the light of human intellect, we have certain desires within us, ever swelling beyond the ease and independence which belong to us as integrals. Cold man as Newton might be, (he once took a lady's hand in his own, Kitty, and used her forefinger for his tobacco-stopper; great philosopher!)—cold as he might be, he was yet moved into giving his discoveries to the world, and that from motives very little differing in their quality from the motives that make Dr. Squills communicate articles to the Phrenological Journal upon the skulls of Bushmen and wombats. For it is the property of light to travel. When a man has light in him, forth it must go. But the first passage of genius from its integral state (in which it has been reposing on its own wealth) into the fractional, is usually through a hard and vulgar pathway. It leaves behind it the reveries of solitude—that self-contemplating rest which may be called the Visionary, and enters suddenly into the state that may be called the Positive and Actual. There, it sees the operation of money on the outer life—sees all the ruder and commoner springs of action—sees ambition without nobleness—love without romance—is bustled about, and ordered, and trampled, and cowed—in short, it passes an apprenticeship with some Richard Avenel, and does not yet detect what good and what grandeur, what addition even to the true poetry of the social universe, fractional existences like Richard Avenel's bestow; for the pillars that support society are like those of the court of the Hebrew Tabernacle—they are of brass, it is true, but they are filleted with silver. From such intermediate state genius is expelled, and driven on in its way, and would have been so in this case, had Mrs. Fairfield (who is but the representative of the homely natural affections, strongest ever in true genius—for light is warm) never crushed Mr. Avenel's moss rose on her sisterly bosom. Now, forth from this passage and defile of transition into the larger world, must genius go on, working out its natural destiny amidst things and forms the most artificial. Passions that move and influence the world are at work around it. Often lost sight of itself, its very absence is a silent contrast to the agencies present. Merged and vanished for a while amidst the practical world, yet we ourselves feel all the while that it is there—is at work amidst the workings around it. This practical world that effaces it rose out of some genius that has gone before; and so each man of genius, though we never come across him, as his operations proceed, in places remote from our thoroughfares, is yet influencing the practical world that ignores him, for ever and ever. That is genius! We can't describe it in books—we can only hint and suggest it, by the accessaries which we artfully heap about it. The entrance of a true probationer into the terrible ordeal of practical life is like that into the miraculous cavern, by which, legend informs us, St. Patrick converted Ireland."

Mr. Caxton.—"Everything. Your novel, if it’s going to be a full and comprehensive exploration of the 'Quicquid agunt homines', (which it should be, given the length and depth that I see you aiming for, based on how slowly your story is developing and expanding,) will cover both views of existence: the whole and the partial. You've illustrated the whole view through Leonard, whether he's sitting in his mother’s cottage or taking a break by the small fountain in Riccabocca's garden. In line with that perspective of his life, you’ve placed him among the complete figures, only divided by the caring hands of their immediate families and neighbors—your Squires and Parsons, your Italian exile and his Jemima. For all these characters, life is more or less the natural kind, and this is always more or less the whole life. Then we encounter the artificial life, which is always more or less the partial life. In the natural life, where we are driven solely by our own innate impulses and desires, only subject to the great silent law of virtue (which has existed in the universe since it emerged from chaos), a man is valued for who he is in himself—Newton[Pg 81] was just as valuable before the apple fell as he was when all of Europe celebrated him as the discoverer of gravity. But in the artificial life, our worth is only measured by how we impact others. Relative to that life, Newton's value skyrocketed by more than a million percent when the apple fell, leading to his discovery. To keep civilization thriving and to spread the light of human intellect around the globe, we have certain desires within us that continually grow beyond the ease and independence that belong to us as whole beings. Cold as a man might be, like Newton, (he once took a lady's hand in his own, Kitty, and used her forefinger as a tobacco-stopper; great philosopher!)—cold as he might be, he was still compelled to share his discoveries with the world, and that was motivated by reasons not too different from those that motivate Dr. Squills to publish articles in the Phrenological Journal about the skulls of Bushmen and wombats. For it is the property of light to travel. When a person has light within them, it must shine forth. However, the first transition of genius from its whole state (where it rests on its own wealth) into the partial is often a tough and crude journey. It leaves behind the daydreams of solitude—this self-reflective rest known as the Visionary—and suddenly enters what can be termed the Positive and Actual state. There, it observes the influence of money on the outer life—witnesses all the baser and more ordinary drivers of action—sees ambition devoid of nobility—love lacking romance—gets jostled, ordered around, trampled, and subdued—in short, it serves an apprenticeship under someone like Richard Avenel, and doesn't yet realize what benefits and greatness, what contributions even to the true poetry of the social universe, partial existences like Richard Avenel's provide; for the foundations that support society are like those of the court of the Hebrew Tabernacle—they may be made of brass, but they are encased in silver. From this intermediate state, genius is often pushed out, compelled to progress, and would have found itself in this situation if Mrs. Fairfield (who represents the genuine natural affections, most powerful in true genius—because light is warm) had never crushed Mr. Avenel's moss rose against her sisterly bosom. Now, from this transitional passage into the larger world, genius must continue its journey, fulfilling its natural destiny among the most artificial things and forms. The passions that drive and shape the world are active around it. Often losing itself, its very absence stands as a quiet contrast to the forces present. While it may momentarily blend into the practical world, we still feel all the while that it is there—working amidst the activities around it. This practical world that obscures it arose from some genius that came before; and so, each genius, though we may never encounter them as they operate far from our paths, is still influencing the practical world that overlooks them, forever and ever. That is brilliant! We can't define it in books—we can only hint and suggest it through the accessories we skillfully pile around it. The entrance of a true probationer into the daunting trial of practical life is much like stepping into the miraculous cavern, by which, as legend has it, St. Patrick converted Ireland."

Blanche.—"What is that legend? I never heard of it."

Blanche.—"What’s that story? I’ve never heard of it."

Mr. Caxton.—"My dear, you will find it in a thin folio at the right on entering my study, written by Thomas Messingham, and called 'Florilegium Insulæ Sanctorum,' &c. The account therein is confirmed by the relation of an honest soldier, one Louis Ennius, who had actually entered the cavern. In short, the truth of the legend is undeniable, unless you mean to say, which I can't for a moment suppose, that Louis Ennius was a liar. Thus it runs:—St. Patrick, finding that the Irish pagans were incredulous as to his pathetic assurances of the pains and torments destined to those who did not expiate their sins in this world, prayed for a miracle to convince them. His prayer was heard; and a certain cavern, so small that a man could not stand up therein at his ease, was suddenly converted into a Purgatory, comprehending tortures sufficient to convince the most incredulous. One unacquainted with human nature might conjecture that few would be disposed to venture voluntarily into such a place; on the contrary, pilgrims came in crowds. Now, all who entered from vain curiosity, or with souls unprepared, perished miserably; but those who entered with deep and earnest faith, conscious of their faults, and if bold, yet humble, not only came out safe and sound, but purified, as if from the waters of a second baptism. See Savage and Johnson at night in Fleet-street, and who shall doubt the truth of St. Patrick's Purgatory?" Therewith my father sighed—closed his Lucian, which had lain open on the table, and would read nothing but "good books" for the rest of the evening.

Mr. Caxton.—"My dear, you'll find it in a thin book on the right as you enter my study, written by Thomas Messingham, called 'Florilegium Insulæ Sanctorum,' etc. The information there is backed up by the account of an honest soldier, Louis Ennius, who actually entered the cave. In short, the truth of the legend is undeniable, unless you want to suggest, which I can't even imagine, that Louis Ennius was lying. Here's how it goes:—St. Patrick, realizing that the Irish pagans were skeptical of his heartfelt warnings about the pains and torments waiting for those who didn’t repent in this life, prayed for a miracle to convince them. His prayer was answered; and a certain cave, so small that a man couldn't stand comfortably inside, was suddenly turned into a Purgatory, filled with enough torment to convince even the most doubtful. Someone unfamiliar with human nature might think that few would willingly step into such a place; on the contrary, pilgrims flocked there. Now, all who entered out of mere curiosity or with unprepared souls met a miserable end; but those who came with deep and sincere faith, aware of their faults, and if bold, yet humble, not only emerged safe and sound but were purified, as if through the waters of a second baptism. Look at Savage and Johnson at night in Fleet Street, and who could doubt the truth of St. Patrick's Purgatory?" With that, my father sighed—closed his Lucian, which had been lying open on the table, and decided he would only read "good books" for the rest of the evening.

CHAPTER II.

On their escape from the prison to which Mr. Avenel had condemned them, Leonard and his mother found their way to a small public-house that lay at a little distance from the town, and on the outskirts of the high-road. With his arm round his mother's waist, Leonard supported her steps and soothed her excitement. In fact the poor woman's nerves were greatly shaken, and she felt an uneasy remorse at the injury her intrusion had inflicted on the young man's worldly prospects. As the shrewd reader has guessed already, that infamous Tinker was the prime agent of evil in this critical[Pg 82] turn in the affairs of his quondam customer. For, on his return to his haunts around Hazeldean and the Casino, the Tinker had hastened to apprise Mrs. Fairfield of his interview with Leonard, and on finding that she was not aware that the boy was under the roof of his uncle, the pestilent vagabond (perhaps from spite against Mr. Avenel, or perhaps from that pure love of mischief by which metaphysical critics explain the character of Iago, and which certainly formed a main element in the idiosyncrasy of Mr. Sprott) had so impressed on the widow's mind the haughty demeanor of the uncle and the refined costume of the nephew, that Mrs. Fairfield had been seized with a bitter and insupportable jealousy. There was an intention to rob her of her boy!—he was to be made too fine for her. His silence was now accounted for. This sort of jealousy, always more or less a feminine quality, is often very strong amongst the poor; and it was the more strong in Mrs. Fairfield, because, lone woman as she was, the boy was all in all to her. And though she was reconciled to the loss of his presence, nothing could reconcile her to the thought that his affections should be weaned from her. Moreover, there were in her mind certain impressions, of the justice of which the reader may better judge hereafter, as to the gratitude, more than ordinarily filial, which Leonard owed to her. In short, she did not like, as she phrased it, "to be shaken off;" and after a sleepless night she resolved to judge for herself, much moved thereto by the malicious suggestions to that effect made by Mr. Sprott, who mightily enjoyed the idea of mortifying the gentleman by whom he had been so disrespectfully threatened with the treadmill. The widow felt angry with Parson Dale, and with the Riccaboccas; she thought they were in the plot against her; she communicated, therefore, her intention to none—and off she set, performing the journey partly on the top of the coach, partly on foot. No wonder that she was dusty, poor woman.

On their escape from the prison where Mr. Avenel had sent them, Leonard and his mother found their way to a small pub located a bit outside the town, right off the main road. Leonard wrapped his arm around his mother's waist, helping her walk and calming her down. The poor woman's nerves were badly shaken, and she felt a nagging guilt about the trouble her arrival had caused for the young man's future. As any astute reader might have already guessed, that notorious Tinker was the main instigator of chaos in this pivotal moment for his former client. When he returned to his usual spots near Hazeldean and the Casino, the Tinker rushed to inform Mrs. Fairfield about his meeting with Leonard. When he realized that she didn't know her son was with his uncle, the troublesome vagabond—perhaps motivated by spite against Mr. Avenel, or maybe just driven by a pure love for causing trouble like Iago in literature, which certainly was a significant part of Mr. Sprott's personality—managed to plant in the widow's mind the image of her uncle's arrogant attitude and her nephew's polished appearance, causing Mrs. Fairfield to feel an intense and unbearable jealousy. There was a plot to take her boy away! He was going to be too good for her. His silence made sense now. This kind of jealousy, which is often a trait among women, can be especially potent among the poor; it was even stronger for Mrs. Fairfield because, being a solitary woman, her son meant everything to her. While she had come to terms with losing his presence, she couldn't accept the thought of him drifting away from her emotionally. Furthermore, she held certain beliefs—of which the reader may better assess later—about the unusual loyalty Leonard owed her. In summary, she didn’t like, as she put it, "to be shaken off," and after a sleepless night, she decided to find out for herself, spurred on by the wicked suggestions made by Mr. Sprott, who took great pleasure in the idea of humiliating the man who had so rudely threatened him with the treadmill. The widow felt resentment towards Parson Dale and the Riccaboccas, thinking they were part of the scheme against her; thus, she shared her plans with no one—and set off, making the journey partly on top of the coach and partly on foot. It’s no surprise she ended up all dusty, poor woman.

"And, oh, boy!" said she, half sobbing, "when I got through the lodge gates, came on the lawn, and saw all that power o' fine folk—I said to myself, says I—(for I felt fritted)—I'll just have a look at him and go back. But ah, Lenny, when I saw thee, looking so handsome—and when thee turned and cried 'Mother!' my heart was just ready to leap out o' my mouth—and so I could not help hugging thee, if I had died for it. And thou wert so kind, that I forgot all Mr. Sprott had said about Dick's pride, or thought he had just told a fib about that, as he had wanted me to believe a fib about thee. Then Dick came up—and I had not seen him for so many years—and we come o' the same father and mother; and so—and so"—the widow's sobs here fairly choked her. "Ah," she said, after giving vent to her passion, and throwing her arms round Leonard's neck, as they sat in the little sanded parlor of the public-house—"Ah, and I've brought thee to this. Go back, go back, boy, and never mind me."

"And, oh, boy!" she said, half-sobbing, "when I got through the lodge gates, came onto the lawn, and saw all those fancy people—I thought to myself—(because I felt scared)—I'll just take a look at him and then head back. But oh, Lenny, when I saw you looking so handsome—and when you turned and shouted 'Mother!' my heart was ready to leap out of my chest—and I couldn't help but hug you, even if it meant I’d die for it. And you were so sweet that I forgot everything Mr. Sprott had said about Dick being proud, or I thought he was just lying about that, like he wanted me to believe a lie about you. Then Dick came over—and I hadn't seen him for so many years—and we share the same parents; and so—and so"—the widow's sobs here completely choked her. "Ah," she said, after letting out her feelings and throwing her arms around Leonard's neck, as they sat in the little sanded parlor of the pub—"Ah, and I've brought you to this. Go back, go back, boy, and don’t worry about me."

With some difficulty Leonard pacified poor Mrs. Fairfield, and got her to retire to bed; for she was indeed thoroughly exhausted. He then stepped forth into the road, musingly. All the stars were out; and Youth, in its troubles, instinctively looks up to the stars. Folding his arms, Leonard gazed on the heavens, and his lips murmured.

With some effort, Leonard calmed down poor Mrs. Fairfield and convinced her to go to bed because she was really worn out. He then stepped out onto the road, lost in thought. All the stars were shining; and youth, in its struggles, naturally looks up to the stars. Folding his arms, Leonard stared at the sky, and his lips whispered.

From this trance, for so it might be called, he was awakened by a voice in a decidedly London accent; and, turning hastily round, saw Mr. Avenel's very gentlemanlike butler. Leonard's first idea was that his uncle had repented, and sent in search of him. But the butler seemed as much surprised at the rencontre as himself; that personage, indeed, the fatigues of the day being over, was accompanying one of Mr. Gunter's waiters to the public-house, (at which the latter had secured his lodging,) having discovered an old friend in the waiter, and proposing to regale himself with a cheerful glass, and—that of course—abuse of his present sitivation.

From this trance, as it could be called, he was awakened by a voice with a distinctly London accent; and, turning around quickly, he saw Mr. Avenel's very proper butler. Leonard's first thought was that his uncle had changed his mind and sent someone to find him. But the butler looked just as surprised by the encounter as Leonard was; in fact, he was, after a long day, heading to the pub with one of Mr. Gunter's waiters (where the waiter had secured his lodging), having run into an old friend in the waiter and planning to treat himself to a cheerful drink and, of course, to complain about his current situation.

"Mr. Fairfield!" exclaimed the butler, while the waiter walked discreetly on.

"Mr. Fairfield!" the butler exclaimed, as the waiter moved on quietly.

Leonard looked, and said nothing. The butler began to think that some apology was due for leaving his plate and his pantry, and that he might as well secure Leonard's propitiatory influence with his master—

Leonard looked and said nothing. The butler started to feel that he should apologize for leaving his plate and pantry, and that he might as well make sure to win Leonard's favor with his boss—

"Please, sir," said he, touching his hat, "I was just a-showing Mr. Giles the way to the Blue Bells, where he puts up for the night. I hope my master will not be offended. If you are a-going back, sir, would you kindly mention it?"

"Excuse me, sir," he said, tipping his hat, "I was just showing Mr. Giles the way to the Blue Bells, where he's staying for the night. I hope my boss won't mind. If you’re heading back, sir, could you please mention it?"

"I am not going back, Jarvis," answered Leonard, after a pause; "I am leaving Mr. Avenel's house, to accompany my mother; rather suddenly. I should be very much obliged to you if you would bring some things of mine to me at the Blue Bells. I will give you the list, if you will step back with me to the inn."

"I’m not going back, Jarvis," Leonard replied after a moment. "I’m leaving Mr. Avenel’s house to go with my mom, and it’s a bit sudden. I’d really appreciate it if you could bring me some things from my place to the Blue Bells. I can give you the list if you come back with me to the inn."

Without waiting for a reply, Leonard then turned towards the inn, and made his humble inventory: item, the clothes he had brought with him from the Casino; item, the knapsack that had contained them; item, a few books, ditto; item, Dr. Riccabocca's watch; item, sundry MSS., on which the young student now built all his hopes of fame and fortune. This list he put into Mr. Jarvis's hand.

Without waiting for a response, Leonard turned towards the inn and made a quick inventory: item, the clothes he had brought from the Casino; item, the backpack that had held them; item, a few books, same as above; item, Dr. Riccabocca's watch; item, various manuscripts, on which the young student now pinned all his hopes for fame and fortune. He handed this list to Mr. Jarvis.

"Sir," said the butler, twirling the paper between his finger and thumb, "you are not a-going for long, I hope;" and as he thought of the scene on the lawn, the report of which had vaguely reached his ears, he looked on the face of the young man, who had always been "civil spoken to him," with as much, curiosity and as much compassion as so apathetic[Pg 83] and princely a personage could experience in matters affecting a family less aristocratic than he had hitherto condescended to serve.

"Sir," said the butler, twirling the paper between his fingers, "I hope you’re not going for long;" and as he recalled the scene on the lawn, which he had only heard about vaguely, he looked at the young man, who had always been polite to him, with as much curiosity and compassion as a detached and noble person could feel in matters involving a family less prestigious than the one he had been serving until now.

"Yes," said Leonard, simply and briefly; "and your master will no doubt excuse you for rendering me this service."

"Yes," Leonard replied, plainly and concisely; "and I'm sure your boss will understand why you're helping me with this."

Mr. Jarvis postponed for the present his glass and chat with the waiter, and went back at once to Mr. Avenel. That gentleman, still seated in his library, had not been aware of the butler's absence; and when Mr. Jarvis entered and told him that he had met Mr. Fairfield, and, communicating the commission with which he was intrusted, asked leave to execute it, Mr. Avenel felt the man's inquisitive eye was on him, and conceived new wrath against Leonard for a new humiliation to his pride. It was awkward to give no explanation of his nephew's departure, still more awkward to explain.

Mr. Jarvis put off his drink and conversation with the waiter for now and immediately returned to Mr. Avenel. That gentleman, still sitting in his library, hadn’t noticed the butler was gone; when Mr. Jarvis came in and told him he had run into Mr. Fairfield, mentioning the task he was given and asking for permission to carry it out, Mr. Avenel sensed the man’s probing gaze on him and felt a fresh anger towards Leonard for yet another blow to his pride. It was uncomfortable not to explain his nephew's departure, but even more uncomfortable to have to explain it.

After a short pause, Mr. Avenel said sullenly, "My nephew is going away on business for some time—do what he tells you;" and then turned his back, and lighted his cigar.

After a brief pause, Mr. Avenel said gloomily, "My nephew is leaving for work for a while—just do what he says;" and then he turned away and lit his cigar.

"That beast of a boy," said he, soliloquizing, "either means this as an affront, or an overture; if an affront, he is, indeed, well got rid of; if an overture, he will soon make a more respectful and proper one. After all, I can't have too little of relations till I have fairly secured Mrs. McCatchly. An Honorable! I wonder if that makes me an Honorable too? This cursed Debrett contains no practical information on these points."

"That brat of a boy," he said to himself, "either means this as an insult or a friendly gesture; if it’s an insult, I’m definitely better off without him; if it’s a friendly gesture, he’ll soon make a more respectful and appropriate one. After all, I can't have too few connections until I've properly secured Mrs. McCatchly. An Honorable! I wonder if that makes me an Honorable too? This damned Debrett has no useful information on these topics."

The next morning, the clothes and the watch with which Mr. Avenel had presented Leonard were returned, with a note meant to express gratitude, but certainly written with very little knowledge of the world, and so full of that somewhat over-resentful pride which had in earlier life made Leonard fly from Hazeldean, and refuse all apology to Randal, that it is not to be wondered at that Mr. Avenel's last remorseful feelings evaporated in ire. "I hope he will starve!" said the uncle, vindictively.

The next morning, the clothes and the watch that Mr. Avenel had given to Leonard were sent back, along with a note intended to show gratitude, but it clearly lacked awareness of the world and was filled with a kind of overly resentful pride that had previously made Leonard run away from Hazeldean and reject all apologies from Randal. So, it’s no surprise that Mr. Avenel's last feelings of regret turned into anger. "I hope he starves!" the uncle said bitterly.

CHAPTER III.

"Listen to me, my dear mother," said Leonard the next morning, as with his knapsack on his shoulder and Mrs. Fairfield on his arm, he walked along the high road; "I do assure you, from my heart, that I do not regret the loss of favors which I see plainly would have crushed out of me the very sense of independence. But do not fear for me; I have education and energy—I shall do well for myself, trust me. No; I cannot, it is true, go back to our cottage—I cannot be a gardener again. Don't ask me—I should be discontented, miserable. But I will go up to London! That's the place to make a fortune and a name: I will make both. O yes, trust me, I will. You shall soon be proud of your Leonard; and then we will always live together—always! Don't cry."

"Listen to me, Mom," Leonard said the next morning as he walked down the main road with his backpack on his shoulder and Mrs. Fairfield on his arm. "I promise you, from the bottom of my heart, I don't regret losing opportunities that would have taken away my sense of independence. But don't worry about me; I have education and determination—I’ll be fine, trust me. No, I can’t go back to our cottage—I can’t be a gardener again. Please don’t ask me—I would be unhappy and miserable. But I’m heading to London! That’s where you can make a fortune and a name: I will do both. Oh yes, trust me, I will. You’ll soon be proud of your Leonard; and then we’ll always live together—always! Please don’t cry."

"But what can you do in London—such a big place, Lenny?"

"But what can you do in London—such a huge city, Lenny?"

"What! Every year does not some lad leave our village, and go and seek his fortune, taking with him but health and strong hands? I have these, and I have more: I have brains, and thoughts, and hopes, that—again I say, No, no—never fear for me!"

"What! Doesn’t some guy leave our village every year to chase his fortune, taking only his health and strong hands with him? I’ve got those, and I’ve got more: I have brains, thoughts, and hopes, and—once again I say, No, no—never worry about me!"

The boy threw back his head proudly; there was something sublime in his young trust in the future.

The boy tilted his head back proudly; there was something amazing in his youthful faith in the future.

"Well—but you will write to Mr. Dale, or to me? I will get Mr. Dale, or the good Mounseer (now I knew they were not agin me) to read your letters."

"Well—but will you write to Mr. Dale or to me? I will ask Mr. Dale or the nice Mounseer (now I knew they weren't against me) to read your letters."

"I will, indeed!"

"Absolutely!"

"And, boy, you have nothing in your pockets. We have paid Dick; these, at least, are my own, after paying the coach fare." And she would thrust a sovereign and some shillings into Leonard's waistcoat pocket.

"And, man, you’ve got nothing in your pockets. We’ve paid Dick; these, at least, are mine, after covering the coach fare." And she would push a sovereign and some shillings into Leonard's waistcoat pocket.

After some resistance, he was forced to consent.

After some reluctance, he had no choice but to agree.

"And there's a sixpence with a hole in it. Don't part with that, Lenny; it will bring thee good luck."

"And there's a sixpence with a hole in it. Don't let that go, Lenny; it will bring you good luck."

Thus talking, they gained the inn where the three roads met, and from which a coach went direct to the Casino. And here, without entering the inn, they sat on the green sward by the hedge-row, waiting the arrival of the coach. Mrs. Fairfield was much subdued in spirits, and there was evidently on her mind something uneasy—some struggle with her conscience. She not only upbraided herself for her rash visit; but she kept talking of her dead Mark. And what would he say of her, if he could see her in heaven?

Thus talking, they reached the inn where the three roads met, from which a coach went straight to the Casino. Without going inside the inn, they sat on the green grass by the hedge, waiting for the coach to arrive. Mrs. Fairfield was feeling quite down, and it was clear she was troubled by something—some inner conflict with her conscience. She not only scolded herself for her impulsive visit, but she also kept talking about her late husband, Mark. What would he think of her if he could see her in heaven?

"It was so selfish in me, Lenny."

"It was so selfish of me, Lenny."

"Pooh, pooh! Has not a mother a right to her child?"

"Come on! Doesn't a mother have the right to her child?"

"Ay, ay, ay!" cried Mrs. Fairfield: "I do love you as a child—my own child. But if I was not your mother, after all, Lenny, and cost you all this—oh, what would you say of me then?"

"Ay, ay, ay!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfield. "I love you like my own child. But if I weren't your mother after all, Lenny, and caused you all this—oh, what would you think of me then?"

"Not my own mother!" said Leonard, laughing, as he kissed her. "Well, I don't know what I should say then differently from what I say now—that you who brought me up, and nursed and cherished me, had a right to my home and my heart, wherever I was."

"Not my own mother!" Leonard said with a laugh as he kissed her. "Well, I’m not sure what else I can say other than what I’ve already said—that you, who raised me, cared for me, and loved me, have a place in both my home and my heart, no matter where I am."

"Bless thee!" cried Mrs. Fairfield, as she pressed him to her heart. "But it weighs here—it weighs"—she said, starting up.

"Bless you!" cried Mrs. Fairfield, as she pulled him into a tight hug. "But it feels heavy here—it feels heavy," she said, jumping to her feet.

At that instant the coach appeared, and Leonard ran forward to inquire if there was an outside place. Then there was a short bustle while the horses were being changed; and Mrs. Fairfield was lifted up to the roof of the vehicle. So all future private conversation between her and Leonard ceased. But as the coach whirled away, and she waved her hand to the boy, who stood on the road-side gazing after her, she still murmured—"It weighs here—it weighs!"—[Pg 84]—

At that moment, the coach pulled up, and Leonard rushed forward to ask if there was a seat available on top. Then there was a brief flurry as they changed the horses, and Mrs. Fairfield was helped up onto the roof of the coach. So, all future private conversations between her and Leonard came to an end. But as the coach sped off, and she waved goodbye to the boy who stood by the side of the road watching her, she quietly said, "It’s heavy here—it’s heavy!"—[Pg 84]—

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER 4.

Leonard walked sturdily on in the high-road to the Great City. The day was calm and sunlit, but with a gentle breeze from gray hills at the distance; and with each mile that he passed, his step seemed to grow more firm, and his front more elate. Oh! it is such joy in youth to be alone with one's day dreams. And youth feels so glorious a vigor in the sense of its own strength, though the world be before and—against it! Removed from that chilling counting-house—from the imperious will of a patron and master—all friendless, but all independent—the young adventurer felt a new being—felt his grand nature as Man. And on the Man rushed the genius long interdicted—and thrust aside—rushing back, with the first breath of adversity to console—no! the Man needed not consolation,—to kindle, to animate, to rejoice! If there is a being in the world worthy of our envy, after we have grown wise philosophers of the fireside, it is not the palled voluptuary, nor the care-worn statesman, nor even the great prince of arts and letters, already crowned with the laurel, whose leaves are as fit for poison as for garlands; it is the young child of adventure and hope. Ay, and the emptier his purse, ten to one but the richer his heart, and the wider the domains which his fancy enjoys as he goes on with kingly step to the Future.

Leonard walked confidently along the main road to the Great City. The day was calm and sunny, with a gentle breeze coming from the distant gray hills; with each mile he passed, his step seemed to grow firmer, and his spirit higher. Oh! there’s such joy in youth when you’re alone with your daydreams. Youth feels a powerful energy from its own strength, even when the world lies ahead and—against it! Far from that cold office—from the demanding will of a boss—friendless yet totally independent—the young adventurer felt a new sense of self—felt his true nature as a man. And that man was filled with the creative spirit that had been suppressed and pushed aside—bursting back with the first hint of challenge, to inspire—not to console—the man didn’t need consolation, but to ignite, to energize, to celebrate! If there’s anyone in the world deserving of our envy, after we’ve become wise couch philosophers, it’s not the tired pleasure-seeker, nor the burdened politician, nor even the celebrated artist already crowned with laurel, whose leaves may be as harmful as they are honored; it’s the young person of adventure and hope. Yes, and the emptier his wallet, the more likely his heart is richer, and the broader the realms his imagination explores as he strides forward into the Future.

Not till towards the evening did our adventurer slacken his pace, and think of rest and refreshment. There, then, lay before him, on either side the road, those wide patches of uninclosed land, which in England often denote the entrance to a village. Presently one or two neat cottages came in sight—then a small farm-house, with its yard and barns. And some way farther yet, he saw the sign swinging before an inn of some pretensions—the sort of inn often found on a long stage between two great towns, commonly called "The Half-way House." But the inn stood back from the road, having its own separate sward in front, whereon were a great beech tree (from which the sign extended) and a rustic arbor—so that, to gain the inn, the coaches that stopped there took a sweep from the main thoroughfare. Between our pedestrian and the inn there stood naked and alone, on the common land, a church; our ancestors never would have chosen that site for it; therefore it was a modern church—modern Gothic—handsome to an eye not versed in the attributes of ecclesiastical architecture—very barbarous to an eye that was. Somehow or other the church looked cold and raw and uninviting. It looked a church for show—much too big for the scattered hamlet—and void of all the venerable associations which give their peculiar and unspeakable atmosphere of piety to the churches in which succeeding generations have knelt and worshipped. Leonard paused and surveyed the edifice with an unlearned but poetical gaze—it dissatisfied him. And he was yet pondering why, when a young girl passed slowly before him, her eyes fixed on the ground, opened the little gate that led into the churchyard, and vanished. He did not see the child's face; but there was something in her movements so utterly listless, forlorn, and sad, that his heart was touched. What did she there? He approached the low wall with a noiseless step, and looked over it wistfully.

Not until the evening did our adventurer slow down and think about resting and getting something to eat. There lay wide stretches of open land on both sides of the road, a common sight in England to mark the entrance to a village. Soon, he spotted a couple of tidy cottages—then a small farmhouse with its yard and barns. A little farther down, he noticed a sign swinging in front of an inn that seemed quite nice—typically the kind of inn found halfway on a long route between two big towns, commonly referred to as "The Half-way House." However, the inn was set back from the road, with its own grassy area in front, featuring a large beech tree (from which the sign hung) and a rustic arbor—meaning coaches that stopped there had to take a detour from the main road to reach it. Between him and the inn stood an empty church on the common land; our ancestors would never have picked that spot for it, so it was clearly a modern church—modern Gothic—appealing to someone unfamiliar with ecclesiastical architecture but very harsh to an experienced eye. Somehow, the church seemed cold, raw, and unwelcoming. It looked more like a church for show—far too big for the scattered village—and lacked all the historical associations that give churches their unique and indescribable atmosphere of reverence, built by generations who have worshipped there. Leonard paused and examined the building with an untrained but poetic eye—it left him feeling unsatisfied. He was still thinking about why that was when a young girl walked slowly past him, her eyes on the ground, opened the little gate leading into the churchyard, and disappeared. He couldn't see her face, but there was something in her movements—so completely listless, forlorn, and sad—that it touched his heart. What was she doing there? He approached the low wall quietly and looked over it with longing.

There, by a grave evidently quite recent, with no wooden tomb nor tombstone like the rest, the little girl had thrown herself, and she was sobbing loud and passionately. Leonard opened the gate, and approached her with a soft step. Mingled with her sobs, he heard broken sentences, wild and vain, as all human sorrowings over graves must be.

There, by a grave that looked pretty recent, with no wooden marker or tombstone like the others, the little girl had thrown herself down and was sobbing loudly and passionately. Leonard opened the gate and approached her quietly. Mixed in with her sobs, he heard fragmented sentences, desperate and pointless, just like all human griefs over graves must be.

"Father!—oh, father! do you not really hear me? I am so lone—so lone! Take me to you—take me!" And she buried her face in the deep grass.

"Father!—oh, father! do you not really hear me? I am so alone—so alone! Take me to you—take me!" And she buried her face in the thick grass.

"Poor child!" said Leonard, in a half whisper—"he is not there. Look above!"

"Poor kid!" said Leonard, in a hushed voice—"he's not here. Look up!"

The girl did not heed him—he put his arm round her waist gently—she made a gesture of impatience and anger, but she would not turn her face—and she clung to the grave with her hands.

The girl ignored him—he wrapped his arm around her waist gently—she moved in frustration and anger, but she wouldn't turn her face—and she held onto the grave with her hands.

After clear sunny days the dews fall more heavily; and now, as the sun set, the herbage was bathed in a vaporous haze—a dim mist rose around. The young man seated himself beside her, and tried to draw the child to his breast. Then she turned eagerly, indignantly, and pushed him aside with jealous arms. He profaned the grave! He understood her with his deep poet heart, and rose. There was a pause.

After clear sunny days, the dew fell more heavily; and now, as the sun set, the grass was covered in a misty haze—a faint fog lifted around them. The young man sat next to her and tried to pull the child close to him. Then she turned toward him eagerly, angrily, and pushed him away with jealous arms. He disrespected the moment! He understood her with his deep, poetic heart and stood up. There was a pause.

Leonard was the first to break it.

"Come to your home with me, my child, and we will talk of him by the way."

"Come to my place with me, kid, and we’ll chat about him along the way."

"Him! Who are you? You did not know him?" said the girl, still with anger. "Go away—why do you disturb me? I do no one harm. Go—go!"

"Him! Who are you? You didn't know him?" said the girl, still angry. "Go away—why are you bothering me? I don’t hurt anyone. Just go—go!"

"You do yourself harm, and that will grieve him if he sees you yonder! Come!"

"You're hurting yourself, and it will upset him if he sees you over there! Come on!"

The child looked at him through her blinding tears, and his face softened and soothed her.

The child stared at him through her streaming tears, and his expression became gentle and comforted her.

"Go!" she said very plaintively, and in subdued accents. "I will but stay a minute more. I—I have so much to say yet."

"Go!" she said softly, her voice low. "I'll just stay a minute longer. I—I still have so much to say."

Leonard left the churchyard, and waited without; and in a short time the child came forth, waved him aside as he approached her, and hurried away. He followed her at a distance, and saw her disappear within the inn.

Leonard left the churchyard and waited outside. After a little while, the girl came out, waved him off as he got closer, and rushed away. He followed her from a distance and saw her go into the inn.

CHAPTER V.

"Hip—hip—Hurrah!" Such was the sound that greeted our young traveller as he reached the inn door—a sound joyous in itself, but sadly out of harmony with the feelings which the child's sobbing on the tombless grave had left at his heart. The sound[Pg 85] came from within, and was followed by thumps and stamps, and the jingle of glasses. A strong odor of tobacco was wafted to his olfactory sense. He hesitated a moment at the threshold. Before him on benches under the beech-tree and within the arbor, were grouped sundry athletic forms with "pipes in the liberal air." The landlady, as she passed across the passage to the tap-room, caught sight of his form at the doorway, and came forward. Leonard still stood irresolute. He would have gone on his way, but for the child; she had interested him strongly.

"Hip—hip—Hurrah!" That was the sound that greeted our young traveler as he reached the inn door—a sound joyful in itself, but sadly out of sync with the feelings that the child's sobbing at the unmarked grave had left in his heart. The noise[Pg 85] came from inside, accompanied by thumps and stamps, and the clinking of glasses. A strong smell of tobacco drifted towards him. He hesitated for a moment at the threshold. In front of him, on benches under the beech tree and inside the arbor, were several athletic figures with "pipes in the open air." The landlady, as she walked across the passage to the tap-room, spotted him at the doorway and came forward. Leonard still stood unsure. He would have continued on his way, but the child had piqued his interest deeply.

"You seem full, ma'am," said he. "Can I have accommodation for the night?"

"You look busy, ma'am," he said. "Can I stay here for the night?"

"Why, indeed, sir," said the landlady, civilly, "I can give you a bedroom, but I don't know where to put you meanwhile. The two parlors and the tap-room and the kitchen are all chokeful. There has been a great cattle-fair in the neighborhood, and I suppose we have as many as fifty farmers and drovers stopping here."

"Why, yes, sir," the landlady replied politely, "I can give you a bedroom, but I’m not sure where to put you in the meantime. The two sitting rooms, the bar area, and the kitchen are all packed. There’s been a huge cattle fair nearby, and I guess we have around fifty farmers and livestock handlers staying here."

"As to that, ma'am, I can sit in the bedroom you are kind enough to give me; and if it does not cause you too much trouble to let me have some tea there, I should be glad; but I can wait your leisure. Do not put yourself out of the way for me."

"As for that, ma'am, I can sit in the bedroom you’re nice enough to give me; and if it’s not too much trouble to bring me some tea there, I’d appreciate it; but I can wait until you're free. Don’t go out of your way for me."

The landlady was touched by a consideration she was not much habituated to receive from her bluff customers.

The landlady was moved by a kindness she wasn't used to getting from her gruff customers.

"You speak very handsome, sir, and we will do our best to serve you, if you will excuse all faults. This way, sir." Leonard lowered his knapsack, stepped in the passage, with some difficulty forced his way through a knot of sturdy giants in top-boots or leathern gaiters who were swarming in and out the tap-room, and followed his hostess up stairs to a little bedroom at the top of the house.

"You speak very well, sir, and we’ll do our best to serve you, if you’ll overlook any mistakes. This way, sir." Leonard set down his backpack, stepped into the hallway, and with some effort made his way through a group of sturdy men in boots or leather gaiters who were coming in and out of the bar, then followed his hostess upstairs to a small bedroom at the top of the house.

"It is small, sir, and high," said the hostess apologetically. "But there be four gentlemen farmers that have come a great distance, and all the first floor is engaged; you will be more out of the noise here."

"It’s small, sir, and upstairs,” the hostess said apologetically. “But there are four gentlemen farmers who have traveled a long way, and the entire first floor is booked; you’ll be away from the noise up here."

"Nothing can suit me better. But, stay—pardon me;" and Leonard, glancing at the garb of the hostess, observed she was not in mourning. "A little girl whom I saw in the churchyard yonder, weeping very bitterly—is she a relation of yours? Poor child, she seems to have deeper feelings than are common at her age."

"Nothing could be better for me. But wait—excuse me;" and Leonard, looking at the hostess's outfit, noticed she wasn’t in mourning. "A little girl I saw in the churchyard over there, crying very sadly—is she related to you? Poor thing, she appears to feel more deeply than most kids her age."

"Ah, sir," said the landlady, putting the corner of her apron to her eyes, "it is a very sad story—I don't know what to do. Her father was taken ill on his way to Lunnun, and stopped here, and has been buried four days. And the poor little girl seems to have no relations—and where is she to go? Laryer Jones says we must pass her to Marybone parish, where her father lived last; and what's to become of her then? My heart bleeds to think on it." Here then rose such an uproar from below, that it was evident some quarrel had broken out; and the hostess, recalled to her duties, hastened to carry thither her propitiatory influences.

"Ah, sir," said the landlady, wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron, "it's a really sad situation—I don't know what to do. Her father got sick on his way to London, stopped here, and has been buried for four days. And the poor little girl seems to have no family—where is she supposed to go? Lawyer Jones says we need to transfer her to Marylebone parish, where her father lived last; and what will happen to her then? It breaks my heart to think about it." Just then, a loud commotion erupted from downstairs, indicating that a fight had started; the landlady, reminded of her responsibilities, rushed to intervene.

Leonard seated himself pensively by the little lattice. Here was some one more alone in the world than he. And she, poor orphan, had no stout man's heart to grapple with fate, and no golden manuscripts that were to be as the "Open Sesame" to the treasures of Aladdin. By-and-by the hostess brought him up a tray with tea and other refreshments, and Leonard resumed his inquiries. "No relatives?" said he; "surely the child must have some kinsfolk in London? Did her father leave no directions, or was he in possession of his faculties?"

Leonard sat thoughtfully by the small window. Here was someone even more alone in the world than he was. And she, poor orphan, had no strong man's spirit to face fate, nor any golden books that could unlock the treasures like "Open Sesame" did for Aladdin. After a while, the hostess brought him a tray with tea and snacks, and Leonard continued his questions. "No relatives?" he asked; "surely the child must have some family in London? Did her father leave any instructions, or was he in his right mind?"

"Yes, sir; he was quite reasonable-like to the last. And I asked him if he had not any thing on his mind, and he said, 'I have.' And I said, 'Your little girl, sir?' And he answered, 'Yes, ma'am;' and laying his head on his pillow, he wept very quietly. I could not say more myself, for it set me off to see him cry so meekly; but my husband is harder nor I, and he said, 'Cheer up, Mr. Digby; had not you better write to your friends?'"

"Yeah, sir; he was pretty reasonable until the end. I asked him if he had anything on his mind, and he said, 'I do.' I asked, 'Your little girl, sir?' And he replied, 'Yes, ma'am;' then he laid his head on his pillow and cried very softly. I couldn’t say anything more because it made me upset to see him cry so gently; but my husband is tougher than I am, and he said, 'Cheer up, Mr. Digby; wouldn’t it be better to write to your friends?'"

"'Friends!' said the gentleman, in such a voice! 'Friends I have but one, and I am going to Him! I cannot take her there!' Then he seemed suddenly to recollect hisself, and called for his clothes, and rummaged in the pockets as if looking for some address, and could not find it. He seemed a forgetful kind of gentleman, and his hands were what I call helpless hands, sir! And then he gasped out, 'Stop—stop! I never had the address. Write to Lord Les—,' something like Lord Lester—but we could not make out the name. Indeed he did not finish it, for there was a rush of blood to his lips; and though he seemed sensible when he recovered, (and knew us and his little girl too, till he went off smiling,) he never spoke word more."

"'Friends!' said the man, with such a tone! 'I have only one friend, and I'm going to him! I can’t take her there!' Then he suddenly seemed to remember himself, called for his clothes, and searched through the pockets as if he was looking for an address, but couldn’t find it. He appeared to be a forgetful type of person, and his hands were what I would call helpless, sir! Then he gasped, 'Stop—stop! I never had the address. Write to Lord Les—,' something like Lord Lester—but we couldn’t make out the name. In fact, he didn’t finish it, as blood rushed to his lips; and although he seemed aware when he recovered, (and recognized us and his little girl too, until he went off smiling), he never said another word."

"Poor man," said Leonard, wiping his eyes. "But his little girl surely remembers the name that he did not finish?"

"Poor guy," said Leonard, wiping his eyes. "But his little girl must remember the name he couldn't finish?"

"No. She says, he must have meant a gentleman whom they had met in the Park not long ago, who was very kind to her father, and was Lord something; but she don't remember the name, for she never saw him before or since, and her father talked very little about any one lately, but thought he should find some kind friends at Screwstown, and travelled down there with her from Lunnon. But she supposes he was disappointed, for he went out, came back, and merely told her to put up the things, as they must go back to Lunnon. And on his way there he—died. Hush what's that? I hope she did not overhear us. No, we were talking low. She has the next room to your'n, sir. I thought I heard her sobbing. Hush!"

"No. She says he must have meant a gentleman they met in the park not long ago, who was really nice to her dad and was Lord something; but she doesn’t remember the name because she’d never seen him before or since, and her father hasn’t talked much about anyone lately. He thought he would find some good friends in Screwstown and traveled down there with her from London. But she assumes he was disappointed because he went out, came back, and just told her to pack their things since they had to go back to London. And on the way there, he—died. Hush, what's that? I hope she didn’t overhear us. No, we were speaking quietly. She has the next room to yours, sir. I thought I heard her crying. Hush!"

"In the next room? I hear nothing. Well, with your leave, I will speak to her before I quit you. And had her father no money with him?"[Pg 86]

"In the next room? I can't hear anything. Well, if you don't mind, I’ll talk to her before I leave you. Did her father not have any money with him?"[Pg 86]

"Yes, a few sovereigns, sir; they paid for his funeral, and there is a little left still, enough to take her to town; for my husband said, says he, 'Hannah, the widow gave her mite, and we must not take the orphans;' and my husband is a hard man, too, sir. Bless him!"

"Yes, a few coins, sir; they covered his funeral, and there’s still a bit left, enough to take her to town; for my husband said, he says, 'Hannah, the widow gave her little bit, and we must not take from the orphans;' and my husband is a tough man, too, sir. Bless him!"

"Let me take your hand, ma'am. God reward you both."

"Let me take your hand, ma'am. May God bless you both."

"La, sir!—why, even Dr. Dosewell said, rather grumpily though, 'Never mind my bill; but don't call me up at six o'clock in the morning again, without knowing a little more about people.' And I never afore knew Dr. Dosewell go without his bill being paid. He said it was a trick o' the other Doctor to spite him."

"La, sir!—well, even Dr. Dosewell said, a bit grumpily, 'Forget my bill; just don’t call me at six in the morning again without knowing a bit more about people.' And I’ve never known Dr. Dosewell to leave without getting his bill paid. He said it was a move by the other doctor to get back at him."

"What other Doctor?"

"Which other Doctor?"

"Oh, a very good gentleman, who got out with Mr. Digby when he was taken ill, and stayed till the next morning; and our Doctor says his name is Morgan, and he lives in—Lunnon, and is a homy—something." "Homicide," suggested Leonard ignorantly.

"Oh, a really nice guy who came out with Mr. Digby when he got sick and stayed until the next morning; and our doctor says his name is Morgan, and he lives in—London, and is a homy—something." "Homicide," suggested Leonard cluelessly.

"Ah—homicide; something like that, only a deal longer and worse. But he left some of the tiniest little balls you ever see, sir, to give the child; but, bless you, they did her no good—how should they?"

"Ah—homicide; something like that, just a bit longer and worse. But he left some of the tiniest little balls you’ve ever seen, sir, to give to the child; but, honestly, they didn’t do her any good—how could they?"

"Tiny balls, oh—homœopathist—I understand. And the Doctor was kind to her; perhaps he may help her. Have you written to him?"

"Tiny pills, oh—homeopathist—I get it. And the doctor was nice to her; maybe he can help her. Have you contacted him?"

"But we don't know his address, and Lunnon is a vast place, sir."

"But we don't know his address, and London is a huge city, sir."

"I am going to London, and will find it out."

"I’m going to London, and I’ll figure it out."

"Ah, sir, you seem very kind; and sin' she must go to Lunnon, (for what can we do with her here?—she's too genteel for service,) I wish she was going with you."

"Ah, sir, you seem really nice; and since she has to go to London, (what can we do with her here?—she's too refined for any job,) I wish she could go with you."

"With me?" said Leonard startled; "with me! Well, why not?"

"With me?" Leonard said, startled. "With me! Well, why not?"

"I am sure she comes of good blood, sir. You would have known her father was quite the gentleman, only to see him die, sir. He went off so kind and civil like, as if he was ashamed to give so much trouble—quite a gentleman, if ever there was one. And so are you, sir, I'm sure," said the landlady, curtseying; "I know what gentlefolk be. I've been a housekeeper, in the first of families in this very shire, sir, though I can't say I've served in Lunnon; and so, as gentlefolks know each other, I've no doubt you could find out her relations. Dear—dear! Coming, coming!"

"I’m sure she comes from a good family, sir. You would have known her father was quite the gentleman, just by seeing him die, sir. He left us so kind and polite, as if he was embarrassed to cause any trouble—truly a gentleman, if there ever was one. And so are you, sir, I’m sure," said the landlady, curtsying; "I know what polite people are like. I’ve been a housekeeper for the best families in this very county, sir, even though I can’t say I’ve worked in London; and so, as polite folks recognize each other, I have no doubt you could find out about her relatives. Goodness—goodness! Coming, coming!"

Here there were loud cries for the hostess, and she hurried away. The farmers and drovers were beginning to depart, and their bills were to be made out and paid. Leonard saw his hostess no more that night. The last hip-hip-hurrah, was heard; some toast, perhaps, to the health of the county members;—and the chamber of woe, beside Leonard's, rattled with the shout. By-and-by silence gradually succeeded the various dissonant sounds below. The carts and gigs rolled away; the clatter of hoofs on the road ceased; there was then a dumb dull sound as of locking-up, and low humming voices below and footsteps mounting the stairs to bed, with now and then a drunken hiccup or maudlin laugh, as some conquered votary of Bacchus was fairly carried up to his domicile.

There were loud calls for the hostess, and she rushed off. The farmers and drivers were starting to leave, and they needed to settle their bills. Leonard didn't see his hostess again that night. The last cheer was heard, maybe a toast to the health of the county members, and the room next to Leonard’s echoed with the shout. Eventually, silence replaced the various clashing sounds from below. The carts and carriages rolled away; the clattering of hooves on the road stopped; then there was a dull sound of locking up, along with quiet voices and footsteps heading upstairs to bed, occasionally interrupted by a drunken hiccup or a silly laugh, as someone who had overindulged in drinks was helped up to their room.

All, then, at last was silent, just as the clock from the church sounded the stroke of eleven.

All was finally silent, just as the church clock struck eleven.

Leonard, meanwhile, had been looking over his MSS. There was first a project for an improvement on the steam-engine—a project that had long lain in his mind, begun with the first knowledge of mechanics that he had gleaned from his purchases of the Tinker. He put that aside now—it required too great an effort of the reasoning faculty to re-examine. He glanced less hastily over a collection of essays on various subjects, some that he thought indifferent, some that he thought good. He then lingered over a collection of verses, written in his best hand with loving care—verses first inspired by his perusal of Nora's melancholy memorials. These verses were as a diary of his heart and his fancy—those deep unwitnessed struggles which the boyhood of all more thoughtful natures has passed in its bright yet murky storm of the cloud and the lightning flash; though but few boys pause to record the crisis from which slowly emerges Man. And these first, desultory grapplings with the fugitive airy images that flit through the dim chambers of the brain, had become with each effort more sustained and vigorous, till the phantoms were spelled, the flying ones arrested, the immaterial seized, and clothed with Form. Gazing on his last effort, Leonard felt that there at length spoke forth a Poet. It was a work which, though as yet but half completed, came from a strong hand; not that shadow trembling on unsteady waters, which is but the pale reflex and imitation of some bright mind, sphered out of reach and afar; but an original substance—a life—a thing of the Creative Faculty—breathing back already the breath it had received. This work had paused during Leonard's residence with Mr. Avenel, or had only now and then, in stealth, and at night, received a rare touch. Now, as with a fresh eye, he re-perused it; and with that strange, innocent admiration, not of self—(for a man's work is not, alas! himself—it is the beatified and idealized essence, extracted he knows not how from his own human elements of clay)—admiration known but to poets—their purest delight, often their sole reward. And then, with a warmer and more earthly beat of his full heart, he rushed in fancy to the Great City, where all rivers of Fame meet, but not to be merged and lost—sallying forth again, individualized and separate, to flow through that one vast thought of God which we call The World.[Pg 87]

Leonard had been reviewing his manuscripts. He had a project for improving the steam engine, an idea that had been on his mind for a long time, sparked by the first bits of knowledge about mechanics he picked up from his Tinker purchases. He set that aside for now since it required too much mental effort to rethink. He then looked over a collection of essays on various topics, some of which he found mediocre, and others that he deemed good. He lingered over a collection of poems, written with care in his best handwriting—verses initially inspired by reading Nora's somber memorials. These poems served as a diary of his emotions and thoughts—those deep, unshared struggles that every thoughtful boy experiences amid the unpredictable storms of youth; although few boys take the time to document the transitions through which they slowly become men. His early, scattered attempts to capture the fleeting, elusive images that dance in the shadows of the mind grew more focused and powerful with each effort, until the visions were articulated, the elusive captured, and the intangible given form. Looking at his latest effort, Leonard felt a true Poet emerging. It was a piece that, while still half-finished, came from a strong hand; not a mere shadow flickering on unstable waters, which is just a pale imitation of a brilliant mind, far away and unreachable; but an original creation—a living thing—a product of the Creative Faculty—already returning the breath it had been given. This work had been on hold during Leonard's time with Mr. Avenel, with only occasional secret touches in the night. Now, with fresh eyes, he read it again, feeling a strange, innocent admiration—not of himself—(for a person's work is not, sadly, a reflection of themselves—it is the idealized essence, extracted from their human clay)—an admiration understood only by poets—pure delight, often their only reward. Then, with a warmer and more human thrill in his heart, he imagined rushing to the Great City, where all paths to Fame converge, yet do not get lost—emerging again, unique and distinct, to flow through that one vast thought of God which we call The globe.[Pg 87]

He put up his papers; and opened his window, as was his ordinary custom, before he retired to rest—for he had many odd habits; and he loved to look out into the night when he prayed. His soul seemed to escape from the body—to mount on the air—to gain more rapid access to the far Throne in the Infinite—when his breath went forth among the winds, and his eyes rested fixed on the stars, of Heaven.

He put away his papers and opened his window, as he usually did before going to bed—he had many quirky habits; and he liked to look out into the night while he prayed. His soul seemed to leave his body—to rise into the air—to reach the distant Throne in the Infinite more quickly—when he breathed out among the winds, and his eyes were focused on the stars in the sky.

So the boy prayed silently; and after his prayer he was about lingeringly to close the lattice, when he heard distinctly sobs close at hand. He paused, and held his breath; then gently looked out; the casement next his own was also open. Some one was also at watch by that casement—perhaps also praying. He listened yet more attentively, and caught, soft and low, the words. "Father—father—do you hear me now?"

So the boy prayed quietly; and after finishing his prayer, he was about to slowly close the window when he clearly heard sobs nearby. He stopped and held his breath; then cautiously looked out; the window next to his was also open. Someone was also watching by that window—maybe praying too. He listened more carefully and caught, soft and low, the words. "Father—father—do you hear me now?"

CHAPTER VI.

Leonard opened his door and stole towards that of the room adjoining; for his first natural impulse had been to enter and console. But when his touch was on the handle, he drew back. Child, though the mourner was, her sorrows were rendered yet more sacred from intrusion by her sex. Something, he knew not what, in his young ignorance, withheld him from the threshold. To have crossed it then would have seemed to him profanation. So he returned, and for hours yet he occasionally heard the sobs, till they died away, and childhood wept itself to sleep.

Leonard opened his door and quietly moved toward the door of the adjoining room; his first instinct was to go in and offer comfort. But when his hand was on the handle, he hesitated. Although the mourner was young, her grief felt even more sacred and private because she was a girl. He couldn't quite understand why, in his youthful ignorance, he held back from stepping inside. To cross that threshold then would have felt like a violation. So he turned back, and for hours he occasionally heard the sobs until they faded away, and childhood finally cried itself to sleep.

But the next morning, when he heard his neighbor astir, he knocked gently at her door: there was no answer. He entered softly, and saw her seated very listlessly in the centre of the room—as if it had no familiar nook or corner as the rooms of home have—her hands drooping on her lap, and her eyes gazing desolately on the floor. Then he approached and spoke to her.

But the next morning, when he heard his neighbor moving around, he gently knocked on her door: there was no answer. He quietly walked in and saw her sitting listlessly in the middle of the room—like it didn't have the cozy nooks or corners that home usually has—her hands resting in her lap, and her eyes staring emptily at the floor. Then he went up to her and spoke to her.

Helen was very subdued, and very silent. Her tears seemed dried up; and it was long before she gave sign or token that she heeded him. At length, however, he gradually succeeded in rousing her interest; and the first symptom of his success was in the quiver of her lip, and the overflow of the downcast eyes.

Helen was quiet and withdrawn. It looked like her tears had run dry, and it took a while before she showed any sign that she was paying attention to him. Eventually, though, he managed to spark her interest; the first sign of this was the tremble of her lip and the overflow from her downcast eyes.

By little and little he wormed himself into her confidence; and she told him, in broken whispers, her simple story. But what moved him the most was, that, beyond her sense of loneliness, she did not seem to feel her own unprotected state. She mourned the object she had nursed, and heeded, and cherished; for she had been rather the protectress than the protected to the helpless dead. He could not gain from her any more satisfactory information than the landlady had already imparted, as to her friends and prospects; but she permitted him passively to look among the effects her father had left—save only that if his hand touched something that seemed to her associations especially holy, she waved him back, or drew it quickly away. There were many bills receipted in the name of Captain Digby—old yellow faded music-scores for the flute—extracts of Parts from Prompt Books—gay parts of lively comedies, in which heroes have so noble a contempt for money—fit heroes for a Sheridan and a Farquhar; close by these were several pawnbroker's tickets; and, not arrayed smoothly, but crumpled up, as if with an indignant nervous clutch of the old helpless hands, some two or three letters. He asked Helen's permission to glance at these, for they might give a clue to friends. Helen gave the permission by a silent bend of the head. The letters, however, were but short and freezing answers from what appeared to be distant connections or former friends, or persons to whom the deceased had applied for some situation. They were all very disheartening in their tone. Leonard next endeavored to refresh Helen's memory as to the name of the nobleman which had been last on her father's lips, but there he failed wholly. For it may be remembered that Lord L'Estrange, when he pressed his loan on Mr. Digby, and subsequently told that gentleman to address him at Mr. Egerton's, had, from a natural delicacy, sent the child on, that she might not hear the charity bestowed on the father; and Helen said truly, that Mr. Digby had sunk into a habitual silence on all his affairs latterly. She might have heard her father mention the name, but she had not treasured it up; all she could say was, that she should know the stranger again if she met him, and his dog too. Seeing that the child had grown calm, Leonard was then going to leave the room, in order to confer with the hostess, when she rose suddenly, though noiselessly, and put her little hand in his, as if to detain him. She did not say a word—the action said all—said "Do not desert me." And Leonard's heart rushed to his lips, and he answered to the action as he bent down and kissed her cheek, "Orphan, will you go with me? We have one Father yet to both of us, and He will guide us on earth. I am fatherless like you." She raised her eyes to his—looked at him long—and then leant her head confidingly on his strong young shoulder.

Little by little, he earned her trust, and she shared her simple story with him in quiet whispers. What moved him the most was that, aside from her feeling of loneliness, she didn’t seem to grasp her own vulnerable situation. She mourned the person she had cared for deeply, as she had been more of a protector than someone in need of protection for the helpless deceased. He couldn't gather any more helpful information from her about her friends or future than what the landlady had already told him, but she allowed him to passively look through the belongings her father had left—except that if he touched something she considered especially sacred, she would wave him back or quickly pull it away. There were many receipts in the name of Captain Digby, old, yellowed music scores for the flute, excerpts from prompt books, and cheerful parts from lively comedies where the heroes had a noble disdain for money—perfect characters for a Sheridan or a Farquhar. Nearby were several pawnbroker's tickets, and not laid out neatly, but crumpled as if gripped tightly by the old helpless hands, were two or three letters. He asked Helen for permission to glance at these as they might provide clues to her friends. Helen consented with a silent nod. However, the letters were just brief and cold responses from what seemed like distant relatives or former friends, or people her father had approached for a job. All of them had a discouraging tone. Leonard then tried to help Helen remember the name of the nobleman her father had mentioned last, but he completely failed. It should be remembered that Lord L'Estrange, when he pressed Mr. Digby for a loan and later told him to contact him at Mr. Egerton’s, had, out of natural delicacy, sent the child away so she wouldn’t hear the charity given to her father. Helen truthfully said that her father had fallen into a habit of silence regarding his affairs lately. She might have heard her father mention the name, but hadn't held onto it; all she could say was that she would recognize the stranger again if she saw him, and his dog as well. Seeing that the girl had calmed down, Leonard was about to leave the room to talk to the landlady when she suddenly got up, silently put her little hand in his as if to keep him there. She didn't say anything—her action spoke volumes—saying, "Don’t leave me." Leonard's heart surged, and responding to her gesture, he leaned down and kissed her cheek, saying, "Orphan, will you come with me? We still have one Father, and He will guide us here on earth. I am fatherless like you." She looked up at him thoughtfully for a long moment and then rested her head trustingly on his strong young shoulder.

CHAPTER VII.

At noon that same day, the young man and the child were on their road to London. The host had at first a little demurred at trusting Helen to so young a companion, but Leonard, in his happy ignorance, had talked so sanguinely of finding out this lord, or some adequate protection for the child, and in so grand a strain, though with all sincerity, had spoken of his own great prospects in the metropolis (he did not say what they were!) that had it been the craftiest imposter, he could not have more taken in the rustic host.[Pg 88] And while the landlady still cherished the illusive fancy that all gentlefolks must know each other in London, as they did in a county, the landlord believed, at least, that a young man, so respectably dressed, although but a foot-traveller—who talked in so confident a tone, and who was so willing to undertake what might be rather a burdensome charge, unless he saw how to rid himself of it—would be sure to have friends, older and wiser than himself, who could judge what could best be done for the orphan.

At noon that same day, the young man and the child were on their way to London. The host had initially hesitated to trust Helen to such a young companion, but Leonard, blissfully unaware, had spoken so enthusiastically about finding this lord or some suitable protection for the child, in such a grand way, even while being completely sincere, that even if he were the craftiest con artist, he couldn't have fooled the naive host more.[Pg 88] And while the landlady still held onto the unrealistic belief that all upper-class people must know each other in London, just like they did in the countryside, the landlord at least thought that a young man, so well-dressed, even if he was just a traveler—who spoke so confidently and was so willing to take on what could be a heavy responsibility, unless he found a way to get out of it—would surely have older and wiser friends who could determine the best way to help the orphan.

And what was the host to do with her? Better this volunteered escort, at least, than vaguely passing her on from parish to parish, and leaving her friendless at last in the streets of London. Helen, too, smiled for the first time on being asked her wishes, and again put her hand in Leonard's. In short, so it was settled.

And what was the host supposed to do with her? This offered escort was definitely better than just sending her from one parish to another, leaving her alone and friendless on the streets of London. Helen also smiled for the first time when asked about her wishes, and once again took Leonard's hand. In short, it was decided.

The little girl made up a bundle of the things she most prized or needed. Leonard did not feel the additional load, as he slung it to his knapsack. The rest of the luggage was to be sent to London as soon as Leonard wrote, (which he promised to do soon,) and gave an address.

The little girl packed a bundle of the things she valued or needed the most. Leonard didn't notice the extra weight as he tossed it into his backpack. The remaining luggage was set to be sent to London as soon as Leonard wrote, which he promised to do soon, and provided an address.

Helen paid her last visit to the churchyard; and she joined her companion as he stood on the road, without the solemn precincts. And now they had gone on some hours, and when he asked if she was tired, she still answered "No." But Leonard was merciful, and made their day's journey short; and it took them some days to reach London. By the long lonely way, they grew so intimate, at the end of the second day they called each other brother and sister; and Leonard, to his delight, found that as her grief, with the bodily movement and the change of scene, subsided from its first intenseness and its insensibility to other impressions, she developed a quickness of comprehension far beyond her years. Poor child! that had been forced upon her by Necessity. And she understood him in his spiritual consolations,—half poetical, half religious; and she listened to his own tale, and the story of his self-education and solitary struggles—those, too, she understood. But when he burst out with his enthusiasm, his glorious hopes, his confidence in the fate before them, then she would shake her head very quietly and very sadly. Did she comprehend them? Alas! perhaps too well. She knew more as to real life than he did. Leonard was at first their joint treasurer, but before the second day was over, Helen seemed to discover that he was too lavish; and she told him so, with a prudent grave look, putting her hand on his arm, as he was about to enter an inn to dine; and the gravity would have been comic, but that the eyes through their moisture were so meek and grateful. She felt he was about to incur that ruinous extravagance on her account. Somehow or other, the purse found its way into her keeping, and then she looked proud, and in her natural element.

Helen made her last visit to the churchyard and joined her companion as he stood on the road outside the solemn grounds. They had been traveling for several hours, and when he asked if she was tired, she still said "No." But Leonard was kind and kept their day’s journey short, taking them a few days to reach London. Along the long, lonely road, they grew so close that by the end of the second day, they called each other brother and sister. Leonard was delighted to find that as her grief eased with the movement and change of scenery, she showed a real quickness of understanding that was far beyond her years. Poor child! That had been forced upon her by necessity. She grasped his spiritual comforts—half poetic, half religious—and listened to his story of self-education and solitary struggles—those, too, she understood. But when he expressed his enthusiasm, his grand hopes, and his confidence about their future, she would quietly and sadly shake her head. Did she truly understand them? Alas! perhaps too well. She knew more about real life than he did. At first, Leonard acted as their joint treasurer, but by the end of the second day, Helen seemed to realize he was too extravagant. She told him so with a serious, careful look, placing her hand on his arm as he was about to go into an inn to eat. The seriousness could have seemed funny, but her eyes—moist yet gentle and grateful—made it clear she felt he was about to spend too much money on her. Somehow, she ended up with the purse, and then she looked proud and in her element.

Ah! what happy meals under her care were provided: so much more enjoyable than in dull, sanded inn parlors, swarming with flies, and reeking with stale tobacco. She would leave him at the entrance of a village, bound forward, and cater, and return with a little basket and a pretty blue jug—which she had bought on the road—the last filled with new milk, the first with new bread and some special dainty in radishes or water-cresses. And she had such a talent for finding out the prettiest spot whereon to halt and dine: sometimes in the heart of a wood—so still, it was like a forest in fairy tales, the hare stealing through the alleys, or the squirrel peeping at them from the boughs; sometimes by a little brawling stream, with the fishes seen under the clear wave, and shooting round the crumbs thrown to them. They made an Arcadia of the dull road up to their dread Thermopylæ—the war against the million that waited them on the other side of their pass through Tempe.

Ah! what delightful meals she provided under her care: so much more enjoyable than in boring, dusty inn rooms, buzzing with flies, and smelling of stale tobacco. She would drop him off at the entrance of a village, rush off to gather supplies, and come back with a small basket and a pretty blue jug—which she had picked up along the way—the jug filled with fresh milk, the basket with fresh bread and some special treat like radishes or watercress. And she had an amazing knack for finding the prettiest spot to stop and eat: sometimes right in the middle of a quiet forest, so serene that it felt like a storybook, where a hare would sneak through the paths or a squirrel would peek at them from the branches; other times by a little bubbling stream, where they could see fish swimming beneath the clear water and darting around the crumbs they tossed to them. They created their own paradise on the boring road leading up to their daunting Thermopylæ—the battle against the countless challenges waiting for them on the other side of their path through Tempe.

"Shall we be as happy when we are great?" said Leonard, in his grand simplicity.

"Will we be as happy when we are great?" Leonard asked, with his straightforwardness.

Helen sighed, and the wise little head was shaken.

Helen sighed, and the clever little head shook.

CHAPTER VIII.

At last they came within easy reach of London; but Leonard had resolved not to enter the metropolis fatigued and exhausted, as a wanderer needing refuge, but fresh and elate, as a conqueror coming in triumph to take possession of the capital. Therefore they halted early in the evening of the day preceding this imperial entry, about six miles from the metropolis, in the neighborhood of Ealing, (for by that route lay their way.) They were not tired on arriving at their inn. The weather was singularly lovely, with that combination of softness and brilliancy which is only known to the rare true summer days of England: all below so green, above so blue—days of which we have about six in the year, and recall vaguely when we read of Robin Hood and maid Marian, of Damsel and Knight, in Spenser's golden Summer Song, or of Jacques, dropped under the oak tree, watching the deer amidst the dells of Ardennes. So, after a little pause in their inn, they strolled forth, not for travel, but pleasure, towards the cool of sunset, passing by the grounds that once belonged to the Duke of Kent, and catching a glimpse of the shrubs and lawns of that beautiful domain through the lodge-gates; then they crossed into some fields, and came to a little rivulet called the Brent. Helen had been more sad that day than on any during their journey. Perhaps, because, on approaching London, the memory of her father became more vivid; perhaps from her precocious[Pg 89] knowledge of life, and her foreboding of what was to befall them, children that they both were. But Leonard was selfish that day; he could not be influenced by his companion's sorrow, he was so full of his own sense of being, and he already caught from the atmosphere the fever that belongs to anxious capitals.

At last, they were close enough to London; but Leonard had decided that he wouldn't enter the city feeling tired and worn out, like a wanderer looking for refuge, but instead fresh and excited, like a conqueror arriving in triumph to take over the capital. So, they stopped early in the evening before this grand entrance, about six miles from the city, near Ealing, since that was the route they were taking. They weren't tired when they got to their inn. The weather was unusually beautiful, with that mix of softness and brightness that only happens on the rare true summer days in England: all below was so green, and above was so blue—days we have about six of each year, and we vaguely remember when we read about Robin Hood and Maid Marian, about Damsel and Knight, in Spenser's golden Summer Song, or about Jacques, lounging under the oak tree, watching the deer in the dells of Ardennes. After a short break in their inn, they went out, not to travel, but for pleasure, towards the cool of sunset, passing by the grounds that once belonged to the Duke of Kent and catching a glimpse of the shrubs and lawns of that lovely estate through the lodge gates; then they crossed into some fields and arrived at a small stream called the Brent. Helen had been more sad that day than at any other time during their journey. Maybe it was because, as they got closer to London, her memories of her father were sharper; maybe because of her early understanding of life and her sense of the challenges ahead of them, though they were still just kids. But Leonard was self-absorbed that day; he couldn't be swayed by his companion's sadness, as he was so consumed with his own feelings, and he was already catching the anxious energy that comes from being near busy cities.

"Sit here, sister," said he imperiously, throwing himself under the shade of a pollard tree that overhung the winding brook, "sit here and talk."

"Sit here, sis," he said with authority, flopping down under the shade of a pollard tree that leaned over the winding brook. "Sit here and chat."

He flung off his hat, tossed back his rich curls, and sprinkled his brow from the stream that eddied round the roots of the tree that bulged out, bald and gnarled, from the bank, and delved into the waves below. Helen quietly obeyed him, and nestled close to his side.

He threw off his hat, tossed back his thick curls, and splashed his forehead with water from the stream that flowed around the roots of the tree that jutted out, bare and twisted, from the bank and dipped into the waves below. Helen quietly followed his lead and snuggled up beside him.

"And so this London is very vast?—very?" he repeated inquisitively.

"And so this London is really huge?—really?" he asked curiously.

"Very," answered Helen, as abstractedly she plucked the cowslips near her, and let them fall into the running waters. "See how the flowers are carried down the stream! They are lost now. London is to us what the river is to the flowers—very vast—very strong;" and she added, after a pause, "very cruel!"

"Very," Helen replied, almost absentmindedly as she picked the cowslips nearby and let them drop into the flowing water. "Look how the flowers are being swept down the stream! They're gone now. London is to us what the river is to the flowers—really huge—really powerful;" and she added, after a moment, "really harsh!"

"Cruel! Ah, it has been so to you; but now!—now I will take care of you!" he smiled triumphantly; and his smile was beautiful both in its pride and its kindness. It is astonishing how Leonard had altered since he had left his uncle's. He was both younger and older; for the sense of genius, when it snaps its shackles, makes us both older and wiser as to the world it soars to—younger and blinder as to the world it springs from.

"Cruel! Ah, it has been so to you; but now!—now I will take care of you!" he smiled triumphantly, and his smile was beautiful in both its pride and kindness. It's amazing how much Leonard had changed since he left his uncle's. He was both younger and older; because when genius breaks free from its restraints, it makes us both older and wiser about the world it reaches for—yet younger and more naive about the world it leaves behind.

"And it is not a very handsome city either, you say?"

"And it's not a very attractive city either, you say?"

"Very ugly, indeed," said Helen, with some fervor; "at least all I have seen of it."

"Very ugly, for sure," said Helen, passionately; "at least from what I've seen."

"But there must be parts that are prettier than others? You say there are parks; why should not we lodge near them, and look upon the green trees?"

"But there have to be some areas that are nicer than others, right? You mentioned there are parks; why shouldn't we stay close to them and enjoy the view of the green trees?"

"That would be nice," said Helen, almost joyously; "but—" and here the head was shaken—"there are no lodgings for us except in courts and alleys."

"That would be nice," Helen said, almost happily; "but—" she shook her head—"there are no places for us to stay except in back streets and alleys."

"Why?"

"Why?" echoed Helen, with a smile, and she held up the purse.

"Why?" Helen echoed with a smile, holding up the purse.

"Pooh! always that horrid purse; as if, too, we were not going to fill it. Did I not tell you the story of Fortunio? Well, at all events, we will go first to the neighborhood where you last lived, and learn there all we can; and then the day after to-morrow, I will see this Dr. Morgan, and find out the Lord—"

"Ugh! that awful purse again; as if we weren't going to fill it. Didn't I tell you the story of Fortunio? Anyway, we'll first go to the place where you lived last and gather whatever information we can; then the day after tomorrow, I'll meet with Dr. Morgan and find out what's going on—"

The tears startled to Helen's soft eyes. "You want to get rid of me soon, brother."

The tears welled up in Helen's gentle eyes. "You want to get rid of me soon, brother."

"I! ah, I feel so happy to have you with me, it seems to me as if I had pined for you all my life, and you had come at last; for I never had brother, nor sister, nor any one to love, that was not older than myself, except—"

"I! ah, I feel so happy to have you with me. It seems like I’ve been longing for you my whole life, and you’ve finally arrived; because I’ve never had a brother or sister, or anyone to love who wasn’t older than me, except—"

"Except the young lady you told me of," said Helen, turning away her face; for children are very jealous.

"Except for the young woman you mentioned," Helen said, turning her face away; because kids can be very jealous.

"Yes, I loved her, love her still. But that was different," said Leonard, with a heightened color. "I could never have talked to her as to you, to you I open my whole heart; you are my little Muse, Helen, I confess to you my wild whims and fancies as frankly as if I were writing poetry." As he said this, a step was heard, and a shadow fell over the stream. A belated angler appeared on the margin, drawing his line impatiently across the water, as if to worry some dozing fish into a bite before it finally settled itself for the night. Absorbed in his occupation, the angler did not observe the young persons on the sward under the tree, and he halted there, close upon them.

"Yes, I loved her, and I still do. But that was different," Leonard said, his face flushed. "I could never talk to her like I do with you; I share everything with you. You’re my little Muse, Helen. I confess my wild ideas and daydreams to you just as openly as if I were writing poetry." As he said this, they heard a step, and a shadow fell over the stream. A late fisherman appeared at the edge, impatiently casting his line into the water, trying to stir some sleepy fish into biting before it got dark. Lost in his task, the fisherman didn't notice the young couple on the grass beneath the tree and stopped right next to them.

"Curse that perch!" said he aloud.

"Curse that fish!" he said aloud.

"Take care, sir," cried Leonard; for the man, in stepping back, nearly trod upon Helen.

"Watch out, sir," shouted Leonard; because the man, while stepping back, almost stepped on Helen.

The angler turned. "What's the matter? Hist! you have frightened my perch. Keep still, can't you?"

The fisherman turned. "What's the problem? Shh! You've scared off my perch. Can you please be quiet?"

Helen drew herself out of the way, and Leonard remained motionless. He remembered Jackeymo, and felt a sympathy for the angler.

Helen stepped aside, and Leonard stayed still. He thought about Jackeymo and felt a sense of empathy for the fisherman.

"It is the most extraordinary perch, that!" muttered the stranger, soliloquizing. "It has the devil's own luck. It must have been born with a silver spoon in its mouth, that damned perch! I shall never catch it—never! Ha!—no—only a weed. I give it up." With this, he indignantly jerked his rod from the water, and began to disjoint it. While leisurely engaged in this occupation, he turned to Leonard.

"It’s the most unbelievable perch ever!" muttered the stranger, talking to himself. "It has the worst luck imaginable. It must have been born with a silver spoon in its mouth, that cursed perch! I’ll never catch it—never! Ha!—no—just a weed. I give up." With that, he angrily pulled his rod from the water and started to dismantle it. While he was casually working on this, he turned to Leonard.

"Humph! are you intimately acquainted with this stream, sir?"

"Humph! Are you familiar with this stream, sir?"

"No," answered Leonard. "I never saw it before."

"No," Leonard replied. "I've never seen it before."

Angler, (solemnly.)—"Then, young man, take my advice, and do not give way to its fascinations. Sir, I am a martyr to this stream; it has been the Dalilah of my existence."

Angler, (seriously.)—"So, young man, listen to my advice and resist its temptations. Sir, I have suffered because of this stream; it has been the downfall of my life."

Leonard, (interested, the last sentence seemed to him poetical.)—"The Dalilah! sir, the Dalilah!"

Leonard, (curious, the last sentence sounded poetic to him.)—"The Dalilah! Sir, the Dalilah!"

Angler.—"The Dalilah. Young man, listen, and be warned by example. When I was about your age, I first came to this stream to fish. Sir, on that fatal day, about 3 p.m., I hooked up a fish—such a big one, it must have weighed a pound and a half. Sir, it was that length;" and the angler put finger to wrist. "And just when I had got it nearly ashore, by the very place where you are sitting, on that shelving bank, young[Pg 90] man, the line broke, and the perch twisted himself among those roots, and—caco dæmon that he was—ran off, hook and all. Well, that fish haunted me; never before had I seen such a fish. Minnows I had caught in the Thames and elsewhere, also gudgeons, and occasionally a dace. But a fish like that—a PERCH—all his fins up like the sails of a man-of-war—a monster perch—a whale of a perch!—No, never till then had I known what leviathans lie hid within the deeps. I could not sleep till I had returned; and again, sir,—I caught that perch. And this time I pulled him fairly out of the water. He escaped; and how did he escape? Sir, he left his eye behind him on the hook. Years, long years, have passed since then; but never shall I forget the agony of that moment."

Angler.—"The Dalilah. Young man, listen up, and take this as a cautionary tale. When I was about your age, I first came to this stream to fish. On that fateful day, around 3 PM, I hooked a fish—such a massive one, it must have weighed a pound and a half. It was that long," and the angler pointed to his wrist. "Just when I had it almost on the shore, right where you are sitting, on that sloping bank, young[Pg 90] man, the line snapped, and the perch twisted among those roots, and—demon that it was—ran off, hook and all. That fish haunted me; I had never seen anything like it before. I’d caught minnows in the Thames and elsewhere, also gudgeons, and occasionally a dace. But a fish like that—a PERCH—with all its fins up like the sails of a warship—a giant perch—a whale of a perch!—No, I had never realized what huge fish were lurking in the depths until then. I couldn’t sleep until I went back; and again, sir,—I caught that perch. This time I pulled him right out of the water. But he got away; and how did he escape? Sir, he left his eye behind on the hook. Years, many years, have passed since then; but I will never forget the agony of that moment."

Leonard.—"To the perch, sir?"

Leonard.—"To the bar, sir?"

Angler.—"Perch! agony to him! He enjoyed it:—agony to me. I gazed on that eye, and the eye looked as sly and as wicked as if it was laughing in my face. Well, sir, I had heard that there is no better bait for a perch than a perch's eye. I adjusted that eye on the hook, and dropped in the line gently. The water was unusually clear; in two minutes I saw that perch return. He approached the hook; he recognized his eye—frisked his tail—made a plunge—and, as I live, carried off the eye, safe and sound; and I saw him digesting it by the side of that water-lily. The mocking fiend! Seven times since that day, in the course of a varied and eventful life, have I caught that perch, and seven times has that perch escaped."

Angler.—"Perch! What a pain for him! He loved it:—pain for me. I stared at that eye, and it looked as sneaky and as mischievous as if it was laughing right at me. Well, I had heard that there's no better bait for a perch than a perch's eye. I hooked that eye onto the line and gently dropped it in. The water was unusually clear; within two minutes, I saw that perch come back. He swam toward the hook; he recognized his eye—flicked his tail—took a leap—and, believe it or not, took off with the eye, unharmed; and I saw him munching it next to that water-lily. That mocking little devil! Seven times since that day, in my varied and eventful life, I've caught that perch, and seven times that perch has gotten away."

Leonard, (astonished.)—"It can't be the same perch; perches are very tender fish—a hook inside of it, and an eye hooked out of it—no perch could withstand such havoc in its constitution."

Leonard, (astonished.)—"It can't be the same perch; perch are very delicate fish—a hook going in and an eye coming out—no perch could survive that kind of damage."

Angler, (with an appearance of awe.)—"It does seem supernatural. But it is that perch; for harkye, sir, there is only one perch in the whole brook! All the years I have fished here, I have never caught another perch here; and this solitary inmate of the watery element I know by sight better than I know my own lost father. For each time that I have raised it out of the water, its profile has been turned to me, and I have seen, with a shudder, that it has had only—One Eye! It is a most mysterious and a most diabolical phenomenon that perch! It has been the ruin of my prospects in life. I was offered a situation in Jamaica; I could not go, with that perch left here in triumph. I might afterwards have had an appointment in India, but I could not put the ocean between myself and that perch: thus have I fritted away my existence in the fatal metropolis of my native land. And once a-week, from February to December, I come hither—Good Heavens! if I should catch the perch at last, the occupation of my existence will be gone."

Angler, (with a look of awe.)—"It really does seem supernatural. But it is that perch; you see, there is the only one perch in the entire brook! All the years I’ve fished here, I’ve never caught another perch. I know this solitary resident of the water better than I know my own long-lost father. Every time I've pulled it out of the water, its profile has faced me, and I’ve felt a chill seeing that it has only—One Eye! It's a really mysterious and incredibly creepy phenomenon, that perch! It has completely ruined my chances in life. I was offered a job in Jamaica; I couldn't go, knowing that perch was here thriving. I might have had a position in India later, but I couldn't put the ocean between me and that perch: that's how I've wasted my life in this cursed city of my homeland. And once a week, from February to December, I come here—Good God! if I actually catch the perch at last, my purpose in life will be gone."

Leonard gazed curiously at the angler, as the last thus mournfully concluded. The ornate turn of his periods did not suit with his costume. He looked woefully threadbare and shabby—a genteel sort of shabbiness too—shabbiness in black. There was humor in the corners of his lip; and his hands, though they did not seem very clean—indeed his occupation was not friendly to such niceties—were those of a man who had not known manual labor. His face was pale and puffed, but the tip of his nose was red. He did not seem as if the watery element was as familiar to himself as to his Dalilah—the perch.

Leonard curiously watched the fisherman as the last words ended sadly. The elaborate way he spoke didn't match his appearance. He looked sadly worn and shabby—an elegant kind of shabbiness too—shabbiness in black. There was humor at the corners of his lips; his hands, though not very clean—after all, his job didn't allow for such details—were those of a man who hadn’t worked with his hands much. His face was pale and puffy, but the tip of his nose was red. He didn’t seem as comfortable with water as his Dalilah—the perch.

"Such is life!" recommenced the angler in a moralizing tone, as he slid his rod into its canvas case. "If a man knew what it was to fish all one's life in a stream that has only one perch!—to catch that one perch nine times in all, and nine times to see it fall back into the water, plump;—if man knew what it was—why, then"—Here the angler looked over his shoulder full at Leonard—"why, then, young sir, he would know what human life is to vain ambition. Good evening."

"That's life!" the angler continued in a reflective tone as he put his rod into its canvas case. "If a person knew what it was like to fish their whole life in a stream with just one perch!—to catch that same perch nine times and watch it slip back into the water, plump;—if a person really knew what that was—well,"—the angler then turned to look directly at Leonard—"well, young man, he would understand what human life is to empty ambition. Good evening."

Away he went, treading over the daisies and king cups. Helen's eyes followed him wistfully.

Away he went, stepping over the daisies and buttercups. Helen watched him with longing in her eyes.

"What a strange person!" said Leonard, laughing.

"What a weird person!" Leonard said, laughing.

"I think he is a very wise one," murmured Helen; and she came close up to Leonard, and took his hand in both hers, as if she felt already that he was in need of the Comforter—the line broke, and the perch lost!

"I think he's really wise," murmured Helen; and she stepped closer to Leonard, taking his hand in both of hers, as if she already sensed that he needed some comfort—the line broke, and the perch was lost!

CHAPTER IX.

At noon the next day, London stole upon them, through a gloomy, thick, oppressive atmosphere. For where is it that we can say London bursts on the sight? It stole on them through one of its fairest and most gracious avenues of approach—by the stately gardens of Kensington—along the side of Hyde Park, and so on towards Cumberland Gate.

At noon the next day, London crept up on them through a gloomy, thick, heavy atmosphere. Where can we say London bursts into view? It approached them along one of its most beautiful and welcoming routes—through the grand gardens of Kensington—along the edge of Hyde Park, and onward to Cumberland Gate.

Leonard was not the least struck. And yet, with a little money, and a very little taste, it would be easy to render this entrance to London as grand and imposing as that to Paris from the Champs Elysées. As they came near the Edgeware Road, Helen took her new brother by the hand and guided him. For she knew all that neighborhood, and she was acquainted with a lodging near that occupied by her father (to that lodging itself she could not have gone for the world), where they might be housed cheaply.

Leonard wasn't impressed at all. Still, with a bit of money and a touch of style, it could be easy to make this entrance to London as grand and striking as the one to Paris from the Champs Elysées. As they approached Edgeware Road, Helen took her new brother's hand and led him. She knew the area well and was familiar with an affordable place nearby where her father lived (although she wouldn't dare go to that place herself).

But just then the sky, so dull and overcast since morning, seemed one mass of black cloud. There suddenly came on a violent storm of rain. The boy and girl took refuge in a covered mews, in a street running out of the Edgeware Road. The shelter soon became crowded; the two young pilgrims crept close to the wall, apart from the rest;[Pg 91] Leonard's arm round Helen's waist, sheltering her from the rain that the strong wind contending with it beat in through the passage. Presently a young gentleman, of better mien and dress than the other refugees, entered, not hastily, but rather with a slow and proud step, as if, though he deigned to take shelter, he scorned to run to it. He glanced somewhat haughtily at the assembled group—passed on through the midst of it—came near Leonard—took off his hat, and shook the rain from its brim. His head thus uncovered, left all his features exposed; and the village youth recognized, at the first glance, his old victorious assailant on the green at Hazeldean.

But just then the sky, which had been dull and overcast since morning, looked like one big mass of black clouds. Suddenly, a violent downpour hit. The boy and girl took shelter in a covered alley on a street off the Edgeware Road. The spot quickly got crowded; the two young travelers squeezed against the wall, away from the others; Leonard had his arm around Helen's waist, protecting her from the rain that the strong wind was pushing through the passage. Soon, a young man, dressed better than the other refugees, walked in, not in a rush, but with a slow and confident stride, as if he was willing to take cover but too proud to run to it. He looked somewhat disdainfully at the group gathered there, walked through them, approached Leonard, took off his hat, and shook the rain off its brim. With his head uncovered, all his features were visible, and the village youth recognized him instantly as his previous rival from the green at Hazeldean.

Yet Randal Leslie was altered. His dark cheek was as thin as in boyhood, and even yet more wasted by intense study and night vigils; but the expression of his face was at once more refined and manly, and there was a steady concentrated light in his large eye, like that of one who has been in the habit of bringing all his thoughts to one point. He looked older than he was. He was dressed simply in black, a color which became him; and altogether his aspect and figure were not showy indeed, but distinguished. He looked, to the common eye, a gentleman; and to the more observant, a scholar.

Yet Randal Leslie had changed. His once dark cheeks were as thin as they were in his youth, even more so from intense study and late nights; but the expression on his face was now both more refined and masculine, and there was a steady, focused light in his large eye, like someone who is used to concentrating all their thoughts into one point. He appeared older than he actually was. He wore simple black clothing, a color that suited him; and all in all, his appearance and figure were not flashy, but had an air of distinction. To the average person, he looked like a gentleman; to the more discerning, he appeared to be a scholar.

Helter-skelter!—pell-mell! the group in the passage—now pressed each on each—now scattered on all sides—making way—rushing down the mews—against the walls—as a fiery horse darted under shelter; the rider, a young man, with a very handsome face, and dressed with that peculiar care which we commonly call dandyism, cried out, good humoredly,—"Don't be afraid; the horse shan't hurt any of you—a thousand pardons—so ho! so ho!" He patted the horse, and it stood as still as a statue, filling up the centre of the passage. The groups resettled—Randal approached the rider.

Chaos!—in a wild rush! The crowd in the passage—now pushing against each other—now scattering in every direction—making way—hurrying down the mews—against the walls—when a fiery horse bolted into shelter; the rider, a young man with a strikingly handsome face, dressed with that distinct flair we often call dandyism, exclaimed good-naturedly, "Don't worry; the horse won't hurt any of you—a thousand apologies—so ho! so ho!" He patted the horse, and it stood completely still, like a statue, blocking the center of the passage. The groups reorganized—Randal moved closer to the rider.

"Frank Hazeldean!"

"Ah—is it indeed Randal Leslie!"

"Ah—is that really Randal Leslie!"

Frank was off his horse in a moment, and the bridle was consigned to the care of a slim 'prentice-boy holding a bundle.

Frank was off his horse in a moment, and the bridle was handed over to a slim apprentice boy holding a bundle.

"My dear fellow, how glad I am to see you. How lucky it was that I should turn in here. Not like me either, for I don't much care for a ducking. Staying in town, Randal?"

"My dear friend, I'm so happy to see you. What a stroke of luck that I decided to stop by here. It's unusual for me too, since I don't really like getting wet. Are you staying in town, Randal?"

"Yes, at your uncle's, Mr. Egerton. I have left Oxford."

"Yes, at your uncle's, Mr. Egerton. I've left Oxford."

"For good?"

"For good."

"But you have not taken your degree, I think? We Etonians all considered you booked for a double first. Oh! we have been so proud of you—you carried off all the prizes."

"But I don't think you've graduated yet, right? We Etonians all thought you were set to get a double first. Oh! We’ve been so proud of you—you won all the awards."

"Not all; but some, certainly. Mr. Egerton offered me my choice—to stay for my degree, or to enter at once into the Foreign Office. I preferred the ends to the means. For, after all, what good are academical honors but as the entrance to life? To enter now is to save a step in a long way, Frank."

"Not all, but definitely some. Mr. Egerton gave me a choice—to stick around for my degree or to jump straight into the Foreign Office. I chose the outcome over the process. After all, what’s the point of academic honors if they don’t lead to real life? Starting now saves me a step in a long journey, Frank."

"Ah! you were always ambitious, and you will make a great figure, I am sure."

"Ah! You've always been ambitious, and I’m sure you’ll achieve great things."

"Perhaps so—if I work for it. Knowledge is power."

"Maybe that's true—if I put in the effort. Knowledge is power."

Leonard started.

Leonard began.

"And you," resumed Randal, looking with some curious attention at his old schoolfellow. "You never came to Oxford. I did hear you were going into the army."

"And you," Randal continued, looking curiously at his old school friend. "You never went to Oxford. I heard you were joining the army."

"I am in the Guards," said Frank, trying hard not to look too conceited as he made that acknowledgment. "The Governor pished a little, and would rather I had come to live with him in the old hall, and take to farming. Time enough for that—eh? By Jove, Randall, how pleasant a thing is life in London? Do you go to Almack's to-night?"

"I’m in the Guards," Frank said, doing his best not to sound too full of himself as he made that claim. "The Governor sighed a bit and would prefer if I moved in with him at the old hall and took up farming. There’s plenty of time for that, right? By the way, Randall, isn’t life in London just great? Are you going to Almack's tonight?"

"No; Wednesday is a holiday in the House! There is a great parliamentary dinner at Mr. Egerton's. He is in the Cabinet now, you know; but you don't see much of your uncle, I think."

"No; Wednesday is a holiday for the House! There's a big parliamentary dinner at Mr. Egerton's place. He's in the Cabinet now, you know; but I don't think you see much of your uncle."

"Our sets are different," said the young gentleman, in a tone of voice worthy of Brummell. "All those parliamentary fellows are devilish dull. The rain's over. I don't know whether the Governor would like me to call at Grosvenor Square; but, pray come and see me; here's my card to remind you; you must dine at our mess. Such nice fellows. What day will you fix?"

"Our group is unique," said the young man, with a tone that would make Brummell proud. "All those politicians are really boring. The rain has stopped. I'm not sure if the Governor would want me to drop by Grosvenor Square; but please come visit me; here’s my card to jog your memory; you have to join us for dinner. Such great guys. What day works for you?"

"I will call and let you know. Don't you find it rather expensive in the Guards? I remember that you thought the Governor, as you call him, used to chafe a little when you wrote for more pocket-money; and the only time I ever remember to have seen you with tears in your eyes, was when Mr. Hazeldean, in sending you £5, reminded you that his estates were not entailed—were at his own disposal, and they should never go to an extravagant spendthrift. It was not a pleasant threat, that, Frank."

"I'll call and let you know. Don't you think it's pretty pricey in the Guards? I remember you mentioned that the Governor, as you call him, seemed a bit annoyed when you asked for more pocket money; and the only time I ever saw you with tears in your eyes was when Mr. Hazeldean sent you £5 and reminded you that his estates weren’t entailed—they were his to manage, and he wouldn’t pass them on to an extravagant spendthrift. That wasn't a nice thing to say, Frank."

"Oh!" cried the young man, coloring deeply, "It was not the threat that pained me, it was that my father could think so meanly of me as to fancy that—well—well, but those were schoolboy days. And my father was always more generous than I deserved. We must see a good deal of each other, Randal. How good-natured you were at Eton, making my longs and shorts for me; I shall never forget it. Do call soon."

"Oh!" the young man exclaimed, flushing with embarrassment, "It wasn't the threat that upset me, it was that my father could think so little of me as to believe that—well—well, but those were just schoolboy days. And my father was always more generous than I deserved. We should spend more time together, Randal. You were so kind at Eton, helping me with my longs and shorts; I’ll never forget it. Please come by soon."

Frank swung himself into his saddle, and rewarded the slim youth with half-a-crown; a largess four times more ample than his father would have deemed sufficient. A jerk of the reins and a touch of the heel—off bounded the fiery horse and the gay young rider. Randal mused; and as the rain had now ceased, the passengers under shelter dispersed and went their way. Only Randal, Leonard, and Helen remained behind. Then, as Randal, still musing, lifted his eyes, they fell full upon Leonard's face. He started, passed[Pg 92] his hand quickly over his brow—looked again, hard and piercingly; and the change in his pale cheek to a shade still paler—a quick compression and nervous gnawing of his lip—showed that he too had recognized an old foe. Then his glance ran over Leonard's dress, which was somewhat dust-stained, but far above the class amongst which the peasant was born. Randal raised his brows in surprise, and with a smile slightly supercilious—the smile stung Leonard; and with a slow step Randal left the passage, and took his way towards Grosvenor Square. The Entrance of Ambition was clear to him.

Frank hopped onto his saddle and gave the slim young man half-a-crown, a generous amount four times what his father would have thought was enough. With a quick pull on the reins and a nudge of his heel, the spirited horse took off with the cheerful young rider. Randal thought for a moment, and since the rain had stopped, the passengers taking cover began to leave. Only Randal, Leonard, and Helen stayed behind. Then, as Randal continued to reflect, he looked up and met Leonard's gaze. He flinched, quickly ran his hand over his forehead—looked again, intensely and scrutinizingly; and the change in his already pale face to an even paler shade—a tight press of his lips and a nervous nibble—indicated that he too had recognized an old enemy. Then his eyes scanned Leonard's outfit, which was a bit dusty but far above what one would expect from someone of his background. Randal raised his eyebrows in surprise and with a slightly arrogant smile that irritated Leonard; then, with a slow stride, Randal left the passage and headed towards Grosvenor Square. The path to ambition was clear to him.

Then the little girl once more took Leonard by the hand, and led him through rows of humble, obscure, dreary streets. It seemed almost like an allegory personified, as the sad, silent child led on the penniless and low-born adventurer of genius by the squalid shops, and through the winding lanes, which grew meaner and meaner, till both their forms vanished from the view.

Then the little girl once again took Leonard by the hand and led him through rows of simple, unnoticed, dreary streets. It felt almost like a living metaphor, as the sad, quiet child guided the broke and lowly genius through the rundown shops and narrow alleys, which became shabbier and shabbier, until both of them disappeared from sight.

CHAPTER X.

"But do come; change your dress, return and dine with me; you will have just time, Harley. You will meet the most eminent men of our party; surely they are worth your study, philosopher that you affect to be."

"But please come; change your clothes, come back, and have dinner with me; you’ll just have time, Harley. You’ll meet the most prominent men of our group; they’re definitely worth your attention, considering you like to think of yourself as a philosopher."

Thus said Audley Egerton to Lord L'Estrange, with whom he had been riding (after the toils of his office.) The two gentlemen were in Audley's library. Mr. Egerton, as usual, buttoned up, seated in his chair, in the erect posture of a man who scorns "inglorious ease." Harley, as usual, thrown at length on a sofa, his long hair in careless curls, his neckcloth loose, his habiliments flowing—simplex munditiis, indeed—his grace all his own; seemingly negligent, never slovenly; at ease every where and with every one, even with Mr. Audley Egerton, who chilled or awed the ease out of most people.

Thus said Audley Egerton to Lord L'Estrange, with whom he had been riding (after the demands of his job). The two gentlemen were in Audley's library. Mr. Egerton, as usual, buttoned up, sat upright in his chair, embodying the posture of a man who despises "lazy comfort." Harley, as usual, lounged on a sofa, his long hair in casual curls, his necktie loose, his clothes flowing—simplex munditiis, indeed—his elegance entirely his own; seemingly relaxed, never messy; comfortable everywhere and with everyone, even with Mr. Audley Egerton, who often made others feel stiff or uneasy.

"Nay, my dear Audley, forgive me. But your eminent men are all men of one idea, and that not a diverting one—politics! politics! politics! The storm in the saucer."

"Nah, my dear Audley, forgive me. But your prominent figures are all obsessed with one thing, and it’s not an entertaining one—politics! politics! politics! Just a big fuss over nothing."

"But what is your life, Harley?—the saucer without the storm?"

"Do you know, that's very well said, Audley? I did not think you had so much liveliness of repartee. Life—life! it is insipid, it is shallow. No launching Argosies in the saucer. Audley, I have the oddest fancy—"

"Do you know, that's really well said, Audley? I didn't think you had such a lively way with words. Life—life! It is dull, it is shallow. No launching ships in the saucer. Audley, I have the strangest idea—"

"That of course," said Audley drily; "you never have any other. What is the new one?"

"That of course," said Audley dryly; "you never have any other. What's the new one?"

Harley, (with great gravity.)—"Do you believe in Mesmerism?"

Harley, (seriously.)—"Do you believe in mesmerism?"

Audley.—"Certainly not."

Audley.—"Definitely not."

Harley.—"If it were in the power of an animal magnetizer to get me out of my own skin into somebody else's! That's my fancy! I am so tired of myself—so tired! I have run through all my ideas—know every one of them by heart; when some pretentious imposter of an idea perks itself up and says, 'Look at me, I'm a new acquaintance'—I just give it a nod, and say, 'Not at all, you have only got a new coat on; you are the same old wretch that has bored me these last twenty years; get away.' But if one could be in a new skin! if I could be for half an hour your tall porter, or one of your eminent matter-of-fact men, I should then really travel into a new world.[9] Every man's brain must be a world in itself, eh? If I could but make a parochial settlement even in yours, Audley—run over all your thoughts and sensations. Upon my life, I'll go and talk to that French mesmerizer about it."

Harley.—"If only an animal magnetizer could help me escape my own skin and step into someone else's! That's what I wish for! I’m so fed up with myself—so exhausted! I’ve gone through all my ideas—I know each one by heart; when some pretentious impostor of an idea shows up and says, 'Look at me, I'm something new'—I just nod and say, 'Not at all, you’ve just put on a new outfit; you’re still the same old bore that’s annoyed me for the last twenty years; go away.' But if I could be in a new skin! If I could be your tall porter for half an hour, or one of your no-nonsense guys, then I would really step into a new world.[9] Every man's brain must be its own world, right? If I could just settle down even for a bit in yours, Audley—explore all your thoughts and feelings. I swear, I’m going to talk to that French mesmerizer about it."

Audley, (who does not seem to like the notion of having his thoughts and sensations rummaged even by his friend, and even in fancy.)—"Pooh, pooh, pooh! Do talk like a man of sense."

Audley, (who doesn’t seem to like the idea of having his thoughts and feelings poked around even by his friend, even in imagination.)—"Come on, stop that! Speak like a sensible person."

Harley.—"Man of sense! Where shall I find a model! I don't know a man of sense!—never met such a creature. Don't believe it ever existed. At one time I thought Socrates must have been a man of sense;—a delusion; he would stand gazing into the air, and talking to his Genius from sunrise to sunset. Is that like a man of sense? Poor Audley, how puzzled he looks! Well, I'll try and talk sense to oblige you. And first, (here Harley raised himself on his elbow)—first, is it true, as I have heard vaguely, that you are paying court to the sister of that infamous Italian traitor?"

Harley.—"Man of sense! Where can I find a role model? I don’t know any sensible people! I’ve never encountered such a thing. I used to think Socrates might have been a man of sense;—what a mistake that was! He would just stare off into space, talking to his Genius from sunrise to sunset. Is that what a sensible person does? Poor Audley, he looks so confused! Well, I’ll try to make sense for you. And first, (here Harley propped himself up on his elbow)—first, is it true, as I’ve heard, that you’re trying to win over the sister of that despicable Italian traitor?"

"Madame di Negra? No; I am not paying court to her," answered Audley with a cold smile. "But she is very handsome; she is very clever; she is useful to me—I need not say how or why; that belongs to my métier as politician. But, I think, if you will take my advice, or get your friend to take it, I could obtain from her brother, through my influence with her, some liberal concessions to your exile. She is very anxious to know where he is."

"Madame di Negra? No, I'm not trying to impress her," Audley replied with a cool smile. "But she is very attractive; she's very smart; she's helpful to me—I won't elaborate on how or why; that's part of my job as a politician. However, I think, if you heed my advice, or get your friend to do so, I could secure some generous concessions for your exile from her brother, thanks to my influence with her. She's quite eager to find out where he is."

"You have not told her?"

"Have you told her yet?"

"No; I promised you I would keep that secret."

"No, I promised I would keep that secret."

"Be sure you do; it is only for some mischief, some snare, that she could desire such information. Concessions! pooh! This is no question of concessions, but of rights."

"Make sure you do; she's only after some trouble, some trap, if she wants that information. Concessions! Nonsense! This isn't about concessions, but about rights."

"I think you should leave your friend to judge of that."

"I think you should let your friend decide that."

"Well, I will write to him. Meanwhile, beware of this woman. I have heard much of her abroad, and she has the character of her brother for duplicity and—"

"Well, I will write to him. In the meantime, be cautious of this woman. I've heard a lot about her from others, and she has her brother's reputation for deceit and—"

"Beauty," interrupted Audley, turning the[Pg 93] conversation with practised adroitness. "I am told that the Count is one of the handsomest men in Europe, much handsomer than his sister still, though nearly twice her age. Tut—tut—Harley! fear not for me. I am proof against all feminine attractions. This heart is dead."

"Beauty," interrupted Audley, smoothly changing the[Pg 93] subject. "I’ve heard that the Count is one of the most handsome men in Europe, even more so than his sister, despite being nearly twice her age. Come on, Harley! Don’t worry about me. I’m immune to all female charms. This heart is closed off."

"Nay, nay; it is not for you to speak thus—leave that to me. But even I will not say it. The heart never dies. And you; what have you lost?—a wife; true: an excellent noble-hearted woman. But was it love that you felt for her? Enviable man, have you ever loved?"

"Nah, nah; you shouldn’t say that—let me handle it. But even I won’t say it. The heart never dies. And you; what have you lost?—a wife; that’s true: a wonderful, kind-hearted woman. But was it love that you felt for her? Lucky guy, have you ever loved?"

"Perhaps not, Harley," said Audley, with a sombre aspect, and in dejected accents; "very few men ever have loved, at least as you mean by the word. But there are other passions than love that kill the heart, and reduce us to mechanism."

"Maybe not, Harley," Audley said, looking serious and sounding downcast. "Very few men have truly loved, at least not in the way you mean. But there are other emotions besides love that can break your heart and make us feel like machines."

While Egerton spoke, Harley turned aside, and his breast heaved. There was a short silence. Audley was the first to break it.

While Egerton spoke, Harley looked away, and his chest rose and fell. There was a brief silence. Audley was the first to break it.

"Speaking of my lost wife, I am sorry that you do not approve what I have done for her young kinsman, Randal Leslie."

"Talking about my late wife, I’m sorry that you don’t approve of what I’ve done for her young relative, Randal Leslie."

Harley, (recovering himself with an effort.)—"Is it true kindness to bid him exchange manly independence for the protection of an official patron?"

Harley, (gathering himself with some effort.)—"Is it really kind to ask him to trade his independence for the safety of relying on an official patron?"

Audley.—"I did not bid him. I gave him his choice. At his age I should have chosen as he has done."

Audley.—"I didn't make him choose. I let him decide. If I were his age, I would have made the same choice."

Harley.—"I trust not; I think better of you. But answer me one question frankly, and then I will ask another. Do you mean to make this young man your heir?"

Harley.—"I hope not; I have a higher opinion of you. But answer me one question honestly, and then I’ll ask another. Do you intend to make this young man your heir?"

Audley, (with a slight embarrassment.)—"Heir, pooh! I am young still. I may live as long as he—time enough to think of that."

Audley, (slightly embarrassed.)—"Heir, come on! I'm still young. I could live as long as he does—plenty of time to worry about that."

Harley.—"Then now to my second question. Have you told this youth plainly that he may look to you for influence, but not for wealth?"

Harley.—"So, for my second question: Have you made it clear to this young man that he can rely on you for guidance, but not for money?"

Audley, (firmly.)—"I think I have; but I shall repeat it more emphatically."

Audley, (firmly.)—"I believe I have; but I'll say it again more forcefully."

Harley.—"Then I am satisfied as to your conduct, but not as to his. For he has too acute an intellect not to know what it is to forfeit independence; and, depend upon it, he has made his calculations, and would throw you into the bargain in any balance that he could strike in his favor. You go by your experience in judging men—I by my instincts. Nature warns us as it does the inferior animals—only we are too conceited, we bipeds, to heed her. My instincts of soldier and gentleman recoil from the old young man. He has the soul of the Jesuit. I see it in his eye—I hear it in the tread of his foot; volto sciolto, he has not; i pensieri stretti he has. Hist! I hear now his step in the hall. I should know it from a thousand. That's his very touch on the handle of the door."

Harley.—"I'm satisfied with your behavior, but not with his. He’s too sharp not to realize what it means to lose his independence. Trust me, he’s made his calculations and would easily sacrifice you if it benefited him. You judge people based on your experiences—I rely on my instincts. Nature warns us like it does the lesser animals, but we, as humans, are too arrogant to pay attention. My instincts as a soldier and a gentleman tell me to be wary of the old young man. He has the spirit of a Jesuit. I see it in his eyes—I hear it in the way he walks; he lacks an open demeanor and has a tight, calculating mind. Wait! I can hear his footsteps in the hall. I’d recognize them among a thousand. That’s exactly how he touches the door handle."

Randal Leslie entered. Harley—who, despite his disregard for forms and his dislike to Randal, was too high-bred not to be polite to his junior in age or inferior in rank—rose and bowed. But his bright piercing eyes did not soften as they caught and bore down the deeper and more latent fire in Randal's. Harley then did not resume his seat, but moved to the mantel-piece, and leant against it.

Randal Leslie walked in. Harley—who, even though he didn't care about formalities and didn't like Randal, was too well-bred not to be polite to someone younger or of lower status—stood up and bowed. However, his sharp, intense gaze didn't soften as it met and challenged the deeper and more hidden intensity in Randal's eyes. Harley then didn't sit back down but moved to the mantelpiece and leaned against it.

Randal.—"I have fulfilled your commissions, Mr. Egerton. I went first to Maida Hill, and saw Mr. Burley. I gave him the check, but he said it was too much, and he should return half to the banker; he will write the article as you suggested. I then—"

Randal.—"I’ve completed your requests, Mr. Egerton. I went to Maida Hill and met with Mr. Burley. I handed him the check, but he said it was too much and that he would return half to the bank. He will write the article as you suggested. I then—"

Audley.—"Enough, Randal. We will not fatigue Lord L'Estrange with these little details of a life that displeases him—the life political."

Audley.—"That's enough, Randal. We won't bother Lord L'Estrange with these minor details of a life he finds unappealing—the political life."

Harley.—"But these details do not displease me—they reconcile me to my own life. Go on, pray, Mr. Leslie."

Harley.—"But these details don't bother me—they help me come to terms with my own life. Please continue, Mr. Leslie."

Randal had too much tact to need the cautioning glance of Mr. Egerton. He did not continue, but said, with a soft voice, "Do you think, Lord L'Estrange, that the contemplation of the mode of life pursued by others can reconcile a man to his own, if he had before thought it needed a reconciler?"

Randal was too tactful to require Mr. Egerton's warning glance. He didn’t go on, but said softly, “Do you think, Lord L'Estrange, that watching how others live can help a person accept their own lifestyle, especially if they previously thought it needed some acceptance?”

Harley looked pleased, for the question was ironical; and, if there was a thing in the world he abhorred, it was flattery.

Harley looked pleased, because the question was ironic; and if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was flattery.

"Recollect your Lucretius, Mr. Leslie, Suave mare, &c., 'pleasant from the cliff to see the mariners tossed on the ocean.' Faith, I think that sight reconciles one to the cliff—though, before, one might have been teased by the splash from the spray, and deafened by the scream of the sea-gulls. But I leave you, Audley. Strange that I have heard no more of my soldier. Remember I have your promise when I come to claim it. Good-bye, Mr. Leslie, I hope that Mr. Burley's article will be worth the—check."

"Remember your Lucretius, Mr. Leslie, Suave mare, etc., 'pleasant to see the sailors tossed on the ocean from the cliff.' Honestly, I think that view makes you appreciate the cliff—though earlier, you might have been annoyed by the splash from the spray and deafened by the sea-gulls' cries. But I’ll leave you now, Audley. It’s strange that I haven't heard more about my soldier. Don’t forget, I have your promise when I come to collect it. Goodbye, Mr. Leslie, I hope Mr. Burley's article will be worth the—check."

Lord L'Estrange mounted his horse, which was still at the door, and rode through the Park. But he was no longer now unknown by sight. Bows and nods saluted him on every side.

Lord L'Estrange got on his horse, which was still at the door, and rode through the Park. But he was no longer a stranger; he received bows and nods from all around.

"Alas, I am found out, then," said he to himself. "That terrible Duchess of Knaresborough, too—I must fly my country." He pushed his horse into a canter, and was soon out of the Park. As he dismounted at his father's sequestered house, you would have hardly supposed him the same whimsical, fantastic, but deep and subtle humorist that delighted in perplexing the material Audley. For his expressive face was unutterably serious. But the moment he came into the presence of his parents, the countenance was again lighted and cheerful. It brightened the whole room like sunshine.

"Well, I've been found out," he said to himself. "That awful Duchess of Knaresborough—I have to leave the country." He kicked his horse into a canter and quickly left the Park. As he got off at his father's secluded house, you would hardly recognize him as the same whimsical, fantastical, yet deep and subtle humorist who loved to perplex the material Audley. His expressive face was incredibly serious. But the moment he stepped into the room with his parents, his expression lit up and became cheerful. It brightened the entire room like sunshine.

CHAPTER XI.

"Mr. Leslie," said Egerton, when Harley had left the library, "you did not act with[Pg 94] your usual discretion in touching upon matters connected with politics in the presence of a third party."

"Mr. Leslie," said Egerton, after Harley had left the library, "you weren’t as careful as usual in bringing up political topics in front of someone else."

"I feel that already, sir. My excuse is, that I held Lord L'Estrange to be your most intimate friend."

"I already feel that, sir. My excuse is that I believed Lord L'Estrange was your closest friend."

"A public man, Mr. Leslie, would ill serve his country if he were not especially reserved towards his private friends,—when they do not belong to his party."

"A public figure, Mr. Leslie, would poorly serve his country if he were not particularly cautious with his private friends—especially when they are not part of his political party."

"But, pardon me my ignorance: Lord Lansmere is so well known to be one of your supporters that I fancied his son must share his sentiments, and be in your confidence."

"But, excuse my ignorance: Lord Lansmere is so well known to support you that I assumed his son must share his views and be in your inner circle."

Egerton's brows slightly contracted, and gave a stern expression to a countenance always firm and decided. He however answered in a mild tone.

Egerton's brows furrowed slightly, giving a serious look to a face that was always strong and resolute. However, he responded in a gentle tone.

"At the entrance into political life, Mr. Leslie, there is nothing in which a young man of your talents should be more on his guard than thinking for himself. He will nearly always think wrong. And I believe that is one reason why young men of talent disappoint their friends, and—remain so long out of office."

"At the start of a political career, Mr. Leslie, there is nothing a young man with your abilities should be more cautious about than thinking for himself. He will almost always get it wrong. I believe that’s one reason why talented young men let their friends down and take so long to get into office."

A haughty flush passed over Randal's brow, and faded away quickly. He bowed in silence.

A proud flush appeared on Randal's forehead and quickly faded. He bowed silently.

Egerton resumed, as if in explanation, and even in kindly apology—

Egerton continued, almost as if he were explaining himself and offering a friendly apology—

"Look at Lord L'Estrange himself. What young man could come into life with brighter auspices? Rank, wealth, high animal spirits, (a great advantage those same spirits, Mr. Leslie,) courage, self-possession, scholarship as brilliant perhaps as your own; and now see how his life is wasted! Why! He always thought fit to think for himself. He could never be broken into harness, and never will be. The state coach, Mr. Leslie, requires that all the horses should pull together."

"Look at Lord L'Estrange himself. What young man could enter life with better prospects? Status, wealth, high spirits (an advantage those spirits are, Mr. Leslie), courage, confidence, and perhaps scholarship as impressive as yours; and now see how his life is squandered! Why! He always believed in thinking for himself. He could never be forced into submission, and he never will be. The state coach, Mr. Leslie, requires all the horses to pull together."

"With submission, sir," answered Randal, "I should think that there were other reasons why Lord L'Estrange, whatever be his talents—and indeed of these you must be an adequate judge—would never do any thing in public life."

"With all due respect, sir," Randal replied, "I believe there are other reasons why Lord L'Estrange, regardless of his abilities—and you must be a good judge of those—would never take part in public life."

"Ay, and what?" said Egerton, quickly.

"First," said Randal, shrewdly, "private life has done too much for him. What could public life give to one who needs nothing? Born at the top of the social ladder, why should he put himself voluntarily at the last step, for the sake of climbing up again! And secondly, Lord L'Estrange seems to me a man in whose organization sentiment usurps too large a share for practical existence."

"First," Randal said wisely, "private life has given him too much. What can public life offer someone who needs nothing? Born at the top of the social ladder, why would he choose to step down to the bottom just to climb back up? And secondly, Lord L'Estrange seems to be a guy whose feelings take up too much space for practical living."

"You have a keen eye," said Audley, with some admiration; "keen for one so young. Poor Harley!"

"You’ve got a sharp eye," Audley said with some admiration, "sharp for someone so young. Poor Harley!"

Mr. Egerton's last words were said to himself. He resumed quickly—

Mr. Egerton's last words were spoken to himself. He continued quickly—

"There is something on my mind, my young friend. Let us be frank with each other. I placed before you fairly the advantages and disadvantages of the choice I gave you. To take your degree with such honors as no doubt you would have won, to obtain your fellowship, to go to the bar, with those credentials in favor of your talents—this was one career. To come at once into public life, to profit by my experience, avail yourself of my interest, to take the chances of or fall with a party—this was another. You chose the last. But, in so doing, there was a consideration which might weigh with you; and on which, in stating your reasons for your option, you were silent."

"There’s something I’d like to discuss, my young friend. Let’s be honest with each other. I laid out the pros and cons of the choice I offered you pretty clearly. You could have taken your degree with the honors that you would have undoubtedly achieved, received your fellowship, and gone to the bar with solid credentials supporting your talents—this was one path. The other path was to jump straight into public life, benefit from my experience, leverage my connections, and take the risks that come with aligning yourself with a party—this was another. You chose the latter. However, in making that choice, there was a consideration you didn’t mention when you explained your reasons."

"What's that, sir?"

"What’s that, sir?"

"You might have counted on my fortune should the chances of party fail you;—speak—and without shame if so; it would be natural in a young man, who comes from the elder branch of the house whose heiress was my wife."

"You might have relied on my wealth if your plans for the party fall through;—speak up—and do so without embarrassment if that's the case; it would be understandable for a young man from the older branch of the family whose heiress was my wife."

"You wound me, Mr. Egerton," said Randal, turning away.

"You hurt me, Mr. Egerton," Randal said as he turned away.

Mr. Egerton's cold glance followed Randal's movement; the face was hid from the glance—it rested on the figure, which is often as self-betraying as the countenance itself. Randal baffled Mr. Egerton's penetration—the young man's emotion might be honest pride, and pained and generous feeling; or it might be something else. Egerton continued slowly.

Mr. Egerton's icy stare tracked Randal's movement; the face was hidden from view—it focused on the figure, which can be just as revealing as the face itself. Randal evaded Mr. Egerton's scrutiny—the young man's emotions could be genuine pride and hurt, along with a sense of generosity; or it could be something entirely different. Egerton kept speaking slowly.

"Once for all then, distinctly and emphatically, I say—never count upon that; count upon all else that I can do for you, and forgive me, when I advise harshly or censure coldly; ascribe this to my interest in your career. Moreover, before decision becomes irrevocable, I wish you to know practically all that is disagreeable or even humiliating in the first subordinate steps of him who, without wealth or station, would rise in public life. I will not consider your choice settled, till the end of a year at least—your name will be kept on the college books till then; if, on experience, you should prefer to return to Oxford, and pursue the slower but surer path to independence and distinction, you can. And now give me your hand, Mr. Leslie, in sign that you forgive my bluntness;—it is time to dress."

"Let me be clear—never rely on that; count on everything else I can do for you, and please forgive me if I give harsh advice or criticize coldly; see this as my concern for your future. Also, before any decisions are final, I want you to know all the unpleasant or even embarrassing realities of the early steps for someone who, without money or status, wants to succeed in public life. I won’t consider your choice final for at least a year—your name will stay on the college roster until then; if, after some experience, you decide you want to return to Oxford and take the slower but steadier route to independence and success, you can. Now, please give me your hand, Mr. Leslie, to show you forgive my straightforwardness; it’s time to get ready."

Randal, with his face still averted, extended his hand. Mr. Egerton held it a moment, then dropping it, left the room. Randal turned as the door closed. And there was in his dark face a power of sinister passion, that justified all Harley's warnings. His lips moved, but not audibly; then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he followed Egerton into the Hall.

Randal, still looking away, reached out his hand. Mr. Egerton took it for a moment, then let it go and walked out of the room. Randal turned when the door shut. There was a disturbing intensity in his dark expression that proved all of Harley's warnings were valid. His lips were moving, but he wasn’t making any sound; then, as if hit by a sudden idea, he followed Egerton into the Hall.

"Sir," said he, "I forgot to say that on returning from Maida Hill, I took shelter from the rain under a covered passage, and there I met unexpectedly with your nephew, Frank Hazeldean."

"Sir," he said, "I forgot to mention that while coming back from Maida Hill, I took cover from the rain under a sheltered walkway, and there I unexpectedly ran into your nephew, Frank Hazeldean."

"Ah!" said Egerton indifferently, "a fine young man; in the Guards. It is a pity that[Pg 95] my brother has such antiquated political notions; he should put his son into parliament, and under my guidance; I could push him. Well, and what said Frank?"

"Ah!" said Egerton casually, "a great young guy; in the Guards. It's a shame that[Pg 95] my brother has such outdated political ideas; he should get his son into parliament, and with my advice; I could help him move forward. So, what did Frank say?"

"He invited me to call on him. I remember that you once rather cautioned me against too intimate an acquaintance with those who have not got their fortune to make."

"He invited me to visit him. I remember you once warned me about getting too close to people who are still trying to make their fortune."

"Because they are idle, and idleness is contagious. Right—better not be intimate with a young Guardsman."

"Because they're lazy, and laziness spreads. Right—better not get too close to a young Guardsman."

"Then you would not have me call on him, sir? We were rather friends at Eton; and if I wholly reject his overtures, might he not think that you—"

"Then you don’t want me to reach out to him, sir? We were pretty close at Eton, and if I completely turn down his advances, wouldn’t he think that you—"

"I!" interrupted Egerton. "Ah, true; my brother might think I bore him a grudge; absurd. Call then, and ask the young man here. Yet still, I do not advise intimacy."

"I!" interrupted Egerton. "Oh, right; my brother might think I'm holding a grudge against him; that’s ridiculous. Call him in and ask the young man to come here. Still, I wouldn’t recommend getting too close."

Egerton turned into his dressing-room. "Sir," said his valet, who was in waiting, "Mr. Levy is here—he says, by appointment; and Mr. Grinders is also just come from the country."

Egerton walked into his dressing room. "Sir," said his valet, who was standing by, "Mr. Levy is here—he says it’s by appointment; and Mr. Grinders has just arrived from the country."

"Tell Mr. Grinders to come in first," said Egerton, seating himself. "You need not wait; I can dress without you. Tell Mr. Levy I will see him in five minutes."

"Tell Mr. Grinders to come in first," said Egerton, sitting down. "You don't need to wait; I can get ready without you. Tell Mr. Levy I’ll see him in five minutes."

Mr. Grinders was steward to Audley Egerton.

Mr. Grinders was the steward for Audley Egerton.

Mr. Levy was a handsome man, who wore a camelia in his button-hole—drove, in his cabriolet, a high stepping horse that had cost £200: was well known to young men of fashion, and considered by their fathers a very dangerous acquaintance.

Mr. Levy was a good-looking guy who had a camellia in his buttonhole. He drove a flashy cabriolet with a high-stepping horse that had cost £200. He was well-known among young men of style and seen by their fathers as a pretty risky friend.

CHAPTER XII.

As the company assembled in the drawing-rooms, Mr. Egerton introduced Randal Leslie to his eminent friends in a way that greatly contrasted the distant and admonitory manner which he had exhibited to him in private. The presentation was made with that cordiality, and that gracious respect by which those who are in station command notice for those who have their station yet to win.

As the group gathered in the drawing rooms, Mr. Egerton introduced Randal Leslie to his distinguished friends in a way that sharply contrasted with the distant and cautionary attitude he had shown him in private. The introduction was filled with warmth and respectful grace, which those in high positions use to acknowledge those who are still working to establish their own status.

"My dear Lord, let me introduce to you a kinsman of my late wife's (in a whisper)—the heir to the elder branch of her family. Stranmore, this is Mr. Leslie, of whom I spoke to you. You, who were so distinguished at Oxford, will not like him the worse for the prizes he gained there. Duke, let me present to you, Mr. Leslie. The duchess is angry with me for deserting her balls; I shall hope to make my peace, by providing myself with a younger and livelier substitute. Ah, Mr. Howard, here is a young gentleman just fresh from Oxford, who will tell us all about the new sect springing up there. He has not wasted his time on billiards and horses."

"My dear Lord, let me introduce you to a relative of my late wife's (in a whisper)—the heir to the older branch of her family. Stranmore, this is Mr. Leslie, the one I mentioned to you. Since you were so accomplished at Oxford, you won't think less of him for the awards he earned there. Duke, let me introduce you to Mr. Leslie. The duchess is upset with me for skipping her balls; I hope to make it up to her by bringing along a younger and more lively substitute. Ah, Mr. Howard, here’s a young man fresh from Oxford who can fill us in on the new movement that’s emerging there. He hasn't spent his time on billiards and horses."

Leslie was received with all that charming courtesy which is the To Kalon of an aristocracy.

Leslie was welcomed with all the charming politeness that defines the ideal of an aristocracy.

After dinner, conversation settled on politics. Randal listened with attention and in silence, till Egerton drew him gently out; just enough, and no more—just enough to make his intelligence evident, without subjecting him to the charge of laying down the law. Egerton knew how to draw out young men—a difficult art. It was one reason why he was so peculiarly popular with the more rising members of his party.

After dinner, the conversation shifted to politics. Randal listened attentively and quietly until Egerton gently encouraged him to join in; just enough to showcase his intelligence without making him seem like he was preaching. Egerton had a knack for bringing out the best in young men—a tricky skill. This was one of the reasons he was so especially popular among the more ambitious members of his party.

The party broke up early.

The party ended early.

"We are in time for Almack's," said Egerton, glancing at the clock, "and I have a voucher for you; come."

"We're just in time for Almack's," Egerton said, looking at the clock, "and I've got a voucher for you; let's go."

Randal followed his patron into the carriage. By the way, Egerton thus addressed him—

Randal got into the carriage after his patron. Then, Egerton spoke to him—

"I shall introduce you to the principal leaders of society; know them and study them; I do not advise you to attempt to do more—that is, to attempt to become the fashion. It is a very expensive ambition; some men it helps, most men it ruins. On the whole, you have better cards in your hands. Dance or not, as it pleases you—don't flirt. If you flirt, people will inquire into your fortune—an inquiry that will do you little good; and flirting entangles a young man into marrying. That would never do. Here we are."

"I'll introduce you to the main leaders of society; get to know them and learn from them. I wouldn't suggest you try to become part of the trend—it's a costly ambition; it helps some people, but it ruins most. Overall, you have better opportunities. Dance if you want to—just don't flirt. If you flirt, people will start asking about your background, and that won't benefit you; plus, flirting can lead a young man to marriage. That wouldn't be a good idea. Here we are."

In two minutes more they were in the great ball-room, and Randal's eyes were dazzled with the lights, the diamonds, the blaze of beauty. Audley presented him in quick succession to some dozen ladies, and then disappeared amidst the crowd. Randal was not at a loss; he was without shyness; or if he had that disabling infirmity, he concealed it. He answered the languid questions put to him, with a certain spirit that kept up talk, and left a favorable impression of his agreeable qualities. But the lady with whom he got on the best, was one who had no daughters out, a handsome and witty woman of the world—Lady Frederick Coniers.

In just two more minutes, they arrived in the grand ballroom, and Randal was amazed by the lights, the diamonds, and the dazzling beauty around him. Audley quickly introduced him to about a dozen ladies and then vanished into the crowd. Randal wasn't lost; he had no shyness, or if he did, he hid it well. He responded to the relaxed questions directed at him with a certain enthusiasm that kept the conversation going and left a positive impression of his charming qualities. The woman he connected with the best was one who didn’t have any daughters out—Lady Frederick Coniers, a beautiful and witty woman of the world.

"It is your first ball at Almack's, then, Mr. Leslie?"

"It’s your first ball at Almack’s, right, Mr. Leslie?"

"My first."

"My first time."

"And you have not secured a partner? Shall I find you one? What do you think of that pretty girl in pink?"

"And you still haven't found a partner? Should I help you find one? What do you think of that cute girl in pink?"

"I see her—but I cannot think of her."

"I see her—but I can't think of her."

"You are rather, perhaps, like a diplomatist in a new court, and your first object is to know who is who."

"You are kind of like a diplomat in a new environment, and your main goal is to figure out who everyone is."

"I confess that on beginning to study the history of my own day, I should like to distinguish the portraits that illustrate the memoir."

"I admit that as I start studying the history of my time, I want to highlight the portraits that accompany the memoir."

"Give me your arm, then, and we will come into the next room. We shall see the different notabilités enter one by one, and observe without being observed. This is the least I can do for a friend of Mr. Egerton's."

"Give me your arm, then, and we’ll head into the next room. We’ll watch the different notabilités come in one by one and observe without being noticed. This is the least I can do for a friend of Mr. Egerton’s."

"Mr. Egerton, then," said Randal,—(as they threaded their way through the space[Pg 96] without the rope that protected the dancers)—"Mr. Egerton has had the good fortune to win your esteem, even for his friends, however obscure?"

"Mr. Egerton, then," said Randal,—(as they made their way through the area[Pg 96] without the rope that separated the dancers)—"Mr. Egerton has been lucky enough to earn your respect, even for his friends, no matter how unknown they are?"

"Why, to say truth, I think no one whom Mr. Egerton calls his friend need long remain obscure, if he has the ambition to be otherwise. For Mr. Egerton holds it a maxim never to forget a friend, nor a service."

"Honestly, I believe that no one Mr. Egerton considers his friend should stay unnoticed for long if they want to be recognized. Mr. Egerton believes in never forgetting a friend or a favor."

"Ah, indeed!" said Randal, surprised.

"Wow, really!" said Randal, surprised.

"And, therefore," continued Lady Frederick, "as he passes through life, friends gather round him. He will rise even higher yet. Gratitude, Mr. Leslie, is a very good policy."

"And so," continued Lady Frederick, "as he goes through life, friends will gather around him. He will achieve even greater heights. Gratitude, Mr. Leslie, is a very smart strategy."

"Hem," muttered Mr. Leslie.

"Hmm," muttered Mr. Leslie.

They had now gained the room where tea and bread and butter were the homely refreshments to the habitués of what at that day was the most exclusive assembly in London. They ensconced themselves in a corner by a window, and Lady Frederick performed her task of cicerone with lively ease, accompanying each notice of the various persons who passed panoramically before them with sketch and anecdote, sometimes good-natured, generally satirical, always graphic and amusing.

They had now arrived at the room where tea and bread and butter were the cozy refreshments for the habitués of what was at that time the most exclusive gathering in London. They settled into a corner by a window, and Lady Frederick acted as their guide with lively ease, sharing details about the different people who passed by them with sketches and anecdotes—sometimes friendly, often sarcastic, but always vivid and entertaining.

By-and-by Frank Hazeldean, having on his arm a young lady of haughty air, and with high though delicate features, came to the tea-table.

By and by, Frank Hazeldean, with a young lady of an arrogant demeanor and refined yet striking features on his arm, arrived at the tea table.

"The last new Guardsman," said Lady Frederick; "very handsome, and not yet quite spoiled. But he has got into a dangerous set."

"The last new Guardsman," Lady Frederick said, "really handsome, and not fully spoiled yet. But he's fallen in with a dangerous crowd."

Randal.—"The young lady with him is handsome enough to be dangerous."

Randal.—"The young woman with him is attractive enough to be a threat."

Lady Frederick, (laughing.)—"No danger for him there,—as yet at least. Lady Mary (the duke of Knaresborough's daughter) is only in her second. The first year, nothing under an earl; the second, nothing under a baron. It will be full four years before she comes down to a commoner. Mr. Hazeldean's danger is of another kind. He lives much with men who are not exactly mauvais ton, but certainly not of the best taste. Yet he is very young; he may extricate himself—leaving half his fortune behind him. What, he nods to you! You know him?"

Lady Frederick, (laughing.)—"He's not in any trouble there—at least not yet. Lady Mary (the duke of Knaresborough's daughter) is only in her second season. In her first year, she only accepted advances from earls; in her second, only from barons. It will be a full four years before she’ll go for a commoner. Mr. Hazeldean's risk is different. He spends a lot of time with guys who aren't exactly mauvais ton, but definitely not the most refined. Still, he's very young; he might manage to get out of it—leaving half his fortune behind. What, is he nodding at you? Do you know him?"

"Very well; he is nephew to Mr. Egerton."

"Okay; he's Mr. Egerton's nephew."

"Indeed! I did not know that. Hazeldean is a new name in London. I heard his father was a plain country gentleman, of good fortune, but not that he was related to Mr. Egerton."

"Really! I didn’t know that. Hazeldean is a new name in London. I heard his father was a straightforward country gentleman with a good fortune, but I didn’t know he was related to Mr. Egerton."

"Half-brother."

"Will Mr. Egerton pay the young gentleman's debts? He has no sons himself."

"Will Mr. Egerton pay the young man’s debts? He doesn’t have any sons himself."

Randal.—"Mr. Egerton's fortune comes from his wife, from my family—from a Leslie, not from a Hazeldean."

Randal.—"Mr. Egerton's wealth comes from his wife, from my family—from a Leslie, not from a Hazeldean."

Lady Frederick turned sharply, looked at Randal's countenance with more attention than she had yet vouchsafed to it, and tried to talk of the Leslies. Randal was very short there.

Lady Frederick turned sharply, looked at Randal's face more closely than she had before, and attempted to discuss the Leslies. Randal was very brief in his responses.

An hour afterwards, Randal, who had not danced, was still in the refreshment room, but Lady Frederick had long quitted him. He was talking with some old Etonians who had recognized him, when there entered a lady of very remarkable appearance, and a murmur passed through the room as she appeared.

An hour later, Randal, who hadn't danced, was still in the refreshment room, but Lady Frederick had left him a while ago. He was chatting with some old Etonians who had recognized him when a lady with a striking presence walked in, and a buzz went through the room as she entered.

She might be three or four and twenty. She was dressed in black velvet, which contrasted with the alabaster whiteness of her throat and the clear paleness of her complexion, while it set off the diamonds with which she was profusely covered. Her hair was of the deepest jet, and worn simply braided. Her eyes, too, were dark and brilliant, her features regular and striking; but their expression, when in repose, was not prepossessing to such as love modesty and softness in the looks of woman. But when she spoke and smiled, there was so much spirit and vivacity in the countenance, so much fascination in the smile, that all which might before have marred the effect of her beauty, strangely and suddenly disappeared.

She looked to be around twenty-three or twenty-four. She was wearing black velvet, which contrasted with the alabaster whiteness of her throat and the clear paleness of her skin, while showcasing the diamonds that adorned her lavishly. Her hair was the deepest black and styled in a simple braid. Her eyes were also dark and bright, and her features were regular and striking; however, when she was not speaking, her expression did not appeal to those who appreciate modesty and softness in a woman's appearance. But when she spoke and smiled, there was such energy and liveliness in her face, and so much charm in her smile, that everything that might have previously detracted from her beauty suddenly vanished.

"Who is that very handsome woman?" asked Randal.

"Who is that really attractive woman?" asked Randal.

"An Italian—a Marchesa something," said one of the Etonians.

"An Italian—something like a Marchesa," said one of the Etonians.

"Di Negra," suggested another, who had been abroad; "she is a widow; her husband was of the great Genoese family of Negra—a younger branch of it."

"Di Negra," suggested another, who had been overseas; "she's a widow; her husband was from the prominent Genoese family of Negra—a younger branch of it."

Several men now gathered thickly around the fair Italian. A few ladies of the highest rank spoke to her, but with a more distant courtesy than ladies of high rank usually show to foreigners of such quality as Madame di Negra. Ladies of a rank less elevated seemed rather shy of her;—that might be from jealousy. As Randall gazed at the Marchesa with more admiration than any woman, perhaps, had before excited in him, he heard a voice near him say—

Several men were now clustered around the beautiful Italian woman. A few high-ranking ladies spoke to her, but their courtesy was more distant than what ladies of their status typically show to foreigners of Madame di Negra's quality. Ladies of lower status seemed somewhat shy around her—probably out of jealousy. As Randall looked at the Marchesa with more admiration than he had ever felt for any woman, he heard a voice nearby say—

"Oh, Madame di Negra is resolved to settle amongst us, and marry an Englishman."

"Oh, Madame di Negra has decided to settle here and marry an Englishman."

"If she can find one sufficiently courageous," returned a female voice.

"If she can find one brave enough," replied a woman's voice.

"Well, she is trying hard for Egerton, and he has courage enough for any thing."

"Well, she's really putting in the effort for Egerton, and he's got enough courage for anything."

The female voice replied with a laugh, "Mr. Egerton knows the world too well, and has resisted too many temptations, to be—"

The woman laughed and said, "Mr. Egerton knows the world too well and has resisted too many temptations to be—"

"Hush!—there he is."

"Shh!—there he is."

Egerton came into the room with his usual firm step and erect mien. Randal observed that a quick glance was exchanged between him and the Marchesa; but the Minister passed her by with a bow.

Egerton entered the room with his usual confident stride and straight posture. Randal noticed a brief glance exchanged between him and the Marchesa; however, the Minister nodded to her and continued on.

Still Randal watched, and, ten minutes afterwards, Egerton and the Marchesa were seated apart in the very same convenient nook that Randal and Lady Frederick had occupied an hour or so before.

Still Randal watched, and ten minutes later, Egerton and the Marchesa were seated in the same cozy corner that Randal and Lady Frederick had used about an hour earlier.

"Is this the reason why Mr. Egerton so insultingly warns me against counting on his fortune?" muttered Randal. "Does he mean to marry again?"[Pg 97]

"Is this why Mr. Egerton so rudely warns me not to rely on his fortune?" Randal muttered. "Is he planning to get married again?"[Pg 97]

Unjust suspicion!—for, at that moment these were the words that Audley Egerton was dropping forth from his lips of bronze—

Unfair suspicion!—for, at that moment these were the words that Audley Egerton was letting out from his lips of bronze—

"Nay, dear Madam, do not ascribe to my frank admiration more gallantry that it merits. Your conversation charms me, your beauty delights me; your society is as a holiday that I look forward to in the fatigues of my life. But I have done with love, and I shall never marry again."

"Nah, dear Madam, don’t attribute more charm to my honest admiration than it deserves. Your conversation captivates me, your beauty pleases me; your company is like a holiday that I eagerly anticipate amidst the struggles of my life. But I am done with love, and I will never marry again."

"You almost pique me into trying to win, in order to reject you," said the Italian, with a flash from her bright eyes.

"You’re almost tempting me to try to win, just so I can turn you down," said the Italian, her bright eyes sparkling.

"I defy even you," answered Audley, with his cold hard smile. "But to return to the point: You have more influence at least over this subtle Ambassador; and the secret we speak of I rely on you to obtain me. Ah, Madam, let us rest friends. You see I have conquered the unjust prejudice against you; you are received and fêted every where, as becomes your birth and your attractions. Rely on me ever, as I on you. But I shall excite too much envy if I stay here longer, and am vain enough to think that I may injure you if I provoke the gossip of the ill-natured. As the avowed friend, I can serve you—as the supposed lover, No—" Audley rose, as he said this, and, standing by the chair, added carelessly, "Apropos, the sum you do me the honor to borrow will be paid to your bankers to-morrow."

"I challenge even you," Audley replied with a cold, hard smile. "But back to the point: You definitely have more influence over this clever Ambassador, and I trust you to get me the secret we're discussing. Ah, Madam, let’s be friends. You see, I’ve gotten over my unfair bias against you; you’re welcomed and celebrated everywhere, just like you should be given your background and charm. Count on me, as I count on you. But if I stay here much longer, I’ll stir up too much envy, and I’m vain enough to think I could hurt you by provoking the gossip of the malicious. As your declared friend, I can help you—as the rumored lover, I cannot." Audley stood up as he said this and, leaning against the chair, added casually, "By the way, the amount you’re borrowing will be deposited with your bankers tomorrow."

"A thousand thanks!—my brother will hasten to repay you."

"Thank you so much!—my brother will quickly pay you back."

Audley bowed. "Your brother, I hope, will repay me in person, not before. When does he come?"

Audley bowed. "I hope your brother will repay me in person, not before. When is he coming?"

"Oh, he has again postponed his visit to London; he is so much needed in Vienna. But while we are talking of him, allow me to ask if Lord L'Estrange is indeed still so bitter against that poor brother of mine?"

"Oh, he's postponed his visit to London again; he's really needed in Vienna. But since we're talking about him, can I ask if Lord L'Estrange is still so bitter towards that poor brother of mine?"

"Still the same!"

"It is shameful," cried the Italian with warmth; "what has my brother ever done to him, that he should intrigue against the Count in his own court?"

"It’s disgraceful," shouted the Italian passionately; "what has my brother ever done to him that he should plot against the Count in his own court?"

"Intrigue! I think you wrong Lord L'Estrange; he but represented what he believed to be the truth, in defence of a ruined exile."

"Intrigue! I think you're mistaken about Lord L'Estrange; he was just expressing what he believed to be the truth, in defense of a fallen exile."

"And you will not tell me where that exile is, or if his daughter still lives?"

"And you won't tell me where that exile is, or if his daughter is still alive?"

"My dear Marchesa, I have called you friend, therefore, I will not aid L'Estrange to injure you or yours. But I call L'Estrange a friend also; and I cannot violate the trust that—" Audley stopped short, and bit his lip. "You understand me," he resumed, with a genial smile, and took his leave.

"My dear Marchesa, I've called you a friend, so I won't help L'Estrange hurt you or your family. But I also consider L'Estrange a friend, and I can’t betray the trust that—" Audley paused, biting his lip. "You know what I mean," he continued with a friendly smile, and then he left.

The Italian's brows met as her eye followed him; then, as she too rose, that eye encountered Randal's. Each surveyed the other—each felt a certain strange fascination—a sympathy—not of affection, but of intellect.

The Italian's brows furrowed as her gaze followed him; then, as she stood up, her eyes met Randal's. They each looked at one another—both felt a strange attraction—a connection—not of love, but of intellect.

"That young man has the eye of an Italian," said the Marchesa to herself; and as she passed by him into the ball-room, she turned and smiled.

"That young man has the eye of an Italian," the Marchesa thought to herself. As she walked past him into the ballroom, she turned and smiled.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Continued from page 557, vol. iii.

[9] If, at the date in which Lord L'Estrange held this conversation with Mr. Egerton, Alfred de Musset had written his comedies, we should suspect that his lordship had plagiarized from one of them the whimsical idea that he here vents upon Audley. In repeating it, the author at least cannot escape from the charge of obligation to a writer whose humor, at least, is sufficiently opulent to justify the loan.

[9] If, at the time when Lord L'Estrange had this conversation with Mr. Egerton, Alfred de Musset had written his comedies, we might think that his lordship borrowed the funny idea he shares about Audley from one of them. By repeating it, the author can’t deny being indebted to a writer whose humor is rich enough to warrant the borrowing.

From the London Examiner.

IMAGINARY CONVERSATION AT WARSAW.

NICHOLAS AND NESSELRODE.

BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Nicholas.—God fights for us visibly. You look grave, Nesselrode! is it not so? Speak, and plainly.

Nicholas.—God fights for us in a visible way. You look serious, Nesselrode! Is that right? Speak up, and be clear.

Nesselrode.—Sire, in my humble opinion, God never fights at all.

Nesselrode.—Sir, in my opinion, God never fights at all.

Nicholas.—Surely he fought for Israel, when he was invoked by prayer.

Nicholas.—He definitely fought for Israel when people prayed for him.

Nesselrode.—Sire, I am no theologian; and I fancy I must be a bad geographer, since I never knew of a nation which was not Israel when it had a mind to shed blood and to pray. To fight is an exertion, is violence; the Deity in His omnipotence needs none. He has devils and men always in readiness for fighting; and they are the instruments of their own punishment for their past misdeeds.

Nesselrode.—Sir, I'm not a theologian, and I guess I'm a poor geographer too, since I’ve never heard of a nation that wasn’t Israel when it felt like spilling blood and praying. Fighting requires effort; it’s violent. God, in His all-powerful nature, doesn’t need any of that. He always has devils and men ready to fight, and they are the ones who bring about their own punishment for their past wrongs.

Nicholas.—The chariots of God are numbered by thousands in the volumes of the Psalmist.

Nicholas.—God's chariots are counted in the thousands in the writings of the Psalmist.

Nesselrode.—No psalmist, or engineer, or commissary, or arithmetician, could enumerate the beasts that are harnessed to them, or the fiends that urge them on.

Nesselrode.—No poet, engineer, supplier, or mathematician could count the animals that are hitched to them, or the demons that push them forward.

Nicholas.—Nesselrode! you grow more and more serious.

Nicholas.—Nesselrode! You're getting more and more serious.

Nesselrode.—Age, sire, even without wisdom, makes men serious whether they are inclined or not. I could hardly have been so long conversant in the affairs of mankind (all which in all quarters your majesty superintends and directs) without much cause for seriousness.

Nesselrode.—Age, sir, even without wisdom, makes people serious whether they want to be or not. I could hardly have been involved in human affairs for so long (all of which your majesty oversees and manages) without plenty of reasons to be serious.

Nicholas.—I feel the consciousness of Supreme Power, but I also feel the necessity of subordinate help.

Nicholas.—I sense the presence of a higher power, but I also recognize the need for support from others.

Nesselrode.—Your majesty is the first monarch, since the earlier Cæsars of Imperial Rome, who could control, directly or indirectly, every country in our hemisphere, and thereby in both.

Nesselrode.—Your majesty is the first ruler, since the early Cæsars of Imperial Rome, who can control, directly or indirectly, every country in our hemisphere, and therefore in both.

Nicholas.—There are some who do not see this.

Nicholas.—Some people miss this.

Nesselrode.—There were some, and they indeed the most acute and politic of mankind, who could not see the power of the Macedonian king until he showed his full height upon the towers of Cheronœa. There are some at this moment in England who disregard the admonitions of the most wary and experienced general of modern times, and listen in preference to babblers holding forth on economy and peace from slippery sacks of cotton and wool.

Nesselrode.—There were a few, and they were indeed the sharpest and most politically savvy people, who couldn't recognize the strength of the Macedonian king until he stood tall on the towers of Cheronœa. Right now, there are some in England who ignore the warnings of the most careful and seasoned general of our time, opting instead to listen to chatterboxes talking about economy and peace from their comfortable spots in cotton and wool.

Nicholas.—Hush! hush! these are our men; what should we do without them? A single one of them in the parliament or town-hall is worth to me a regiment of cuirassiers. These are the true bullets with conical heads which carry far and sure. Hush! hush!

Nicholas.—Quiet! Quiet! these are our people; what would we do without them? One of them in the parliament or city hall is more valuable to me than a whole regiment of armored soldiers. These are the real bullets with pointed tips that shoot far and true. Quiet! Quiet!

Nesselrode.—They do not hear us: they[Pg 98] do not hear Wellington: they would not hear Nelson were he living.

Nesselrode.—They don’t hear us: they[Pg 98] don’t hear Wellington: they wouldn’t hear Nelson if he were alive.

Nicholas.—No other man that ever lived, having the same power in his hands, would have endured with the same equanimity as Wellington, the indignities he suffered in Portugal; superseded in the hour of victory by two generals, one upon another, like marsh frogs; people of no experience, no ability. He might have become king of Portugal by compromise, and have added Gallicia and Biscay.

Nicholas.—No other man alive, with the same power, would have handled the humiliations Wellington faced in Portugal with the same calmness; being replaced at the moment of victory by two generals, one after the other, like a couple of clueless rookies; individuals with no experience or skill. He could have become king of Portugal through negotiation and added Galicia and Biscay to his territory.

Nesselrode.—The English, out of parliament, are delicate and fastidious. He would have thought it dishonorable to profit by the indignation of his army in the field, and of his countrymen at home. Certainty that Bonaparte would attempt to violate any engagement with him might never enter into the computation; for Bonaparte could less easily drive him again out of Portugal than he could drive the usurper out of Spain. We ourselves should have assisted him actively; so would the Americans; for every naval power would be prompt at diminishing the preponderance of the English. Practicability was here with Wellington; but, endowed with it a keener and a longer foresight than any of his contemporaries, he held in prospective the glory that awaited him, and felt conscious that to be the greatest man in England is somewhat more than to be the greatest in Portugal. He is universally called the duke; to the extinction or absorption of that dignity over all the surface of the earth: in Portugal he could only be called king of Portugal.

Nesselrode.—The English, outside of parliament, are sensitive and particular. He would have considered it dishonorable to take advantage of his army's anger in the field and his fellow citizens' outrage at home. The thought that Bonaparte would try to break any agreement with him was never in the equation; after all, Bonaparte could push him out of Portugal no more easily than he could force the usurper out of Spain. We would have actively supported him; the Americans would have too; every naval power would quickly jump in to reduce English dominance. Wellington had practical options here, but, equipped with sharper and longer vision than any of his peers, he looked ahead to the glory that awaited him and understood that being the greatest man in England meant a lot more than being the greatest in Portugal. He is commonly referred to as the duke, overshadowing that title across the whole world: in Portugal, he could only be seen as king of Portugal.

Nicholas.—Faith! that is little: it was not overmuch even before the last accession. I admire his judgment and moderation. The English are abstinent: they rein in their horses where the French make them fret and curvett. It displeases me to think it possible that a subject should ever become a sovran. We were angry with the Duke of Sudermania for raising a Frenchman to that dignity in Sweden, although we were willing that Gustavus, for offences and affronts to our family, should be chastized, and even expelled. Here was a bad precedent. Fortunately the boldest soldiers dismount from their chargers at some distance from the throne. What withholds them?

Nicholas.—Honestly, that’s not much: it wasn’t too much even before the latest addition. I admire his judgment and self-control. The English are restrained: they hold back their horses where the French let them run wild. It bothers me to think that a common person could ever become a ruler. We were upset with the Duke of Sudermania for promoting a Frenchman to that position in Sweden, even though we were okay with Gustavus being punished and even kicked out for the offenses and insults to our family. That was a bad example. Thankfully, the bravest soldiers dismount from their horses some distance from the throne. What stops them?

Nesselrode.—Spells are made of words. The word service among the military has great latent negative power. All modern nations, even the free, employ it.

Nesselrode.—Spells are made of words. The word service in the military carries significant hidden negative power. All modern nations, even the free ones, use it.

Nicholas.—An excellent word indeed! It shows the superiority of modern languages over ancient; Christian ideas over pagan; living similitudes of God over bronze and marble. What an escape had England from her folly, perversity, and injustice! Her admirals had the same wrongs to avenge: her fleets would have anchored in Ferrol and Coruna; thousands of volunteers from every part of both islands would have assembled round the same standard; and both Indies would have bowed before the conqueror. Who knows but that Spain herself might have turned to the same quarter, from the idiocy of Ferdinand, the immorality of Joseph, and the perfidy of Napoleon?

Nicholas.—What a great word! It highlights how modern languages are better than ancient ones; how Christian beliefs surpass pagan ones; and how the living representations of God are more powerful than those in bronze and marble. England truly dodged a bullet with her foolishness, stubbornness, and unfairness! Her admirals faced the same grievances: her fleets could have set sail for Ferrol and Coruna; thousands of volunteers from all over both islands would have gathered under the same banner; and both Americas could have submitted to the victor. Who knows, maybe Spain herself could have headed in the same direction, given Ferdinand’s foolishness, Joseph’s immorality, and Napoleon’s treachery?

Nesselrode.—England seems to invite and incite, not only her colonies, but her commanders, to insurrection. Nelson was treated even more ignominiously than Wellington. A man equal in abilities and in energy to either met with every affront from the East India Company. After two such victories in succession as the Duke himself declared before the Lords that he had never known or read of, he was removed from the command of his army, and a general by whose rashness it was decimated was raised to the peerage. If Wellington could with safety have seized the supreme power in Portugal, Napier could with greater have accomplished it in India. The distance from home was farther; the army more confident; the allies more numerous, more unanimous. One avenger of their wrongs would have found a million avengers of his. Affghanistan, Cabul, and Scinde, would have united their acclamations on the Ganges: songs of triumph, succeeded by songs of peace, would have been chanted at Delhi, and have re-echoed at Samarcand.

Nesselrode.—England seems to encourage not only her colonies but also her leaders to rebel. Nelson was treated even worse than Wellington. A man with skills and energy equal to either faced constant disrespect from the East India Company. After two consecutive victories that the Duke himself claimed he had never seen or read about, he was removed from command of his army, while a general whose recklessness led to its decimation was promoted to the peerage. If Wellington could have safely taken control in Portugal, Napier could have done it even more easily in India. The distance from home was greater; the army was more confident; the allies were more numerous and united. One avenger of their wrongs would have found a million avengers of his. Afghanistan, Kabul, and Sindh would have joined in celebration along the Ganges: songs of triumph would be followed by songs of peace, chanted in Delhi and echoed in Samarkand.

Nicholas.—I am desirous that Persia and India should pour their treasures into my dominions. The English are so credulous as to believe that I intend, or could accomplish, the conquest of Hindostan. I want only the commerce; and I hope to share it with the Americans; not I indeed, but my successors. The possession of California has opened the Pacific and the Indian seas to the Americans, who must, within the life-time of some now born, predominate in both. Supposing that emigrants to the amount of only a quarter of a million settle in the United States every year, within a century from the present day, their population must exceed three hundred millions. It will not extend from pole to pole, only because there will be room enough without it.

Nicholas.—I want Persia and India to bring their riches into my lands. The English are so gullible that they think I plan, or could manage, to conquer Hindostan. I'm only interested in the trade; and I hope to share it with the Americans—not me, but those who come after me. Owning California has opened up the Pacific and Indian oceans to the Americans, who will, within the lifetime of some who are currently alive, dominate both. If we assume that around a quarter of a million immigrants settle in the United States each year, in a hundred years their population will surpass three hundred million. It won't stretch from pole to pole, only because there will be plenty of space without needing to.

Nesselrode.—Religious wars, the most sanguinary of any, are stifled in the fields of agriculture; creeds are thrown overboard by commerce.

Nesselrode.—Religious wars, the bloodiest of all, are suppressed in the fields of agriculture; beliefs are cast aside by trade.

Nicholas.—Theological questions come at last to be decided by the broadsword; and the best artillery brings forward the best arguments. Montecuculi and Wallenstein were irrefragable doctors. Saint Peter was commanded to put up his sword; but the ear was cut off first.

Nicholas.—In the end, theological debates are settled by force, and the strongest weapons make for the strongest points. Montecuculi and Wallenstein were unarguable experts. Saint Peter was told to sheathe his sword; but first, the ear was severed.

Nesselrode.—The blessed saint's escape from capital punishment, after this violence, is among the greatest of miracles. Perhaps there may be a perplexity in the text. Had he committed so great a crime against a person so highly protected as one in the high-priest's household, he never would have lived long enough to be crucified at Rome, but would have carried his cross up to Calvary three[Pg 99] days after the offence. The laws of no country would tolerate it.

Nesselrode.—The saint's miraculous escape from execution after such violence is one of the greatest miracles. There might be some confusion in the text. If he had really committed such a serious crime against someone as protected as a member of the high priest's household, he wouldn't have lived long enough to be crucified in Rome; he would have been forced to carry his cross to Calvary just three[Pg 99] days after the crime. No country's laws would allow it.

Nicholas.—How did he ever get to Rome at all? He must have been conveyed by an angel, or have slipt on a sudden into a railroad train, purposely and for the nonce provided. There is a controversy at the present hour about his delegated authority, and it appears to be next to certain that he never was in the capital of the west. It is my interest to find it decided in the negative. Successors to the emperors of the east, who sanctioned and appointed the earliest popes, as the bishops of Rome are denominated, I may again at my own good time claim the privilege and prerogative. The cardinals and their subordinates are extending their claws in all directions: we must throw these crabs upon their backs again.

Nicholas.—How did he even make it to Rome? He must have been carried by an angel, or maybe he just suddenly hopped onto a train that was set up for him. There’s currently a debate about his authority, and it seems pretty clear he was never in the capital of the west. I’m really hoping the answer is no. The successors to the eastern emperors, who approved and appointed the first popes, as the bishops of Rome are called, I can still claim that right and privilege when the time is right. The cardinals and their underlings are reaching out in all directions: we need to turn these crabs back onto their backs again.

Nesselrode.—Some among the Italians, and chiefly among the Romans, are venturing to express an opinion that there would be less of false religion, and more of true, if no priest of any description were left upon earth.

Nesselrode.—Some Italians, especially the Romans, are starting to suggest that there would be less false religion and more genuine belief if there were no priests of any kind left on earth.

Nicholas.—Horrible! unless are exempted those of the venerable Greek church. All others worship graven images: we stick to pictures.

Nicholas.—That's terrible! Unless, of course, the venerable Greek church is excluded. Everyone else worships idols: we just stick to pictures.

Nesselrode.—One scholar mentioned, not without an air of derision, that a picture had descended from heaven recently on the coast of Italy.

Nesselrode.—One scholar remarked, not without a hint of mockery, that an image had recently appeared from heaven on the coast of Italy.

Nicholas.—Framed? varnisht? under glass? on panel? on canvas? What like?

Nicholas.—Framed? Varnished? Under glass? On a panel? On canvas? What’s it like?

Nesselrode.—The Virgin Mary, whatever made of.

Nesselrode.—The Virgin Mary, whatever is made of.

Nicholas.—She must be ours then. She missed her road: she never would have taken her place among stocks and stones and blind worshipers. Easterly winds must have blown her toward a pestilential city, where at every street-corner is very significantly inscribed its true name at full length, Immondezzaio. But I hope I am guilty of no profaneness or infidelity when I express a doubt if every picture of the Blessed Virgin is sentient; most are; perhaps not every one. If they want her in England, as they seem to do, let them have her ... unless it is the one that rolls the eyes: in that case I must claim her: she is too precious by half for papist or tractarian. I must order immediately these matters. No reasonable doubt can be entertained that I am the visible head of Christ's church. Theologians may be consulted in regard to St. Peter, and may discover a manuscript at Novgorod, stating his martyrdom there, and proving his will and signature.

Nicholas.—She must belong to us then. She lost her way: she would never have taken her place among the rocks and stones and the blind worshipers. Easterly winds must have blown her toward a polluted city, where at every street corner is clearly written its true name in full, Immondezzaio. But I hope I’m not being disrespectful when I express some doubt about whether every image of the Blessed Virgin has awareness; most do; but perhaps not all. If they want her in England, as it seems they do, let them have her ... unless it’s the one that rolls its eyes: in that case, I must claim her; she is far too precious for Catholics or High Churchmen. I need to sort this out immediately. There can be no reasonable doubt that I am the visible head of Christ’s church. Theologians might be consulted about St. Peter and might discover a manuscript in Novgorod, stating his martyrdom there and proving his will and signature.

Nesselrode.—Theologians may find perhaps in the Revelations some Beast foreshadowing your Majesty.

Nesselrode.—Theologians might find in the Revelations some Beast that hints at your Majesty.

Nicholas.—How? sir! how?

Nicholas.—How? Sir! How?

Nesselrode.—Emperors and kings, we are taught, are designated as great beasts in the Holy Scriptures ... (Aside) ... and elsewhere.

Nesselrode.—We're taught that emperors and kings are referred to as great beasts in the Holy Scriptures ... (Aside) ... and other texts.

SECOND CONVERSATION.

Nicholas.—We have disposed of our brother, his Prussian Majesty, who appeared to be imprest by the apprehension that a portion of his dominions was in jeopardy.

Nicholas.—We have dealt with our brother, his Prussian Majesty, who seemed worried that part of his territory was at risk.

Nesselrode.—Possibly the scales of Europe are yet to be adjusted.

Nesselrode.—Perhaps the balance of Europe still needs to be set right.

Nicholas.—When the winds blow high they must waver. Against the danger of contingencies, and in readiness to place my finger on the edge of one or other, it is my intention to spend in future a good part of my time at Warsaw, that city being so nearly central in my dominions. Good Nesselrode! there should have been a poet near you to celebrate the arching of your eyebrows. They suddenly dropt down again under the horizontal line of your Emperor's. Nobody ever stared in my presence; but I really do think you were upon the verge of it when I inadvertently said dominions instead of dependencies. Well, well: dependencies are dominions; and of all dominions they require the least trouble.

Nicholas.—When the winds blow hard, they have to bend. Facing the risks of uncertainties, and being ready to touch upon either one, I plan to spend a good amount of my time in the future in Warsaw, since it lies almost at the center of my territories. Good Nesselrode! There should have been a poet near you to capture the arching of your eyebrows. They suddenly dropped down again, aligning with your Emperor’s horizontal line. No one has ever stared in my presence, but I honestly believe you were about to when I accidentally said dominions instead of dependencies. Well, well: dependencies are dominions; and of all dominions, they require the least effort.

Nesselrode.—Your Majesty has found no difficulty with any, excepting the Circassians.

Nesselrode.—Your Majesty hasn't had any problems with anyone, except for the Circassians.

Nicholas.—The Circassians are the Normans of Asia; equally brave, more generous, more chivalrous. I am no admirer of military trinkets; but I have been surprised at the beauty of their chain-armor, the temper of their swords, the richness of hilt, and the gracefulness of baldric.

Nicholas.—The Circassians are the Normans of Asia; just as brave, more generous, and more chivalrous. I’m not a fan of military decorations, but I’ve been impressed by the beauty of their chainmail, the quality of their swords, the elaborate hilts, and the elegance of their baldric.

Nesselrode.—It is a pity they are not Christians and subjects of your Majesty.

Nesselrode.—It's a shame they aren't Christians and subjects of Your Majesty.

Nicholas.—If they would become my subjects, I would let them, as I have let other Mahometans, become Christians at their leisure. We must brigade them before baptism.

Nicholas.—If they want to be my subjects, I would allow them, just like I’ve allowed other Muslims, to become Christians on their own time. We need to gather them together before baptism.

Nesselrode.—It is singular that this necessity never struck those religious men who are holding peace conferences in various parts of Europe.

Nesselrode.—It's strange that this need never occurred to the religious leaders who are organizing peace conferences in different parts of Europe.

Nicholas.—One of them, I remember, tried to persuade the people of England that if the bankers of London would negotiate no loan with me I could carry on no war.

Nicholas.—I remember one of them trying to convince the people of England that if the bankers in London refused to loan me any money, I wouldn’t be able to wage any war.

Nesselrode.—Wonderful! how ignorant are monied men of money matters. Your Majesty was graciously pleased to listen to my advice when hostilities seemed inevitable. I was desirous of raising the largest loan possible, that none should be forthcoming to the urgency of others. At that very moment your Majesty had in your coffers more than sufficient for the additional expenditure of three campaigns. Well may your Majesty smile at this computation, and at the blindness that suggested it. For never will your Majesty send an army into any part of Europe which shall not maintain itself there by its own prowess. Your cavalry will seize all the provisions that are not stored up within the fortresses; and in every army those are to be found who for a few thousand roubles are ready to blow up their ammunition-wagons. We know by name almost every discontented man in Europe.

Nesselrode.—Amazing! how clueless wealthy people are about financial matters. Your Majesty kindly listened to my advice when conflict seemed unavoidable. I wanted to raise the largest loan possible, so that others wouldn't have any funds available for urgent needs. At that very moment, your Majesty had more than enough in your treasury to cover the extra expenses for three campaigns. It’s understandable that your Majesty might laugh at this calculation, and at the naivety that led to it. For your Majesty will never send an army into any part of Europe that won't be able to sustain itself through its own strength. Your cavalry will take any supplies that aren't stored in the fortresses, and in every army, there are always those willing to blow up their ammunition wagons for a few thousand roubles. We know by name almost every unhappy person in Europe.

Nicholas.—To obtain this information, my[Pg 100] yearly expenses do not exceed the revenues of half a dozen English bishops. Every table-d'hôte on the continent, you tell me, has one daily guest sent by me. Ladies in the higher circles have taken my presents and compliments, part in diamonds and part in smiles. An emperor's smiles are as valuable to them as theirs are to a cornet of dragoons. Spare nothing in the boudoir and you spare much in the field.

Nicholas.—To get this information, my[Pg 100] annual expenses don’t exceed the income of half a dozen English bishops. Every table-d'hôte in Europe, you tell me, has one guest each day sent by me. Women in high society accept my gifts and compliments, some in diamonds and some in smiles. An emperor’s smiles are as valuable to them as theirs are to a troop of soldiers. Don’t hold back in the boudoir and you’ll save a lot in the field.

Nesselrode.—Such appears to have been the invariable policy of the Empress Catharine, now with God.

Nesselrode.—This seems to have been the consistent approach of Empress Catherine, who is now with God.

Nicholas.—My father of glorious memory was less observant of it. He had prejudices and dislikes; he expected to find every body a gentleman, even kings and ministers. If they were so, how could he have hoped to sway them? and how to turn them from the strait road into his?

Nicholas.—My father, who I remember fondly, paid less attention to it. He had his own biases and dislikes; he thought everyone should be a gentleman, even kings and ministers. If they were, how could he expect to influence them? And how could he lead them away from the straight path into his own?

Nesselrode.—Your Majesty is far above the influence of antipathies; but I have often heard your Majesty express your hatred, and sometimes your contempt, of Bonaparte.

Nesselrode.—Your Majesty is well above being swayed by personal dislikes; but I have often heard you express your disdain, and at times your scorn, for Bonaparte.

Nicholas.—I hated him for his insolence, and I despised him alike for his cowardice and falsehood. Shame is the surest criterion of humanity. When one is wanting, the other is. The beasts never indicate shame in a state of nature; in society some of them acquire it; Bonaparte not. He neither blushed at repudiating a modest woman, nor at supplanting her by an immodest one. Holding a pistol to the father's ear, he ordered him to dismount from his carriage; to deliver up his ring, his watch, his chain, his seal, his knee-buckle; stripping off galloon from trouser, and presently trouser too: caught, pinioned, sentenced, he fell on both knees in the mud, and implored this poor creature's intercession to save him from the hangman. He neither blushed at the robbery of a crown nor at the fabrication of twenty. He was equally ungrateful in public life and in private. He banished Barras, who promoted and protected him: he calumniated the French admiral, whose fleet for his own safety he detained on the shores of Egypt, and the English admiral who defeated him in Syria with a tenth of his force. Baffled as he often was, and at last fatally, and admirably as in many circumstances he knew how to be a general, never in any did he know how to be a gentleman. He was fond of displaying the picklock keys whereby he found entrance into our cabinets, and of twitching the ears of his accomplices.

Nicholas.—I hated him for his disrespect, and I looked down on him equally for his cowardice and dishonesty. Shame is the clearest sign of humanity. When one is missing, the other is too. Animals don’t show shame in their natural state; in society, some learn it; Bonaparte did not. He felt no shame rejecting a decent woman, nor in replacing her with an indecent one. Holding a gun to the father's head, he ordered him to get out of his carriage and to hand over his ring, watch, chain, seal, and knee-buckle; stripping off the braid from his pants, and soon the pants themselves: caught, bound, sentenced, he fell on his knees in the mud, begging this poor soul to intercede for him to save him from the executioner. He felt no shame in robbing a crown or in creating twenty more. He was equally ungrateful in public life and in private. He exiled Barras, who had supported and protected him: he slandered the French admiral, whose fleet he kept on the shores of Egypt for his own safety, and the English admiral who defeated him in Syria with only a fraction of his forces. Often thwarted, and ultimately fatally so, and despite his remarkable skills as a general in many situations, he never knew how to be a gentleman. He liked showing off the lock-picking tools he used to access our secret meetings and messing with his accomplices.

Nesselrode.—Certainly he was less as an emperor than as a soldier.

Nesselrode.—He was definitely more of a soldier than an emperor.

Nicholas.—Great generals may commit grievous and disastrous mistakes, but never utterly ruinous. Charles V., Gustavus Adolphus, Peter the Great, Frederic of Prussia, Prince Eugene, Marlborough, William, Wellington, kept their winnings, and never hazarded the last crown-piece. Bonaparte, when he had swept the tables, cried double or quits.

Nicholas.—Great generals might make serious and terrible mistakes, but never completely ruinous ones. Charles V, Gustavus Adolphus, Peter the Great, Frederick of Prussia, Prince Eugene, Marlborough, William, Wellington— they all held onto their gains and never risked their last piece. Bonaparte, after cleaning up, shouted double or nothing.

Nesselrode.—The wheel of Fortune is apt to make men giddier, the higher it rises and the quicklier it turns: sometimes it drops them on a barren rock, and sometimes on a treadmill. The nephew is more prudent than the uncle.

Nesselrode.—The wheel of Fortune tends to make people more dizzy the higher it goes and the faster it spins: sometimes it drops them on a barren rock, and sometimes on a treadmill. The nephew is smarter than the uncle.

Nicholas.—You were extremely wise, my dear Nesselrode, in suggesting our idea to the French President, and in persuading him to acknowledge in the face of the world that he had been justly imprisoned by Louis Philippe for attempting to subvert the existing powers. Frenchmen are taught by this declaration what they may expect for a similar crime against his own pretensions. We will show our impartiality by an equal countenance and favor toward all parties. In different directions all are working out the design of God, and producing unity of empire "on earth as it is in heaven." Until this consummation there can never be universal or indeed any lasting peace.

Nicholas.—You were really smart, my dear Nesselrode, to suggest our idea to the French President and to convince him to publicly acknowledge that he had been justly imprisoned by Louis Philippe for trying to undermine the current powers. This declaration teaches the French what they can expect if they commit a similar offense against his own ambitions. We will demonstrate our impartiality by giving equal attention and support to all parties. In various ways, everyone is working towards God’s plan and creating a unity of empire "on earth as it is in heaven." Until this goal is reached, there can never be universal or even any lasting peace.

Nesselrode.—This, lying far remote, I await your Majesty's commands for what is now before us. Your Majesty was graciously pleased to express your satisfaction at the manner in which I executed them in regard to the President of the French Republic.

Nesselrode.—This, being far away, I'm waiting for your Majesty's instructions about what we have ahead of us. Your Majesty kindly expressed your satisfaction with how I handled matters concerning the President of the French Republic.

Nicholas.—Republic indeed! I have ordered it to be a crime in France to utter this odious name. President forsooth! we have directed him hitherto; let him now keep his way. Our object was to stifle the spirit of freedom: we tossed the handkerchief to him, and he found the chloroform. Every thing is going on in Europe exactly as I desire; we must throw nothing in the way to shake the machine off the rail. It is running at full speed where no whistle can stop it. Every prince is exasperating his subjects, and exhausting his treasury in order to keep them under due control. What nation on the continent, mine excepted, can maintain for two years longer its present war establishment? And without this engine of coercion what prince can be the master of his people? England is tranquil at home; can she continue so when a foreigner would place a tiara over her crown, telling her who shall teach and what shall be taught. Principally, that where masses are not said for departed souls, better it would be that there were no souls at all, since they certainly must be damned. The school which doubts it is denounced as godless.

Nicholas.—Republic, really! I’ve declared it a crime in France to even say that disgusting name. President, indeed! We’ve been in control until now; let him figure it out on his own. Our goal was to crush the spirit of freedom: we threw him a lifeline, and he found a way to lull us. Everything in Europe is going exactly as I want; we can't let anything disrupt this setup. It’s moving at full speed, and nothing can stop it. Every ruler is making his subjects angry and draining his treasury just to keep them in check. What country on the continent, except mine, can sustain its current military for another two years? And without this tool of oppression, how can any ruler really control his people? England is peaceful at home; can it stay that way when a foreigner tries to place a crown on her head, dictating who should teach and what should be taught? Specifically, that where prayers aren’t said for the dead, it’s better if there were no souls at all since they’re surely damned. The school that questions this view is labeled as godless.

Nesselrode.—England, sire, is indeed tranquil at home; but that home is a narrow one, and extends not across the Irish channel. Every colony is dissatisfied and disturbed. No faith has been kept with any of them by the secretary now in office. At the Cape of Good Hope, innumerable nations, warlike and well-armed, have risen up simultaneously against her; and, to say nothing of the massacres in Ceylon, your Majesty well knows what atrocities her Commissioner has long exercised in the Seven Isles. England looks[Pg 101] on and applauds, taking a hearty draught of Lethe at every sound of the scourge.

Nesselrode.—England, sir, is certainly peaceful at home; but that home is limited and doesn’t extend across the Irish Sea. Every colony is unhappy and restless. The current secretary hasn’t kept any promises to them. At the Cape of Good Hope, many nations, armed and ready for battle, have risen up together against her; and without mentioning the massacres in Ceylon, your Majesty knows well the horrors her Commissioner has long inflicted in the Seven Isles. England watches [Pg 101] and cheers, taking a deep sip from the cup of forgetfulness at every report of the whip.

Nicholas.—Nesselrode! You seem indignant. I see only the cheerful sparks of a fire at which our dinner is to be dressed; we shall soon sit down to it; Greece must not call me away until I rise from the dessert; I will then take my coffee at Constantinople. The crescent ere long will become the full harvest-moon. Our reapers have already the sickles in their hands.

Nicholas.—Nesselrode! You seem upset. I only see the cheerful sparks of a fire where our dinner is being prepared; we’ll be sitting down to eat soon. Greece can’t distract me until I finish dessert; after that, I’ll have my coffee in Constantinople. The crescent moon will soon turn into the full harvest moon. Our harvesters already have their sickles in hand.

Nesselrode.—England may grumble.

Nesselrode.—England might complain.

Nicholas.—So she will. She is as ready now to grumble as she formerly was to fight. She grumbles too early; she fights too late. Extraordinary men are the English. They raise the hustings higher than the throne; and, to make amends, being resolved to build a new palace, they push it under an old bridge. The Cardinal, in his way to the Abbey, may in part disrobe at it. Noble vestry-room! where many habiliments are changed. Capacious dovecote! where carrier-pigeons and fantails and croppers, intermingled with the more ordinary, bill and coo, ruffle and smoothen their feathers, and bend their versicolor necks to the same corn.

Nicholas.—She definitely will. She's just as ready to complain now as she used to be to fight. She starts her complaints too soon; she gets into fights too late. English people are truly remarkable. They elevate their political rallies higher than the throne, and to compensate for that, they decide to build a new palace under an old bridge. The Cardinal, on his way to the Abbey, might even partially undress there. What a grand meeting room! where many outfits are changed. What a spacious loft! where carrier pigeons, fancy breeds, and regular ones all mix together, cooing and fluffing their feathers, bending their colorful necks to share the same food.

From Bentley's Miscellany for July.

LONDON, PARIS, AND NEW-YORK.

Standing in the City Hall, New-York, and drawing from that point a circle whose radius shall be three miles, we embrace a population of three-quarters of a million. We say this at the outset, by way of securing respect for our theme.

Standing in City Hall, New York, and drawing a circle with a radius of three miles from that point, we encompass a population of around 750,000. We mention this at the beginning to establish respect for our topic.

New-York is a mere Jonah's gourd or Jack the Giant-killer's beanstalk compared with London. London was London when St. Paul was a prisoner in Rome, ten years before the destruction of Jerusalem. Sixteen hundred years afterwards, when New-York was but just named, London lost some seventy thousand inhabitants by the plague, and more than thirteen thousand houses by the Great Fire, and hardly missed them.

New York is just a small crop or a giant beanstalk compared to London. London has been London since St. Paul was a prisoner in Rome, ten years before Jerusalem was destroyed. Sixteen hundred years later, when New York was barely a name, London lost about seventy thousand people to the plague and more than thirteen thousand homes in the Great Fire, and hardly felt their absence.

Before this period, however, the little Dutch town of Niew Amsterdam, called by the aborigines Manahatta, or Manhattan, had commenced a dozing existence, under the government of Walter the Doubter and Peter the Headstrong, celebrated by that great chronicler, Diedrich Knickerbocker. Some consider this a mythic period, and class the legends of Wilhelmus Van Kieft's wisdom, and Peter Stuyvesant's valor, with the stories of Romulus and Remus, and the Horatii and Curiatii. But to cast any doubt upon a historian like Knickerbocker—the Grote of colonial history—at once minute and philosophical, just and enthusiastic—is surely unwise. His picture of the portly burghers of Niew Amsterdam, their habits and manners, pursuits, politics, and laws, is verified by the impress left on their descendants. All the foreign floods that have swept over the city have not been able to wash out the footsteps of the original settlers; and Walter the Doubter and Peter the Headstrong still figure, it is said, in the Assembly of the City Fathers, though the voluminous nether habiliments, which characterized them of old, have dwindled to the modern pantaloon.

Before this time, though, the small Dutch town of New Amsterdam, known by the indigenous people as Manahatta, or Manhattan, had started a sleepy existence under the leadership of Walter the Doubter and Peter the Headstrong, celebrated by the great chronicler Diedrich Knickerbocker. Some view this as a mythical period and liken the tales of Wilhelmus Van Kieft's wisdom and Peter Stuyvesant's bravery to the stories of Romulus and Remus, and the Horatii and Curiatii. But to question a historian like Knickerbocker—the great one of colonial history—who is both detailed and philosophical, fair and passionate, is certainly unwise. His portrayal of the stout citizens of New Amsterdam, their customs and behaviors, activities, politics, and laws, is confirmed by the impression left on their descendants. All the waves of foreign influence that have washed over the city have not been able to erase the legacy of the original settlers; and Walter the Doubter and Peter the Headstrong still reportedly appear in the Assembly of the City Fathers, although the bulky clothing that once defined them has now shrunk to modern pants.

Casting our eyes backward for a moment, let us imagine the condition of things before English innovation had interfered with the quiet current of Dutch ideas in the metropolis of the West. "The modern spectator," says our historian, "who wanders through the streets of this populous city, can scarcely form an idea of their appearance in the primitive days of the Doubter. The grass grew quietly in the highways; bleating sheep and frolicksome calves sported about that verdant ridge where now the Broadway loungers take their morning stroll. The cunning fox and ravenous wolf skulked in the woods where now are to be seen the dens of the righteous fraternity of money-brokers. The houses of the higher class were generally constructed of wood, excepting the gable end, which was of small black and yellow Dutch bricks, and always faced the street. The house was always furnished with abundance of large doors, and small windows on every floor; the date of its erection was curiously designated by iron figures on the front, and on the top of the roof was perched a fierce weathercock, to let the family know which way the wind blew. The front door was never opened, except on marriages, funerals, New Year's days, the festival of St. Nicholas, or some such great occasion * * *. A passion for cleanliness was the leading principle in domestic economy. The whole house was constantly in a state of inundation, under the discipline of mops and brooms, and scrubbing-brushes; and the good housewives of that day were a kind of amphibious animal, delighting exceedingly to be dabbling in water; insomuch, that many of them grew to have webbed fingers like a duck. In those happy days a well-regulated family always rose with the dawn, dined at eleven, and went to bed at sundown. Fashionable parties were confined to the higher class, or noblesse; that is to say, such as kept their own cows or drove their own wagons. The company commonly assembled at three o'clock, and went away about six; unless it was winter-time, when the fashionable hours were a little earlier, that the ladies might get home before dark. At these tea-parties the utmost propriety and dignity of deportment prevailed. No flirting or coquetting; no gambling of old ladies, nor chattering and romping of young ones; no self-satisfied strutting of wealthy gentlemen with their brains in their pockets," &c.

Casting our eyes back for a moment, let’s consider what things were like before English innovation affected the calm flow of Dutch ideas in the capital of the West. "The modern observer," says our historian, "who strolls through the streets of this bustling city, can hardly imagine their look in the early days of the Doubter. Grass grew freely in the roads; bleating sheep and playful calves frolicked in that green area where now the morning strollers along Broadway take their leisurely walks. The sly fox and hungry wolf hid in the woods where now you see the homes of the respectable money brokers. The upper-class houses were mostly built of wood, except for the gable ends made of small black and yellow Dutch bricks, which always faced the street. These houses were typically equipped with large doors and small windows on every floor; the year they were built was cleverly marked by iron numbers on the front, and a fierce weathercock rested on the roof to inform the family which way the wind was blowing. The front door was rarely opened, except for weddings, funerals, New Year's Day, St. Nicholas's festival, or other significant occasions. A strong passion for cleanliness was the main principle of household management. The entire house was constantly undergoing a flood of cleaning, managed by mops, brooms, and scrubbing brushes; and the good housewives of that era were somewhat like amphibious creatures, loving to dabble in water so much that many developed webbed fingers like a duck. In those joyful times, a well-organized family would rise with the dawn, have dinner at eleven, and go to bed at sundown. Trendy gatherings were limited to the upper class or noblesse; in other words, those who owned their own cows or drove their own wagons. Guests typically arrived around three o'clock and left by six, unless it was winter when social hours were a bit earlier so the ladies could get home before dark. During these tea parties, utmost propriety and dignity were observed. No flirting or showing off; no gambling by older women or playful chatter by young ones; no pompous behavior from wealthy gentlemen with their heads in their wallets," &c.

Speaking further of the ladies, Mr. Knickerbocker says: "Their hair, untortured by the abominations of art, was scrupulously pomatumed back from their foreheads with a candle, and covered with a little cap of quilted[Pg 102] calico. Their petticoats of linsey-woolsey, were striped with a variety of gorgeous dyes, and all of their own manufacture. These were the honest days, in which every woman stayed at home, read the Bible, and wore pockets, and that too of a goodly size, fashioned with patch-work of many curious devices, and ostentatiously worn on the outside. Every good housewife made the clothes of her husband and family," &c.

Speaking of the ladies, Mr. Knickerbocker says: "Their hair, untouched by the horrors of beauty trends, was carefully slicked back from their foreheads using a candle, and topped with a little cap made of quilted calico. Their petticoats made from linsey-woolsey were patterned with a mix of vibrant colors, all crafted by their own hands. These were the honest days when every woman stayed at home, read the Bible, and wore pockets—good-sized ones, made with patchwork of various intricate designs, proudly displayed on the outside. Every dedicated housewife made the clothes for her husband and family," &c.

Such and so homely was the germ of the present goodly town that sits, like a queen, throned between two mighty streams, with a magnificent bay at her feet. Marks of her Dutch origin were numerous a few years since, and are still to be found, though sparely. Of the national customs enumerated and described by the veracious Diedrich, we find at the present day but few. The last of the gable-fronted houses, with curious steps in the brickwork on the sides of the peak, disappeared some years since. Calves never frisk in Broadway now, though they sometimes pass through it tied in carts, in defiance of humanity and decency. The year of building is no longer written in iron on the fronts of the houses, for

Such and so familiar was the origin of the current lovely town that sits, like a queen, positioned between two powerful streams, with a beautiful bay at her feet. Signs of her Dutch roots were abundant just a few years ago and can still be found, though sparsely. Of the national customs listed and described by the truthful Diedrich, we see very few today. The last of the gable-fronted houses, with unique steps in the brickwork on the sides of the peak, vanished a few years back. Calves no longer frolic in Broadway now, although they sometimes pass through it tied up in carts, disregarding both humanity and decency. The year of construction is no longer displayed in iron on the fronts of the houses, for

"Panting, Time works hard behind us for no reason,"

and chronology is out of date. Large doors have now large windows to keep them company, and weather-cocks are rendered unnecessary by the arrival of vessels from some part of the earth with every wind that blows. The front door is now opened to every body but the master of the house, who goes out of it in the morning not to see it again till evening. The practice of daily inundation is now nearly limited to the street, since Kidderminster, Brussels, and Wilton, conspire to cover every inch of floor; but the annual house-cleaning is still in full vogue, and no amount of slop, discomfort, destruction, and self-sacrifice, is considered too great in the accomplishment of this civic festival. As to rising with the dawn, the citizen of to-day considers breakfast-time daybreak; and the dinner-hour is as various as the fluctuations of business and pleasure. "Fashionable society" has, at present, no very decided limits, as few of the inhabitants keep a cow, and many of the highest pretenders to bon ton do not drive their own wagons—getting home before dark! New-York ladies make a point of getting home before light; and if they assemble at three o'clock it is for a déjeûner, or a matinée dansante. As for Mr. Knickerbocker's further characterization of the genteel manners of the olden time, it would be unhandsome in us to pursue our counter-picture; but this we will say, in mere justice, and all joking aside, that there are no gambling ladies in New-York, either young or old.

and the timeline is outdated. Large doors now have big windows to go along with them, and weather vanes are unnecessary since ships come from all over the globe with every breeze. The front door is open to everyone except for the master of the house, who leaves in the morning and doesn’t return until evening. Daily flooding is mostly limited to the street, as Kidderminster, Brussels, and Wilton collaborate to cover every inch of floor; however, the annual spring cleaning is still a big event, and no amount of mess, discomfort, destruction, or self-sacrifice is seen as too much to achieve this civic celebration. As for waking up with the sunrise, today’s citizen considers breakfast time as daybreak, and dinner time varies as much as business and leisure. “Fashionable society” today has no clear boundaries, as few residents keep a cow, and many of the highest social climbers don’t even drive their own carriages—getting home before dark! New York ladies make it a point to be home before dawn; if they gather at three o’clock, it’s for a brunch or a daytime dance. As for Mr. Knickerbocker's further description of the refined manners of the past, it wouldn’t be fair for us to compare; but we will say, in all fairness and without joking, that there are no gambling women in New York, whether young or old.

Thinking of New-York in her early life, we were about to say that from 1614 to 1674 she was a mere shuttlecock between the Dutch and English; but the recollection that neither of the contending parties ever tossed her towards the other, spoiled our figure, and we find her more like the unfortunate baby whom it took all Solomon's wisdom to save from utter destruction between rival mothers. The Dutch certainly had the prior claim; but that circumstance, though something in a case of maternity, seems far from conclusive in the matter of adoption. The little Dutch city had accumulated a thousand inhabitants, and wrenched from the home government leave to govern itself, by the aid of a schout, burgomasters, and schepens, when King Charles II., of pious memory, coolly gave a grant of the entire province to his brother James, Duke of York, who forthwith proved his right (that of the strongest), and put an English governor in place of Peter Stuyvesant, called by Knickerbocker, "a tough, valiant, sturdy, weather-beaten, mettlesome, obstinate, leathern-sided, lion-hearted, generous-spirited old governor," who nearly burst with rage when obliged to sign the capitulation, and who finished by dying of sheer mortification on hearing that the combined English and French fleets had beaten the Dutch under De Ruyter. Nine years after, the tables were turned, and Dutch rule once more brought in sour-krout and oly-koeks; but, in 1674, New-York became English by treaty, and so remained until November, 1783.

Thinking about New York in her early days, we were going to say that from 1614 to 1674 she was just a ping-pong ball between the Dutch and the English; but remembering that neither side ever tossed her to the other ruined our analogy, and we find her more like the unfortunate baby that took all of Solomon's wisdom to save from total destruction between competing mothers. The Dutch definitely had the initial claim; however, that fact, while important in the context of maternity, seems far from decisive regarding adoption. The small Dutch city had grown to a thousand residents and managed to gain the right to self-govern with the help of a schout, burgomasters, and schepens, when King Charles II., of blessed memory, casually granted the entire province to his brother James, Duke of York, who promptly asserted his right (the right of the strongest) and replaced Peter Stuyvesant with an English governor. Stuyvesant, referred to by Knickerbocker as "a tough, valiant, sturdy, weather-beaten, mettlesome, obstinate, leathern-sided, lion-hearted, generous-spirited old governor," nearly exploded with rage when he had to sign the surrender, and ultimately died of sheer humiliation upon hearing that the combined English and French fleets had defeated the Dutch under De Ruyter. Nine years later, the situation reversed, and Dutch rule returned with sour-krout and oly-koeks; but in 1674, New York was ceded to the English by treaty, and remained so until November 1783.

Since that epoch, although growth and prosperity have been the general rule, yet the island city has had her ups and downs, by means of fire, pestilence, war, embargo, mobs, &c., quite enough to stimulate the energy of her sons and ripen the wisdom of her councils. In 1825, the completion of the Erie Canal, which united the Atlantic with the great lakes, gave a prodigious impulse to trade. In 1832 came the cholera, threatening utter desolation; and in 1835 a fire, which consumed property worth twenty millions of dollars. Yet, in 1842, the Great Aqueduct was finished, at a cost of thirteen million dollars. Thus much premised, let us look at New-York of to-day.

Since that time, although growth and prosperity have generally been the norm, the island city has faced its challenges through fire, disease, war, embargoes, riots, etc., which have definitely tested the resilience of its citizens and sharpened the wisdom of its leaders. In 1825, the completion of the Erie Canal, connecting the Atlantic to the Great Lakes, gave a huge boost to trade. In 1832, cholera threatened complete devastation, and in 1835, a fire destroyed property worth twenty million dollars. Yet, by 1842, the Great Aqueduct was completed at a cost of thirteen million dollars. With that as background, let's take a look at New York today.

"She has no time" "To look back, her eyes are fixed ahead."

In describing American towns, if we would make our picture a likeness, we must

In describing American towns, if we want our picture to be an accurate reflection, we must

"Catch, before she changes, the moment's Cynthia."

The New-York of 1851 resembles her of fifty years ago scarcely more than the West End of London resembles Birmingham or Bristol. In 1800, one might easily believe the old story, that the streets were originally laid out by the cows, as they went out to pasture and returned at evening. Streets running in all sorts of curves crossed each other at all conceivable angles, making a maze without a plan, through which strangers needed to drop beans, like the children in the fairy-tale, to avoid being wholly lost. Fortunately, the city is not very wide, so that Broadway, which always ran lengthwise[Pg 103] through the centre, has served as a tolerable clue from the beginning. Great sacrifices have been made for the sake of regularity, and there is now a tolerable degree of it, even in the old, or south part of the city, cross streets running from Broadway to either river with an approach to parallelism. In the early time, the town presented no bad resemblance in shape to the phenomenon called a "mackerel sky," Broadway representing the spine, and the streets running to either river the ribs, while northward and southward was a tapering off; on the south, where the Battery juts into the bay, and on the north, where the uppermost houses gradually narrowed till Broadway came to an end, with few buildings on either side of it. But in these later days, when Knickerbocker limits no longer confine the heterogeneous thousands that have pushed the old race from their stools, sixteen great avenues, each a hundred feet wide, run parallel with Broadway and the rivers, cut at right angles by wide streets, lined with costly dwellings, churches, schools, and other edifices. As is usual in great commercial towns, the lowest portion of the population haunt the neighborhood of the wharfs; and, in New-York, the eastern side of the city in particular attracts this class. But, perhaps, no city of the size has fewer streets of squalid poverty, although the encouragement given to immigration is such that there must necessarily be great numbers of wretched immigrants who have neither the will nor the power to live by honest industry. It is in truth for this class of persons that hospitals and penitentiaries are here built, foreigners supplying at least nine-tenths of the inmates of those institutions in New-York.

New York in 1851 barely resembles what it was like fifty years ago, just as the West End of London is nothing like Birmingham or Bristol. In 1800, one might easily believe the old saying that the streets were originally created by cows going out to pasture and returning in the evening. Streets meandered in all sorts of curves, crossing each other at every imaginable angle, creating a confusing maze that strangers needed to navigate with breadcrumbs, much like the children in a fairy tale, to avoid getting completely lost. Luckily, the city isn't very wide, so Broadway, which always ran straight down the center, has served as a useful guide from the start. Significant sacrifices have been made for the sake of order, and there's now a decent level of it, even in the older southern part of the city, with cross streets running from Broadway to either river in a parallel fashion. In earlier times, the town's shape somewhat resembled a "mackerel sky," with Broadway acting as the spine and the streets leading to each river as the ribs, tapering off to the north and south; to the south, where the Battery juts into the bay, and to the north, where the last houses gradually narrowed until Broadway came to an end, with few buildings on either side. But nowadays, with the old Knickerbocker limits no longer restricting the diverse thousands who have pushed the original inhabitants aside, sixteen wide avenues, each one hundred feet wide, run parallel to Broadway and the rivers, intersected by broad streets lined with expensive houses, churches, schools, and other buildings. As is typical in large commercial cities, the lower class tends to gather around the wharves; in New York, the eastern part of the city particularly attracts this demographic. However, perhaps no city of this size has fewer streets marked by extreme poverty, even though the encouragement of immigration leads to many desperate newcomers who lack the willingness or means to earn an honest living. In truth, it is for these people that hospitals and penitentiaries are established here, with foreigners making up at least nine-tenths of the inmates in these institutions in New York.

As to clean and healthy streets, the upper and newer part of the city has, of course, the advantage. It is laid out with special attention to drainage, for which the ridged shape of the ground affords great facility; the island on which New-York is built being highest in the middle, and sloping off, east and west, towards the Hudson and East Rivers.

As for clean and healthy streets, the upper and newer part of the city definitely has the upper hand. It's designed with careful attention to drainage, which is made easier by the ridged shape of the land; the island where New York is built is highest in the center and slopes down to the Hudson and East Rivers on both sides.

Manhattan island is about fourteen miles long, with an average breadth of one mile and a half, the greatest width being two and a half miles. At the southerly point of the island, where the Hudson unites with the strait called the East River, lies one of the finest harbors in the world, affording anchorage for ships of the largest size, and surrounded by cultivated land and elegant residences. Several fortified islands diversify this bay, and numerous forts occupy the points and headlands on either side. The general appearance of the bay is that of great beauty, of the milder sort. The shores are rather low, but finely wooded, and the approach to the city from the ocean very striking. The battery, a promenade covered with fine old trees, offers a rural front, but the forests of masts stretching far up either river attract the stranger's attention much more forcibly. The coup d'œil is here magnificent. Brooklyn, on Long Island, a large city, whose white columned streets gleam along the heights, giving a palatial grandeur to the view, is just opposite New-York, on the south-east, and divided from it by so narrow a strait that it appears more truly to be a part of it than the Surrey side of the Thames to belong to London, although the rush of commerce forbids bridges. On the west side, the banks of the Hudson are lined with towns, an outcrop of the central metropolis.

Manhattan Island is about fourteen miles long, with an average width of one and a half miles, and the widest point being two and a half miles. At the southern tip of the island, where the Hudson River meets the East River, there’s one of the best harbors in the world, providing anchorage for large ships and surrounded by cultivated land and beautiful homes. Several fortified islands add variety to this bay, with numerous forts situated on the points and headlands on either side. The overall look of the bay is quite beautiful and gentle. The shores are relatively low but well-forested, and the approach to the city from the ocean is very impressive. The Battery, a walkway lined with gorgeous old trees, has a countryside feel, but the sight of masts stretching far up each river captures the attention of visitors more powerfully. The view from here is magnificent. Brooklyn, a large city on Long Island with its white-columned streets shining on the heights, adds a grand touch to the view, sitting directly opposite New York to the southeast, separated by such a narrow strait that it seems more a part of New York than the Surrey side of the Thames belongs to London, even though the flow of commerce prevents bridges. On the west side, the banks of the Hudson are lined with towns, extensions of the central metropolis.

Entering the city from any quarter, we are sure to find ourselves in Broadway, long the pride of the inhabitants, though its glories are rather traditional than actual, as compared with the greatest thoroughfares of commerce in older cities. It extends, eighty feet in width, two miles and a half in a straight line, northward from the Battery; and then, making a slight deflection at Union Park, runs on, ad infinitum, though it is at present but sparely built after another mile or so. Nearly all the best shops in the retail trade are in this street, some of them comparable to the richest of London and Paris, and the whole affording means for every device of elegant decoration and boundless expenditure. Residences here are comparatively few, especially in the lower part, the din of business and the ceaseless thunder of omnibuses having driven far away every family that has the liberty of choice. Many churches still exist in Broadway, which, on Sunday, is as quiet as any other street. Other architectural decorations there are few. The City Hall, a costly building of white marble, too long and low to make a dignified appearance, but standing in a well-wooded park, of some eleven or twelve acres in extent, has a certain beauty, especially when seen gleaming through the spray of a fountain, which sends up a tall jet at some distance in front of the building. Farther on is a hospital, of rather ancient date for this western world—built in 1775, and now surrounded by venerable trees, and clothed in the richest ivy. After this, scarcely a break in the line of dazzling shops, until we reach the vicinity of Union Square, a pretty oval park, with a noble fountain in the midst, and lofty and handsome houses all round, situated on perhaps the highest ground on this part of the island. Half a mile beyond is Madison Square, a green expanse, about which wealthy citizens are now building elegant residences of brown freestone, with some attempt at architectural display. Near this, still northward, is the lower or distributing reservoir of the Croton Aqueduct, standing on high ground, and looking something like a fortress—no great ornament, perhaps, but an object of much interest.

Entering the city from any direction, we’re sure to find ourselves on Broadway, long a source of pride for the locals, even though its splendor is more traditional than real compared to the busiest streets of older cities. It stretches, eighty feet wide, two and a half miles straight north from the Battery; then, making a slight turn at Union Park, it goes on, ad infinitum, although it’s currently only sparsely populated after about another mile. Almost all the best retail shops are along this street, some comparable to the finest in London and Paris, offering everything for elegant decoration and unlimited spending. There are relatively few residences here, especially in the lower part, as the noise of business and the constant clatter of buses have driven away families who can choose where to live. Many churches still line Broadway, which on Sundays is as quiet as any other street. Other architectural features are scarce. The City Hall, an expensive white marble building that is too long and low to have a dignified presence, stands in a well-landscaped park of around eleven or twelve acres, and has a certain beauty, particularly when viewed sparkling through the spray of a fountain that shoots up a tall jet in front of the building. Further along is a hospital, quite old for this part of the world—built in 1775, and now surrounded by ancient trees, draped in rich ivy. Beyond this, there’s hardly a gap in the line of dazzling shops until we reach the area around Union Square, a charming oval park with a grand fountain in the center and tall, elegant buildings all around, located on one of the highest points of this part of the island. Half a mile further is Madison Square, a green space where wealthy citizens are now building stylish residences made of brown freestone, with some effort at architectural flair. Nearby, still heading north, is the lower or distributing reservoir of the Croton Aqueduct, perched on high ground and resembling a fortress—maybe not a great visual attraction, but definitely an interesting sight.

Fifth Avenue, on the west of Broadway, stretching north from Washington Square—an inclosure of about ten acres, well planted[Pg 104] with elms and maples—it is the Belgravia of New-York—in the estimation of those who inhabit it; a paradise of marble, upholstery and cabinet work, at least; not much dignified, as yet, by works of high art, though the region boasts a few specimens, ancient and modern; but in luxury and extravagance emulating the repudiated aristocracy of the old world. This is, and is to be, a street of palaces and churches throughout its whole extent, always provided that the changeful current of Fashion do not set in some other direction too soon, carrying with it all the millionaires that are yet to arise within the century. In that event, the costly mansions of Fifth Avenue will inevitably become hotels and boarding-houses,—a reverse which so many grandly intended houses of elder New-York have already experienced.

Fifth Avenue, west of Broadway, runs north from Washington Square—an area of about ten acres, filled with elms and maples—it's the Belgravia of New York, according to the people who live there; a paradise of marble, upholstery, and furniture, at least; not yet much distinguished by high art, although the area has a few examples, both old and new; but in luxury and extravagance, it mirrors the rejected aristocracy of the old world. This street is, and will continue to be, a row of palaces and churches throughout its length, as long as the ever-changing current of Fashion doesn’t shift in another direction too quickly, taking with it all the millionaires that are yet to come within this century. If that happens, the expensive mansions of Fifth Avenue will likely turn into hotels and boarding houses—a fate that many grandly intended homes from older New York have already faced.

The distinction of East and West is marked in New-York as in London, though for different reasons. In London, the prevalence of westerly winds drives the surge waves of coal-smoke eastward, blackening every thing; in New-York the western part of the town is cleaner, because newer and built on a better plan. Broadway is the dividing line; and it is a violent strain upon one's standing in fashionable life to live eastward of it, below Union Square, even in the most expensive style. But the eastward world has its own great thoroughfare, wider than Broadway, though not as long, running nearly parallel with the main artery of the grander world. The Bowery—so called when it was the high road leading through the public farms or Boweries—is a sort of exaggerated Bishopsgate-street and Shoreditch united; more trades and callings, more articles offered for sale in the open air, more noise, more people, and at least as much natural, undisguised, vulgar life. A railway for horse-carriages passes through it, and hundreds of omnibuses and stage coaches, not to speak of carts and country wagons without number. A "rowdy" theatre or two, a hay-market, great clothing-shops, and livery-stables, a riding-school, an anatomical museum—such are its ornaments. Not a church countenances its entire length, nor any other public building aiming at elegance or dignity. The goods displayed in the windows are of a secondary quality, at best; and the people who throng the pavements are people who want second-rate articles. Yet the Bowery is worth walking through by a stranger, little as it is known or valued by the native citizen, whose lot has been cast in choicer neighborhood. The common pulse of humanity beats audibly and visibly there, wrapped in no cloak of convention or pseudo-refinement. The fundamental business of life is carried on there as being confessedly the main business; not, as in Broadway, as if it were a thing to be huddled into a corner to make way for the carved-work and gilding, the drapery and color of the great panorama. There is another reason why the Bowery has a claim on our attention. Strange as it may seem, it is from the people who haunt the Bowery that the United States take their character abroad. Foreigners insist upon considering the "Bowery b'hoys,"—a class at once an enigma and a terror to the greater portion of their fellow-citizens,—as distinctive specimens of Americanism, much to the horror of their more fastidious countrymen. This we think a great mistake, though truly there are worse people in the world than the "Bowery b'hoys," who are noted for a sort of bonhomie, in the midst of all their coarseness.

The split between East and West is clear in New York just like it is in London, but for different reasons. In London, the westward winds push coal smoke eastward, making everything grimy; in New York, the western part of the city is cleaner because it's newer and better planned. Broadway acts as the dividing line, and living east of it, below Union Square, even in the fanciest accommodations, puts a strain on your social status. However, the eastern side has its own major street, wider than Broadway but shorter, running almost parallel to the main road of the more upscale area. The Bowery, named for being the main road through public farms or Boweries, is like a more exaggerated version of Bishopsgate Street and Shoreditch combined; there's more variety of trades and services, more items available for sale outdoors, more noise, more people, and just as much raw, unrefined life. A roadway for horse-drawn carriages runs through it, along with countless omnibuses and stagecoaches, as well as many carts and country wagons. It has a "rowdy" theater or two, a hay market, large clothing stores, livery stables, a riding school, and an anatomical museum—these are its highlights. There isn’t a church along its entire length, nor is there any other public building that aims for elegance or dignity. The goods in the windows are mostly of lower quality, at best; and the crowd on the sidewalks consists of people looking for second-rate items. Still, the Bowery is worth a stroll for a newcomer, even though it’s not well-known or appreciated by locals who live in more refined neighborhoods. The basic essence of humanity is loud and clear here, without any pretense of refinement. The essential activities of life are obvious and unapologetic, unlike in Broadway, where they seem to be pushed aside for the sake of decorative flourishes and the elaborate visuals of the main attraction. There’s another reason why the Bowery deserves our attention. Strangely enough, it’s the people who hang out in the Bowery that shape the perception of the United States abroad. Foreigners insist on seeing the "Bowery b'hoys"—a group that puzzles and intimidates a lot of their fellow citizens—as key examples of American culture, much to the dismay of their more refined compatriots. We consider this a significant misunderstanding, even though there are indeed worse individuals out there than the "Bowery b'hoys," who are known for their sort of bonhomie, despite their roughness.

As to parks and public promenades, New-York is lamentably deficient—the whole space thus appropriated being hardly more than eighty acres, for the refreshment of a population which will soon cease to be counted by hundreds of thousands. "Eight million dollars worth of land," say the city fathers, "is as much as we can afford!" The penurious estimate which has resulted in this miserable deficiency has been long and ably combated by patriotic and clear-headed citizens, but their influence has as yet proved wholly unavailing. Public meetings have been now and then held, with a view of exciting a general interest in this important matter, but they invariably end in fruitless resolutions. The island still affords good sites for public gardens, but there is scarce a gleam of hope that any of them will be reserved. The few breathing spaces that now exist, are thronged, and by the very people who most need them—children and laboring people. The vicinity of the fountains is full of loiterers, quietly watching the play of the bright water, and growing, we may hope, milder and better by the gentle influence. At certain hours of the day whole troops of merry children, with their attendants, make the walks alive and resounding. The hoop, the ball, the velocipede, the skipping-rope, rejoice the grass and sunshine, and the eyes of the thoughtful spectator, who sees health in every bounding motion, and hears joy in every tiny shout. It is strange that the citizens do not, one and all, cry aloud for the easy and happy open-air extension of their too often crowded homes. London is the world's example in this thing.

As for parks and public walkways, New York is sadly lacking—the entire area dedicated to them is barely over eighty acres, far too little for a population that's about to reach hundreds of thousands. "Eight million dollars worth of land," the city leaders claim, "is all we can afford!" The cheap calculation that led to this unfortunate shortage has been long and skillfully challenged by concerned and reasonable citizens, but their efforts have so far been completely ineffective. Public meetings have been held occasionally to raise general awareness about this critical issue, but they always end with useless resolutions. The island still has plenty of good spots for public gardens, but there’s little hope that any will actually be set aside. The few open spaces that do exist are packed with people—especially children and workers—who need them the most. The area around the fountains is filled with people lingering, watching the sparkling water, and hopefully becoming kinder and better because of it. At certain times of the day, groups of joyful children, along with their caregivers, fill the paths with laughter and noise. Hula hoops, balls, tricycles, and jump ropes bring life to the grass and sunshine, delighting anyone who observes them, who sees health in every leap and hears happiness in every cheerful shout. It's surprising that not every citizen is loudly calling for the easy and joyful expansion of their often cramped homes into the open air. London is the global role model for this kind of initiative.

A park suited to riding and driving is especially needed because of the wretched pavement which still disgraces the greater portion of New-York. The first thing that strikes an American returning from Europe is the inferiority of the pavements of the Atlantic cities; and New-York, in particular, is, in this respect, hardly a whit before the far-famed corduroy roads of the wild West. In 1846 a great improvement was begun, called, after the inventor, the Russ pavement, and thus far seeming to meet all the difficulties of the case, including the severe frosts and[Pg 105] sudden changes of the climate. The plan is, however, so expensive that it will probably be long before it is fully adopted. It requires square blocks of stone, about ten inches in depth, laid diagonally with the wheel-track, and resting on a substructure of concrete, which again rests upon a foundation of granite chips, the whole forming a consolidated mass, eighteen inches thick, so arranged as to be lifted in sections to afford access to the gas and water pipes. This has been largely tried in Broadway, and has stood the test for six years.

A park for riding and driving is especially needed due to the terrible pavement that still plagues most of New York. The first thing that stands out to an American returning from Europe is how inferior the pavements are in the Atlantic cities, and New York, in particular, is hardly any better than the infamous corduroy roads of the wild West. In 1846, a significant improvement was started, called the Russ pavement after its inventor, which seems to address all the challenges including the harsh frosts and[Pg 105] sudden climate changes. However, the plan is so costly that it will likely be a long time before it is fully implemented. It requires square blocks of stone, about ten inches deep, laid diagonally with the wheel track, resting on a concrete substructure that is built on a foundation of granite chips, all forming a solid mass that is eighteen inches thick, designed to be lifted in sections to provide access to the gas and water pipes. This method has been largely tested on Broadway and has proven effective for six years.

Foreigners are apt to complain, not only, as they justly may, of the bad pavements of New-York, but, somewhat unreasonably, of the obstructions in the street, caused by incessant building, laying pipes, &c. They say, "Will the city never be finished?" Not very soon, we think. It is difficult to do in fifty years the work of five hundred, without a good deal of bustle and inconvenience. Rapid growth in population and wealth necessitates continual improvement in accommodation. We may, indeed, be allowed to fret a little, when the street is for weeks or months encumbered by the building materials of a merchant, who sees fit to pull down a very good house in order to erect one that shall cost a quarter of a million, merely because his neighbor has contrived to outshine him in that particular. But when sewers and gas, and Croton water, are in question, we must not grumble. These great public blessings are spreading into every quarter, carrying health and decency with them. The great sewers are arched canals of hard brick, from three to nine feet in diameter, and laid in mortar in the most durable manner. Above them are the gas-pipes, an immense net-work; and nearly on a level with these last are the huge veins and arteries, by means of which the Croton supplies life and health to the inhabitants, once half-poisoned by water which shared every salt that enters into the subsoil of a great city. Analysis shows the Croton water to be of great purity—holding in solution the salts of lime and magnesia in proportions hardly appreciable, only about two and eight-tenths of a grain to the gallon. The river springs from granitic hills, and flows through a clear upland region, free from marsh, and covered with grazing farms.

Foreigners tend to complain, not only, and quite rightly, about the poor sidewalks in New York but also, somewhat unfairly, about the obstacles in the streets caused by constant construction, laying pipes, etc. They ask, "Will the city ever be finished?" Not anytime soon, we think. It's tough to accomplish in fifty years what takes five hundred, without a lot of disruption and inconvenience. Rapid population and wealth growth require ongoing improvements in infrastructure. We can be a bit frustrated when a street is cluttered for weeks or months by the building materials of a merchant who decides to tear down a perfectly good building just to put up one that costs a quarter of a million, simply because his neighbor built something fancier. But when it comes to sewers, gas, and Croton water, we shouldn't complain. These essential public services are expanding into every neighborhood, bringing health and cleanliness with them. The large sewers are arched canals made of hard brick, ranging from three to nine feet in diameter, and built with the most durable mortar. Above them are the gas pipes, forming a massive network; and almost at the same level as these are the large pipes that deliver Croton water, which provides life and health to residents who were once half-poisoned by water that contained every salt from the subsoil of a big city. Analysis shows Croton water to be very pure, containing hardly noticeable amounts of lime and magnesia salts—about two and eight-tenths of a grain per gallon. The river originates from granite hills and flows through a clear upland area, free from marshes and dotted with grazing farms.

When the Aqueduct was undertaken, New-York numbered but two hundred and eighty thousand inhabitants, so that the supply provided was a magnificent gift to the future. The work was completed within five years, years of great commercial difficulty; and what is more remarkable, the whole cost came within the estimate of the chief engineer. The abundance of water may be guessed from the fact that two of the city fountains throw away more water than would suffice for the consumption of a large city. The solidity of the structure is such that none but slight repair can be needed for centuries to come.[10]

When the Aqueduct was started, New York had only two hundred eighty thousand residents, making the water supply an incredible gift for the future. The project was finished in five years, during a time of significant commercial challenges; and even more impressively, the total cost came in under the chief engineer's estimate. You can imagine the abundance of water because two of the city's fountains release more water than a large city would use. The structure is built so well that it will only need minor repairs for centuries to come.[10]

This great work was opened, with appropriate ceremonies, and a splendid civic festival, on the 14th of October, 1842. The British consul, in accepting the invitation of the Common Council, to assist at this festival, justly remarked, "Tyrants have left monuments which call for admiration, but no similar work of a free people, for magnitude and utility, equals this great enterprise." Public feeling was very warm on this occasion. Of the procession of the trades, &c., which was three hours passing a given point, an enthusiastic citizen declared in print, that he "watched and scrutinized it closely, and could discover neither a drunkard nor a fool from first to last." It might be a difficult matter to decide on the moral and intellectual condition of the individuals composing such a procession, but we may concede that drunkards and fools are not the persons most likely to join in rejoicing for the introduction of pure water without stint or measure.

This amazing event was launched with fitting ceremonies and a grand civic festival on October 14, 1842. The British consul, when he accepted the Common Council's invitation to participate in this festival, rightly noted, "Tyrants have left monuments that inspire admiration, but no similar achievement by a free people, for its size and usefulness, matches this great project." Public sentiment was very enthusiastic during this event. Regarding the trades procession, which took three hours to pass a certain point, one excited citizen wrote that he "observed it closely and found not a single drunkard or fool from beginning to end." While it might be hard to determine the moral and intellectual state of everyone in such a procession, we can agree that drunkards and fools are probably not the ones who would celebrate the arrival of clean water in abundance.

The great Aqueduct is forty-one miles in length, commencing with a dam across the Croton river, six miles above its mouth. This raises the water one hundred and sixty-six feet above tide level, forming a lake or reservoir of four hundred acres in extent, containing five hundred million gallons, above the level that would allow the Aqueduct to discharge thirty-five million gallons per day. From the Croton Dam to Harlem River, something less than thirty-three miles, the Aqueduct is an uninterrupted conduit of hydraulic masonry, of stone and brick; the greatest interior width, seven feet five inches; the greatest height, eight feet five inches; the floor an inverted arch. The commissioners and chief engineers passed through its whole length on foot, as soon as it was completed; and, when the water was admitted, traversed it again in a boat built for the purpose. It crosses the Harlem River by a bridge of stone, fourteen hundred and fifty feet long, and one hundred and fourteen feet above high-water mark. At the Receiving Reservoir forty miles from the Dam, the masonry gives place to iron pipes, through which the water is conveyed two miles further, to the distributing reservoir, from which point it runs, by means of several hundred miles of pipes, to every corner of the city. On the line of the Aqueduct are one hundred and fourteen culverts, and sixteen tunnels, and ventilators occur at the distance of one mile apart throughout the route. The Receiving Reservoir covers thirty-five acres, and contains one hundred and fifty million imperial gallons. The Distributing Reservoir has walls forty-nine feet in height, and contains twenty million gallons. The supply to each citizen is at present almost unlimited, and[Pg 106] afforded at a very moderate annual rate. The managers complain to the Common Council of the enormous waste during the summer, when "sixty imperial gallons each twenty-four hours to every inhabitant," are delivered. But even at this enormous rate the quantity is ample, and it can be increased at will by new reservoirs. No decent house is now constructed without a bath, an advantage to the health and comfort of the city, hardly to be over-rated. Fountains adorn almost all the public places of any importance, and although in few instances as yet dignified by sculpture, these tastes and glimpses of Nature are in themselves invaluable, offering to the people at large a continual reminder of beauty, tranquillity, and innocent pleasure in the open air. There remains yet to be added those public vats for the use of poor women in washing, that may be found in so many European towns.

The great Aqueduct is forty-one miles long, starting with a dam across the Croton River, six miles upstream from its mouth. This raises the water one hundred sixty-six feet above tide level, creating a lake or reservoir that spans four hundred acres and holds five hundred million gallons, which is above the level needed to allow the Aqueduct to deliver thirty-five million gallons per day. From the Croton Dam to the Harlem River, just under thirty-three miles, the Aqueduct is a continuous channel of hydraulic masonry made of stone and brick; its widest point is seven feet five inches, its highest point is eight feet five inches, and the floor has an inverted arch. The commissioners and chief engineers walked its entire length as soon as it was finished; and when the water was let in, they traveled it again in a specially built boat. It crosses the Harlem River on a stone bridge that is fourteen hundred and fifty feet long and one hundred fourteen feet above high-water mark. At the Receiving Reservoir, forty miles from the Dam, masonry gives way to iron pipes, which carry the water another two miles to the distributing reservoir, from which it flows through several hundred miles of pipes to every corner of the city. Along the Aqueduct are one hundred fourteen culverts and sixteen tunnels, with ventilators located a mile apart throughout the route. The Receiving Reservoir covers thirty-five acres and holds one hundred fifty million imperial gallons. The Distributing Reservoir has walls that are forty-nine feet high and contains twenty million gallons. Each citizen currently receives an almost unlimited water supply, at a very reasonable annual rate. The managers report to the Common Council about the massive waste during the summer when "sixty imperial gallons every twenty-four hours for each resident” are provided. However, even at this high rate, the supply is more than sufficient and can be increased at any time with new reservoirs. No respectable home is built now without a bath, which greatly benefits the health and comfort of the city, a benefit that’s hard to overstate. Fountains enhance nearly all important public areas, and although few are yet adorned with sculptures, these elements and glimpses of nature are invaluable, continuously reminding people of beauty, tranquility, and innocent pleasure in the outdoors. There still needs to be public wash basins for poor women that can be found in many European towns.

The facilities afforded by this abundance of water for the extinguishment of fires, are such as can hardly be over-rated. We have no space for details on this point, nor does it need. It will easily appear that, with an unlimited supply of water, and plenty of fire-plugs, a few moments suffice to bring into action whatever is needed in case of conflagration—a glorious contrast to the tardy succor of former days, when water was laboriously pumped from the rivers on either side the city, and conveyed by means of hose to the scene of danger. The perfection of the London Fire Brigade is yet to be accomplished for New-York; but promptness, or rather zeal of service, distinguishes the corps of firemen, who make their business a passion, and the perfection of their instruments their pride and glory. They receive no remuneration except exemption from military and jury duty.

The benefits of having so much water available for putting out fires are hard to overstate. We don't have the space to go into details, and it's not necessary. It's clear that with an unlimited water supply and plenty of fire hydrants, it only takes a few moments to mobilize the resources needed in case of a fire—what a striking contrast to the slow help of the past, when water had to be pumped from the rivers on either side of the city and transported via hoses to the site of the fire. New York is still working towards achieving the same level of excellence as the London Fire Brigade, but the quick response and enthusiasm of the firefighters stand out. They treat their job as a passion and take pride in the quality of their equipment. They don't receive any pay except for being exempt from military service and jury duty.

After these few words on the supply of pure and life-preserving water, we may turn, by no very violent transition, to the facilities extended by New-York to her children in the matter of education,—a point on which she is naturally and justly somewhat vainglorious. The number of public, and absolutely free schools, is one hundred and ninety-nine; embracing fifteen schools for the instruction of colored children. More than one hundred thousand scholars attend in the course of the year; though the average for each day is something less than forty thousand. All is gratuitous at these schools—instruction, books, stationery, washing-apparatus, fuel, &c. Besides these, there are fifteen evening schools, for those who cannot avail themselves of the other public schools, and whose only leisure time is after the close of the labors of the day. The ages of the scholars in these schools vary from twelve to forty-five years.

After these few words about the availability of clean, life-giving water, we can easily shift to the education opportunities offered by New York to its residents—a topic that it naturally takes pride in. There are one hundred and ninety-nine public schools that are completely free, including fifteen schools dedicated to educating Black children. Over one hundred thousand students attend these schools throughout the year, although the daily average is just under forty thousand. Everything at these schools is provided at no cost—lessons, books, supplies, cleaning materials, fuel, etc. In addition, there are fifteen evening schools for those who can’t attend during the day and whose only free time is after they finish working. The ages of students in these schools range from twelve to forty-five years.

This magnificent offer of instruction by the city to her children is confined to no class, country, sect, nor fortune. Every child, without exception, is received, taught, and furnished with all the requisites for a good school education. Not content with this, a free academy for the classics, modern languages, natural sciences, and drawing, was established in 1848, with fourteen professors, and proper appliances, including a handsome and commodious building. This academy receives male pupils from the common schools, after due examination; and retains them for a four years' course, or longer, if desirable. It is contemplated to establish a free high school for females, on a corresponding plan.

This amazing opportunity for education provided by the city to its children is available to everyone, regardless of class, nationality, beliefs, or wealth. Every child, without exception, is welcomed, educated, and supplied with everything needed for a quality school education. In addition to this, a free academy for classical studies, modern languages, natural sciences, and art was established in 1848, featuring fourteen professors and adequate facilities, including a beautiful and spacious building. This academy accepts male students from the public schools, following an appropriate examination, and keeps them for a four-year program, or longer if needed. There are also plans to create a free high school for girls, based on a similar model.

It is not to be supposed that the benefit of the public school system is shared only by the necessitous. The children of respectable citizens, of the plainer sort, make up a large part of the attendance. It is computed that only about twenty thousand children of both sexes are found in private schools. There are many free schools of private charity, some of which receive by law a certain share of public money, as the school of the House of Refuge, various orphan asylums, &c., including, in all, about three thousand five hundred children. The Roman Catholics have some free schools of their own, but most Roman Catholic children are educated at the public schools. The prodigious amount of immigration (on the day on which we write, we happen to know that the number of steerage passengers arrived in the city is seventeen hundred and seventy-nine, and, on another, within a week, three thousand)—makes this provision for education doubly important; since a large portion of the hordes thus emptied on these hospitable shores are entirely unable to pay any thing for the instruction of their children.

It shouldn't be assumed that only those in need benefit from the public school system. The children of respectable citizens from more modest backgrounds make up a significant portion of the student body. It's estimated that only about twenty thousand children of both genders are enrolled in private schools. There are many free schools supported by private charity, some of which receive a portion of public funding by law, like the school at the House of Refuge and various orphanages, totaling around three thousand five hundred children. The Roman Catholics have some free schools of their own, but most Roman Catholic children attend public schools. The massive influx of immigrants (as we write this, we know that on this day, seventeen hundred and seventy-nine steerage passengers arrived in the city, and just within the week before, three thousand more) makes this educational provision even more crucial, as a large number of these newcomers cannot afford to pay for their children's education.

This fact gives added lustre to the no less munificent provision by the city for the gratuitous care of the sick and indigent—a care almost monopolized by foreigners, because comparatively few Americans are in a condition to need it. All accidental cases are provided for at the New-York Hospital; the attendant physicians and surgeons of which, selected from the most eminent of the profession, give their services without pecuniary remuneration. A branch of this institution is the Bloomingdale Asylum for the Insane. The New-York Dispensary provides some thirty thousand patients annually with advice, medicines, and vaccination, gratis. The Almshouse Department maintains five establishments, which, together, support about seven thousand persons, and afford weekly aid to some three thousand others. The Nursery Branch of this department maintains and instructs more than a thousand children of paupers and convicts. The Institution for the care of deaf mutes has about two hundred and fifty pupils, of whom one hundred and sixty are supported at the expense of the State. The Asylum for the Blind, originally established by a few members of the Society of Friends, has about one hundred and fifty[Pg 107] pupils. Besides these, private charity has opened refuges for almost every form of human misery and destitution, so that it may safely be said that no one of any age, sex, nation, or character need suffer, in New York, for lack of Christian kindness in its ordinary manifestations. Among these beneficent offers of relief and aid, we may mention one in particular, whose worth is not as fully appreciated by the public as that of some others, though none is more needed. The Prison Association takes care of the interests of accused persons, whose poverty and ignorance make them the easy prey of the designing and heartless; attends to them while in prison, and after their release, holds out the helping hand, and provides relief, occupation, and countenance for all those who are willing to reform. A house with matrons is provided for discharged female convicts, who are instructed and initiated into various modes of employment until they have had time to prove themselves fit to be recommended to places. The success of this most benign and difficult charity has been very encouraging.

This fact adds to the significance of the city's generous provision for the free care of the sick and needy—care that is mostly utilized by foreigners, as relatively few Americans require it. All emergency cases are handled at New-York Hospital, where the attending physicians and surgeons, chosen from the most respected in the field, offer their services without payment. A branch of this institution is the Bloomingdale Asylum for the Insane. The New-York Dispensary offers free advice, medicines, and vaccinations to about thirty thousand patients each year. The Almshouse Department operates five facilities that support around seven thousand individuals and provide weekly assistance to approximately three thousand more. The Nursery Branch of this department cares for and educates over a thousand children of poor and incarcerated parents. The institution for the care of deaf-mutes has about two hundred and fifty students, with one hundred and sixty supported by the state. The Asylum for the Blind, which was initially established by a few members of the Society of Friends, has around one hundred and fifty[Pg 107] students. In addition to these, private charities have created shelters for nearly every type of human suffering and poverty, so it can confidently be said that no one of any age, gender, nationality, or background needs to suffer in New York due to a lack of Christian kindness in its usual forms. Among these generous offers of help, one in particular deserves mention, as its value is not fully recognized by the public compared to others, yet it is highly necessary. The Prison Association safeguards the rights of accused individuals, whose lack of resources and knowledge make them vulnerable to the manipulative and cruel; it looks after them while they are in prison and, after their release, extends a helping hand, providing support, job opportunities, and encouragement for those willing to change. A home with matron supervision is available for released female convicts, who are trained and introduced to various types of work until they can prove themselves reliable enough to be recommended for employment. The success of this compassionate and challenging charity has been very promising.

It would be vain to attempt, in this desultory sketch, any account of the means of morals and religion in New-York. In these respects she differs but little from English commercial towns. The number of places of worship is something under three hundred, and each form of religious benevolence has its appropriate society, as elsewhere. Sabbath Schools are very popular, and attended by the children of the first citizens. An immense number of persons are associated as Sons and Daughters of Temperance, who present a strong front against that vice which turns the wise man into a fool. But as there is nothing distinctive in these and similar associations, we pass them by. A puritan tone of manners prevails; that is to say, with the mass of the well-to-do citizens, puritan manners are the beau-ideal of propriety and safety. Yet New-York is fast assuming a cosmopolitan tone which will make it difficult, before very long, to speak of any particular style of manners as prevailing. Representatives of every nation, and tongue, and kindred, and people, meeting on a footing of perfect equality of political advantages, must in time produce a social state, differing in some important particulars from any that the world has yet seen. The population of New-York will, at the past rate of increase, be in ten years greater than that of Paris, and in thirty equal to that of London. How can one speculate on a social state formed under such circumstances? The present aspect of what claims to be New-York society is certainly rather anomalous.

It would be pointless to try, in this scattered overview, to account for the morals and religion in New York. In these respects, it’s not much different from English commercial towns. There are just under three hundred places of worship, and each type of religious charity has its own society, as elsewhere. Sunday Schools are very popular and attended by the children of the city’s leading citizens. A large number of people are part of the Sons and Daughters of Temperance, who stand strong against the vice that turns a wise person into a fool. However, since there’s nothing distinctive about these and similar groups, we’ll skip over them. A puritanical attitude towards manners prevails; for the majority of the well-off citizens, puritan manners are the ideal of propriety and safety. Yet New York is quickly adopting a cosmopolitan feel that will soon make it hard to talk about any specific style of manners as predominant. Representatives from every nation, language, and culture meet on equal political ground, which will eventually create a social environment that differs significantly from anything the world has seen before. If New York continues to grow at its current rate, its population will surpass Paris in ten years and match London in thirty. How can anyone imagine a social state formed under such conditions? The current state of what is considered New York society is certainly quite unusual.

An exceptional American—John Quincy Adams—in some patriotic speech, mentioned, among other occasions of thankfulness to Heaven, that excellent gift, "a heritable habitation;" but there is nothing which the prosperous citizen of New-York so much despises. If he read Ruskin, he thinks the man benighted when he utters such sentiments as these: "There must be a strange dissolution of natural affection; a strange unthankfulness for all that homes have given and parents taught; a strange consciousness that we have been unfaithful to our father's honor, or that our lives are not such as would make our dwellings sacred to our children, when each man would fain build to himself, and build for the little revolution of his own life only * * * *. Our God is a household god, as well as a heavenly one. He has an altar in every man's dwelling; let men look to it when they rend it lightly, and pour out its ashes!"

An exceptional American—John Quincy Adams—in a patriotic speech mentioned, among other things to be thankful for, the great gift of "a family home;" but there’s nothing that the successful citizen of New York despises more. If he reads Ruskin, he thinks the man is misguided when he expresses sentiments like these: "There must be a strange loss of natural affection; a strange lack of gratitude for all that homes have given and parents taught; a strange awareness that we have been unfaithful to our father's honor, or that our lives are not such as would make our homes sacred to our children, when each person just wants to build for themselves and focus only on their own life... Our God is a household god, as well as a heavenly one. He has an altar in every person's home; let people pay attention to it when they treat it lightly and pour out its ashes!"

If ever there were any substantial tenements of stone and brick on which might well be written the motto "Passing away!" it is those of the great commercial metropolis of the western world. The material substance is enduring enough to last many generations; their soul is a thing of the moment. After it has inhabited its proud apartments, and looked out of its beautiful windows for a few years, it departs, to return no more for ever, and its deserted home becomes at once the receptacle of a soul of lower grade, and its destiny is to pass down, and down, and down, in the scale, as time wears on, and "improvement" sanctifies new regions. One might suppose the pleasure and pride of building would be quite killed by the idea that as soon as one's head is laid in the dust, all the achievements of taste, all the devices of ingenious affection, all the personality, in short, of one's dwelling would be turned out to the gaze and comment of the curious world now so carefully shut out; exposed, depreciated, contemned, and sold to the highest bidder, under circumstances of inevitable degradation. But the ruling spirit of the New World progress seems to reconcile even the reflective to these things. They shrug their shoulders, and say it cannot be helped! Truly, these seem the days "when every man's aim is to be in some more elevated sphere than his natural one, and every man's past life is his habitual scorn; when men build in the hope of leaving the places they have built, and live in the hope of forgetting the years they have lived; when the comfort, the peace, and the religion of home have ceased to be felt." In these particulars, however, the severity of the New World is in a state of transition. Under circumstances so novel, it is not to be wondered at that no leisure has yet been found for the complete harmonization of the social theory in all its parts.

If there were ever any solid buildings made of stone and brick that could have the motto "Passing away!" written on them, it’s in the great commercial hub of the western world. The material is sturdy enough to last for generations; however, its essence is fleeting. After living in its proud rooms and gazing out of its beautiful windows for just a few years, it moves on, never to return, and its empty home immediately becomes a place for a lower-quality spirit, destined to decline as time goes on and "improvement" elevates new areas. One might think that the joy and pride of building would be dampened by the thought that as soon as one is laid to rest, all the achievements of style, all the designs of loving care, all the individuality of one’s home would be exposed to the eyes and judgments of the very curious world that is now kept at bay; degraded, undervalued, disdained, and sold to the highest bidder, under conditions of unavoidable decline. But the dominant spirit of progress in the New World seems to make even the thoughtful accept these realities. They shrug and say it can't be helped! Indeed, these seem to be the times "when every man's aim is to rise above his natural place, and every man's past life is something he looks down on; when men build hoping to leave the places they've created, and live in hopes of forgetting the years they've spent; when the comfort, peace, and spirit of home are no longer felt." In these matters, however, the harshness of the New World is evolving. Given such new circumstances, it's not surprising that there has been no time to fully align social theories in all their aspects.

Whether the universal and incessant subdivision of estates will ever be found to allow the addition of the charm of poetic associations to the possession of wealth is a question not yet determined. When all passes under the hammer, what becomes of heir-looms,[Pg 108] and whatever else in which family life and interest are bound up? And why should splendor prepare for perpetuity when that which supports it is to be shared among half a dozen or a dozen descendants? Will a rich man be likely to collect works of art under the consciousness that, when "cutting up" time comes, not one of his children will probably be rich enough to retain possession of these treasures that bring no tangible income? Truly, republicans ought to be philosophers, caring only for things of highest moment, and capable of saying to all others—"Get ye behind me!"

Whether the ongoing division of estates will ever allow for the addition of poetic charm to the ownership of wealth is still undecided. When everything goes up for auction, what happens to heirlooms,[Pg 108] and all the family ties and interests attached to them? And why should luxury be prepared for the long term when that which supports it is to be divided among several descendants? Will a wealthy person likely collect artwork knowing that, when it comes time to divide things up, none of their children will probably be wealthy enough to keep these treasures that don't generate any income? Indeed, republicans should be philosophers, focusing only on matters of the utmost importance and able to tell everything else—"Get behind me!"

But the denizens of New-York Belgravia are not philosophers, at least not philosophers of this stamp. Content with the good things of to-day, they leave the morrow to take care of itself; and many of them live in a style which, even to those who have seen European splendor, seems no less than superb. Their dwellings are unsurpassed in convenience of arrangement and luxury of appliance; their entertainments are of regal magnificence, so far as regal magnificence is purchasable; and for dress and equipage they pour out money like water. In cultivation and accomplishments, they are of course very unequal; for, in a country where the great field of competition has a thousand gates, all opened wide to all comers, and moneyed magnates come from every class in society, and bring with them, to the new sphere, just what of a strictly personal kind they possessed in the old. He that was refined is refined still, and he that was sordid is sordid still. If the gentleman enjoys the power of indulging his tastes, and choosing his pursuits, so does the vulgarian; and, unhappily, no Belgravia, English or American, has yet been found capable of inspiring its inmates with dignified tastes or elevated aims. There is no permanent nucleus of elegant society in New-York; no reservoir of indisputable social grace, from which succeeding sets and advancing circles can draw rules and imbibe tastes. There is not, even at any one time, an acknowledged first circle, to whose standard others are willing to refer. This being so, the most incongruous manners often encounter in the social arena; and it is only in very limited association that any appreciable degree of congeniality is expected. Wealth always fraternizes with wealth to a certain extent. The maxim announced here on a certain public occasion, that "the possession of wealth is always to be received as evidence of the possession of merit of some kind," is conscientiously acted upon; but beyond this, social affinity is very limited as yet. Conversation has no recognized place among accomplishments, and of course only a doubtful one among pleasures. Coteries are unknown, and the continual shifting of circles precludes the pleasure of long-ripened intellectual intercourse. Many there are who regret this state of things in a society in which there is in reality so great a share of general good feeling; but they are found not among the rich, who possess some of the means of remedying the evil, but among those who, removed from the temptations which riches, suddenly acquired, array against intellectual pleasures, lack, on the other hand, the means of uniting with those pleasures, the agrémens which are at the command of easy fortune. In Paris, intellect and cultivation can draw together those who value them, even though the place of meeting be a shabby house in the suburbs; in New-York it is not yet so, nor could it be expected. No social posé has yet been attained; and each is too much absorbed in making good his general claims to consideration, to have leisure for the calmer enjoyments that might be snatched during the contest. Ostentation is, as yet, too prominent in the entertainments of the rich; and the not rich, with republican pride, will rather renounce the pleasures and advantages of society than receive company in an inexpensive way. Even public amusements are not fashionable. Large numbers, it is true, attend them, but not of the fashionable classes. The Opera, alone, has a sort of popularity with these, but it is as an elegant lounger, and a chance of distinction from the vulgar. A low-priced opera, like those of the Continent, with music as the main object, and magnificent costume put out of the question by twilight houses, is yet to be tried in New-York. In the opinion of some, this is one day to be the touchstone of American musical taste. A passion for popular music the Americans certainly have. The Negro Melodists, numerous as they are, draw throngs every night; and their music, whether gay or sad, has all the charm that could be desired for the popular heart. But the people of any pretensions enjoy this kind of music, as it were by stealth, not considering that the pleasure it gives is in fact a test of its excellence. Many of the negro airs are worthy of symphonies and accompaniments by Beethoven or Schubert, but until they have been endorsed by science the New-Yorker would rather not be caught enjoying them.

But the people of New York’s Belgravia aren’t exactly philosophers, at least not those kinds. Happy with the good things of today, they leave tomorrow to sort itself out; many of them live in a way that seems nothing short of luxurious, even to those who’ve experienced European grandeur. Their homes are unmatched in convenience and luxurious amenities; their parties have a royal elegance that can be bought; and for clothing and vehicles, they spend money like it’s nothing. Their education and skills vary greatly because, in a country where the competition has countless opportunities available to everyone, wealthy individuals come from all walks of life and bring with them whatever personal traits they had before. Those who were refined remain refined, and those who were coarse remain coarse. If a gentleman has the means to indulge his tastes and choose his hobbies, so does the common person; and unfortunately, no Belgravia, in either England or America, has been able to inspire its residents with sophisticated tastes or higher ambitions. There isn’t a lasting core of elegant society in New York; no source of undeniable social grace from which future generations can learn rules and refine their tastes. There isn’t even an accepted first circle at any one time to which others are willing to look up. Because of this, the most mismatched manners often clash in social settings; only in very select groups is any real compatibility expected. Wealth tends to associate with wealth to some extent. The saying proclaimed on a certain public occasion, that "having wealth is always seen as evidence of some kind of merit," is genuinely followed; but aside from that, social connections are still quite limited. Conversation doesn’t hold a recognized spot among skills and is only somewhat appreciated among pleasures. Social groups are unknown, and the constant shifting of circles prevents the enjoyment of long-developed intellectual exchanges. Many regret this situation in a society that has a great deal of general goodwill; however, these regrets come not from the wealthy, who have some means to fix the issues, but from those who, sheltered from the temptations that sudden wealth brings against intellectual pleasures, lack the means to combine those pleasures with the social ease that comes from a comfortable fortune. In Paris, intellect and culture can bring together those who appreciate them, even in a shabby house in the suburbs; in New York, that isn’t the case yet, nor could it be expected. No social norms have yet been established; everyone is too focused on establishing their worth to enjoy the calmer pleasures that might arise during the struggle. Showiness is still too prominent in the wealthy’s entertainment; and the less wealthy, with their republican pride, would rather give up the pleasures and benefits of society than accept company in a low-key manner. Even public entertainment doesn’t hold much appeal. It’s true that many attend them, but not from the fashionable classes. The Opera, however, has a certain popularity among these groups, but it’s more for status and a chance to stand out from the crowd. A low-cost opera, like those in Europe, with music as the main focus and the importance of lavish costumes downplayed, is yet to be seen in New York. Some believe this will someday be the true measure of American musical taste. Americans certainly have a passion for popular music. The numerous Negro Melodists attract crowds every night, and their music, whether upbeat or melancholic, has all the charm that appeals to the masses. However, the socially elite tend to enjoy this kind of music almost in secret, not realizing that the pleasure it brings is actually a testament to its quality. Many of the Negro tunes are deserving of symphonies and arrangements by Beethoven or Schubert, but until they receive scholarly recognition, New Yorkers would rather not be seen enjoying them.

If we should venture to suggest what it is that New-York society most lacks, we should say Courage—courage to enjoy and make the most of individual tastes and feelings. The spirit of imitation robs social life of all that is picturesque and poetical. Living for the eyes of our neighbors is stupefying and belittling. It gives an air of hollowness and tinsel to our homes, stealing even from the heartiness of affection, and sapping the disinterestedness of friendship. It tends to the general impoverishment of home-life, the privacy of which is the soil of originality and the nursery of accomplishments. It is hardly consistent with the pursuit of literature or art for its own sake, since a desire to do what others do, and avoid what others contemn, excludes private and independent[Pg 109] choice, except where the natural bias is irresistibly strong. There is, in truth, very little relish for home accomplishments in New-York. Music is too much a thing of exhibition, and drawing is scarcely practised at all. Two or three of the modern languages are taught at every fashionable school; but the use of these is seldom kept up in after life, even by reading. No people are so poorly furnished with foreign tongues as the Americans, and New-York forms no exception to the general remark.

If we were to say what New York society is most missing, it would be courage—the courage to enjoy and fully embrace individual tastes and emotions. The tendency to imitate takes away the uniqueness and beauty from social life. Living to impress our neighbors is dulling and belittling. It creates a sense of emptiness and superficiality in our homes, even diminishing genuine affection and undermining true friendship. This mindset leads to the overall decline of home life, which should be the foundation of originality and a breeding ground for skills. It hardly aligns with the pursuit of literature or art for its own sake, as the urge to follow trends and avoid what others scorn leaves little room for personal and independent choice, unless one's natural inclination is extremely strong. In reality, there’s very little appreciation for personal achievements in New York. Music is treated more as a performance than a personal expression, and drawing is rarely practiced. A few modern languages are taught in every trendy school, but even those are seldom maintained later in life, even through reading. No one has as few foreign language skills as Americans, and New York is no exception to this observation.

We shall not venture to touch that most sensitive of all topics, native art, on which no opinion can be expressed with safety, Suffice it to say, that New-York has a National Academy of Design; the nucleus of a free gallery; an Art-Union, largely patronized; an Artists' Association, with a gallery of its own; and various exhibitions of European pictures. Lessing's Martyrdom of Huss has been for some time exhibiting in a collection of paintings of the Düsseldorf school. Statuary is as yet comparatively rare; for, although American art has sprung at once to high excellence in this direction, the sculptors generally reside abroad, for the sake of superior advantages for execution. The present year sees the début of a young sculptor of New-York, named Palmer, who has just finished a work of great promise, for this spring's exhibition of the National Academy, an exhibition most cheering to the friends of American art, from its marked superiority in many respects to any that have gone before it. A Home-Book of Beauty is in progress, for which a young English artist, son of the celebrated Martin, is making the portraits. This promises to be very popular, since the reputation of American female beauty is world-wide.

We won't get into the very sensitive topic of native art, where it's hard to express an opinion without risk. It's enough to mention that New York has a National Academy of Design, the foundation of a free gallery, a well-supported Art-Union, an Artists' Association with its own gallery, and various exhibitions of European paintings. Lessing's Martyrdom of Huss has been on display for some time in a collection of paintings from the Düsseldorf school. Sculpture is still relatively rare; while American art has quickly reached high standards in this area, most sculptors live abroad to take advantage of better resources for their work. This year marks the debut of a young sculptor from New York named Palmer, who has just completed a promising piece for this spring's exhibition at the National Academy, an event that is very encouraging for supporters of American art, given its notable improvements compared to previous exhibitions. A Home-Book of Beauty is in the works, for which a young English artist, the son of the famous Martin, is creating the portraits. This project seems to have strong potential, given the worldwide reputation of American female beauty.

These slight notices of New-York as she is, are intended rather to give foreign visitors a hint what not to expect, than to serve as any thing deserving the name of a description of one of the commercial centres of the world. It is quite possible to come to New-York with such letters of introduction as shall open to the stranger society as intelligent and well-bred as any in Europe; but as this is composed of people who never run after notabilities as such, it is often unknown and unsuspected by the visitor from abroad, who, consequently, returns home with such broad views as we have been attempting, quite satisfied that there is nothing more worth seeking. It is noticeable that the most favorable accounts of American manners have been given by the best-bred and highest-born foreign travellers; while disparagement and abuse have been the retaliation of those who have, to their surprise, found the Americans quite capable of distinguishing between snobs and gentlemen. The intelligent traveller must know how to take New-York for what she is, and he will not undervalue her for not being what she is not. She is a magnificent city—a city of unexampled growth and energy; of the noblest public works, of unbounded charity, of a most intelligent providence in the instruction of her children, of fearless liberality in the reception and treatment of foreigners, and of a growing interest in all the arts which adorn and harmonize society. Those who visit her prepared to find these traits will not be disappointed; those who will accept nothing in an American city of yesterday but the tranquil and delicate tone of an assured civilization, should not come westward. Yet in real, essential civilization, that city cannot be far behindhand, in which the duties of a street police are almost nominal, and where every ill that can afflict humanity is cared for gratuitously, and in the most humane spirit. Justly proud of these proofs of her preparation for the outward gloss of manners which is all in all to the superficial observer, New-York can well afford to invite the scrutiny of the intelligent citizen of the world.

These brief observations about New York as it is are meant more to give foreign visitors a heads-up on what not to expect, rather than to serve as a true description of one of the world’s commercial hubs. It’s entirely possible to come to New York with letters of introduction that will connect you with people as intelligent and well-mannered as those in Europe; however, since this group consists of individuals who don’t chase after celebrities, it often goes unnoticed by visiting foreigners, who then return home with a limited perspective, fully convinced that there’s nothing more to seek. It’s worth noting that the most positive accounts of American culture have come from the best-educated and highest-born foreign travelers, while criticism and disdain have typically come from those who, to their surprise, found Americans quite capable of distinguishing between pretentious people and genuine gentlemen. A savvy traveler must learn to appreciate New York for what it is, and they won’t undervalue it for not being something it’s not. It’s a magnificent city—one of incredible growth and vitality; known for its impressive public works, generous charity, thoughtful education for its children, welcoming approach towards foreigners, and a growing interest in the arts that enrich and unify society. Those visiting with the expectation to find these qualities will not be disappointed; those seeking the calm and refined character of an established civilization in a city that's still finding its way should think twice about heading west. However, in terms of genuine, fundamental civilization, this city is hardly lagging behind, where the duties of street policing are nearly minimal, and where every issue that troubles humanity is addressed with care and compassion. Proud of these accomplishments that signal its readiness for the outer polish of manners, which is all that matters to a superficial observer, New York is fully equipped to welcome the scrutiny of the discerning global citizen.

As we began our little sketch with some Knickerbocker reminiscences, so we feel bound, before we close, to say a word or two of the traces that still remain of the honored origin of much of the wealth and respectability of New-York. Whatever we may allow for our English superstructure, we cannot forget that the Dutch foundation was most excellent. "The Batavians," says Tacitus, "are distinguished among the neighboring nations for their valor;" and in the seventeenth century the countrymen of Van Tromp and De Ruyter had not degenerated from their Batavian ancestors; and in the gentler qualities of peace, industry, perseverance, energy, honesty, and enterprise, the States-General were surpassed by no European community. For their notions of law, we may consult Grotius; for their taste for art, the exquisite works which constitute a school of their own. The Dutch masters of New-York were people of high tone and character, and to this day there lingers a flavor of nobility and dignity about the very names of Van Rensselaer, Van Cortlandt, Van Zandt, Brinkerhoff, Stuyvesant, Rutgers, Schermerhorn, &c., represented by families who still retain much of their ancient wealth, and a great deal of their ancient aristocratic feeling. Many jokes have been founded upon the unwillingness of these lords of the soil to be disturbed; one of the best of which is Washington Irving's story of Wolfert Webber, who thought he must inevitably die in the almshouse, because the Corporation ruined his cabbage-garden by running a street through it. But they make excellent citizens, and their aversion to change has been but a much needed balance to the wild go-ahead restlessness of the full-blooded Yankee, who sees nothing but the future. The Dutch have customs, and, of course, manners; while the tendency of modern New-York[Pg 110] life is adverse to both. The citizen of to-day cannot help looking on the Dutch spirit as "slow," but he has an instinctive respect for it, notwithstanding.

As we started our little story with some memories of the Knickerbockers, we feel it's necessary, before we finish, to mention a few things about the traces that still show the honored origins of much of the wealth and status in New York. No matter how much we embrace our English influence, we can’t forget that the Dutch foundation was truly remarkable. "The Batavians," says Tacitus, "are known among their neighbors for their bravery;" and in the seventeenth century, the countrymen of Van Tromp and De Ruyter had not lost the strength of their Batavian ancestors; in the more gentle traits of peace, hard work, perseverance, energy, honesty, and entrepreneurship, the States-General were unmatched by any European community. For their ideas on law, we can refer to Grotius; for their appreciation of art, the exquisite works that form their own unique school. The Dutch leaders of New York were people of high integrity and character, and to this day there’s a sense of nobility and dignity in the very names of Van Rensselaer, Van Cortlandt, Van Zandt, Brinkerhoff, Stuyvesant, Rutgers, Schermerhorn, etc., represented by families that still hold much of their historic wealth and a lot of their old-world elegance. Many jokes have been made about the unwillingness of these lords of the land to be disturbed; one of the best is Washington Irving's story of Wolfert Webber, who believed he would inevitably end up in the poorhouse because the city messed up his cabbage garden by putting a street through it. But they make excellent citizens, and their resistance to change has provided a much-needed counterbalance to the restless energy of the fully American Yankee, who only sees the future. The Dutch have customs and, of course, manners; while the trend of modern New York life is against both. Today’s citizens can’t help but view the Dutch spirit as "slow," but they instinctively respect it, nonetheless.

One single Dutch custom still maintains its ground triumphantly, in spite of the hurry of business, the selfishness of the commercial spirit, and the efforts of a few paltry fashionists, who would fain put down every thing in which a suspicion of heartiness can be detected. It is the custom of making New Year visits on the first day of January, when every lady is at home, and every gentleman goes the rounds of his entire acquaintance; flying in and flying out, it is true, but still with an expression of good-will and friendly feeling that is invaluable in a community where daily life is so much under the control of that cabalistic word—business. Ladies are in high party-trim, and refreshments of various kinds are offered; but the main point and recognized meaning of the whole is the interchange of friendly greetings.

One Dutch tradition still holds strong, despite the rush of work, the selfishness of commercialism, and the attempts by a few shallow trendsetters to dismiss anything that seems genuine. It's the practice of making New Year visits on January 1st, when every lady is at home, and every gentleman visits all his acquaintances; darting in and out, true, but still with a sense of goodwill and friendliness that is priceless in a community where everyday life is dominated by that mysterious term—business. Ladies are dressed to impress, and various refreshments are served; but the main focus and true meaning of the occasion is the exchange of warm greetings.

No one, not to the manor born, can estimate the glow of feeling that characterizes these flying visits. "As iron sharpeneth iron, so doth the countenance of a man his friend." The mere looking into each other's faces is good for human creatures; and when the sincere even though transient light of kindly feeling beams from the eyes that thus encounter, something is done against egotism, haughty disregard and blank oblivion. Many a coolness dies on New Year's Day, under a battery of smiles; many a hard thought is shamed away by the good wishes of the season. Old friends, who are inevitably separated most of the time, thus meet at least once a year, for the enthusiasm of the hour is potent enough to make the valetudinarian forsake his easy chair, and the cripple his crutches. Visiting hours are extended so as to include all the hours from ten in the morning until ten at night, and, in order to make the most of these, the gentlemen take carriages and scour the streets at the true American pace, so as to lose as little time as possible on the way. If a storm occur, it is considered quite a public misfortune, since it lessens, though it never altogether prevents the fulfilment of the annual ceremony. It is true that both ladies and gentlemen are death-weary when bed-time comes, but that for once a year is no great evil. It is true that some young men will take more whisky-punch, or champagne, than is becoming; but for one who does this, there are many who decline "all that can intoxicate," except smiles and kind words. In some houses the blinds are closed, the gas lighted, and a band of music in attendance; and each batch of visitors inveigled into polkas, or kedowas, for which the lady of the house has taken care to provide partners. But this is considered a degeneracy, and voted mauvais ton by those who understand the thing. To "throw a perfume o'er the violet," bespeaks the French coiffeur or the parvenu; the simplicity of the ancient Dutch custom of New Year visits is its dignity and glory. Long may it live unspotted by vulgar fashion! Well were it for the island city if she had kept a loving hold on many another quaint festivity of her ancestors on the other side of the water. Her prosperity would be none the worse of a respectful reference to the good things of the past.

No one, not born into privilege, can truly understand the warmth of emotion that comes with these whirlwind visits. “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” Just looking into each other's faces is good for us as humans; and when the genuine, even if fleeting, light of kindness shines from our eyes as we meet, it pushes back against selfishness, arrogance, and total indifference. Many chilly relationships melt away on New Year's Day, thanks to an onslaught of smiles; many harsh thoughts are dispelled by the good wishes of the season. Old friends, who are often separated, manage to meet at least once a year, for the excitement of the moment is strong enough to coax the elderly out of their comfortable chairs and the disabled from their crutches. Visiting hours stretch from ten in the morning to ten at night, and to make the most of this time, the men hire carriages and rush through the streets at a true American pace to minimize travel time. If a storm hits, it’s seen as a public disaster since it lessens, though never completely stops, the annual tradition. It’s true that both ladies and gentlemen are exhausted by the time bedtime rolls around, but being tired once a year isn’t a big deal. It’s also true that some young men may indulge in too much whisky punch or champagne, but for every one who does, there are many who avoid “anything that can intoxicate,” except for smiles and kind words. In some homes, the curtains are drawn, the gas lights turned on, and a band plays, with each group of guests swept into polkas or kedowas, for which the hostess has made sure to provide partners. However, this is considered a decline in taste and deemed mauvais ton by those who know better. To “add a scent over the violet” suggests a lavish stylist or a social climber; the simplicity of the old Dutch custom of New Year visits is what gives it dignity and charm. May it continue to thrive, untainted by crass trends! It would be beneficial for the island city if it had held onto many other charming traditions of its ancestors across the sea. Its prosperity would certainly benefit from a respectful nod to the good practices of the past.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Among the causes of decay in the Roman aqueducts, was the strong concretion formed on the bottom and sides by matter deposited by the water. No such deposit is made by the water of the Croton.

[10] One reason for the deterioration of the Roman aqueducts was the thick buildup created on the bottom and sides from materials left behind by the water. However, the water from the Croton doesn’t create any such buildup.

From Fraser's Magazine

A JUNGLE RECOLLECTION.

BY CAPTAIN HARDBARGAIN.

The hot season of 1849 was peculiarly oppressive, and the irksome garrison duty at Cherootabad, in the south of India, had for many months been unusually severe. The colonel of my regiment, the brigadier, and the general, having successively acceded to my application for three weeks' leave, and that welcome fact having been duly notified in orders, it was not long before I found myself on the Coimbatore road, snugly packed guns and all, in a country bullock-cart, lying at full length on a matress, with a thick layer of straw spread under it.

The hot season of 1849 was particularly unbearable, and the grueling garrison duty at Cherootabad, in southern India, had been exceptionally harsh for many months. The colonel of my regiment, the brigadier, and the general all approved my request for three weeks of leave, and once that was officially communicated in orders, it didn’t take long for me to find myself on the Coimbatore road, comfortably packed with my gear in a country bullock cart, lying down on a mattress with a thick layer of straw underneath it.

All my preparations had been made beforehand; relays of bullocks were posted for me at convenient intervals, and I arrived at Goodaloor, a distance of a hundred and ten miles, in rather more than forty-eight hours.

All my preparations had been made in advance; teams of oxen were arranged for me at suitable intervals, and I reached Goodaloor, which was a hundred and ten miles away, in just over forty-eight hours.

Goodaloor is a quiet little village, about eleven miles from Coimbatore;—but don't suppose I was going to spend my precious three weeks there.

Goodaloor is a quiet little village, about eleven miles from Coimbatore;—but don’t think I was planning to spend my valuable three weeks there.

After breakfasting at the traveller's bungalow, we started off again. The bungalow is on the right hand side of the road; and when we had proceeded about two hundred yards, the bullock-cart turned into the fields to the left, and got along how it could across country, towards some low rocky hills, which ran parallel, and at about three miles distance from the Coimbatore road.

After having breakfast at the traveler’s bungalow, we set off again. The bungalow is on the right side of the road; and after going about two hundred yards, the bullock cart turned into the fields to the left and made its way across the country towards some low rocky hills, which ran parallel and were about three miles away from the Coimbatore road.

After about two miles of this work, sometimes over fallow ground, sometimes through fields of growing grain, (taking awful liberties with the loose hedges of cut brambles, which, however, we had the conscience to build up again as we passed them,) sometimes over broken stony ground, and once or twice lumbering heavily through a rocky watercourse, we at last found ourselves on the grassy margin of a pretty little stream. Fifty yards beyond it, under the shade of a fine mango-tree, my little tent was already pitched; in five minutes I lay stretched on my bed, listening with ravished ears to the glorious accounts of my old Shikaree, who had just come in, hot and tired, from the jungle. He had much to tell,—how since he had been out, three days, he had tracked the tiger every morning up and down a certain nullah; how the brindled monster had been seen by different shepherds; and what was still more satisfactory, how he had but yesterday killed[Pg 111] a cow near the spot where the hut had been built. It was now midday;—how to spend the long hours till sunset?

After about two miles of this work, sometimes over fallow ground, sometimes through fields of growing grain (taking some liberties with the loose hedges of cut brambles, which we had the decency to fix up again as we passed), sometimes over broken, stony ground, and a couple of times struggling heavily through a rocky watercourse, we finally found ourselves on the grassy edge of a lovely little stream. Fifty yards beyond it, under the shade of a nice mango tree, my small tent was already set up; in five minutes I was lying on my bed, listening with great interest to the amazing stories of my old Shikaree, who had just returned, hot and tired, from the jungle. He had a lot to share—how for the past three days he had tracked the tiger every morning up and down a certain nullah; how the striped beast had been spotted by various shepherds; and what was even more exciting, how he had just killed[Pg 111] a cow near where the hut had been built. It was now midday—how should we pass the long hours until sunset?

After making the tired man draw innumerable sketch-maps in the sand, with reiterated descriptions of the hut, &c., I allowed the poor wretch to go to his dinner; and in anticipation of a weary night's watch, I squeezed my eyes together and tried to sleep.

After making the exhausted man draw countless sketch maps in the sand, with repeated descriptions of the hut, etc., I finally let the poor guy go to his dinner; and anticipating a long night of watching, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to sleep.

The sun begins to acquire his evening slant, and I joyfully leave my bed to prepare for my nocturnal expedition. The cook is boiling fowl and potatoes; they are ready; and now he pours his clear strong coffee into the three soda-water bottles by his side; everything is ready, in the little basket, not forgetting a bottle of good beer. Now then commences the pleasing task of carefully loading our battery.

The sun is starting to set, and I happily get out of bed to get ready for my night adventure. The cook is boiling chicken and potatoes; they’re done; and now he’s pouring his strong, clear coffee into the three soda bottles next to him; everything is set in the little basket, including a bottle of good beer. Now begins the enjoyable job of carefully packing our gear.

Come, big "Sam Nock," king of two-ouncers, what is to be the fate of these two great plumbs that you are now to swallow? Am I to cut them out of the tiger's ribs to-morrow?—or are they idly to be fired away into the trunk of a tree, or drawn again?

Come on, big "Sam Nock," the king of two-ouncers, what’s going to happen to these two great plums that you’re about to swallow? Should I cut them out of the tiger's ribs tomorrow? Or will they just be wasted shooting into a tree trunk, or pulled back again?

All loaded, and pony saddled, let us start: the two white cows and their calves; the matress and blanket rolled up and carried on a Cooly's head: Shikaree, horsekeeper, and a village man with the three guns, while I myself bring up the rear. Over a few ploughed fields, and past that large banian-tree, the jungle begins.

All packed up and the pony saddled, let's get going: the two white cows and their calves; the mattress and blanket rolled up and carried on a coolie's head; Shikaree, the horsekeeper, and a villager carrying three guns, while I bring up the rear. We go over a few plowed fields and past that large banyan tree, and then the jungle starts.

What is this black thing? and what are those people doing? That hideous black image is the jungle god, and to him the villagers look for protection for their flocks.

What is that black thing? And what are those people doing? That ugly black figure is the jungle god, and the villagers turn to him for protection for their livestock.

How they stare at the man dressed in his mud-colored clothes, who has come so far, and sacrifices sleep and comfort, to sit and watch at night for the evil genius of their jungles. Children are held up to look at him—at the English jungle-wallah, who drinks brandy as they drink milk, and who is on his way to the deepest fastnesses of the wooded waste, to watch for the tiger alone—a man who laughs at gods and devils—a devil himself. The Shikaree, who had been earnestly engaged in conversation with the oldest looking man of the group, now ran up and informed me that the Gooroo had given him to understand that the Sahib would certainly kill the tiger this night, and that it was expected that he would subscribe fifteen rupees to the god, in the event of the prediction proving true. Come, we have no time for talking. Hurry on, cows and guns, hurry on! through the silent jungle, along the narrow path. How much farther yet. Not more than a quarter of a mile; we are close to it. And now the people who know the whereabouts stop and look smilingly on one another, and then at the Sahib, whose practised eye has but just discovered the well-built ambush.

How they stare at the man in his mud-colored clothes, who has come so far and sacrificed sleep and comfort to sit and watch at night for the evil spirit of their jungles. Children are held up to see him—the English jungle-wallah, who drinks brandy like they drink milk, and who is on his way to the deepest hiding places of the forest to watch for the tiger alone—a man who laughs at gods and devils—a devil himself. The Shikaree, who had been deeply engaged in conversation with the oldest man in the group, now ran up and told me that the Gooroo said the Sahib would definitely kill the tiger tonight, and that it was expected he would donate fifteen rupees to the god if the prediction came true. Come on, we don’t have time to talk. Hurry up, cows and guns, hurry on! through the silent jungle, along the narrow path. How much farther? Not more than a quarter of a mile; we’re close. And now the people who know where it is stop and look at each other with smiles, and then at the Sahib, whose trained eye has just spotted the well-built ambush.

In a small clump of low jungle, on the sloping bank of a broad, sandy watercourse, the casual passer-by would not have perceived a snug and tolerably strong little hut,—the white ends of the small branches that were laid over it, and the mixture of foliage, alone revealing the fact to the observant eye of a practised woodman. No praise could be too strong to bestow on the faithful Shikaree; had I chosen the spot myself, after a week's survey of the country, it could not have been more happily selected. The watercourse wound its way through the thickest and most tigerish section of the jungle, and had its origin at the very foot of the hills, where tigers were continually seen by the woodcutters and shepherds. There was little or no water within many miles, except the few gallons in a basin of rock, which I could almost reach from my little bower; and, to crown all, there were the broad, deep puggs of a tiger, up and down the nullah, in the dry sand, near the water's edge, of all ages, from the week, perhaps, up to the unmistakable fresh puggs of last night.

In a small patch of low jungle, on the sloping bank of a wide, sandy waterway, a casual passerby would have missed the cozy and reasonably sturdy little hut—the white tips of the small branches covering it and the mix of leaves were the only clues for the observant eye of an experienced woodsman. No praise could be too high for the dedicated Shikaree; if I had chosen the spot myself after a week of exploring the area, it couldn't have been better picked. The waterway snaked through the densest and most tigerish part of the jungle and started right at the foot of the hills, where woodcutters and shepherds frequently spotted tigers. There was barely any water for miles, except for a few gallons in a rock basin that I could almost reach from my little shelter; and to top it all off, there were the broad, deep puggs of a tiger, in the dry sand along the water's edge, of all ages, from maybe a week old up to the unmistakably fresh tracks from last night.

Let us get off the pony, and have a look at the hut. Pulling a few dry branches on one side, the small hurdle-door at the back is exposed to view, hardly big enough to admit a large dog; down on your knees and crawl in. Five feet long, four feet wide, and four feet high in the centre, is the extent of the little palace; a platform, a foot from the ground, occupies the whole extent to within a foot of the front end facing the bed of the watercourse. On this platform the matress is laid, and some big coats and the blankets make a very comfortable pillow. Remove that little screen of leaves, and you look through a window, ten inches square, that commands a view fifty paces up and down the sandy nullah. Sitting on the end of the bed-place, just behind the window, with your feet on the ground, nothing can be more comfortable; and when tired, you only have to draw up your legs, and curl yourself on the matress to enjoy a short nap, if your prudence cannot conquer sleep. Into this hut which I have endeavored to describe, did I now crawl; the matress was arranged, the handsome and carefully loaded battery was next handed in, and each gun placed ready for action; the cold fowl and bottle of Bass were in the mean while disposed of, and the soda-water bottles of cold coffee were stowed away in cunning corners.

Let’s get off the pony and check out the hut. Pulling aside a few dry branches reveals a small hurdle-door at the back, barely big enough for a large dog to fit through; get down on your knees and crawl in. The little space measures five feet long, four feet wide, and four feet high in the center; a platform a foot off the ground takes up the entire length, stopping just a foot from the front end facing the bed of the watercourse. On this platform lies the mattress, with some big coats and blankets making a very comfortable pillow. Remove that little screen of leaves, and you can see through a ten-inch square window that overlooks fifty paces up and down the sandy nullah. Sitting on the edge of the bed, just behind the window, with your feet on the ground, nothing could be more comfortable; and when you get tired, you just pull up your legs and curl up on the mattress for a quick nap, if your common sense can’t keep sleep at bay. Into this hut that I’ve just described, I crawled; I arranged the mattress, passed in the well-packed and carefully loaded gear, and placed each gun ready for action; meanwhile, the cold chicken and bottle of Bass were put aside, and the soda-water bottles filled with cold coffee were tucked away in clever corners.

The sun is resting on the hill-tops, and will soon disappear behind them; the peafowl and jungle-cock are noisily challenging amongst themselves, and the latest party of woodcutters have just passed by, showing, by their brisk pace and loud talking, that they consider it high time for prudent men to quit the jungle.

The sun is setting on the hilltops and will soon vanish behind them. The peacocks and jungle fowl are noisily calling to each other, and the latest group of woodcutters has just walked by, showing by their quick pace and loud chatter that they think it's time for sensible people to leave the jungle.

To the deeply-rooted stump of a young tree on the opposite bank, one of the white cows has been made fast by a double cord passed twice round her horns. Nothing[Pg 112] remains to be done; the little door is fastened behind me, the prickly acacia boughs are piled up against it on the outside, and my people are anxious to be off. The old Shikaree makes his appearance in the nullah, and wishing me success through the window, asks if "all is right?" "Every thing; get home as fast as you can: if you should hear three shots in succession before dark, come back for me,—otherwise, bring the pony at six to-morrow morning,—and a cup of hot coffee, tell the cook."

To the firmly-rooted stump of a young tree on the opposite bank, one of the white cows is tied up with a double cord wrapped around her horns. Nothing[Pg 112] is left to do; the little door is secured behind me, the thorny acacia branches are piled up against it on the outside, and my people are eager to leave. The old Shikaree shows up in the stream, wishing me good luck through the window, and asks if "everything is okay?" "Everything's fine; get home as quickly as you can: if you hear three shots in a row before dark, come back for me,—otherwise, bring the pony at six tomorrow morning,—and a cup of hot coffee, please tell the cook."

They are gone; I still hear them every now and then, as they shout to one another, and as the pony is scrambling through some loose stones in the bed of a [missing words/letters] through which the road lies.

They are gone; I still hear them every now and then, shouting to each other, and as the pony scrambles through some loose stones in the bed of a [missing words/letters] where the road goes.

The poor cow, too, listens with dismay to the retreating footsteps of the party, and has already made some furious plunges to free herself and rejoin the rest of the kine, who have been driven off, nothing loth, towards home. Watch her: how intently she stares along the path by which the people have deserted her. Were it not for the occasional stamp of her fore leg, or the impatient side-toss of the head, to keep off the swarming flies, she might be carved out of marble. And now a fearful and anxious gaze up the bed of the nullah, and into the thick fringe of Mimoso, one ear pricked and the other back alternately, show that instinct has already whispered the warning of impending danger. Another plunge to get loose, and a searching gaze up the path; see her sides heave. Now comes what we want—that deep low! it echoes again among the hills: another, and another. Poor wretch! you are hastening your doom; far or near the tiger hears you—under rock or thicket, where he has lain since morning sheltered from the scorching sun, his ears flutter as if they were tickled every time he hears that music: his huge green eyes, heretofore half-closed, are now wide open, and, alas! poor cow, gaze truly enough in thy direction; but he has not stirred yet, and nobody can say in which direction giant death will yet stalk forth.

The poor cow watches in distress as the group walks away, already making desperate attempts to break free and reunite with the other cows, who have been willingly driven home. Look at her: she stares intently down the path where the people have left her. If it weren’t for her occasional stomps with her front leg or her impatient head tosses to shoo away the buzzing flies, she could be mistaken for a statue. Now, with a fearful and anxious look up the dry riverbed and into the thick bushes of Mimoso, one ear perked up and the other back, it’s clear that her instinct warns her of impending danger. She makes another lunge to escape, glancing anxiously down the path; you can see her sides heave. And then we hear it—that deep low! It echoes back among the hills: another and another. Poor thing! You’re sealing your fate; whether far or near, the tiger hears you—hidden under rocks or in the shade where he’s been resting since morning, away from the burning sun, his ears twitch with every sound of that call. His huge green eyes, previously half-closed, are wide open now, and, alas! poor cow, he’s definitely looking your way; but he hasn’t moved yet, and no one can tell which way the giant death will appear.

Which ever of my readers who has never had to wait in solitude, in a strange room of a strange house, has not indulged in that idle speculative curiosity peculiar to such a situation, gazing on the pictures, and counting perhaps tables and chairs with an absurd earnestness of purpose,—will not understand how I spent the first half hour of my solitude; how I idly counted the stakes that formed the framework of the hut, or watched with interest the artful tactics of another Shikaree, in the shape of a slippery-looking green lizard, who was cautiously "stalking" the insects among the rafters.

Whichever of my readers has never had to wait alone in a strange room in a strange house, and hasn't indulged in that idle curiosity unique to such a situation—looking at the pictures and maybe counting tables and chairs with an absurd seriousness—won't get how I spent the first half hour of my solitude. I mindlessly counted the stakes that made up the framework of the hut or watched with interest the crafty tactics of another hunter, in the form of a slippery-looking green lizard, who was carefully "stalking" the insects among the rafters.

The cow, tired with struggling and plunging, appears to have become tolerably resigned to her situation, and has lain down, her ears, however, in continual motion, and the jaw sometimes suddenly arrested, while in the act of chewing the cud, to listen, as some slight noise in the thicket attracts her attention. Gracious! what is that down the nullah to the left? A peacock only. How my heart beat at first! what a splendid train the fellow has. Here he comes, evidently for the water; and now his seraglio,—one, two, four, five, buff-breasted, modest-looking little quakeresses. What a contrast to his splendid blue and gold! All to the water—dive in your bills and toss back your heads with blinking eyes, as you quaff the delicious fluid; little do you dream that there is a gun within five paces, although you are quite safe. But stop! here are antics. The old boy is happy, and up goes his tail, to the admiration of his hens, and the extreme wonderment of the cow, who with open eyes is staring with all her might at the glories of the expanded fan; and now slowly goes he round and round, like a solemn Jack o' the Green, his spindle shanks looking disreputably thin in the waning light.

The cow, exhausted from struggling and thrashing, seems to have accepted her situation and has laid down, though her ears are still moving constantly, and her jaw sometimes stops suddenly while she's chewing cud to listen, as a faint noise from the thicket catches her attention. Wow! What’s that down the little ravine to the left? Just a peacock. My heart raced at first! What a magnificent tail he has. Here he comes, obviously headed for the water; and now his entourage—one, two, four, five, modest-looking little quaker-like females. What a contrast to his brilliant blue and gold! All to the water—dive in your beaks and toss your heads back with squinty eyes, as you drink the sweet water; little do you realize there's a gun just five paces away, although you're completely safe. But wait! Here come the antics. The old guy is feeling good, and up goes his tail, impressing his ladies and greatly puzzling the cow, who is staring wide-eyed at the beauty of his open fan; and now he goes round and round slowly, like a solemn Jack o' the Green, his spindly legs looking quite scrawny in the fading light.

They quit the water-side, and disappear; and I can hear their heavy wings as they one after another mount a tall tree for the night.

They left the water's edge and vanished; I can hear their heavy wings as they take off one by one to perch in a tall tree for the night.

The moon is up—all nature still; the cow, again on her legs, is restless, and evidently frightened. Oh! reader, even if you have the soul of a Shikaree, I despair of being able to convey in words a tithe of the sensations of that solitary vigil: a night like that is to be enjoyed but seldom—a red-letter day in one's existence.

The moon is up—all of nature is quiet; the cow is back on her feet, uneasy and clearly scared. Oh! reader, even if you have the spirit of a hunter, I doubt I can express even a fraction of the feelings from that lonely watch: a night like that comes around very rarely—a standout moment in life.

Where is the man who has never experienced the poetic influence of a moonlit scene! Fancy, then, such a one as here described; a crescent of low hills—craggy, steep, and thickly wooded—around you on three sides, and above them, again, at twenty miles' distance, the clear blue outline of the Neilgherry Hills; in your front the silver-sand bed of the dry watercourse divides the thick and sombre jungle with a stream of light, till you lose it in the deep shadows at the foot of the hills,—all quiet, all still, all bathed in the light of the moon, yourself the only man for miles to come; a solitary watcher, your only companion the poor cow, who, full of fears and suspicions at every leaf-fall, reminds you that a terrible struggle is about to take place within a few feet of your bed, and that there will be noise and confusion, when you must be cool and collected. Your little kennel would not be strong enough to resist a determined charge, and you are alone, if three good guns are not true friends.

Where is the guy who has never felt the poetic impact of a moonlit scene? Imagine one like the one described here: a crescent of low hills—rough, steep, and densely forested—surrounding you on three sides, and in the distance, twenty miles away, the clear blue outline of the Neilgherry Hills. In front of you, the silver-sand bed of the dry riverbed splits the dense, dark jungle with a stream of light, until it fades into the deep shadows at the base of the hills—all quiet, all still, all illuminated by moonlight, and you're the only person for miles; a solitary observer, with your only companion, a scared cow, who, full of fears and suspicions at every rustle, reminds you that a fierce struggle is about to happen just a few feet from your bed, and that there will be noise and chaos while you need to stay calm and composed. Your little kennels wouldn’t hold up against a serious charge, and you're alone, unless three reliable guns can be called true friends.

Let me, good reader, give way to the pleasures of memory,—let me fancy myself back again, seated in my dear little hut, full of hope and expectation, now drinking the ice-cold coffee from one of the soda-water bottles, re-corking it, and placing it slowly and noiselessly in its corner. Hark to the single ring of a silver bell, and its echo among the hills! a spotted deer—why does she call? has she[Pg 113] seen any thing? Again, and again, and answered from a long distance! 'Tis very odd, that when one should be most wakeful, there should be always an inclination to sleep. A raw nip of aqua-vitæ, and a little of the same rubbed round the eyes, nostrils and behind the ears, make us wakeful again.

Let me, dear reader, indulge in the joys of memory—let me imagine myself back in my cozy little hut, filled with hope and anticipation, sipping ice-cold coffee from one of the soda bottles, recorking it, and carefully placing it back in its corner. Listen to the single ring of a silver bell and its echo among the hills! A spotted deer—why is she calling? Has she[Pg 113] seen something? Again and again, the call is answered from a distance! It's strange that when one should be most alert, there’s always a tendency to feel sleepy. A quick shot of liquor and a little of the same rubbed around the eyes, nostrils, and behind the ears wake us up again.

Oh! that I could express sounds on paper as music is written in notes. No, reader, you must do as I have done—you must be placed in a similar situation, to hear and enjoy the terrible roar of a hungry tiger—not from afar off and listened for, but close at hand and unexpected. It was like an electric shock;—a moment ago, I was dozing off, and the cow, long since lain down, appeared asleep; that one roar had not died away among the hills when she had scrambled on her legs, and stood with elevated head, stiffened limbs, tail raised, and breath suspended, staring full of terror in the direction of the sound. As for the biped, with less noise and even more alacrity, he had grasped his "Sam Nock," whose polished barrels just rested on the lower ledge of the little peephole; perhaps his eyes were as round as saucers, and heart beating fast and strong.

Oh! If only I could express sounds on paper the way music is written in notes. No, reader, you have to do what I did—you need to be in a similar situation to hear and appreciate the terrifying roar of a hungry tiger—not from a distance and actively listening, but right up close and unexpected. It was like an electric shock; just a moment ago, I was dozing off, and the cow, who had long since lain down, seemed to be asleep; that one roar hadn’t even faded among the hills when she scrambled to her feet, standing with her head held high, tense limbs, tail raised, and breath held, staring in pure terror towards the sound. As for the human, with less noise and even more speed, he had grabbed his "Sam Nock," whose polished barrels just rested on the lower edge of the little peephole; maybe his eyes were as wide as saucers, and his heart was racing fast and hard.

Now for the struggle;—pray heaven that I am cool and calm, and do not fire in a hurry, for one shot will either lose or secure my well-earned prize.

Now for the challenge;—I hope I stay cool and calm, and don’t rush my shot, because one bullet will either cost me or win me my hard-earned prize.

There he is again! evidently in that rugged, stony watercourse which runs parallel, and about two hundred yards behind the hut. But what is that? Yes, lightning: two flashes in quick succession, and a cold stream of air is rustling through the half-withered leaves of my ambush. Taking a look to the rear through an accidental opening among the leaves, it was plain that a storm, or, as it would be called at sea, a squall, was brewing. An arch of black cloud was approaching from the westward, and the rain descending, gave it the appearance of a huge black comb, the teeth reaching to the earth. The moon, half obscured, showed a white mist as far as the rain had reached. Then was heard in the puffs of air the hissing of the distant but approaching down-pour: more lightning—then some large heavy drops plashed on the roof, and it was raining cats and dogs.

There he is again! Clearly in that rough, rocky stream that runs parallel and about two hundred yards behind the hut. But what’s that? Yes, lightning: two flashes in quick succession, and a cold breeze is rustling through the half-dried leaves of my hiding spot. Looking back through a random opening in the leaves, it was obvious that a storm—or, as they’d call it at sea, a squall—was coming. A dark cloud arch was moving in from the west, and the rain pouring down made it look like a giant black comb, with the teeth reaching to the ground. The moon, half obscured, cast a white mist as far as the rain had spread. Then, in the gusts of wind, I could hear the hissing of the distant but approaching downpour: more lightning—then some big heavy drops splashed on the roof, and it was pouring cats and dogs.

How the scene was changed! Half-an-hour ago, solemn, and still, and wild, as nature rested, unpolluted, undefaced, unmarked by man—sleeping in the light of the moon, all was tranquillity; the civilized man lost his idiosyncrasy in its contemplation—forgot nation, pursuits, creed,—he felt that he was Nature's child, and adored the God of Nature.

How the scene changed! Half an hour ago, it was solemn, still, and wild, as nature rested—pure, untouched, unmarked by humans. Sleeping in the moonlight, everything was tranquil; the civilized person lost their individuality in its contemplation—forgot about nationality, ambitions, beliefs—they felt like Nature's child and worshipped the God of Nature.

But the beautiful was now exchanged for the sublime, when that scene appeared lit up suddenly and awfully by lightning, which now momentarily exchanged a sheet of intensely dazzling blue light, with a darkness horrible to endure—a light which showed the many streams of water, which now appeared like ribbons over the smooth slabs of rock that lay on the slope of the hills, and gave a microscopic accuracy of outline to every object,—exchanged as suddenly for a darkness which for the moment might be supposed the darkness of extinction—of utter annihilation,—while the crash of thunder overhead rolled over the echoes of the hills, "I am the Lord thy God."

But the beautiful was now replaced by the sublime when that scene was suddenly and terrifyingly illuminated by lightning, which momentarily filled the area with an intensely bright blue light, only to be replaced by a darkness that was hard to bear—a light that revealed the many streams of water, now appearing like ribbons cascading over the smooth rock slabs on the hillside, giving every object a detailed outline—suddenly exchanged for a darkness that could be mistaken for the void of extinction—complete annihilation—while the thunder crashed overhead, echoing through the hills, "I am the Lord thy God."

The hut, made in a hurry, was not thatched (as it might have been), and the half-dried foliage which covered it collected drops only to pour down continuous streams from the stem of every twig.

The hut, thrown together in a rush, wasn't thatched (like it could have been), and the half-dried leaves covering it gathered drops that poured down in steady streams from the end of every twig.

So much for sitting up for tigers! will most of my readers exclaim, and laugh at the monomaniac who would subject himself to such misery; but the thorough-bred Shikaree is game and stanch to the backbone, and will not be stopped by a night's wetting. For myself, I can only say in extenuation, that I was born on the 12th of August.

So much for waiting around for tigers! most of my readers will shout, laughing at the obsessed person who would put themselves through such misery; but the true Shikaree is brave and unwavering to the core, and won’t be deterred by a wet night. As for me, I can only say in my defense that I was born on August 12th.

A heavy and continuous down-pour soon showed its effects, and although I had lots of big coats, and was not altogether unprepared for such an emergency, an hour had not elapsed before I was obliged to confess myself tolerably wet through. The matress just collected the water and made a good hip-bath, for there was no other seat. The nullah, heretofore as I have described, was now a turbid stream of red water, which falling over a slab of rock into the small basin before mentioned, kept up an unceasing din. Tired and disgusted, I rolled a doubled blanket, although saturated with water, tight round me, and was soon warm and asleep. About two o'clock in the morning the clouds broke and the rain ceased; the boiling stream ran down to half its size, and a concert of thousands of frogs, bass, tenor, and treble, kept up a monotonous croaking enough to wake the dead.

A heavy and continuous downpour soon showed its effects, and even though I had a lot of big coats and wasn't entirely unprepared for this kind of situation, it didn’t take long before I had to admit I was pretty soaked. The mattress just collected the water and turned into a decent hip-bath since there was no other place to sit. The nullah, which I previously described, was now a muddy stream of red water that crashed over a slab of rock into the small basin I mentioned earlier, creating a constant noise. Exhausted and frustrated, I wrapped a soaked blanket tightly around me and quickly fell asleep, warm despite the wet. Around two o'clock in the morning, the clouds cleared and the rain stopped; the raging stream shrunk to half its size, and a chorus of thousands of frogs, bass, tenor, and treble, produced a monotonous croaking that could wake the dead.

The moon appeared again, and I attacked both cold coffee and brandy, and made myself as comfortable as possible under existing circumstances—to wit, wringing the water out of my jacket and cap, and putting them on again warm and comparatively dry. The cow even shook herself, and appeared glad of the change of weather, and I had no doubt that she would go back with me to the tent in the morning to gladden the eyes of her young calf and all good Hindoos. The nullah had run dry again, and even the infernal frogs, as if despairing of more rain, had ceased their din: damp and sleepy, with arms folded and eyes sometimes open, but often shut, I kept an indifferent watch, when the cow struggling on her legs and a choking groan brought me to my senses! There they were! No dream! A huge tiger holding her just behind the ears, shaking her like a fighting dog! By the doubtful light of a watery moon did I calmly and noiselessly run out the muzzle of my single J. Lang rifle.[Pg 114]

The moon showed up again, and I hit both cold coffee and brandy, making myself as comfortable as possible given the situation—specifically, wringing out my jacket and cap and putting them back on warm and relatively dry. The cow even shook herself and seemed happy about the change in weather, and I was sure she would come back with me to the tent in the morning to cheer up her young calf and all the good Hindoos. The stream had dried up again, and even the annoying frogs, seemingly giving up on more rain, had stopped their noise: damp and drowsy, with my arms crossed and eyes sometimes open, but often closed, I kept a lackluster watch when the cow, struggling to stand, let out a choking groan that snapped me to attention! There they were! Not a dream! A huge tiger gripping her just behind the ears, shaking her like a fighting dog! By the dim light of a watery moon, I calmly and silently slid out the muzzle of my single J. Lang rifle.[Pg 114]

I saw him, without quitting his grip of the cow's neck, leap over her back more than once—she sank to the earth, and he lifted her up again: at the first opportunity I pulled trigger—snick! The rifle was withdrawn, and big Sam Nock felt grateful to the touch. Left barrel—snick! Right barrel—snick, bang!

I saw him, still holding onto the cow's neck, jump over her back more than once—she dropped to the ground, and he picked her up again: as soon as I had the chance, I fired—snick! The rifle was pulled back, and big Sam Nock felt thankful for the sensation. Left barrel—snick! Right barrel—snick, bang!

Whether hanging fire is an excuse or not, the tiger relinquished his hold, and in one bound was out of sight. The cow staggered for two or three seconds, fell with a heavy groan, and ceased to move. Tiger gone!—cow dead!—was it a dream? Killed the cow within five paces and gone away scathless.

Whether hanging fire is an excuse or not, the tiger let go, and in one leap was out of sight. The cow wobbled for two or three seconds, collapsed with a heavy groan, and stopped moving. Tiger gone!—cow dead!—was it a dream? Killed the cow within five steps and left without a scratch.

For a long time I felt benumbed; I had missed many near shots, even many at tigers, and some like this at night, but never before under such favorable circumstances. Why, I almost dreaded the morning, when my Shikaree and people would come and find the cow killed, and I should have in fairness to account for the rest. The first streak of daylight did shortly appear, and every familiar sound of awaking nature succeeded each other, from the receding hooting of the huge horned owl, to the noisy crowing of the jungle cock and the call of the peafowl. The sun got up, and soon I heard, first doubtfully and then distinctively, the approach of my people. A sudden start, and stop, when they came in full view of the slaughtered cow; and then, a look up and down the nullah, as if they had not seen all. The reader must spare me the recollection of a scene that vexes me even at this distance of time, as if it had occurred but yesterday. The next half-hour was spent sitting on the carcass of the cow, staring at the enormous and deeply indented prints of the tiger's feet, and looking with sorrow and vexation and some compunction at the poor little calf which had been driven back to its mother, neither to see her alive nor her death avenged.

For a long time, I felt numb; I had missed many close calls, even with tigers, and a few like this one at night, but never before under such favorable conditions. Honestly, I almost dreaded the morning when my Shikaree and the others would come and find the cow dead, and I would have to explain what happened. The first light of dawn appeared, and every familiar sound of waking nature followed one after the other, from the fading hoot of the big horned owl, to the loud crowing of the jungle cock and the call of the peafowl. The sun rose, and soon I heard, first uncertainly and then clearly, my people approaching. There was a sudden pause when they saw the slaughtered cow; then they looked around as if expecting to see more. Please forgive me for recalling a scene that still troubles me even now, as if it had happened just yesterday. The next half-hour was spent sitting on the carcass of the cow, staring at the huge, deeply indented paw prints of the tiger, and looking with sorrow, frustration, and some guilt at the poor little calf that had been led back to its mother, never to see her alive again, nor to have her death avenged.

It was quite evident that the tiger had not been hit, for there was neither hair nor blood to be seen, and one or two small branches in the jungle beyond the cow showed, either by being cut down or barked, that the ball had passed over the mark. So on the pony and back to the tent to sleep or sulk out the next twelve hours.

It was clear that the tiger hadn't been hit, as there was no hair or blood visible, and a couple of small branches in the jungle past the cow were either broken or scratched, indicating that the shot had gone over the mark. So, it was back on the pony and heading to the tent to either sleep or sulk for the next twelve hours.

Somehow or other that pony, generally so clever and pleasant, was inclined to kick his toes against every stone, and be perverse all the way home; at any rate I fancied so, and am ashamed to say that I gave him the spur, or jerked the curb rein on the slightest pretence. My people, like all Indians, read the case thoroughly, and trudged along without hazarding a remark on any subject. We passed under the identical banian-tree and by the disgusting little black image described in the commencement of the story, and never did I feel more indignant against all idolatry, or more inclined to smash a Hindoo god. We also had to pass a small jungle village, and, as if on purpose, it appeared that every man, woman, and child were posted to have a good look. Several of them who knew some of my party, asked a hurried question, and I could hear, though I would not look, that the answer was given—"Had a shot, but missed." "Yes," said I to myself, "quite true—why should I be angry?" "Here goes the man that missed an animal as big as a bullock at ten paces,—more power to his elbow!"

Somehow, that pony, usually so smart and friendly, was in a mood to kick its hooves against every stone and act stubborn all the way home; at least that’s how I felt, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I spurred him or yanked the curb rein over the slightest excuse. My family, like all Indians, understood the situation completely and walked along without making any comments. We passed under the same banian tree and near the disgusting little black statue mentioned at the start of the story, and I had never felt more angry at all forms of idolatry or more ready to break a Hindu god. We also had to walk by a small village in the jungle, and it seemed like everyone—men, women, and children—was there to stare at us. Several of them, who recognized some in my group, asked a quick question, and even though I wouldn’t look, I could hear the response: “Had a shot, but missed.” “Yes,” I said to myself, “that's true—why should I be upset?” “Here goes the guy who missed a target as big as a bull at ten paces—more power to him!”

The tent gained, I was soon lying on my back on the bed kicking out my heels, calling for breakfast, and appearing to be very hungry, or very sleepy, or very any thing but what I was—mortified and disgusted. Breakfast over, my good old Shikaree was sent for, and the whole affair gone over again. The rain, the unexpected time of night, and above all, the two first shots snicking, and the third hanging fire being considered, we two being judge and jury, it was decided that not the slightest blame attached to the defendant, who was too well known as a very fine shot to regard a mistake of this kind; and, moreover, that as it was certain that the tiger was not hurt, but only frightened, there was strong reason for hoping that he would return at nightfall to the carcass. Men were therefore sent out to watch that the place should not in any way be disturbed, or the dead cow touched or moved, and I resigned myself to a pleasant sleep. I awoke about three in the afternoon; the guns had, thanks to a good Shikaree, been washed, dried, and slightly oiled, and were all laid on the table, looking as if a month of rain would not make them miss fire. A bath, clean clothes, guns loaded, pony saddled—and once more off to try my luck.

The tent up, I was soon lying on my back on the bed, kicking my heels, calling for breakfast, and looking like I was very hungry, very sleepy, or anything but what I really was—mortified and disgusted. After breakfast, my trusty Shikaree was called in, and we went over the whole situation again. Considering the rain, the unexpected time of night, and especially the first two shots not hitting and the third one misfiring, we acted as judge and jury and decided that there was absolutely no blame on the shooter, who was well-known as an excellent marksman to let a mistake like this bother him; plus, since it was clear the tiger wasn't hurt but just scared, there was a good chance it would come back at night to the carcass. So, men were sent out to make sure the area wasn't disturbed and that the dead cow wasn't touched or moved, while I settled in for a nice sleep. I woke up around three in the afternoon; thanks to a good Shikaree, the guns had been washed, dried, and lightly oiled, and were all laid out on the table, looking like they could withstand a month of rain without misfiring. I had a bath, put on clean clothes, loaded the guns, saddled my pony—and once again set out to try my luck.

The pony was active and cheerful, and even the beastly image under the banian-tree did not look so grim. On our arrival at the ground, the half-wild fellows who had watched all day, dropped down from their trees, and reported that nothing had happened during the day, and that the place had been undisturbed. A few vultures appeared about midday and settled on the carcass, but had been driven off; further they had nothing to say.

The pony was lively and happy, and even the scary sight under the banyan tree didn't seem so bleak. When we arrived at the site, the half-wild guys who had been watching all day dropped down from their trees and reported that nothing had happened and that the area had been untouched. A few vultures showed up around noon and landed on the carcass but were driven away; other than that, they had nothing else to report.

They were referred to the tent for payment for their day's work, and, in due course, took their departure with my people.

They were directed to the tent to get paid for their day's work and eventually left with my people.

Once more left alone!—this time quite alone, for my poor companion of last night lay stiff and stark in the position I saw her fall, when the tiger relinquished his hold.

Once again, I was left alone!—this time completely alone, because my unfortunate companion from last night lay lifeless in the position where I saw her fall when the tiger released his grip.

Alarmed by the already slightly smelling carrion, or finding water elsewhere, left by the down-pour of last night, no peaceful or other living thing paid me a visit, if I except some few crows, who with heavy wings swept past, or perched on neighboring trees, cawing, and winking their eyes, and peering cautiously and inquisitively at the dead[Pg 115] cow. Only one among the crew hovered and lighted on the dead beast's head; but although he made several picks at the lips and eyes, opening and shutting his wings the while on his strong, sleek, wiry-looking body, and cawing lustily, nobody heeded him; so, appearing to be alarmed at being solus in the scene, he took his departure.

Alarmed by the already faint smell of decay or finding water from last night’s downpour elsewhere, no peaceful or other living thing came to visit me, except for a few crows. They flew by with heavy wings, either sweeping past or perching on nearby trees, cawing, blinking their eyes, and cautiously checking out the dead[Pg 115] cow. Only one of the crew hovered and landed on the dead animal’s head; but despite pecking at the lips and eyes while flapping his strong, sleek wings, no one paid him any attention. Feeling alone in the scene, he eventually flew away.

Night succeeded day, and the moon, in unclouded beauty, made the dark jungle a fairy scene. There was but one drawback; the cow lay dead, the tiger had been fired at, and experience whispered, 'the opportunity has gone by.'

Night followed day, and the moon, shining brightly, turned the dark jungle into a magical scene. There was just one downside; the cow lay dead, the tiger had been shot at, and experience murmured, 'the chance has passed.'

By-and-by a jackal passed, like a shadow among the bushes, so small-looking, so much the color of all around, that it remained a doubt; more of these passed to and fro, and then a bolder ventured on the plain sand, and up to the rump of the dead beast, took two or three hard tugging bites, and was gone. As the night grew later, they became less fearful, and half-a-dozen of them together were tugging and tearing, till breaking the entrails, the gas escaped in a loud rumbling, which dispersed my friends among the bushes in a moment; but they were almost immediately back, and the confidence with which they went to work, convinced me that my hope was hopeless.

Soon, a jackal passed by, like a shadow among the bushes, so small and blending in with the surroundings that it was hard to tell. More of them came and went, and then one bolder jackal stepped onto the open sand and approached the carcass, taking two or three hard bites before disappearing. As the night wore on, they became less afraid, and soon a group of about six was tugging and tearing at the remains. When they broke the entrails, a loud rumbling noise escaped, which sent my friends scattering into the bushes for a moment. But they quickly returned, and the confidence with which they resumed their feast made me realize that my hopes were in vain.

It must have been eleven o'clock when my ears caught the echo among the rocks, and then the distant roar—nearer—nearer—nearer; and—oh, joy!—answered. Tiger and tigress!—above all hope!—coming to recompense me for hundreds of night-watchings—to balance a long account of weary nights in the silent jungle, in platforms on trees, in huts of leaf and bramble, and in damp pits on the water's edge—all bootless;—coming—coming—nearer, and nearer.

It must have been eleven o'clock when I heard the echo among the rocks, and then the distant roar—getting closer—closer—closer; and—oh, joy!—it responded. A tiger and tigress!—beyond all hope!—coming to reward me for countless nights spent awake—to settle a long debt of exhausting nights in the quiet jungle, on tree platforms, in huts made of leaves and twigs, and in damp pits by the water's edge—all useless;—coming—coming—closer and closer.

Music nor words, dear reader, can stand me in any stead to convey the sound to you; the first note like the trumpet of a peacock, and the rest the deepest toned thunder. Stones and gravel rattled just behind the hut on the path by which we came and went, and a heavy stey passed and descended the slope into the nullah. I heard the sand crunching under his weight before I dared look. A little peep. Oh, heavens! looming in the moonlight, there he stood, long, sleek as satin, and lashing his tail—he stood stationary, smelling the slaughtered cow. No longer the cautious, creeping tiger, I felt how awful a brute he was to offend. I remembered how he had worried a strong cow in half a minute, and that with his weight alone my poor rickety little citadel would fall to pieces. As if the excitement of the moment was insufficient, the monster, gazing down the dry watercourse, caught sight of his companion, who, advancing up the bed of the nullah, stood irresolutely about twenty yards off. A terrific growl from him, answered not loud but deeply, and I was the strange and unsuspected witness to a catawauling which defies description—a monstrous burlesque on those concerts of tigers in miniature which are occasionally got up, on a cold, clear night, in some of the squares in London, when all the cats for half a mile around get by some queer accident into one area.

Music and words, dear reader, can't really help me convey the sound to you; the first note was like the trumpet of a peacock, and the rest was the deepest-toned thunder. Stones and gravel rattled just behind the hut on the path we took, and a heavy steer passed and went down the slope into the dry streambed. I heard the sand crunching under his weight before I dared to look. A quick glance. Oh my! There in the moonlight stood a long, sleek figure like satin, lashing its tail—stationary, sniffing the slaughtered cow. No longer the cautious, creeping tiger, I realized how terrifying a beast he was to provoke. I remembered how he had dismantled a strong cow in under a minute, and that with his weight alone, my poor rickety little fort would crumble. As if the moment wasn't tense enough, the monster, looking down the dry watercourse, spotted his companion, who, moving up the bed of the stream, stood uncertainly about twenty yards away. A terrifying growl from him replied—not loud but deep—and I became a strange, unsuspected witness to a howling that defies description—a grotesque parody of those miniature tiger concerts that occasionally take place on cold, clear nights in some London squares, when all the cats for half a mile end up in one yard by some odd accident.

Whether it is an axiom among tigers that possession is nine points of the law, or the other monster was the weaker vessel, I know not, but I soon perceived that as my friend made more noise, the other became more subdued, and finally left the field, and retired growling among the bushes. The bully, who was evidently the male, after smelling at the head, came round the carcass, making a sort of complacent purring—"humming a kind of animal song," and to it he went tooth and nail. As he stood with his two fore feet on the haunch, while he tugged and tore out a beef-steak, I once more grasped old "Sam Nock," and ran the muzzle out of the little port. The white linen band marked a line behind his shoulders, and rather low, but, from the continued motion of his body, it was some moments before eye and finger agreed to pull trigger—bang! A shower of sand rattled on the dry leaves, and a roar of rage and pain satisfied me, even before the white smoke which hung in the still air had cleared away, to show the huge monster writhing and plunging where he had fallen. Either directed by the fire, or by some slight noise made in the agitation of the moment, he saw me, and with a hideous yell, scrambled up: the roaring thunder of his voice filled the valley, and the echoes among the hills answered it, with the hootings of tribes of monkeys, who, scared out of sleep, sought the highest branches, at the sound of the well-known voice of the tyrant of the jungle. I immediately perceived, to my great joy, that his hind-quarters were paralyzed and useless, and that all danger was out of the question. He sank down again on his elbows, and as he rested his now powerless limbs, I saw the blood welling out of a wound in the loins, as it shone in the moonlight, and trickled off his sleek-painted hide, like globules of quicksilver. As I looked into his countenance, I saw all the devil alive there. The will remained—the power only had gone. It was a sight never to be forgotten. With head raised to the full stretch of his neck, he glared at me with an expression of such malignity, that it almost made one quail. I thought of the native superstition of singing off the whiskers of the newly-killed tiger to lay his spirit, and no longer wondered at it. With ears back, and mouth bleeding, he growled and roared in fitful uncertainty, as if he were trying, but unable, to measure the extent of the force that had laid him low.

Whether it’s a common belief among tigers that possession is nine points of the law, or that the other creature was the weaker one, I’m not sure, but I quickly noticed that as my friend made more noise, the other became more subdued and eventually left the area, retreating with deep growls into the bushes. The bully, clearly the male, sniffed at the head before circling the carcass, making a sort of satisfied purring—like “humming an animal song”—before attacking it with full force. As he stood with his front paws on the haunch while he lunged and tore out a piece of meat, I once again grabbed old "Sam Nock" and aimed the muzzle out of the small opening. The white linen band marked a line behind his shoulders, low down, but with his constant movement, it took a moment for my eye and finger to agree to pull the trigger—bang! A shower of sand hit the dry leaves, and a roar of rage and pain satisfied me even before the white smoke that hung in the still air cleared away enough to reveal the huge beast writhing and thrashing where he had fallen. Either guided by the gunfire, or by some small noise from the commotion, he spotted me, and with a terrifying yell, he scrambled up: the booming roar of his voice echoed through the valley, and the sounds reverberated among the hills with the alarmed calls of sleeping monkeys that sought refuge in the highest branches at the sound of the jungle tyrant’s well-known voice. To my great relief, I noticed that his back legs were paralyzed and useless, rendering him no longer a threat. He collapsed back onto his elbows, and as he rested his now powerless limbs, I saw blood oozing from a wound in his lower back, shining in the moonlight and trickling off his sleek, painted hide like beads of mercury. As I looked at his face, I could see all the rage alive in him. The will was still there—the power had simply vanished. It was an unforgettable sight. With his head stretched high, he glared at me with such malice that it almost made me flinch. I recalled the local superstition of singing off the whiskers of a newly-killed tiger to calm its spirit and no longer wondered about it. With his ears back and bleeding mouth, he growled and roared in fits of uncertain rage, as if he were attempting but failing to gauge the strength that had brought him down.

Motionless myself, provocation ceased, and without further attempt to get on his legs, he continued to gaze on me; when I slowly lowered my head to the sight, and again pulled trigger. This time, true to the mark, the[Pg 116] ball entered just above the breast-bone, and the smoke cleared off with his death groan. There he lay, foot to foot with his victim of last night, motionless—dead. My first impulse was to tear down the door behind, and get a thorough view of his proportions; but remembering that his companion, the tigress, had only vanished a short time ago close to the scene of action, I thought it as well to remain where I was; so, enlarging the windows with my hands, I took a long look, and then jovially attacked the coffee and brandy bottles, without reference to noise, and fell back on the mattress to sleep, or to think the night's work over. "At last, I have got him: his skin will be pegged out to-morrow, drying before the tent door." When my people came in the morning, they found me seated on the dead tiger. Coolies were sent for to carry the beast, and I gave the pony his reins all the way back to the tent.

Motionless, I stopped provoking him, and without trying to get up, he just kept staring at me. I slowly lowered my head to aim and pulled the trigger again. This time, I hit the target; the bullet struck just above the breastbone, and the smoke cleared with his dying groan. There he lay, facing his victim from the night before, motionless—dead. My first instinct was to rush out the back door and get a good look at him, but remembering that his companion, the tigress, had only just disappeared nearby, I decided it was safer to stay put. So, I widened the windows with my hands, took a long look, and then happily dug into the coffee and brandy bottles, making no effort to be quiet, before collapsing onto the mattress to either sleep or reflect on the night’s events. “At last, I've got him: his skin will be stretched out tomorrow, drying in front of the tent.” When my crew arrived in the morning, they found me sitting on the dead tiger. I called for coolies to carry the beast, and I handed the reins of the pony all the way back to the tent.

After breakfast, the sound of tomtoms and barbarous music greeted our ears; for the Gooroo and half the little village had turned out, and were bringing in the tiger like an Irish funeral. I had a chair brought out, and under the shade of a fine tree superintended the skinning of the tiger; and as I had had no sleep for the last two nights, I determined to make holiday. Dined at half-past six, and had a bottle of Frederick Giesler, and the fumes of his glorious champagne inspired me: "The first rainy day, I will put last night's adventure on paper, and send it home to my old friend Regina."

After breakfast, the sound of drums and loud music filled the air; the Gooroo and half the small village had shown up, bringing in the tiger like an Irish funeral. I had a chair brought outside, and in the shade of a beautiful tree, I oversaw the skinning of the tiger. Since I hadn’t slept for the past two nights, I decided to take a break. I had dinner at six-thirty and enjoyed a bottle of Frederick Giesler, and the aroma of his amazing champagne inspired me: "On the first rainy day, I'll write about last night's adventure and send it back to my old friend Regina."

From Bentley's Miscellany.

A VISIT TO THE "MAID OF ATHENS."

BY MRS. BUXTON WHALLEY.

"Buon giorno, signora! Vi è veramente una bella città! Mà, dov' è la Fenice?" Such was the morning salutation of the Venetian captain in command of the Austrian Loyd steamer which had conveyed us up the Gulf of Corinth, as he pointed derisively to a collection of huts about a stone's throw from the shore, and wondered what could induce any one, voluntarily, to abandon his "sea Cybele" for such as these! So few were they in number, and so small in size, that they had hitherto eluded our notice; nevertheless, they constituted, insignificant as they appeared, the town of Lutraki. The captain's interruption, awakening us from a dream of "Gods and god-like men," was as disagreeable as all such interruptions must be, alike indicating ignorance, and that want of sympathy, which is its natural result. But to the English traveller, who now scarcely dares to hope to find a spot left on Europe where he may look on Nature, unseared by cockneyfied sights and sounds, it ought not to form a very serious subject for complaint. To such an one, sick of Italian cities, where his countrymen assemble but to parade their ennui and their vices, as of German steamboats, on the decks of which they listlessly throng, dividing their glances pretty equally between castles and cutlets—a rock and a ragout—how invigorating is the first sight of Greece, in all its primitive and majestically tranquil simplicity! And what a strangely felicitous epithet does that seem of "voiceless" bestowed by Byron on those shores where nothing is heard, save occasionally the plaintive cry of a sea-gull, and the very gentlest murmur from the waves. There, may be observed in perfection the truth of Chateaubriand's remark, that, "le paysage n'est creé que par le soleil; c' est la lumière qui fait le paysage."

Good morning, madam! It truly is a beautiful city! But where is the Phoenix? This was the morning greeting from the Venetian captain in charge of the Austrian Loyd steamer that had taken us up the Gulf of Corinth, as he mockingly pointed to a cluster of huts not far from the shore, wondering what could possibly make someone willingly leave his "sea Cybele" for such a place! There were so few of them, and so small in size, that they had previously escaped our notice; yet, they made up, insignificant as they seemed, the town of Lutraki. The captain's interruption, pulling us from a dream of "Gods and god-like men," was as unpleasant as all such interruptions must be, revealing both ignorance and that lack of sympathy that naturally follows. However, for the English traveler, who now hardly dares to hope to find any spot left in Europe where he can enjoy Nature unspoiled by urban sights and sounds, it shouldn’t be a serious cause for complaint. For someone weary of Italian cities, where his compatriots gather just to showcase their boredom and their vices, or of German steamboats, where they lazily occupy the decks, equally dividing their attention between castles and cutlets—a rock and a ragout—how refreshing is the first glimpse of Greece, in all its primitive and majestically calm simplicity! And what an oddly fitting term "voiceless" seems, as used by Byron for those shores where you hear nothing except occasionally the mournful cry of a seagull and the softest murmur of the waves. There, one can perfectly observe the truth of Chateaubriand's remark that, "le paysage n'est creé que par le soleil; c' est la lumière qui fait le paysage."

However, our present purpose is to narrate a short episode in modern Athenian life, rather than to dwell on scenes with which genius even can but imperfectly familiarize the world, either by pen or pencil.

However, our current goal is to tell a brief story about modern Athenian life, rather than focus on scenes that even great talent can only partially convey to the world, whether through writing or art.

Near the solitary palm-tree, which grows in the middle of the highway affecting to communicate [11] between Athens and the Piræus, a polygonal structure has been built, which is entered through a dark, narrow passage leading from the road in front to a yard at its rear. A ladder fixed against the wall forms the usual mode of ingress to a very small room, which on a certain carnival night, not long ago, was crowded by hats, cloaks, and Greeks, both male and female; the former busily occupied in smoking, the latter in concocting some indescribable liquid intended as a light refreshment to wearied dancers. For the Maid of Athens—the quondam Mariana Macri—the actual Mrs. Black, was about to give a ball. From the before-mentioned small entrance-room the guests passed into the principal saloon, exactly coinciding in its strange shape with the exterior of the house. At the upper end an open door revealed a bed, on which shortly afterwards the orchestra, consisting of two fiddlers, took up their position, with knees protruding into the ball-room.

Near the solitary palm tree that stands in the middle of the highway connecting Athens and Piraeus, there’s a polygonal building that you enter through a dark, narrow passage leading from the road to a yard in the back. A ladder resting against the wall serves as the usual way to enter a very small room, which on a recent carnival night was packed with hats, cloaks, and Greeks, both men and women; the men were busy smoking, while the women mixed up some mysterious drink meant to refresh tired dancers. The Maid of Athens—the former Mariana Macri—now Mrs. Black, was about to host a ball. From the aforementioned small entrance room, guests moved into the main hall, which had a peculiar shape that matched the outside of the building. At the far end, an open door showed a bed, where shortly after the orchestra, made up of two fiddlers, set up, their knees sticking out into the dance floor.

Every thing was of the rudest, the most unadorned, and Robinson Crusoe-like, description. At the first glance it became evident that the "geraniums and Grecian balms," which an enthusiastic traveller once endeavored to magnify into "waving aromatic plants," had long ago withered from the hostess's possession, never to be replaced. But she, the fairest flower of all, with her two sisters, still retain no inconsiderable remnants of beauty; which is the more remarkable in a country where good looks vanish, and age arrives, so speedily. Indeed, good looks at all are rare among the continental Greek women; the celebrated beauties being usually islanders, and chiefly Hydriotes. Mrs. Black was attired in her coquettish native costume, consisting of a red fez, profusely ornamented with gold embroidery, placed on[Pg 117] one side of the head; a long flowing silk petticoat, and a close-fitting, dark velvet jacket. A similar dress was worn by her sister, Madame Pittakis, the wife of the celebrated antiquary, and guardian of the Acropolis; in virtue of which magnificent title he receives two drachmæ (about 1s. 7d.) per head for admission to the Parthenon. The third Grace, being a widow, was dressed entirely in black. The company comprised a motley assemblage in Frank, and the varying provincial Greek costumes, diversified here and there by personages in King Otho's uniform. But the dancers of the beau sexe were extremely few, and, to say the least of them, very indifferent performers. However, what they needed in skill and energy, was amply made up by the vivacity of their graceful and vainglorious lords; who, despite the clouds of dust from the dirty floor, and equally dirty shoes, continued an almost ceaseless round of their national dance, the Romaïka, only pausing at intervals to recruit their strength with glasses of burning rakee, the beverage most in demand. Those bowls of Samian wine which figure so charmingly in poetry, form, alas! but sorry items in prosaic matter-of-fact repasts; and one feels, indeed, disposed to dash them any where but down one's throat. Of the dancers, one of the most active was Mrs. Black's son, a handsome youth, apparently about eighteen years of age; together with her husband, who, from being a Norfolk farmer, is now elevated to the somewhat anomalous position of English Professor at the Athenian University. The fair Mariana herself is quiet and retiring; and seemingly little anxious to profit by the factitious interest with which Byron's transient admiration continues to invest her; for, in reply that night to a blundering Englishman's point blank queries concerning the poet, she answered, "Non mi ricordo più di lui."

Everything was very plain and simple, reminiscent of Robinson Crusoe. At first glance, it was clear that the "geraniums and Grecian balms," which an enthusiastic traveler once tried to elevate to "waving aromatic plants," had withered long ago from the hostess's collection, never to be replaced. But she, the most beautiful of all, along with her two sisters, still had a considerable amount of beauty left; this is particularly notable in a country where good looks fade quickly and aging sets in fast. In fact, attractive women are quite rare among continental Greek women; the renowned beauties are mostly from the islands, especially from Hydra. Mrs. Black was dressed in her charming native costume, which included a red fez richly decorated with gold embroidery, worn to one side of her head; a long, flowing silk petticoat; and a form-fitting dark velvet jacket. Her sister, Madame Pittakis, the wife of a famous antiquarian and guardian of the Acropolis, wore a similar outfit. Thanks to this impressive title, he receives two drachmas (about 1 shilling and 7 pence) per person for admission to the Parthenon. The third sister, a widow, was completely dressed in black. The gathering was a mix of different styles, including Frankish and various provincial Greek costumes, with a few people in King Otho's uniform. However, there were very few female dancers, and those that performed were, to put it mildly, quite mediocre. Yet, what they lacked in skill and energy was more than compensated by the liveliness of their graceful and prideful male counterparts, who, despite the clouds of dust from the dirty floor and their equally dirty shoes, kept performing their national dance, the Romaïka, almost continuously, pausing only occasionally to recharge with glasses of fiery rakı, the most popular drink. Those bowls of Samian wine that look so appealing in poetry, unfortunately, are quite disappointing in real-life meals, leading one to want to throw them anywhere but down one's throat. One of the most energetic dancers was Mrs. Black's son, a handsome young man of about eighteen, alongside her husband, who, having been a farmer from Norfolk, now held the somewhat unusual position of English Professor at the University of Athens. The lovely Mariana herself was quiet and reserved, seemingly uninterested in taking advantage of the fame bestowed upon her by Byron's fleeting admiration; in response to a clumsy Englishman's direct questions about the poet that night, she replied, "Non mi ricordo più di lui."

Soon after midnight the guests departed, at the imminent hazard of breaking their necks, either down Mrs. Black's ladder, or in the numerous holes that intervened between her residence and their respective abodes. But we could not help thinking, that, uncouth as had been the entertainment, it was more in accordance with the social position of a people whose Ministers are not always competent to read or write, and whose legislators occasionally enforce their political arguments by flinging their shoes in the faces of the opposition, than the exotic civilization of the gaudy little court, presided over by that loveliest of royal ladies, Queen Amalia.

Soon after midnight, the guests left, risking serious injury, either by falling down Mrs. Black's ladder or tripping in the many holes between her home and theirs. Yet, we couldn't help but think that, despite the awkward nature of the event, it seemed more fitting for a society whose leaders sometimes struggle to read or write, and whose lawmakers occasionally resort to throwing shoes at their opponents, than for the flashy culture of the vibrant little court led by the beautiful Queen Amalia.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] At the period of which I write, this road, although the principal approach to the capital, was impassable, and passengers pursued, instead, a devious and uncertain track through corn-fields, ditches, and the rocky bed of the Cyphissus.

[11] At the time I'm describing, this road, even though it was the main route to the capital, was unusable, and travelers took a complicated and unreliable path through cornfields, ditches, and the rocky creek bed of the Cyphissus.

From the French of Eugene de Mirecourt,

THE HISTORY OF A ROSE

The gallery parallel to the course of the Seine, and which joins the Palace of the Tuileries to the Louvre, was designed by Philibert de l'Orme, and finished towards the end of 1663. On the 15th of January, 1664, Louis the Fourteenth descended into the vast greenhouses, where his gardener, Le Nôtre, had collected from all parts of the world the rarest and most beautiful plants and flowers.

The gallery next to the Seine River, connecting the Tuileries Palace to the Louvre, was created by Philibert de l'Orme and completed around the end of 1663. On January 15, 1664, Louis XIV went down into the large greenhouses, where his gardener, Le Nôtre, had gathered the rarest and most beautiful plants and flowers from around the world.

The air was soft and balmy as that of spring-time in the south. At the right of the great monarch stood Colbert, silently revolving gigantic projects of state; at the left was Lauzun, that ambitious courtier, who, not possessing sufficient tact to discern royal hatred under the mask of court favor, was afterwards destined to expiate, at Pignerol, the crime of being more amiable and handsomer than the king.

The air was warm and pleasant like a spring day in the south. To the right of the great king stood Colbert, quietly contemplating massive state projects; to the left was Lauzun, the ambitious courtier, who, lacking the subtlety to see the king's hidden disdain behind the guise of court favor, was later doomed to suffer at Pignerol for being more charming and better looking than the king.

"Messieurs," said Louis, showing to his companions a long and richly-laden avenue of orange trees, "are not these a noble present from our ancient enemy, Philip the Fourth, now our father-in-law? He has rifled his own gardens to deck the Tuileries; and the Infanta, we hope, when walking beneath these trees, will cease to regret the shade of the Escurial."

"Guys," said Louis, pointing out a long and beautifully stocked row of orange trees to his friends, "isn't this a generous gift from our former enemy, Philip the Fourth, who is now our father-in-law? He has picked his own gardens to beautify the Tuileries; and we hope the Infanta, while walking under these trees, will stop missing the shade of the Escurial."

"Sire," said Colbert gravely, "the Queen mourns a much greater loss—that of your majesty's affections."

"Sire," Colbert said seriously, "the Queen mourns a much greater loss—that of your majesty's love."

"Parbleu!" exclaimed Lauzun, gayly; "in order to lose any thing, one must first have possessed it. Now, if I don't mistake,—"

"Good grief!" exclaimed Lauzun, cheerfully; "to lose something, you first have to own it. Now, if I’m not mistaken,—"

"Silence! M. le Duc. M. de Colbert, my marriage was the work of Mazarin—quite sufficient to guarantee that the heart was not consulted."

"Quiet! Mr. Duke. Mr. Colbert, my marriage was arranged by Mazarin—totally enough to ensure that the heart had no say in it."

The minister bowed, without replying.

The minister bowed, silent.

"As to you, M. de Lauzun," continued the king, "beware, henceforward, how you forget that Maria Theresa is Queen of France, and that the nature of our feelings towards her is not to be made a subject of discussion."

"As for you, M. de Lauzun," the king continued, "be careful from now on not to forget that Maria Theresa is the Queen of France, and that our feelings towards her are not open for discussion."

"Sire, forgive my—"

"Sir, forgive my—"

"Enough!" interrupted Louis, approaching a man, who, unmindful of the king's presence, had taken off his coat, in order the more easily to prune a tall flowering shrub.

"Enough!" interrupted Louis, walking up to a man who, unaware of the king's presence, had taken off his coat to prune a tall flowering shrub more easily.

This was the celebrated gardener, Le Nôtre. Absorbed in some unpleasant train of thought, he had not heeded the approach of visitors, and continued to mutter and grumble to himself, while diligently using the pruning-knife.

This was the famous gardener, Le Nôtre. Lost in some unpleasant thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the visitors arriving and kept muttering and grumbling to himself while working hard with the pruning knife.

"What! out of humor?" asked Louis.

"What! Feeling sad?" asked Louis.

Without resuming his coat, the gardener cried eagerly—"Sire, justice! This morning, the Queen Dowager's maids of honor came hither, and, in spite of my remonstrances, did an infinity of mischief. See this American magnolia, the only one your Majesty possesses. Well, Sire, they cut off its finest blossoms: neither oranges nor roses could escape them. Happily I succeeded in hiding from them my favorite child—my beautiful rose-tree, which I have nursed with so much care, and which will live for fifty years, provided care be taken not to allow it to produce more than one rose in the season." Then pointing to the plant of which he spoke, Le Nôtre continued: "'Tis the hundred-leaved rose, Sire! Hitherto I[Pg 118] have saved it from pillage; but I protest, if such conduct can be renewed.

Without putting on his coat, the gardener exclaimed eagerly, "Your Majesty, justice! This morning, the maids of honor of the Queen Dowager came here, and despite my objections, caused an immense amount of damage. Look at this American magnolia, the only one you own. Well, Your Majesty, they cut off its most beautiful blossoms; not even the oranges or roses were safe from them. Thankfully, I managed to hide my favorite—my beautiful rose tree, which I've cared for so much, and which can live for fifty years, as long as no more than one rose is allowed to bloom each season." Then pointing to the plant he was talking about, Le Nôtre continued, "This is the hundred-leaved rose, Your Majesty! So far, I have managed to protect it from destruction; but I swear, if this behavior continues..."

"Come, come!" interposed the monarch, "we must not be too hard on young girls. They are like butterflies, and love flowers."

"Come on!" interrupted the king, "we shouldn't be too hard on young girls. They’re like butterflies, and they love flowers."

"Morbleu! Sire, butterflies don't break boughs, and eat oranges!"

"Darn! Sir, butterflies don't break branches and eat oranges!"

Louis deigned to smile at this repartee. "Tell us," he said, "who were the culprits?"

Louis smiled at the witty response. "Come on," he said, "who were the guilty ones?"

"All the ladies, Sire! Yet, no. I am wrong. There was one young creature, as fresh and lovely as this very rose, who did not imitate her companions. The poor child even tried to comfort me, while the others were tearing my flowers: they called her Louise."

"All the ladies, Sir! But no, I'm mistaken. There was one young woman, as vibrant and beautiful as this very rose, who didn't follow her friends. The poor girl even tried to comfort me while the others were ruining my flowers; they called her Louise."

"It was Mademoiselle de la Vallière," said Lauzun, "the young person whom your Majesty remarked yesterday in attendance on Madame Henriette."

"It was Mademoiselle de la Vallière," Lauzun said, "the young lady your Majesty noticed yesterday accompanying Madame Henriette."

"She shall have her reward," said Louis. "Let Mademoiselle de la Vallière be the only maid of honor invited to the ball to be given here to-night."

"She will get her reward," said Louis. "Let Mademoiselle de la Vallière be the only maid of honor invited to the ball happening here tonight."

"A ball! Ah, my poor flowers!" cried Le Nôtre, clasping his hands in despair.

"A ball! Oh no, my poor flowers!" cried Le Nôtre, clasping his hands in despair.

Colbert ventured to remind his Majesty that he had promised to give an audience that evening to two architects, Claude Perrault and Liberal Bruant; of whom, the first was to bring designs for the Observatory; the second, a plan for the Hôtel des Invalides.

Colbert reminded His Majesty that he had promised to meet with two architects that evening, Claude Perrault and Liberal Bruant. The first was supposed to present designs for the Observatory, while the second had a plan for the Hôtel des Invalides.

"Receive these gentlemen yourself," replied the king; "while we are dancing, M. de Colbert will labor for our glory; posterity will never be the wiser! Only, in order to decorate these bare walls, have the goodness to send to the manufactory of the Gobelins, which you have just established, for some of the beautiful tapestry you praise so highly."

"Take care of these gentlemen yourself," said the king; "while we are dancing, M. de Colbert will work for our glory; future generations will never know! Just to brighten these plain walls, please send to the Gobelins factory you just set up for some of that beautiful tapestry you talk about so much."

Accordingly, to the utter despair of Le Nôtre, the ball took place in the greenhouses, metamorphosed, as if by magic, into a vast gallery, illumined by a thousand lustres, sparkling amid flowers and precious stones. Each fragrant orange-tree bore wax-lights amid its branches, and many lovely faces gleamed amongst the flowery thickets; while bright eyes watched the footsteps of the mighty master of the revel. The cutting north-east wind blew outside; poor wretches shivered on the pavement; but what did that matter while the court danced and laughed amid trees and flowers, and breathed the soft sweet summer air?

Accordingly, to the complete dismay of Le Nôtre, the ball was held in the greenhouses, transformed, like magic, into a huge gallery, lit by a thousand chandeliers, sparkling among flowers and jewels. Each fragrant orange tree had candles nestled in its branches, and many beautiful faces shone amidst the floral thickets; while bright eyes followed the steps of the great master of the festivities. The cold northeast wind howled outside; poor souls shivered on the pavement; but who cared while the court danced and laughed among the trees and flowers, enjoying the soft, sweet summer air?

Maria Theresa did not mingle in the scene. Timid and retiring, the young Queen fled from the noisy gayety of the court, and usually remained with her aunt, the Queen Mother. On this occasion, therefore, the ball was presided over by Madame Henriette, and by Olympia Mancini, Countess of Soissons. The gentle La Vallière kept, modestly, in the background, until espied by the King, beneath the magnolia, which her companions had so recklessly despoiled of its flowers, and which had cost them exclusion from the fête.

Maria Theresa didn’t get involved in the scene. Shy and reserved, the young Queen would escape from the loud festivities of the court and typically stayed with her aunt, the Queen Mother. So, on this occasion, the ball was hosted by Madame Henriette and Olympia Mancini, Countess of Soissons. The gentle La Vallière stayed modestly in the background until the King noticed her beneath the magnolia tree, which her friends had carelessly stripped of its flowers, leading to their exclusion from the fête.

The next moment the hand of Louise trembled in that of her sovereign; for Louis the Fourteenth had chosen the maid of honor for his partner in the dance. At the close of the evening, Le Nôtre, who had received private orders, brought forward his favorite rose-tree, transplanted into a richly-gilded vase. The poor man looked like a criminal approaching the place of execution. He laid the flower on a raised step near the throne; and on the front of its vase every one read the words which had formerly set Olympus in a flame—"To the most beautiful!"

The next moment, Louise's hand shook in her sovereign's grasp; Louis the Fourteenth had picked the maid of honor as his dance partner. At the end of the evening, Le Nôtre, who had received special instructions, brought out his favorite rosebush, moved into a lavishly gilded vase. The poor man looked like a criminal heading to execution. He placed the flower on a raised step near the throne; and on the front of its vase, everyone read the words that had once set Olympus ablaze—"To the most beautiful!"

Many rival belles grew pale when they heard the Duc de Lauzun ordered by Louis to convey the precious rose-tree into the apartment of Mademoiselle de la Vallière. But Le Nôtre rejoiced, for the fair one gave him leave to come each day and attend to the welfare of his beloved flower.

Many rival beauties turned pale when they heard that the Duc de Lauzun was ordered by Louis to bring the precious rose-tree into Mademoiselle de la Vallière's room. But Le Nôtre was delighted, as the lovely lady allowed him to come every day and take care of his cherished flower.

The rose-tree soon became to the favorite a mysterious talisman by which she estimated the constancy of Louis the Fourteenth. She watched with anxiety all its changes of vegetation, trembling at the fall of a leaf, and weeping whenever a new bud failed to replace a withered blossom. Louise had yielded her erring heart to the dreams of love, not to the visions of ambition. "Tender, and ashamed of being so," as Madame de Sevigné has described her, the young girl mourned for her fault at the foot of the altar. Remorse punished her for her happiness; and more than once has the priest, who read first mass at the chapel of Versailles, turned at the sound of stifled sobs proceeding from the royal recess, and seen there a closely-veiled kneeling figure.

The rose tree quickly became a mysterious symbol for her to gauge King Louis the Fourteenth's loyalty. She anxiously observed all its changes, flinching at the drop of a leaf and crying whenever a new bud failed to replace a faded flower. Louise had surrendered her wayward heart to dreams of love, not ambitions. "Tender, and ashamed of being so," as Madame de Sevigné described her, the young girl mourned her mistakes at the altar. Guilt punished her for her joy; and more than once, the priest who led the first mass at the Versailles chapel turned at the sound of muffled sobs coming from the royal area, finding a kneeling figure hidden beneath a thick veil.

The fallen angel still remembered heaven.

Thus passed ten years. At their end, the rose-tree might be seen placed on a magnificent stand in the Palace of St. Germain; but despite of Le Nôtre's constant care, the flower bent sadly on its blighted stem. Near it the Duchess de la Vallière (for so she had just been created) was weeping bitterly. Her most intimate friend, Françoise Athenaïs de Montemar, Comtesse de Montespan, entered, and exclaimed, "What, weeping, Louise! Has not the King just given you the tabouret as a fresh proof of his love?"

Thus ten years went by. At the end of that time, the rosebush could be seen displayed on a grand stand in the Palace of St. Germain; but despite Le Nôtre's constant care, the flower drooped sadly on its damaged stem. Nearby, the Duchess de la Vallière (as she had just been named) wept bitterly. Her closest friend, Françoise Athenaïs de Montemar, Comtesse de Montespan, entered and exclaimed, "What, crying, Louise! Hasn't the King just given you the tabouret as a new sign of his love?"

Without replying, La Vallière pointed to her rose.

Without saying a word, La Vallière pointed to her rose.

"What an absurd superstition!" cried Madame de Montespan, seating herself near her friend. "'Tis really childish to fancy that the affections of a Monarch should follow the destiny of a flower. Come, child," she continued, playfully slapping the fair mourner's hands with her fan, "you know you are always adorable, and why should you not be always adored!"

"What an absurd superstition!" cried Madame de Montespan, sitting down next to her friend. "It's really childish to think that a king's feelings can be influenced by the fate of a flower. Come on, sweetie," she continued, playfully smacking the pretty mourner's hands with her fan, "you know you're always adorable, so why shouldn't you always be adored!"

"Because another has had the art to supplant me."

"Because someone else has managed to take my place."

Athenaïs bit her lip. Louise had at length discovered that her pretended friend was seeking to undermine her. On the previous[Pg 119] evening the King had conversed for a long time with Madame de Montespan in the Queen's apartments. He had greatly enjoyed her clever mimicry of certain court personages; and when La Vallière had ventured to reproach him tenderly, he had replied—

Athenaïs bit her lip. Louise had finally realized that her false friend was trying to sabotage her. The night before, the King had talked for a long time with Madame de Montespan in the Queen's rooms. He had really enjoyed her clever impersonations of certain people at court; and when La Vallière had dared to gently reproach him, he had replied—

"Louise, you are silly; your rose-tree speaks untruly when it calumniates me."

"Louise, you're being silly; your rose tree is lying when it slanders me."

None but Athenaïs, to whom alone it had been confided, could have betrayed the secret. And now, at the entrance of her rival, la Vallière hastened to dry up her tears, but not so speedily as to prevent the other from perceiving them. Her feigned caresses, and ill-disguised tone of triumph, provoked Louise to let her see that she discerned her treachery. But Athenaïs pretended not to feel the shaft.

None but Athenaïs, to whom it had been entrusted, could have revealed the secret. And now, as her rival entered, la Vallière quickly tried to dry her tears, but not fast enough to keep the other from noticing them. Her fake affection and barely concealed tone of triumph triggered Louise to show that she recognized Athenaïs's betrayal. But Athenaïs pretended not to notice the sting.

"Supplant you, dear Louise!" she said in a tone of surprise; "it would be difficult to do that, I should think, when the King is wholly devoted to you!"

"Replace you, dear Louise!" she exclaimed, sounding surprised. "I would think that would be hard to do when the King is completely devoted to you!"

Rising with a careless air, she approached the rose-tree, drew from her glove an almost invisible phial, and, with a rapid gesture, poured on its footstalk the corrosive liquid which the tiny flask contained.

Rising nonchalantly, she walked over to the rose tree, pulled out an almost invisible vial from her glove, and with a quick motion, poured the corrosive liquid from the tiny flask onto its stem.

This was the third time that Madame de Montespan had practised this unworthy manœuvre, unknown to the sorrowful favorite, who, as her insidious rival well knew, would believe the infidelity of the King, only on the testimony of his precious gift.

This was the third time that Madame de Montespan had used this unworthy trick, without the sad favorite knowing, who, as her sneaky rival well understood, would only believe the King's betrayal based on the evidence of his cherished gift.

Next morning, Le Nôtre found the rose-tree quite dead. The poor old man loved it as if it had been his child, and his eyes were filled with tears as he carried it to its mistress.

The next morning, Le Nôtre found the rose bush completely dead. The poor old man loved it as if it were his own child, and his eyes filled with tears as he took it to its owner.

Then Louise felt, indeed, that no hope remained. Pale and trembling, she took a pair of scissors, cut off the withered blossom, and placed it under a crystal vase. Afterwards she prayed to Heaven for strength to fulfil the resolution she had made.

Then Louise felt that no hope was left. Pale and shaking, she took a pair of scissors, cut off the wilted flower, and placed it under a crystal vase. After that, she prayed to Heaven for the strength to carry out the decision she had made.

The age of Louis the Fourteenth passed away, with its glory and with its crimes. France had now reached that disastrous epoch, when famine and pestilence mowed down the peaceful inhabitants, and Marlborough and Prince Eugene cut the royal army to pieces on the frontiers.

The era of Louis the Fourteenth came to an end, taking with it both its glory and its wrongdoings. France had now entered a devastating time, when famine and disease decimated the peaceful population, while Marlborough and Prince Eugene defeated the royal army at the borders.

One day, the death-bell tolled from a convent tower in the Rue St. Jacques, and two long files of female Carmelites bore, to her last dwelling, one of the sisters of their strict and silent order. When the last offices were finished, and all the nuns had retired to their cells, an old man came and knelt beside the quiet grave. His trembling hand raised a crystal vase which had been placed on the stone; he took from beneath it a withered rose, which he pressed to his lips, and murmured, in a voice broken by sobs:—

One day, the death bell rang from a convent tower on Rue St. Jacques, and two long lines of female Carmelites carried one of their sisters, from their strict and silent order, to her final resting place. After the last rites were completed and all the nuns had gone back to their cells, an old man arrived and knelt beside the serene grave. His shaking hand lifted a crystal vase that had been set on the stone; he retrieved a dried rose from underneath it, pressed it to his lips, and whispered, his voice choked with tears:—

"Poor heart! Poor flower!"

The old man was Le Nôtre; and the Carmelite nun, buried that morning, was Sister Louise de la Miséricorde, formerly Duchesse de la Vallière.

The old man was Le Nôtre; and the Carmelite nun, buried that morning, was Sister Louise de la Miséricorde, formerly the Duchess de la Vallière.

From the London Times

THE STORY OF STUART OF DUNLEATH.[12]

The story is truthful, plaintive, and full of beauty. At a very early age Eleanor Raymond loses her father, who has held a high appointment in India, and news of his death is brought while she is still a child to her mother's house in England. The bearer of the sad intelligence is David Stuart, of Dunleath, the penniless representative of a ruined Scottish house. David had been secretary to Sir John Raymond, whose eyes he had closed, and he comes to the widow recommended to her sisterly love, and the appointed guardian of her youthful daughter. Lady Raymond, it must be added, had been previously married, and is the mother of a burly sailor, promoted by Sir John's interest, and at sea at the time of his stepfather's death. We need not stay to dwell upon the feeble helplessness, physical and mental, of her Ladyship, or to contrast it with the overbearing disposition of her son, whose strong attachment to his mother is the redeeming feature of his character. The young ex-secretary and present guardian proceeds to the fulfilment of his duty, as it seems, with a conscientious mind. His ward is an heiress, and will be surrounded with trials of many kinds. She is fair to behold, ingenuous, trustful, is neglected by her surviving parent,—less from want of affection than from lack of interest—who, then, so suited for monitor and instructor both, as the highly-disciplined and well-informed Stuart himself? David has been a great traveller, has read much, and observed more. His intellect is commanding, and he is noble in form. He notes the quickness of his ward, is captivated by her girlish enthusiasm and untiring zeal. He will engage no masters when he can teach so accurately himself. She requires no instructors but the master from whom she learns so willingly and so well. Perilous devotion of a teacher (it may be of twenty) with so fond a pupil, though her years number but ten! What man of twenty-eight ever thought himself old in the presence of a maiden of eighteen? What girl of eighteen ever deemed herself too young to be wooed and won by a man of twenty-eight? For eight years guardian and ward live under one roof, partaking of the same influences, the same pleasures, the same daily occupations, and divided from all around them by the superiority of their own minds and the congeniality of their pursuits. Pity the poor country girl in constant presence of that cultivated intellect, fine understanding, and beaming countenance, never weary of smiling on her life. What wonder that as the flower expands in beauty it gradually unfolds to blissful consciousness? Eleanor secretly loves her guardian, and glories in the passion. He is poor, but she is rich beyond her wishes, did her[Pg 120] wishes comprehend aught else but the desire to make him happy. Dunleath has passed from David Stuart's family. Eleanor has listened a thousand times to her guardian's fond regrets for his lost inheritance, and to the descriptions of that once happy home, the memory of which Stuart carries about with him to darken his best and brightest hours. What privilege to restore the coveted possession to its natural owner, and to enrich herself by parting with the gift! What happiness for the wife of David Stuart to bring back the smile to his cheek, and to purchase a joy for him for ever! Sweet dreamer! She dreams on, until reality begins. Her education ends. She goes at the instance of her mother and half-brother to London. She takes up her abode with a friend of her guardian's, the Lady Margaret Fordyce, and enters upon London life. Lady Margaret is a widow, young, benevolent, and beautiful. The fame of Eleanor's wealth is soon known to fortune-hunters, and suitors crowd about her. One, Sir Stephen Penrhyn, a coarse, sensual, and brutal personage, captivated by her beauty, and sufficiently wealthy himself, proposes in proper form. Godfrey, the half-brother, explains to David Stuart that Eleanor's family approve the match, and require his formal consent to the union. Stuart sends for Eleanor. He points out to her the advantages of the marriage and the wishes of her friends. The child trembles. She cannot marry, she hurriedly says, a man whom she does not love, and moreover she has seen another whom she prefers. Stuart has only one question to ask. "Is that other rich?" "He has no more," replies Eleanor, "than my father bequeathed to you." Stuart's heart beats guiltily as she speaks of her father's bounty, and, with a meaning which the girl fails to interpret, he anxiously bids her mention the favored man's name. The effort is too intense—her heart is nigh to bursting—she faints, and her mother enters her apartment to find her senseless in the arms of her tutor. The last object Eleanor beholds from her window that night, is David Stuart, looking up, with folded arms, to her room.

The story is honest, emotional, and beautifully written. When Eleanor Raymond is just a child, she loses her father, who held a significant position in India. The news of his death reaches her mother's home in England while she is still young. The bearer of this sad news is David Stuart from Dunleath, the broke representative of a fallen Scottish family. David had been the secretary to Sir John Raymond, whose eyes he closed, and he comes recommended by her sisterly love to be the appointed guardian of Eleanor. It's worth noting that Lady Raymond was previously married and is the mother of a burly sailor who was promoted through Sir John's influence and was at sea when his stepfather died. We won't dwell on Lady Raymond's physical and mental frailty or contrast it with her son's overbearing nature, whose strong attachment to her is the redeeming aspect of his character. The young ex-secretary and current guardian approaches his duty with a conscientious mindset. His ward is an heiress and will face many challenges. She is lovely, innocent, and trusting, but her surviving parent neglects her—not out of lack of affection but from disinterest. Who better to guide and teach her than the highly-disciplined and well-informed Stuart? David is an experienced traveler with a wealth of knowledge. His intellect is sharp, and he has a noble appearance. He observes his ward's quickness and is charmed by her youthful enthusiasm and relentless energy. He won't hire any teachers when he can instruct her so effectively himself. She needs no instructors except for the master from whom she learns so eagerly and well. It's a risky devotion for a teacher (even one of twenty) to be so close to such a fond pupil, even if she is only ten! What man at twenty-eight ever thought of himself as old when around an eighteen-year-old? What eighteen-year-old girl ever thought herself too young to be pursued by a twenty-eight-year-old man? For eight years, guardian and ward live together, sharing the same influences, joys, daily routines, and separated from everyone else by their superior intellect and shared interests. Pity the poor country girl constantly in the presence of such a refined intellect, keen understanding, and warm smile, never tiring of brightening her life. It's no wonder that as the flower blooms in beauty, it gradually becomes aware of its joyful existence. Eleanor secretly loves her guardian and revels in her feelings. Though he is poor, she is richer than she ever imagined, if her wishes could comprehend anything beyond the desire to make him happy. Dunleath is no longer owned by David Stuart's family. Eleanor has heard a thousand times her guardian's fond regrets about his lost inheritance and his descriptions of that once-happy home, memories that darken his brightest hours. What a privilege it would be to restore that coveted home to its rightful owner and enrich herself by giving it away! What joy it would bring to David Stuart's wife to restore the smile to his face and provide him with everlasting happiness! Sweet dreamer! She continues dreaming until reality sets in. Her education ends, and at the urging of her mother and half-brother, she travels to London. She moves in with a friend of her guardian's, Lady Margaret Fordyce, and steps into city life. Lady Margaret is a young, kind, and beautiful widow. News of Eleanor's wealth quickly reaches fortune-seekers, and suitors begin to swarm around her. One of them, Sir Stephen Penrhyn—a coarse, selfish, and brutish man—who is drawn to her beauty and has enough wealth proposes formally. Godfrey, the half-brother, tells David Stuart that Eleanor's family supports the match and requires his official consent. Stuart calls for Eleanor and points out the marriage's advantages and her family's wishes. The girl trembles. She insists she can't marry a man she doesn't love and, besides, she has someone else in mind. Stuart has only one question: "Is that other guy rich?" "He has no more," says Eleanor, "than what my father left you." Stuart feels a guilty pang as she mentions her father's generosity and, with a significance that the girl doesn't grasp, he urgently asks her to name the favored man. The effort is too much—her heart is about to burst—she faints, and her mother enters her room to find her unconscious in her tutor's arms. The last thing Eleanor sees from her window that night is David Stuart, looking up at her room with crossed arms.

She rises the next morning to find that Stuart has suddenly quitted the house, having left a sealed letter for her perusal. She reads it. The whole brilliant fabric of her girlhood tumbles down to earth long before she reaches its close. David Stuart loves her not. He is ignorant of her strong affection. He has dissipated her whole vast fortune. With the hope of realizing a sum sufficient to win back Dunleath, he has been tempted to speculations which have beggared his confiding ward. He recommends marriage with Sir Stephen Penrhyn, and takes leave of her for ever, for he has resolved upon self-murder. He asks her to approach the adjacent river on some day of peace and sunshine hereafter—the river which they have so often visited together in sunshine before—to breathe out forgiveness for him there, if she will, and then to forget him. A search is made near the spot indicated. A torn handkerchief hangs on one of the leafless branches; the river is dragged, but the body is not found. Eleanor knows David Stuart is dead, and the knowledge gives color and shape to her remaining days.

She wakes up the next morning to find that Stuart has suddenly left the house, leaving behind a sealed letter for her to read. She opens it. The entire dream of her youth comes crashing down long before she finishes reading. David Stuart does not love her. He is unaware of her deep feelings. He has squandered her entire fortune. In hopes of raising enough money to reclaim Dunleath, he has been lured into risky investments that have left his trusting ward financially ruined. He suggests she marry Sir Stephen Penrhyn and bids her farewell forever, as he has decided to take his own life. He asks her to visit the nearby river on a peaceful, sunny day in the future—the river they often enjoyed together—to forgive him there, if she can, and then to forget him. A search is conducted near the designated spot. A torn handkerchief hangs from one of the bare branches; they drag the river, but no body is found. Eleanor knows David Stuart is dead, and that knowledge shapes her remaining days.

Ruin has overtaken the family of Eleanor Raymond, but Sir Stephen Penrhyn is still content with his bargain. He proposed for the person, not for the fortune of Eleanor, and he will take her, beggared as she is. Eleanor's mother needs a home. To give her a sanctuary, Eleanor consents to become Lady Penrhyn. What blessing can attend the union? She gives birth to twins, one a sickly boy, the other ruddy, strong, and full of health. They grow up to become the mother's last and best consolation, and then she loses both by a violent death at one and the same moment. Sir Stephen has a remedy for parental sorrow, which but increases the great woe of Eleanor. What need to refer to it? Eleanor passes the lodge gate on her estate one day to be made aware of her husband's gross infidelity, and to behold living evidences of his guilt. Is her cup of sorrow full? Not yet. She utters no complaint, but bears her yoke of suffering meekly and resignedly, waiting patiently and beseechingly, rather than with murmurs, for the hour of dismissal. Light, however, is to gleam upon the checkered path before the journey closes. Another eight years may have elapsed since David Stuart took his last leave of Eleanor, and a stranger presents himself with unexpected news. Sir Stephen is from home, and a traveller has arrived at his house, with a letter from a distant country. Wondrous disclosure! Stuart lives! Mercifully saved on the night on which he attempted suicide, he proceeded to America, where by dint of years of steady exertion and co-operation with the authors of his former great calamity he contrived to re-establish the affairs of the bankrupt house with which he had connected himself, and to recover the whole of Eleanor's sacrificed patrimony. The bearer of the letter, Mr. Stuart's confidential agent, is authorized to restore her fortune, and to communicate all particulars respecting his past history. Oh, to see the man who had lately seen him living and safe in far off America! She hurries to meet him, and grasps the hand of—David Stuart. When Sir Stephen comes home, at Mr. Stuart's earnest request and against the wish of Eleanor, the guardian is introduced as Mr. Lindsay. "Nothing," he says, "is to be gained by self-betrayal," the more especially as he intends shortly to return to his adopted home. But before Stuart can make up his mind to departure, he is made aware, first of a circumstance which it is much to be wondered has never occurred to him before, viz.: the former perfect uncalculating devotion of his ward;[Pg 121] and then of the more poignant fact that misery, suffering, insult, and cruelty had attended her whole married life. Intolerable injury reaches its height! Sir Stephen brings his bastards into his house, and commands his wife to show them respect. Wild with sorrow and indignation, she is advised by Stuart of Dunleath to leave her home, to go to London, to seek a lawyer of eminence, and to sue for a divorce. That obtained, then will come, after much delay, that "happier future," of which the counsellor dares not trust himself to speak. The resolve is taken, the journey is made. But time brings reflection, and reflection, reason. It is not her husband's sin that took her from his roof, but the visionary sin of her own love; it was "the desire to swear at the altar of God to be true to David Stuart till death, that prompted her to plan her breaking of her first vow." She will not undo that vow to indulge her own undying love. Still urged by David Stuart to the act, she resists the great temptation, and retires meekly into solitude, to pay the full penalty of her submission to the call of virtue. To return to the pollution of her husband's house is not to be thought of. To partake of sin with David Stuart is a suggestion not more to be tolerated in her pure and agitated soul.

Ruin has taken over Eleanor Raymond's family, but Sir Stephen Penrhyn is still satisfied with his deal. He proposed to Eleanor for who she is, not for her wealth, and he will take her, even though she's destitute. Eleanor's mother needs a home, so Eleanor agrees to become Lady Penrhyn to provide her with a sanctuary. What blessing can come from this union? She gives birth to twins, one a frail boy, the other healthy, strong, and full of life. They grow up to be her mother's last and greatest comfort, only for Eleanor to lose both suddenly in a tragic accident. Sir Stephen believes he has a solution for parental grief, which only deepens Eleanor's immense sorrow. What is there to say? One day, while passing the lodge gate on her estate, Eleanor learns of her husband's blatant infidelity and sees clear proof of his betrayal. Is her sorrow complete? Not yet. She says nothing, but bears her suffering quietly and patiently, waiting humbly for the moment she can be free. However, light will shine on her troubled path before her journey ends. Eight years may have passed since David Stuart last said goodbye to Eleanor, and a stranger arrives with unexpected news. Sir Stephen is away, and a traveler has come to his house with a letter from a far-off place. What a revelation! Stuart is alive! He was rescued from the night he tried to take his own life and went to America, where, through years of hard work and helping those who caused his earlier downfall, he managed to restore the business he was once part of and recover all of Eleanor's lost inheritance. The messenger, Mr. Stuart's trusted agent, is authorized to return her fortune and share his past experiences. Oh, to finally see the man who last saw him alive and well in distant America! She rushes to meet him and takes the hand of—David Stuart. When Sir Stephen returns, at Mr. Stuart's strong suggestion and against Eleanor's wishes, he introduces the guardian as Mr. Lindsay. "Nothing," he says, "is worth betraying yourself," especially since he is planning to go back to his new home soon. But before Stuart can decide to leave, he realizes something he should have understood long ago: the unreserved devotion Eleanor had for him and the painful truth that her entire married life has been filled with misery, suffering, insults, and cruelty. The unbearable betrayal reaches its peak! Sir Stephen brings his illegitimate children into their home and demands that Eleanor treat them with respect. Overwhelmed with grief and anger, she is advised by Stuart of Dunleath to leave, move to London, find a good lawyer, and file for divorce. Once that's done, they can hope for a "happier future," though the advisor hesitates to elaborate. The decision is made, and she embarks on the journey. But time leads to reflection, and reflection leads to reason. It's not her husband's sins that pushed her away from their home, but her imagined betrayal of her own love; it was the "desire to promise at the altar of God to be faithful to David Stuart until death" that motivated her to consider breaking her first vow. She will not break that promise to indulge her unending love. Still pressured by David Stuart to take action, she resists the powerful temptation and retreats into solitude to fully accept the consequences of her commitment to virtue. Returning to her husband's tainted house is unthinkable. Participating in sin with David Stuart is a thought she cannot entertain in her pure and troubled soul.

One other drop, and the cup is full indeed. We have spoken of Lady Margaret Fordyce, but we have thought it unnecessary to mingle the history of that admirable person with the main current of our narrative. Lady Margaret, as we have said, is an old friend of Mr. David Stuart. She has taken a sisterly interest in the career of Eleanor, but has never ascertained from her the secret of her early and pure affection for her guardian. Inheriting a goodly fortune, the first care of Lady Margaret is to purchase the estate of Dunleath. She is not long mistress of it before the recovered property is in the hands of the man who, in his youth, became a criminal in order to possess it. David Stuart marries Lady Margaret Fordyce. Eleanor receives the intelligence while she is languishing abroad under the care of her foster-brother and his wife. The news goes silently to her heart as a lancet might travel thither, giving no external indication of the mortal wound inflicted. But the blood flows unseen within, and life stops, as it needs must, from the cruel laceration. Eleanor dies—still without a murmur. She had borne daily outrage from her husband, and confined the knowledge of her wrongs to her own bosom. She owed her sufferings to the first great fault of her guardian, yet she would never listen to one unkind word against his memory when she deemed him lost, and her love for him suffered no tarnish at any time for his offence. Shall she complain now that he is happy, and is master of Dunleath? She dies indeed broken-hearted, but good, gentle, uncomplaining, and forgiving, to the last.

One more drop, and the cup is truly full. We've talked about Lady Margaret Fordyce, but we thought it best not to mix her story with our main narrative. As mentioned, Lady Margaret is an old friend of Mr. David Stuart. She has taken a sisterly interest in Eleanor's life but has never learned from her the secret behind her deep and pure love for her guardian. After inheriting a nice fortune, Lady Margaret's first priority is to buy the estate of Dunleath. It doesn't take long for her to become the mistress of the property, which then falls into the hands of the man who committed a crime in his youth to acquire it. David Stuart marries Lady Margaret Fordyce. Eleanor hears the news while she is weak and unwell abroad, cared for by her foster-brother and his wife. The news sinks silently into her heart like a knife, leaving no outward sign of the deep wound inflicted. But the pain flows unseen inside her, and life inevitably fades from the cruel injury. Eleanor dies—still without a sound. She endured daily mistreatment from her husband and kept the knowledge of her suffering to herself. She attributed her pain to the major mistake her guardian made, yet she never allowed herself to hear a single harsh word against his memory, even when she thought he was gone, and her love for him was never tarnished by his wrongdoing. Should she now complain that he is happy and the master of Dunleath? She indeed dies heartbroken, but she remains good, gentle, uncomplaining, and forgiving until the end.

The characters that move in the various scenes that make up this melancholy play are sketched out with a skilful and well disciplined hand, and are creditable to the authoress's creative powers. Great knowledge of human nature is indicated throughout the work. There is nothing overdrawn; the plot is natural, and the style fluent and poetical.

The characters that appear in the different scenes of this sad play are crafted with skill and precision, showcasing the authoress's creative talent. The work reflects a deep understanding of human nature. Nothing feels exaggerated; the plot is realistic, and the writing is smooth and poetic.

A word or two are necessary before we close, with reference to one remarkable phenomenon in connection with a leading personage in the drama. By a singular coincidence, not only Mrs. Norton, but every person in the book, is in perfect ignorance of a fact that is present to our mind almost from the first page to the last. David Stuart, of Dunleath, we grieve to say, is not only a very selfish gentleman, but a most accomplished rascal, yet not a human creature, but the reader and ourselves, has the least idea of it. Just look at him! Appointed the guardian of a helpless girl, he makes away with her fortune in a fruitless endeavor to enrich himself. He hears from the maiden's own lips that her heart is irrevocably bestowed upon a man whom she adores, yet he coolly recommends her to form an alliance with a brute for whom she cares nothing at all, in order that she may recover the wealth of which he, the adviser, has deliberately robbed her. Returning to England, and taking up his residence with the husband of his ward, he places the poor girl in a cruelly false position, and all but blasts her reputation, by compelling her to keep a secret, the communicating which could at the worst only occasion him a very trifling inconvenience. Quitting the husband's house, and learning quite soon enough for the lady's happiness that he had been the object of Eleanor's early choice, he advises an action for divorce, promising his hand in the event of a triumphant verdict. Finding the wife more honest than himself, he smothers his affection and looks elsewhere for crumbs of comfort. He finds them at the table of Lady Margaret Fordyce, whom he condescendingly weds, because, we are compelled to suppose, she has Dunleath to throw into the bargain. That Stuart is unnaturally described we will not say; but that Mrs. Norton should be so profoundly ignorant of his faults—should take such pains to hold him up as a high-minded gentleman—that Lady Margaret should imagine him a paragon of perfection and positively adore him—that her brother, the Duke of Lanark, should be "fond of him,"—and that an incalculable amount of respect and love should be thrown away by all parties concerned upon so worthless an object is, we must confess, somewhat disgusting in an age when even the highest merit fails too often of securing its deserts. One good action alone saves David Stuart from utter detestation. He recovered and restored the fortune of Eleanor Raymond—but many a transported forger has been capable of heroism as lofty, with incitements to honesty about as pure.

A word or two are needed before we wrap up, regarding one remarkable occurrence related to a key character in the story. Strangely enough, not only Mrs. Norton, but everyone in the book, is completely unaware of a fact that has been clear to us from nearly the first page to the last. David Stuart, of Dunleath, sadly, is not just a very selfish man, but also a skilled scoundrel, and yet not a single person in the book, except for the reader and ourselves, has the slightest clue. Just take a look at him! Appointed as the guardian of a vulnerable girl, he squanders her fortune in a futile attempt to enrich himself. He hears from the girl herself that her heart is permanently given to a man she loves, yet he casually suggests she marry a brute she feels nothing for, just so she can reclaim the wealth he has deliberately stolen from her. When he returns to England and moves in with his ward's husband, he puts the poor girl in an incredibly unfair situation and nearly ruins her reputation by forcing her to keep a secret, the revelation of which would cause him hardly any trouble at all. After leaving the husband’s house, he finds out—just in time to ruin the lady's happiness—that he was the object of Eleanor's first love. He suggests a divorce, promising his hand in marriage if he wins. When he finds the wife to be more honest than himself, he buries his feelings and seeks comfort elsewhere. He finds it with Lady Margaret Fordyce, whom he condescendingly marries, presumably because she brings Dunleath to the table. We won’t claim that Stuart is described unnaturally, but it is rather shocking that Mrs. Norton is so incredibly unaware of his flaws, that she goes to great lengths to present him as a noble gentleman—that Lady Margaret should think of him as perfect and actually adore him—that her brother, the Duke of Lanark, should be "fond of him," and that so much respect and affection should be wasted on such a worthless person is, we must admit, quite off-putting in a time when even the highest merit often fails to receive its due recognition. One good deed alone saves David Stuart from total loathing. He recovered and returned Eleanor Raymond's fortune—but many a transported criminal has displayed just as much heroism, with motives for honesty that are just as questionable.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] Stuart of Dunleath: by Mrs. Norton. New-York, Harpers, 1851.

[12] Stuart of Dunleath: by Mrs. Norton. New York, Harpers, 1851.

[Pg 122]

Authors and Books.

The student of classic mythology, who loves with Hammer Purgstall and Kreutzer to dive into the oriental depths of ancient myths, will welcome the recent appearance of a work by Ludwig Mercklin, entitled Die Talos-Sage, und das Sardonische Lachen. The story of Talus, and the Sardonic Laughter—a contribution to the history of Grecian legend and art—St. Petersburg and Leipsic, 1851. In this work we learn that the Cretan Talus was beyond doubt the Phœnician sun-god, and that he was identical with the Athenian of the same name. The Cretan Talus, according to the mythological account, was a brazen image, which Vulcan gave to Minos, or Jupiter to Europa. He defended the island by heating himself in the fire and embracing his enemies. More literal commentators have attempted to prove that Talus was a brazen statue or beacon, like the Colossus of Rhodes, placed by the Phœnicians on the Cretan promontory. The Athenian Talus, inventor of the compass and saw, was slain by his uncle Dædalus, who was envious of his talent. The gods changed him to a partridge. After identifying the twain, Mercklin attempts to prove that the elements of this myth are to be sought in the ancient dogmas of lustration, and that they may be still further referred to the worship of Apollo. In connection with this Talus legend, he closely scrutinizes the account of the so called Sardonic laughter, and its relation to the same religious rites. "In conclusion, he discusses those ancient works of art which illustrate this subject, namely, the medals of Phaistos and the celebrated vase of Ruvo, of which he gives a new, and on the whole certainly correct account." In connection with this work we may notice another which appeared in April, entitled Bellerophon, by Herman Alex. Fischer. From the subject we infer that this Fischer is identical with Vischer who published three years ago one of the best Æsthetics on philosophies of art, ever written even in Germany. We are told in a short notice, that the author attempts, by a study of the myth of Bellerophon and those works of art relating to it, including the etymological signification of the name, to establish the identity of Bellerophon with the sun-god. Φοντης is by him derived or varied from Θαντης and Βελλερο, explained as identical with ἡελιος, ελη, σελας, and σεληνη.

The student of classic mythology, who enjoys exploring the eastern roots of ancient myths alongside Hammer Purgstall and Kreutzer, will appreciate the recent release of a work by Ludwig Mercklin, titled Die Talos-Sage, und das Sardonische Lachen. This story of Talus and the Sardonic Laughter contributes to the history of Greek legend and art—St. Petersburg and Leipzig, 1851. In this work, we learn that the Cretan Talus was undoubtedly the Phoenician sun-god and that he was the same as the Athenian of the same name. According to the mythical account, the Cretan Talus was a bronze statue given to Minos by Vulcan or to Europa by Jupiter. He defended the island by heating himself in fire and embracing his enemies. More literal commentators have tried to prove that Talus was a bronze statue or beacon, like the Colossus of Rhodes, placed on the Cretan promontory by the Phoenicians. The Athenian Talus, inventor of the compass and saw, was killed by his uncle Dædalus, who was jealous of his skills. The gods transformed him into a partridge. After identifying them, Mercklin aims to show that the elements of this myth stem from ancient purification rituals and can also be linked to the worship of Apollo. In connection with the Talus legend, he closely examines the account of the so-called Sardonic laughter and its connection to these religious rites. "In conclusion, he discusses the ancient works of art related to this subject, namely the medals of Phaistos and the famous vase of Ruvo, which he presents with a new and overall certainly correct account." Alongside this work, we might note another that appeared in April, titled Bellerophon, by Herman Alex Fischer. From the topic, we can infer that this Fischer is the same as Vischer, who published one of the best Æsthetics on art philosophy ever written in Germany three years ago. A brief notice tells us that the author attempts, through a study of the myth of Bellerophon and related artworks, including the etymological meaning of the name, to establish the identity of Bellerophon with the sun-god. Φοντης is derived or varied from Θαντης and Βελλερο, explained as identical with ἡελιος, ελη, σελας, and σεληνη.

Some anonymous scribbler in Berlin has recently put forth a treatise on free trade, entitled Tempus omnia revelat: of which a reviewer, in conjecturing the cause of its publication, remarks, that "as it treats generally of every thing else besides free trade, it is probable that the Free Trade Union have not deemed it worth while to hear him through."

Some anonymous writer in Berlin has recently published a paper on free trade, titled Tempus omnia revelat: a reviewer, speculating about the reason for its release, comments that "since it covers pretty much everything except free trade, it's likely that the Free Trade Union didn’t think it was worth listening to him."

Among the more recent curiosities of German medical literature, we find that Jos. Heinrich Beisen of Quedlinburg, has written a work on homœpathy as applicable to the diseases of swine. J. Hoppe of Magdeburg, has set forth another, entitled Linen and cotton Garments considered in a medical light, which is highly recommended by a competent judge. C. Gerold, of Vienna, publishes for the Count (and physician—we know not which is the more honorable title)—Von Feuchtersleben, a singular book, entitled Zur Diätetik der Seele, Valere aude! which is not, however, as one might infer from the title, a theory of the method whereby the health of the soul itself may be preserved; but the art of regulating our physical well being by a correct management and strengthening of our mental powers. Count Feuchtersleben had already attained a reputation as a writer, and the work referred to, though in many particulars superficial, is not without merit. Last and least, Dr. Gideon Brecher, hospital physician at Pressnitz, publishes through Asher & Co., in Berlin, an octavo on Transcendental Magic, and the supernatural methods of curing Disease, as given in the Talmud, in which he enters largely into Theo-Dæmon and Angelology; as well as dreams, visions, biblical seraphims, cosmic and magic influences of the soul, with a scattering fire of amulets, spells and charms. We congratulate the medical faculty on this important addition to the literature of the healing art.

Among the more recent curiosities in German medical literature, we find that Jos. Heinrich Beisen of Quedlinburg has written a work on homeopathy related to pig diseases. J. Hoppe of Magdeburg has also put out a book titled Linen and Cotton Garments Considered in a Medical Light, which comes highly recommended by an expert. C. Gerold of Vienna is publishing for Count (and physician—we're not sure which title is more honorable)—Von Feuchtersleben, a unique book titled Zur Diätetik der Seele, Valere aude!, which is not, as one might think from the title, a theory on preserving the health of the soul itself, but rather the skill of managing our physical well-being through the proper management and strengthening of our mental powers. Count Feuchtersleben had already gained recognition as a writer, and this work, although somewhat superficial in parts, is not without value. Last and least, Dr. Gideon Brecher, a hospital physician in Pressnitz, is publishing through Asher & Co. in Berlin an octavo on Transcendental Magic and the Supernatural Methods of Curing Disease as Given in the Talmud, where he delves into Theo-Dæmon and Angelology, as well as dreams, visions, biblical seraphim, cosmic and magical influences on the soul, with a sprinkling of amulets, spells, and charms. We congratulate the medical community on this significant addition to the healing arts literature.

No department of ancient art is more interesting, or indeed more necessary to the student, than that relating to theatres and other aids to the practical illustration of dramatic art. No characteristic of modern continental life, is so striking to the traveller as the earnestness with which the opera is discussed by all classes, and its powerful influence upon social life in nearly every relation. But even the earnest attention which is directed at the present day in Naples or Vienna to some new incarnation of the all governing spirit of amusement, is nothing when compared with the same as it existed among the ancients, to whom it was literally life. 'Panem et circenses'—bread and the public games—with these the Roman citizen of the later empire, like the modern lazzarone, with his maccaroni and San Carlino, could dream away life and be happy. Mindful of the importance of this branch of ancient art in its manifold relations, Fried. Wieseler has recently set forth a book,[13] declared by competent authority to be the best in the world on this subject. He has chosen judiciously from the immense mass of material extant; and according to the[Pg 123] prescribed limits conveyed all the information possible. "The first part of the work embraces a series of well executed plans and outlines of ancient theatres, of different countries and ages, with every requisite detail, followed by engravings and descriptions of every particular pertaining to the representation of plays. This is succeeded by an admirable collection of masks, scenes, figures and costumes, illustrative not only of the ancient drama, but also of its subdivisions of comedy, tragedy, the satyr-drama and the Italian phylace, with singing and music. The illustrations are admirably accurate—more particularly the colored plates of the Cyrenæan wall paintings, and the mosaics of the Vatican, by which the rare and costly work of Milli is rendered unnecessary." More than one eminent German authority speaks in terms of high praise, of the accuracy and unwearied erudition which characterize the accompanying test.

No area of ancient art is more interesting or essential for students than the study of theaters and other aspects that practically demonstrate dramatic art. Nothing stands out more to modern travelers than the passion with which people of all backgrounds discuss opera and its significant impact on social life in almost every aspect. Even the intense focus today in cities like Naples or Vienna on a new expression of amusement doesn't compare to how it was viewed in ancient times, where it was literally life. 'Panem et circenses'—bread and public games—allowed the Roman citizens of the later empire, similar to today’s lazzarone with his maccaroni and San Carlino, to escape from reality and find happiness. Acknowledging the importance of this part of ancient art in its various contexts, Fried. Wieseler has recently published a book,[13] considered by experts to be the best in the world on this topic. He has carefully selected from the vast amount of available material and, within the[Pg 123] specified limits, conveyed as much information as possible. "The first part of the work includes a series of well-executed plans and outlines of ancient theaters from various countries and eras, complete with every necessary detail. This is followed by engravings and descriptions of all elements related to play performances. Next is an excellent collection of masks, scenes, figures, and costumes that illustrate not only ancient drama but also its subdivisions of comedy, tragedy, the satyr-drama, and the Italian phylace, with singing and music. The illustrations are impressively accurate—especially the colored plates of the Cyrenæan wall paintings and the mosaics of the Vatican, making the rare and costly work of Milli unnecessary." More than one respected German authority praises the accuracy and tireless scholarship that define the accompanying text.

The second and third parts of the Holzschnitte Derühmter Meister, or woodcuts of celebrated masters, have made their appearance, containing, 1st. smaller woodcuts by Hans Holbein the younger (A. D., 1498-1554), being selections from the Dance of Death, and the Peasants' and Children's Alphabets; 2d. a large engraving after Michael Wohlzemuth (1434-1519), being the Glorification of Christ, and a Madonna and child of Hans Bürkmayer's; also, from the Dutch school, after Dirk de Bray (ob. 1680), a portrait of the artist's father, and the celebrated engraving of Rembrandt's, known as the philosopher with the hour-glass. For the information of artists we mention that these copies are executed with exquisite accuracy, and that the work, though gotten up in every particular in the most elegant manner, is afforded at a very moderate price.

The second and third parts of the Holzschnitte Derühmter Meister, or woodcuts of celebrated masters, have been released, featuring, 1st. smaller woodcuts by Hans Holbein the Younger (A.D. 1498-1554), including selections from the Dance of Death, and the Peasants' and Children's Alphabets; 2nd. a large engraving after Michael Wohlzemuth (1434-1519), depicting the Glorification of Christ, and a Madonna and child by Hans Bürkmayer; also, from the Dutch school, after Dirk de Bray (died 1680), a portrait of the artist's father, and the famous engraving by Rembrandt known as the philosopher with the hourglass. For artists' information, we note that these copies are produced with exceptional accuracy, and the work, although presented in every detail in a very elegant manner, is offered at a very reasonable price.

Recent German poetry offers little for remark. Tellkampf has published a poem in hexameters in the style of Goethe's Hermann and Dorothea, founded upon an incident in the battle of Leipsic, called Irmengard. It has passed into a second edition. Emil Leonhard, a poet not unknown, has written a poem upon Bürger, whose wild life had already furnished Müller subject for a romance and Mosenthal for a drama, and which is too unpleasant to be made attractive even by the poetic talent of Leonhard. We note, however an interesting work, entitled Prussia's Mirror of Honor, a collection of Prussian national songs, from the earliest period to the year 1840. They have much allusion to old Fritz, and are interesting as an indication of the popular feeling, which is always expressed in such songs, toward that national hero.

Recent German poetry doesn’t have much to offer. Tellkampf has published a poem in hexameters in the style of Goethe's Hermann and Dorothea, based on an incident from the Battle of Leipzig, called Irmengard. It has been released in a second edition. Emil Leonhard, a fairly well-known poet, has written a poem about Bürger, whose tumultuous life has already inspired Müller for a romance and Mosenthal for a drama, and it's too unpleasant to be made appealing even by Leonhard's poetic talent. However, we note an interesting work titled Prussia's Mirror of Honor, a collection of Prussian national songs from the earliest times up to 1840. These songs refer a lot to old Fritz and are notable as an indication of the public sentiment toward that national hero, which is always reflected in such songs.

An interesting contribution to contemporary history is I. Venedy's Schleswig-Holstein in 1850. A diary.

An interesting addition to modern history is I. Venedy's Schleswig-Holstein in 1850. A diary.

Herman Fritsche, of Leipsig, has recently published a work by one Sohnland Schubauer, entitled Consecrated souvenirs of the virtues of our earliest ancestors: Collected with the aid of a Philologist. This book we are told contains (though we should never have inferred it from the title), a collection and explanation of old German proper names, both masculine and feminine. The author in his preface gives it as his opinion that since the introduction of Christianity "a dreadful thousand-year-long night has brooded over Germany, and that the best method of dissipating this darkness, would be to revive the old German proper names!" "The poet discovers the sanctity of these primitive German names in the holy star-night, and he will, the higher these rise to the ideal, find in them a full accord with holy nature." His principal sources are the verbal assertions of Dr. Alex. Vollmer: for example in page 1st, where he questions whether "Anno" signifies a year, and decides that it is originally German, from an, un and unst; to which add a G, whence results Gunst, meaning good fortune, success, or favor!—a bit of ingenuity which reminds us of several scraps of Horne Tooke's comic philology, as well as the glove-maker's motto, Kunst macht Gunst—skill makes (or wins) success. Dr. Vollmer is an amiable and hard-working scholar of immense erudition, and possessed of a boundless enthusiasm on the subject of early German and Gothic dialects. We regret that his learning should be lent to the support of such singular vagaries.

Herman Fritsche, from Leipzig, has recently published a work by one Sohnland Schubauer, titled Consecrated Souvenirs of the Virtues of Our Earliest Ancestors: Collected with the Help of a Philologist. This book reportedly contains (though we wouldn’t have guessed it from the title) a collection and explanation of old German proper names, both male and female. In his preface, the author expresses his belief that since the arrival of Christianity, "a dreadful thousand-year-long night has hung over Germany, and the best way to dispel this darkness would be to revive the old German proper names!" "The poet finds the sanctity of these primitive German names in the holy starry night, and as they rise higher towards the ideal, he will find in them a complete harmony with holy nature." His main sources are the statements of Dr. Alex Vollmer: for example, on the first page, where he questions whether "Year" means a year, and concludes that it is originally German, from an, un, and unst; adding a G results in Gunst, meaning good fortune, success, or favor!—a clever idea that reminds us of several bits of Horne Tooke's humorous philology, as well as the glove-maker's motto, Kunst macht Gunst—skill brings (or wins) success. Dr. Vollmer is a kind and diligent scholar of vast knowledge, with an unending enthusiasm for early German and Gothic dialects. We regret that his learning is being used to support such peculiar ideas.

Carl Gutzkow, who seemed by his first literary failure, the Walley, in 1835, to have sunk irretrievably, but has since risen to a brilliant eminence by the publication of Uriel Akasta, the Zopf und Schwert, and other writings, has recently put forth another, noticed as the Ritter von Geiste. G. Reimer at Berlin, has published the first volume of a second edition of Böckh's inestimable work, Die Staatshaushaltung der Athener—the political economy of the Athenians. Prof. Ant. Gubitz, the celebrated wood engraver, publisher of an annual comic almanac, and in fact the father of all the popular German illustrated almanacs of the present day, has written and published three dramas, entitled The Emperor Henry and his Sons, Sophonisba, and Johann der Ziegler.

Carl Gutzkow, who seemed to have completely fallen off the literary map with his first book, the Walley, in 1835, has since made a remarkable comeback with the publication of Uriel Akasta, Zopf und Schwert, and other works. He has recently released another one called Ritter von Geiste. G. Reimer in Berlin has published the first volume of a second edition of Böckh's invaluable work, Die Staatshaushaltung der Athener—the political economy of the Athenians. Prof. Ant. Gubitz, the well-known wood engraver and publisher of a popular annual comic almanac, considered the father of all modern German illustrated almanacs, has written and published three plays titled The Emperor Henry and his Sons, Sophonisba, and Johann der Ziegler.

Macchiavelli und der Gang der Europäischen Politik (Macchiavelli, and the Course of European Policy), by Theodore Mundt, is the last discussion of the political system of the "Regent of the Devil." The doctrines of The Prince Herr Mundt supposes have influenced the late reactionary events in Germany, and he thinks that work will again be the favorite text-book of despots. His exposition of the character and doctrines of Machiavelli, and his influence on European policy, is an interesting historical study.[Pg 124]

Macchiavelli and the Course of European Politics (Macchiavelli, and the Course of European Policy), by Theodore Mundt, is the final analysis of the political system of the "Regent of the Devil." Herr Mundt suggests that the principles in The Prince have shaped the recent reactionary events in Germany, and he believes that this work will once again become the go-to textbook for despots. His analysis of Machiavelli's character and ideas, along with his impact on European policy, is a fascinating historical study.[Pg 124]

The German press is no less prolific of novels than that of England and America. We observe the last month Stories and Pictures from the Bohemian Forest, by Joseph Rank, a romance of provincial life, not without interest; The Children of God, by Max Ring, a story of the court of Augustus the Strong, and of the origin of the sect of the Herrnhutters. Its sketches of character are called sprightly and successful. The Castle of Ronceaux, from an old manuscript, is an episode from the history of the Huguenot war. A piquant title is that of Madame Ida Von Duringsfeld's book, A Pension (boarding-house) upon the Lake of Geneva, two Romances in one house, which recalls the stories of the Countess Hahn-Hahn before she ceased writing pleasant tales for us, and began histories of religious experience. But with less talent, the present author has more knowledge of men. The book is sent la Politique a little too much. But German ladies who write books love to say a word in them about every thing.

The German press is just as prolific with novels as that of England and America. Last month, we saw Stories and Pictures from the Bohemian Forest by Joseph Rank, a romance about provincial life that has its charms; The Children of God by Max Ring, which tells a tale from the court of Augustus the Strong and the beginnings of the Herrnhutter sect. Its character sketches are described as lively and effective. The Castle of Ronceaux, based on an old manuscript, provides an episode from the Huguenot war. A catchy title is found in Madame Ida Von Duringsfeld book, A Pension (boarding-house) upon the Lake of Geneva, two Romances in one house, which brings to mind the stories of Countess Hahn-Hahn before she stopped writing enjoyable tales for us and switched to stories of religious experiences. However, while the current author may lack talent, she shows a better understanding of people. The book is a bit too political. But German women who write tend to include a bit of commentary on everything.

A Pilgrim and his Companions is still another romance, by Lorenzo Dieffenbach, not of a religions tone, as the title suggests, but purely political. It is a story of the German "March-Days," the days of Revolution. The author is bold and large in thought, but the want of sharp outline in his characters indicates the poor or unpractised artist. The Oath is the appropriately melodramatic title of a romance of the Venetian Inquisition, by David. It is well written, simple and natural. Remarkable qualities with so passionate a theme.

A Pilgrim and his Companions is another romance by Lorenzo Dieffenbach, not religious as the title implies, but purely political. It's a story about the German "March Days," the time of Revolution. The author is bold and broad in his ideas, but the lack of sharp definition in his characters shows he is an inexperienced artist. The Oath is the fittingly dramatic title of a romance set during the Venetian Inquisition, by David. It is well-written, straightforward, and natural—remarkable qualities for such an intense theme.

Ludwig Bauer has published through G. Jonghaus of Darmstadt, a work which reminds us of the Chronica Jocelini de Brakelonda, being the Urkundenbuch des Klosters Arnsburg in d. Wetterau, containing as yet unprinted documents of the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, relating to the history of the monastery. We are happy to observe that notwithstanding the check given to general literature by the recent political troubles in Germany, this department of mediæval antiquity is rapidly advancing. When we remember the immense amount of material as yet unavailable which is still requisite to form an accurate history of the middle ages, with reliable accounts of its varied literature and customs, or when we reflect on the spoil and devastation which every day brings to the ancient hoard, we should feel grateful to those untiring antiquaries, who thus rescue a few literary gems from the flood of time.

Ludwig Bauer has published a work through G. Jonghaus of Darmstadt, which reminds us of the Chronica Jocelini de Brakelonda. It is the Urkundenbuch des Klosters Arnsburg in d. Wetterau, featuring previously unpublished documents from the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries related to the history of the monastery. We’re pleased to see that despite the setback to general literature caused by the recent political issues in Germany, this area of medieval studies is progressing quickly. When we consider the vast amount of material that is still not available, which is necessary to create an accurate history of the Middle Ages, including reliable accounts of its diverse literature and customs, or when we think about the loss and destruction that each day brings to the ancient treasures, we should be thankful to those dedicated researchers who manage to save a few literary gems from the passage of time.

The Manuscripts of Peter Schlemil, naturally awakens attention, but proves to be an extravaganza of Louis Bechstein, humorous and intelligent withal. But the humor is not intelligible, and the intelligence is not humorous, says a sharp reviewer.

The Manuscripts of Peter Schlemil definitely grabs your attention, but turns out to be an extravagant work by Louis Bechstein, both funny and smart at the same time. However, a sharp-witted reviewer notes that the humor isn't understandable, and the intelligence lacks humor.

Prof. O. L. B. Wolff, well known to every amateur German scholar in this country and England, as the publisher of the celebrated Poetischer und Prosaischer Hausschatz, or Poetic and Prosaic Home Treasury, has edited and published by Otto Wigand of Leipsic, that singular romance of Caspar von Grimmelshausen, first printed in 1669, which is, as a picture of German social life during the period of the thirty years' war, extremely interesting. We need, however, hardly caution our lady readers against its perusal. Its title is as follows: Der abenteuerliche Simplicius Simplicissimus. The adventurous Simplicius Simplicissimus. That is the true, copious, and very remarkable biography of an odd, wonderful and singular man, Sternfels Von Fuchsheim, how he passed his youth in Spessart, of his varied and remarkable destinies in the thirty years' war, and of the numerous sufferings, sorrows and dangers which he experienced, with his ultimate good fortune.

Prof. O.L.B. Wolff, known to every amateur German scholar in this country and England as the publisher of the famous Poetischer und Prosaischer Hausschatz, or Poetic and Prosaic Home Treasury, has edited and published by Otto Wigand of Leipsic that unique romance by Caspar von Grimmelshausen, first printed in 1669, which is a fascinating portrayal of German social life during the Thirty Years' War. However, we hardly need to warn our female readers against reading it. Its title is Der abenteuerliche Simplicius Simplicissimus. The adventurous Simplicius Simplicissimus. This is the true, detailed, and very remarkable biography of an odd, extraordinary, and unique man, Sternfels von Fuchsheim, detailing how he spent his youth in Spessart, his varied and remarkable experiences during the Thirty Years' War, and the numerous hardships, sorrows, and dangers he faced, along with his eventual good fortune.

A German critic, who of course belongs to the conservative party, writing under date of June 16, says of Miss Helen Weber, the inventor of the hybrid costume which Punch satirizes as an American absurdity, that "except in a certain disregard of public decencies there is nothing by which to distinguish her from the mass of vulgar women of the middling classes; she is about thirty-five years of age, and appears to be willing to do or say any thing that may be required for the attraction of observation; from her writings, throw out what is stolen or compiled, and there is nothing left to evince even a mediocrity of talent." This is less favorable than an account we published in an early number of the International (vol. i. 463), but it may be quite as just.

A German critic, who obviously aligns with the conservative party, writing on June 16, describes Miss Helen Weber, the creator of the hybrid costume that Punch mocks as an American absurdity, saying, "aside from a certain disregard for public decency, there’s nothing that sets her apart from the many ordinary women of the middle class; she’s about thirty-five years old and seems willing to do or say anything to get attention; if you take away what’s copied or borrowed from her writings, there’s nothing left to demonstrate even a mediocre level of talent." This is less complimentary than what we published in an earlier issue of the International (vol. i. 463), but it might be just as accurate.

When Professor Zahn sojourned in Naples, he took an active part in the excavations of Pompeii—studies which eventually led to the publication of his meritorious work on this subject. At the same time he faithfully reported the progress of these operations to old Goethe. The poet's replies to these communications on the ancient paintings of Pompeii, its theatres, and other buildings, were replete with those sparks of genius he exhibited on every occasion. This rather voluminous correspondence, long laid up at Naples, has been lately discovered, and will be published by Professor Zahn.

When Professor Tooth stayed in Naples, he actively participated in the excavations of Pompeii—work that eventually resulted in the publication of his notable study on the topic. At the same time, he kept old Goethe updated on the progress of these operations. The poet's responses to these updates about the ancient paintings of Pompeii, its theaters, and other buildings were filled with the bursts of genius he showed on every occasion. This extensive correspondence, which had been stored in Naples for a long time, has recently been found and will be published by Professor Zahn.

Geschichte der Deutschen Stadte und des Deutschen Burgerthums (History of the Cities of Germany, and of German Citizenship), by F. W. Barthold, is the first of a series of painstaking and exhausting books of German historical materiel, in course of publication by Weizel, of Leipsic. The style of treatment resembles that adopted in The Pictorial History of England, which will make the work easy of reference.[Pg 125]

History of the Cities of Germany, and of German Citizenship by F.W. Barthold is the first in a series of detailed and comprehensive books on German history, currently being published by Weizel in Leipzig. The writing style is similar to that used in The Pictorial History of England, which will make it easy to reference.[Pg 125]

Dr. Cornill publishes a dissertation upon Louis Feuerbach and his position toward the religion and philosophy of the present time. The author finds in every thing the famous professor does a farther religious development. But it is very doubtful if Feurbach has advanced at all since his memorable essay in the Halle Book of the Year, upon the relation of philosophy to theology. Since then he has only varied this theme, and his last work, upon the transcendental thesis Man is what he eats, in which the worthy Professor with Teutonic energy seeks to seduce the immorality of the age from the potato disease, the German critics declare to be totally devoid of that bold and thoughtful spirit which formerly fought so well for the emancipation of the understanding from its long scholastic thraldom.

Dr. Cornill publishes a dissertation on Louis Feuerbach and his views on the religion and philosophy of today. The author sees a further religious development in everything the famous professor does. However, it's questionable whether Feuerbach has actually progressed since his notable essay in the Halle Book of the Year, which discussed the relationship between philosophy and theology. Since then, he has merely varied this theme, and his latest work on the transcendental thesis Man is what he eats, in which the esteemed Professor energetically tries to divert the immorality of the age from the potato blight, is deemed by German critics to lack the bold and thoughtful spirit that once vigorously championed the liberation of understanding from its long-standing scholastic bondage.

A most mystical and metaphysical treatise is that of Ernst, A new Book of the Planets, or Mikro and Makrokosmos. It sings with Klopstock of the souls of the stars. It speculates with Jacob Böhme, with Retif de la Bretonne, with the Rabbins, and other mighty mystics, upon the origin of thought. The essential difference in speculative science between ether and thought, the unity of matter and spirit, the eternity and evanescence of matter, the thoughts, feelings, and sensations of God, and the final explication of the trinity. All this and more. In fine, says a German critic, it is a very jocose book, strongly to be commended for the consolation of political prisoners.

A highly mystical and philosophical work is Ernst's A New Book of the Planets, or Mikro and Makrokosmos. It resonates with Klopstock about the souls of the stars. It explores ideas with Jacob Böhme, Retif de la Bretonne, the Rabbis, and other powerful mystics about the origin of thought. It discusses the key differences in speculative science between ether and thought, the connection between matter and spirit, the eternity and transience of matter, the thoughts, feelings, and sensations of God, and the ultimate explanation of the trinity. All this and more. In conclusion, a German critic states that it’s a very humorous book, highly recommended for the comfort of political prisoners.

Waldmeister's Bridal-Tour, a story of the Rhine, Wine, and Travel, is the pleasant and appropriate title of the last book of Otto Roquette. It is the story of a spring tour along the Rhine. The fire of its wine, the golden gleam of its vineyards, the faint, penetrant delicacy of the grape-blossom, the luring look of the Love-Lei, the mystery of ruins, the distant baying of the wild huntsman's pack,—they all breathe, and bloom, and sound through the little book. It is a genuine song of spring. The poet is young,—he feels, dreams, and sings—what needs poet more?

Woodruff's Bridal-Tour, a tale of the Rhine, wine, and travel, is the fitting and delightful title of the latest book by Otto Roquette. It tells the story of a spring journey along the Rhine. The warmth of its wine, the golden shimmer of its vineyards, the subtle, lingering sweetness of the grape blossoms, the enticing allure of the Love-Lei, the intriguing mystery of the ruins, and the distant howling of the wild huntsman’s pack—all of these elements come alive throughout this little book. It’s a true celebration of spring. The poet is young—he feels, dreams, and sings—what more does a poet need?

A German version of Copway the Indian's work is announced under the title of Kah-ge-ga-gah-bouh, Hauptling d'Ojibway Nation: Die Ojibway Eroberung: Translated from the English, by N. Adler, and published at Frankfort-on-the-Main. This we presume is an after-shot from the Peace Convention.

A German version of Copway the Indian's work is being released under the title of Kah-ge-ga-gah-bouh, Hauptling d'Ojibway Nation: Die Ojibway Eroberung: Translated from English by N. Adler, and published in Frankfurt am Main. We think this is a follow-up from the Peace Convention.

Among the new books announced in Germany we see The Institutions of the United States, and their Lessons of American Experience to Europe. It appears to be anonymous. One or two other German works on this country we shall notice particularly in our next number.

Among the new books announced in Germany, we see The Institutions of the United States, and their Lessons of American Experience to Europe. It seems to be published anonymously. We will highlight one or two other German works about this country in our next issue.

Russian literature is gradually made accessible to the general student by German and French translations, and we shall soon begin to learn more of the mysterious despotism that towers like a fateful cloud along the eastern horizon of Europe, in its influence upon social and artistic life. The publisher Brockhaus of Leipsic has recently issued a collection in three volumes of the Russian novelists. Yet, whether from the want of tact in the selection or from the absence of characteristic qualities in the tales themselves, the authors are weakest in their delineation of popular life and manners, in this resembling fine society in Russia, which ignores Russianism, and believes in Parisian manners, language, and life, every thing but Parisian politics. Among the authors whose works are quoted we note Alexander Pushkin, the pride of Russian literature, born in 1799, and died in a duel in 1837. Helena Hahn, born in 1815, who, married at sixteen to a soldier, travelled through a large part of Russia, and died in 1832. Her novels were first published after her death, but seem to be not of the highest merit. Alexander Herzen, born in 1812, has zealously studied Hegel, and written a series of humorous tales, the best of which is called Taras Bulwa. Since 1847 he has been a wanderer, pursued as a democrat, and now proposes to visit the United States.

Russian literature is becoming more accessible to students through German and French translations, and soon we will learn more about the mysterious despotism that looms like a dark cloud over the eastern horizon of Europe and its impact on social and artistic life. The publisher Brockhaus from Leipzig has recently released a three-volume collection of Russian novelists. However, whether due to poor choices in selection or the lack of distinctive qualities in the stories themselves, the authors are weakest in depicting popular life and customs, resembling the elite society in Russia that disregards Russianism and believes in Parisian manners, language, and lifestyle, everything except Parisian politics. Among the authors featured, we highlight Alexander Pushkin, the pride of Russian literature, born in 1799 and died in a duel in 1837. Helena Hahn, born in 1815, was married at sixteen to a soldier, traveled extensively throughout Russia, and died in 1832. Her novels were published posthumously but don’t seem to have the highest quality. Alexander Herzen, born in 1812, has diligently studied Hegel and written a series of humorous stories, the best of which is titled Taras Bulba. Since 1847, he has been a wanderer, pursued as a democrat, and now plans to visit the United States.

The Emperor of Austria has appointed Aaron Wolfgang Messeley, a Jew, Professor of Criminal Law at the University of Prague. M. Messeley had long filled the chair of the Hebrew Language and Literature in the same University. The numbers of Jews now attached as professors to the different universities and educational establishments in the Austrian states is seventeen; of whom fifteen were named by the late Emperor, and two by the present.

The Emperor of Austria has appointed Aaron Wolfgang Messeley, a Jew, as a Professor of Criminal Law at the University of Prague. M. Messeley had previously held the position of Professor of Hebrew Language and Literature at the same university. Currently, there are seventeen Jewish professors at various universities and educational institutions in the Austrian states; fifteen were appointed by the late Emperor, and two by the current one.

Alexander Dumas, who, as a simple story writer is perhaps deserving of the highest place in the temple of letters—whose Three Guardsmen, with its several continuations, making some twenty volumes, is the most entertaining, and in certain characteristics the best sustained novel written in our days,—announces in Paris a new tale, Un Drame de '93, and he occupies the feuilleton of the Presse every week with another, Ange Pitou, of which the scene and time are also France during the first revolution.

Alexandre Dumas, who, as a straightforward storyteller, probably deserves a top spot in the world of literature—his Three Musketeers, along with its many sequels totaling about twenty volumes, is the most entertaining and, in some respects, the best sustained novel written in our time—has announced a new story in Paris, Un Drame de '93. He also features weekly in the Presse with another tale, Ange Pitou, which is set in France during the first revolution.

Madame Charles Reybaud, authoress of The Cadet de Calobriéres, has just published another story, Faustine, wherein provincial life in France is daguerreotyped.

Madam Charles Reybaud, author of The Cadet de Calobriéres, has just released another story, Faustine, which captures provincial life in France in vivid detail.

Among the announcements in Paris we notice one of the tenth volume of Thiers's Histoire du Consulat. The eleventh volume is also said to be nearly ready.[Pg 126]

Among the announcements in Paris, we see one for the tenth volume of Thiers Histoire du Consulat. The eleventh volume is also reported to be almost ready.[Pg 126]

M. Mignet has nearly completed his Life and Times of Mary, Queen of Scots, the third work on the subject produced in France within a year and a half. Mignet, however, is the most eminent person who has ever essayed this service, and he has had some peculiar and important advantages. He has made use of the collection of letters published by Prince Labanoff; of researches made in the State Paper Office of England by Mr. Tytler, and of other unpublished documents which he has himself collected, in order to form more correct opinions with regard to some of the darkest and most controverted events in the queen's life. These documents, chiefly from the archives of Spain, (to which M. Mignet was enabled to obtain access only at the express request of the French Government,) are of much importance, for they bring to light the negotiations carried on with Philip II. for the deliverance of Mary from her imprisonment—a part of her history to which previous biographers have paid little attention.

M. Mignet has almost finished his Life and Times of Mary, Queen of Scots, the third book on this topic published in France within a year and a half. Mignet, however, is the most distinguished person who has ever taken on this task, and he has had some unique and significant advantages. He has used the collection of letters published by Prince Labanoff, research done in the State Paper Office of England by Mr. Tytler, and other unpublished documents that he has gathered himself to form more accurate views on some of the most unclear and disputed events in the queen's life. These documents, mainly from the archives of Spain (which M. Mignet was able to access only at the explicit request of the French Government), are very important as they reveal the negotiations held with Philip II for the release of Mary from her imprisonment—a part of her history that previous biographers have largely overlooked.

In the political literature of France a new pamphlet by Cormenin is remarkable. It is entitled Revision, and its substance is this: Having recounted the history of the Republican Charter, elaborated during many months by men especially delegated to the work, and by a suffrage really universal, debated long and earnestly in the committee, amended by the eighteen delegates of the assembly, reviewed by the commission, deliberated by the chamber, discussed by the press,—M. Cormenin establishes that this constitution, so elaborately matured, if it has nothing which promises eternal duration, yet satisfies all the conditions essential to present permanence, and will well lead the nation to that moment, when, personal passion being somewhat allayed, it may be wisely and conscientiously reviewed. This is the pith of the pamphlet. It appeals to no passions, and justifies no excess, and is a notable and intelligent effort at the resolution of the question.

In the political literature of France, a new pamphlet by Cormenin stands out. It’s titled Revision, and its main points are as follows: After detailing the history of the Republican Charter, which was developed over many months by specially appointed individuals and through a truly universal vote, debated intensely in committee, revised by the eighteen delegates of the assembly, reviewed by the commission, discussed in the chamber, and examined by the press,—M. Cormenin argues that this constitution, though it may not promise eternal stability, meets all the necessary criteria for current durability and will effectively guide the nation to a time when, with personal passions somewhat diminished, it can be thoughtfully and responsibly revised. This is the essence of the pamphlet. It doesn’t appeal to any passions or justify any extremes, and represents a significant and insightful attempt at addressing the issue.

M. de Marcellus, an old French ambassador, has published two volumes entitled Literary Episodes in the East. His oriental travel dates back as far as 1818, but the beautiful vision has pursued him ever since, and he knew no better way to lay it than by painting it, and making it real. The volume opens with a confession that all travel and all scenery have only reminded him most strongly of his eastern experiences, and that now, chilled with age, and hoping nothing of the future, he has especial pleasure in recurring to the past. It is a series of colloquial, familiar sketches and anecdotes, and will doubtless be a pleasant companion for the eastern tour. M. de Marcellus will follow this work with A Collection of Popular Songs in Greece.

Mr. de Marcellus, an older French ambassador, has released two volumes called Literary Episodes in the East. His travels in the East date back to 1818, but the stunning vision has stayed with him ever since, and he found no better way to express it than by depicting it and making it real. The volume begins with a confession that all travel and scenery have only reminded him most strongly of his experiences in the East, and now, feeling the chill of age and expecting nothing from the future, he particularly enjoys reflecting on the past. It’s a collection of casual, relatable sketches and anecdotes, and will surely be a delightful companion for anyone touring the East. M. de Marcellus plans to follow this work with A Collection of Popular Songs in Greece.

Victor Hugo, who has always been opposed to the punishment of death, and whose Last Days of Condemned, one of his most powerful fictions, had a large influence every where against the death penalty, was lately before the Court of Assizes in Paris as an advocate in behalf of his son, who was on trial for publishing an article calculated to bring into disrespect the administrators of the law. The veteran poet was allowed to deliver an elaborate and characteristic harangue in defence of the article. He tasked himself for his most brilliant antithetical rhetoric, denouncing the scaffold, and the legislation of death. The son, however, was convicted, and sentenced to a fine of five hundred francs and imprisonment for six months.

Victor Hugo, who has always opposed the death penalty, and whose Last Days of Condemned, one of his most powerful works, significantly swayed public opinion against capital punishment, was recently in the Court of Assizes in Paris as a lawyer defending his son, who was on trial for publishing an article deemed disrespectful to the law's administrators. The veteran poet was allowed to give a detailed and characteristic speech in defense of the article. He pushed himself for his most impressive argumentative rhetoric, condemning the gallows and the laws surrounding death. However, the son was found guilty and sentenced to a fine of five hundred francs and six months in prison.

Victor Hugo has published a volume containing twelve speeches delivered on various occasions while he has been a representant du peuple. They are on the Bonaparte family, the punishment of death, universal suffrage, the liberty of the press, the affairs of Rome, &c., and are all written with the author's customary fine rhetoric; indeed in thought and style they are among his best performances.

Victor Hugo has published a collection featuring twelve speeches given on different occasions during his time as a representant du peuple. They cover topics like the Bonaparte family, the death penalty, universal suffrage, freedom of the press, the situation in Rome, and more, all written with the author's usual impressive rhetoric; in fact, in terms of content and style, they are among his best works.

Madame Bocarme, who probably was a party to the late murder of her brother, for which her husband the Count de Bocarme is to be executed, was an intimate friend of Balzac. The great novelist dedicated one of his works to her, and another of them was written in the Château de Bitremont. Balzac, while on a visit to the château, was taken to see a farmer, and, as usual, interested himself so much in the cattle, that after an hour's conversation he was amused to find that, the farmer had taken him, H. de Balzac, the brilliant Parisian, for a cattle dealer! The forthcoming memoirs of Balzac will perhaps contain something about this woman, who seems to have won for herself the execration of all France.

Ms. Bocarme, who was likely involved in the recent murder of her brother, for which her husband, Count de Bocarme, is set to be executed, was a close friend of Balzac. The renowned novelist dedicated one of his works to her, and another was written at the Château de Bitremont. During a visit to the château, Balzac was taken to see a farmer and, as usual, became so interested in the cattle that after an hour of conversation, he found it amusing that the farmer had mistaken him, H. de Balzac, the famous Parisian, for a cattle dealer! The upcoming memoirs of Balzac might include something about this woman, who appears to have earned the disdain of all of France.

The Paris correspondent of the Literary Gazette affirms that, on the whole, the French press has gained by the regulation requiring signatures to original articles. The abler class of contributors have profited greatly, as they have obtained a position in popular esteem, and consequently a claim on their employers, which years of anonymous drudgery would not have secured. Nor have readers, it is remarked, any cause to complain; for "men, remembering that 'those who live to please must please to live,' take far greater pains with the articles to which they have to attach their names, than to those which are unsigned."

The Paris correspondent of the Literary Gazette states that, overall, the French press has benefited from the regulation that requires signatures on original articles. The more skilled contributors have gained significantly, as they have earned a respected position in public opinion and, as a result, a stronger claim on their employers—something that years of working anonymously wouldn't have achieved. Readers also have no reason to complain; as it is said, "those who live to please must please to live," so writers put much more effort into the articles they sign than those that are unsigned.

M. Arago, the great astronomer, who is passing the summer at the mineral springs of Vichy, is nearly blind, and probably will entirely lose his sight. His brother, who is likewise a man of extraordinary abilities, has been blind many years.[Pg 127]

M. Arago, the renowned astronomer, who is spending the summer at the mineral springs of Vichy, is almost blind and will likely lose his sight completely. His brother, who is also exceptionally talented, has been blind for many years.[Pg 127]

George Sand dedicates her last performance to Dumas, "because," she says, "I wish to protest against the tendency that may be attributed to me of regarding the absence of action as a systematic reaction against the school of which you are the chief. Far from me such a blasphemy against movement and life! I am too fond of your works; I read them and listen to them with too much attention and emotion; I am too much an artist in feeling to wish the slightest lessening of your triumphs. Many believe that artists are necessarily jealous of each other. I pity those who believe it, pity them for having so little of the artist as not to understand that the idea of assassinating our rivals would be that of our own suicide."

George Sand dedicates her final performance to Dumas, "because," she says, "I want to speak out against the idea that I might see the lack of action as a deliberate stance against the movement you lead. I would never entertain such a disrespectful thought against movement and life! I admire your works too much; I read them and listen to them with great attention and emotion; I am too much of an artist at heart to want even the slightest reduction in your successes. Many people think that artists are inherently envious of one another. I feel sorry for those who think that way, sorry for their lack of understanding of the artist's spirit, since the idea of eliminating our rivals would be akin to committing our own suicide."

A Critical History of the Philosophical School of Alexandria is the title of a work of serious philosophical claims, by M. Vacherot. He had already published two volumes analyzing and developing the doctrines of the Alexandrian philosophy. In the present volume he has traced its influence upon the subsequent schools, passing in review Plotinus and his successors. The scope of the work invites and permits a discussion of the profoundest problems that now agitate the world of thought, and M. Vacherot has the credit of acquitting himself adequately and admirably of his task.

A Critical History of the Philosophical School of Alexandria is the title of a serious philosophical work by M. Vacherot. He had already published two volumes analyzing and developing the doctrines of Alexandrian philosophy. In this volume, he examines its influence on later schools, reviewing Plotinus and his successors. The scope of the work encourages a discussion of the most profound issues currently affecting the world of thought, and M. Vacherot deserves credit for handling his task adequately and admirably.

Rousseau, on his death, left several papers to his friend Moulton, and the heirs of that person, in 1794, caused them to be deposited in the public library of Neufchatel, in Switzerland. There they have remained unknown until a few weeks since, when M. Bovet, of that town, examined them, and found that they embraced an essay entitled Avant-propos et Preface a mes Confessions, which has just been printed. Of course it will appear with all future editions of the Confessions.

Rousseau passed away, leaving several papers to his friend Moulton. In 1794, Moulton's heirs had them placed in the public library of Neuchâtel, Switzerland. They stayed unnoticed until a few weeks ago, when M. Bovet, from that town, looked them over and discovered an essay called Avant-propos et Preface a mes Confessions, which has just been published. Naturally, it will be included in all future editions of the Confessions.

Balzac, besides his Memoirs, which are soon to appear in Paris, it is now stated left two other works, one a romance called Les Paysans, finished only a short time before his death, the other a collection of confidential letters to a lady, in which, it is said, he took pleasure in laying bare the secrets of his heart, and his real opinion of men and things.

Balzac, apart from his Memoirs, which will soon be published in Paris, is now said to have left behind two other works: one is a novel titled Les Paysans, completed just before his death, and the other is a collection of private letters to a woman, where he apparently enjoyed revealing the secrets of his heart and his true thoughts about people and the world.

M. Nisard was a few weeks ago received into the Academie Française. He succeeds the late M. Feletz, and has written a history of French literature, a book of études on the Latin poets, and superintended a translation of all the Latin writers.

M. Nisard was recently welcomed into the Academie Française. He takes over from the late M. Feletz and has authored a history of French literature, a book of études on Latin poets, and oversaw a translation of all the Latin writers.

M. Gautier, formerly a deputy from the Gironde, a peer of France, Minister of Finance, and sub-governor of the Bank of France, has published a volume On the Causes which disturb Order in France, and the means of Reëstablishing it.

M. Gautier, who used to be a deputy from the Gironde, a peer of France, Minister of Finance, and deputy governor of the Bank of France, has published a book On the Causes that Disturb Order in France and How to Restore It.

Guizot is about to publish the Histoire des Origines du Gouvernement Représentatif. This is a new work, being the revised issue of his lectures from 1820 to 1822, which have never yet been printed, except in the imperfect comptes rendus of the Journal des Cours Public.

Guizot is about to publish the Histoire des Origines du Gouvernement Représentatif. This is a new work, which is the updated version of his lectures from 1820 to 1822, that have never been printed before, except in the incomplete comptes rendus of the Journal des Cours Public.

Le Drame de '93, by Alexandre Dumas, turns out to be a narrative of the Revolution, in his rapid dramatic style.

The Drama of '93, by Alex Dumas, is a narrative of the Revolution told in his fast-paced dramatic style.

M. Pierre Dufour is publishing a work of great value entitled the History of Prostitution among all Nations and at all Times.

Mr. Pierre Dufour is releasing a highly valuable book called the History of Prostitution among all Nations and at all Times.

A cheap edition of the chief writings on affairs, by Emilie de Girardin, is published in eleven volumes.

A budget edition of the main writings on various topics, by Emilie de Girardin, is available in eleven volumes.

Mademoiselle de Belle Isle, written by Dumas for Mademoiselle Mars—a sprightly, dissolute comedy, full of the life which animates the Mémoires of the time, and complicated in its construction with the skill of a Lope de Vega—was translated in New-York a year or two ago by Mrs. Fanny Kemble Butler, and brought out at the Astor Place Opera House. Our theatre-going people, however, declined a piece so broadly licentious, and it was soon withdrawn. We see that another version of it has been made in London, and that it has been played there very successfully.

Mademoiselle de Belle Isle, written by Dumas for Mademoiselle Mars—a lively, extravagant comedy, filled with the energy of the Mémoires of the era, and intricately crafted like a work of Lope de Vega—was translated in New York a year or two ago by Mrs. Fanny Kemble Butler and performed at the Astor Place Opera House. However, our theater audience turned down a piece that was so openly risqué, and it was quickly pulled from the lineup. We see that another version has been created in London, and it has been performed there with great success.

The London editors lack something of the honesty of the Americans: they never give credit for an article, but if making up an entire number of a periodical from American sources, would permit their readers to suppose it all original. Sharpe's Magazine is particularly addicted to this infirmity, and the July issue of it contains our excellent friend the Rev. F. W. Shelton's paper on Boswell, the Biographer, which appeared originally in The Knickerbocker.

The London editors lack some of the honesty of the Americans: they never credit the sources for an article, but if they create an entire issue of a magazine from American sources, they allow their readers to think it's all original. Sharpe's Magazine is especially prone to this issue, and the July issue features our good friend Rev. F. W. Shelton's paper on Boswell, the Biographer, which was originally published in The Knickerbocker.

The Rev. Charles Kingsley, Jr., rector of Eversley, best known to American readers as the author of the Chartist novel of Alton Locke, and Yeast, a Problem, has been an industrious writer. He is now about fifty years of age, and besides the above works and a vast number of papers in Fraser's Magazine, he has published The Christian Socialist(!), Politics for the People, Village Sermons, and The Saint's Tragedy—in point of art the best of his performances. We see by the English papers that he preached a sermon lately in Fitzroy Square, London, on the "Gospel Message to the Poor." It was so full of "socialistic" thoughts, and so severe on the richer classes, that the rector of the church, when he had finished, arose in his pew, and protested vehemently against its doctrines. The congregation dispersed in great disorder.[Pg 128]

The Rev. Charles Kingsley, Jr., the rector of Eversley, is best known to American readers as the author of the Chartist novel Alton Locke and Yeast, a Problem. He has been a prolific writer. Now around fifty years old, in addition to the works mentioned above and a large number of articles in Fraser's Magazine, he has published The Christian Socialist(!), Politics for the People, Village Sermons, and The Saint's Tragedy—which is arguably his best work in terms of artistry. According to English newspapers, he recently preached a sermon in Fitzroy Square, London, titled "Gospel Message to the Poor." It was packed with "socialistic" ideas and was quite critical of the wealthy, prompting the rector of the church to stand up in his pew afterward and strongly protest against its messages. The congregation left in a state of great disorder.[Pg 128]

We doubt whether any living Englishman is capable of surpassing Sir Bulwer Lytton's version of the Ballads of Schiller, but Mr. Edgar Alfred Bowring, a son of the well-known Dr. Bowring who has published translations from so many languages, has just published a volume entitled The Poems of Schiller complete, including all his early Suppressed Pieces, attempted in English. The word "complete" expresses its difference from the many Schillers in English that have previously appeared. An Anthology edited by Schiller in 1782, when he had just commenced his career, contains several poems which the critics recognize as his. This remained unknown, however, except as a literary curiosity, till a few months ago; and several of the poems had been omitted in all the collections of Schiller's works. But the republication of the Anthology has brought to light the suppressed poems (in number twenty-eight, comprising nearly twelve hundred verses), and those are translated for the first time by Mr. Bowring, whose versions are much commended.

We’re not sure if any living Englishman can top Sir Bulwer Lytton's version of Schiller’s Ballads, but Mr. Edgar A. Bowring, the son of the well-known Dr. Bowring who has translated works from so many languages, has just released a volume titled The Poems of Schiller complete, including all his early Suppressed Pieces, attempted in English. The word "complete" sets it apart from the many English versions of Schiller that have come out before. An Anthology edited by Schiller in 1782, when he was just starting out, includes several poems that critics recognize as his. However, this remained largely unknown until just a few months ago, and several of the poems were left out of all the collections of Schiller's works. The republication of the Anthology has uncovered the suppressed poems (a total of twenty-eight, amounting to nearly twelve hundred verses), which are now translated for the first time by Mr. Bowring, whose translations have received high praise.

Among the new books of English verse, some of the most noticeable are The Fair Island, in Six Cantos, by Edmund Peel: in the Spenserian measure, with passages of fair description; Ballad Romances, by R. H. Horne, author of "Orion," &c.—a book containing genuine poetry; The Reign of Avarice, an allegorical satire, in four cantos; Philosophy in the Fens, in the style of Peter Pindar; and Marican, a Chilian tale, by Henry Inglis.

Among the new books of English poetry, some of the most noteworthy are The Fair Island, in Six Cantos, by Edmund Peel: written in the Spenserian style, featuring beautiful descriptions; Ballad Romances, by R. H. Horne, author of "Orion," etc.—a book filled with genuine poetry; The Reign of Avarice, an allegorical satire in four cantos; Philosophy in the Fens, in the style of Peter Pindar; and Marican, a Chilean tale by Henry Inglis.

Warren, the author of "Ten Thousand a Year," has just published a new novel under the title of The Lily and the Bee, a Romance of the Crystal Palace. The name savors of the huckster, and we shall look for a more melancholy failure than his last previous performance.

Warren, the author of "Ten Thousand a Year," has just released a new novel called The Lily and the Bee, a Romance of the Crystal Palace. The title has a whiff of a sales pitch, and we expect it to be an even sadder flop than his last book.

Mr. Levi Woodbury's Miscellaneous Writings, Addresses, and Judicial Opinions, will be published in four octavo volumes, by Little & Brown, of Boston.

Mr. Levi Woodbury's Miscellaneous Writings, Addresses, and Judicial Opinions will be published in four octavo volumes by Little & Brown in Boston.

The North American Review for the July quarter is in many respects characteristic. Six months after every Review published in Great Britain had had its paper on Southey, and when the subject is quite worn out, the North American furnishes us with a leading article upon it, in which there is neither an original thought nor a new combination of thoughts that are old. Colton's Public Economy gives a title to an article, in which the book is treated superciliously, and some ideas by Henry C. Carey are presented as the original speculations of the reviewer. It is deserving of remark that the Past and Present, and more recent works of Mr. Carey, which among thinking men throughout the world have commanded more attention than any other writings in political philosophy during the last five years, have never been even referred to in this periodical, which arrogates to itself the leadership of American literature. The eighth article of the number is on the Unity of the Human Race, and considering the place it occupies in the North American Review, for July, 1851, it is contemptible. It is based on five publications made in England previous to 1847, and ignores all the research and discussion since that time, notwithstanding the facts that the subject never was so amply, so profoundly, or so luminously discussed as during the last year—that the very writers referred to in the article have for the chief part published their most important treatises upon it since 1847—that within six months its literature has received large accessions in France, Germany, and Italy,—and that in our own country, of whose intellectual advancement this Review is bound to give some sort of an index, the four years since Latham's "Present State and Recent Progress of Ethnological Philosophy" appeared, have furnished important works by Albert Gallatin, Mr. Hale of the Exploring Expedition, the Rev. Dr. Bachman, the Rev. Dr. Smyth, and several others, all of which should have been considered in any new, especially in any American resume of the discussion. Johnston's Notes on North America is treated with a spleen excited by the author's refusal to recognize the greatness assumed for certain persons connected with Harvard College, and Mr. Bowen is weak enough to say, or to permit a contributor to say, "we understand(!) Mr. Johnston has a high reputation," &c. Pish! And what does the reader suppose is the theme—the fresh, before unheard-of theme—of another paper? what new star, in the heaven of mind, demanded most the exploration and illustration of the North American Review, for this July quarter, in 1851? The best guesser of riddles would not in fifty years hit upon Mr. Gilfillan's book of rigmarole entitled The Bards of the Bible, but this performance, which had been criticised in every other quarterly, monthly, weekly, and daily, in the English language, that would descend to it, crowds out the subjects of "great pith and moment" upon which a periodical of such claims should have spoken with wise authority.

The North American Review for July is, in many ways, typical. Six months after every British Review had already published its piece on Southey, and when the topic is completely exhausted, the North American presents a leading article on it that includes neither original thoughts nor any new combinations of old ideas. Colton's Public Economy serves as the title for an article where the book is treated with disdain, and some of Henry C. Carey's ideas are presented as the reviewer's original speculations. It’s worth noting that Past and Present and Mr. Carey’s more recent works, which have garnered more attention than any other writings in political philosophy over the past five years, haven’t even been mentioned in this periodical, which claims to lead American literature. The eighth article in this issue discusses the Unity of the Human Race, and given its placement in the North American Review for July, 1851, it’s disgraceful. It’s based on five publications released in England before 1847 and completely overlooks all the research and discussion that has happened since then, even though the subject has never been examined so comprehensively, deeply, or clearly as in the past year. The very authors referred to in the article have published their most significant writings on this topic since 1847, and in the last six months, there has been a substantial increase in literature on it from France, Germany, and Italy. Furthermore, in our own country, which this Review is expected to represent in terms of intellectual progress, the four years since Latham's “Present State and Recent Progress of Ethnological Philosophy” was published have produced important works by Albert Gallatin, Mr. Hale of the Exploring Expedition, the Rev. Dr. Bachman, the Rev. Dr. Smyth, and several others, all of which should have been included in any new, especially any American resume of the discussion. Johnston's Notes on North America is criticized with bitterness due to the author's refusal to acknowledge the lofty status attributed to certain individuals associated with Harvard College, and Mr. Bowen is naive enough to say, or to allow a contributor to say, “we understand(!) Mr. Johnston has a high reputation,” etc. Ridiculous! And what do you think is the topic—the fresh, unheard-of topic—of another paper? What new idea, in the intellectual sphere, required exploration and discussion by the North American Review for this July quarter, in 1851? The best guesser in the world wouldn’t figure out that the theme is Mr. Gilfillan's nonsensical book titled The Bards of the Bible, yet this piece, which has been criticized in every other quarterly, monthly, weekly, and daily publication that would bother with it, pushes aside subjects of “great importance” that a periodical with such claims should have discussed authoritatively.

Our own country is full of suggestive topics for thoughtful, earnest, and learned men, and it is fit that the closet should send out its instruction to calm the turbulence awakened by tempests from the rostrum—that affairs should be subjected to the criticism of experience, and that what is new in discovery, in opinion, or in suggestion, should have quick and popular recognition and justice. We need—we must have—for this purpose a powerful and really national Review, to reflect and guide the life and aspirations of the country.[Pg 129]

Our country has plenty of thought-provoking topics for serious, knowledgeable individuals, and it's important that the insights from private study are shared to soothe the chaos stirred up by public debates. We should evaluate matters through the lens of experience, ensuring that new discoveries, opinions, or ideas are quickly and fairly acknowledged. For this reason, we need a strong and genuinely national Review that reflects and guides the life and aspirations of the nation.[Pg 129]

We mentioned some time ago that Mr. William W. Story, a son of the late Justice Story, was preparing for the press a life of his father, and we now understand that the work will soon be ready, in two large octavo volumes, to be published by Little & Brown. It will come too late. Such a memoir would have been very well received any time within a year after Judge Story's death: now the public mind is settled in an unalterable conviction that Judge Story was an over-rated man, and a consideration of the processes by which his fame was acquired is likely for a long time to sink it below its just level. We but echo the opinion of more than one eminent person connected with the very school in which he was a teacher, as well as the common judgment of the leading men of the profession in all the states, when we say that Judge Story was not a great lawyer; two or three of his books were good, but the rest were made for cash profits, and sold by means of ingenious advertising. Now they will answer for the country courts, and the inferior courts of the cities, where no opposing lawyer has enough wit and knowledge to oppose Story against Story, but they are no longer weighty authorities, and every term they are found to be of declining influence. As a man of letters, Judge Story's rank will be still lower. He has left nothing to carry his name into another age. Yet he was a man of much professional learning, of taste, sagacity, an extraordinary command of his resources, and a most amiable and pleasing character, and his memoirs and correspondence, if fitly presented, will constitute an attractive and valuable contribution to the history of American society.

We mentioned some time ago that Mr. William W. Story, the son of the late Justice Story, was getting ready to publish a biography of his father, and we now hear that the book will soon be available in two large octavo volumes published by Little & Brown. Unfortunately, it comes too late. This kind of memoir would have been well-received anytime within a year after Judge Story's death, but now the public has a firm belief that Judge Story was overrated. Any examination of how his reputation was built is likely to push it further down in the eyes of the public for a long time. We echo the views of several prominent individuals from the very institution where he taught, along with the overall opinion of top professionals in the field across all states, when we say that Judge Story wasn't a great lawyer. A couple of his books were decent, but most were written for profit and marketed cleverly. They may still be useful in rural courts and smaller city courts, where opposing lawyers lack the insight and knowledge to challenge Story against Story, but they no longer hold significant authority and are losing influence each term. As a writer, Judge Story's standing will be even lower. He hasn't left anything to ensure his name lasts into future generations. Still, he was a man of considerable professional knowledge, good taste, keen insight, remarkable resourcefulness, and a very pleasant and likable personality. His memoirs and correspondence, if presented well, could provide an interesting and valuable addition to the history of American society.

For several years it has been known to many students of our early history, that Mr. Lyman C. Draper was devoting his time and estate, and faculties admirably trained for such pursuits, to the collection of whatever materials still exist for the illustration of the lives of the Western Pioneers. He has carefully explored all the valley of the Mississippi, under the most favorable auspices—by his intelligence and enthusiasm and large acquaintance with the most conspicuous people, commended to every family which was the repository of special traditions or of written documents—and he has succeeded in amassing a collection of MS. letters, narratives, and other papers, and of printed books, pamphlets, magazines, and journals, more extensive than is possessed by many of the state historical societies, while in character it is altogether and necessarily unique. He proposes soon to publish his first work, The Life and Times of General George Rogers Clarke, (whose papers have been long in his possession, and whose surviving Indian fighters and other associates he has personally visited), in two octavo volumes, to be followed by shorter historical memoirs of Colonel Daniel Boone, General Simon Kenton, General John Sevier of East Tennessee, General James Robertson, Captain Samuel Brady, Colonel William Crawford, the Wetzells, &c., &c. The field of his researches, it will be seen, embraces the entire sweep of the Mississippi, every streamlet flowing into which has been crimsoned with the blood of sanguinary conflicts, every sentinel mountain looking down to whose waves has been a witness of more terrible and strange vicissitudes and adventures than have been invented by all the romancers.

For several years, many students of our early history have known that Mr. Lyman C. Draper has dedicated his time, resources, and well-honed skills to gathering whatever materials still exist to illustrate the lives of the Western Pioneers. He has thoroughly explored the Mississippi River valley, under the best conditions—thanks to his intelligence, enthusiasm, and extensive connections with prominent people—approaching every family that held special traditions or written documents. He has successfully built a collection of manuscripts, letters, narratives, and other papers, as well as printed books, pamphlets, magazines, and journals, that is more extensive than many state historical societies possess, and its uniqueness is undeniable. He plans to soon publish his first work, The Life and Times of General George Rogers Clarke, (whose papers he has held for a long time and whose surviving Indian fighters and other associates he has personally met), in two octavo volumes. This will be followed by shorter historical memoirs of Colonel Daniel Boone, General Simon Kenton, General John Sevier of East Tennessee, General James Robertson, Captain Samuel Brady, Colonel William Crawford, the Wetzells, and others. As you can see, his research covers the entire Mississippi region, where every stream that flows into it has been stained with the blood of brutal conflicts, and every sentinel mountain overlooking its waters has witnessed more terrifying and strange twists of fate and adventures than all the storytellers could imagine.

The Dublin University Magazine is not very kind in the matter of the American poem of Frontenac, but suggests that as the author's name is Street, he cannot object to being "walked into."

The Dublin University Magazine isn’t very nice about the American poem Frontenac, but it implies that since the author’s last name is Street, he shouldn't mind being "walked into."

Mrs. Southworth's story of Retribution is being republished in Reynolds's Miscellany, edited by G. W. M. Reynolds, the novelist. Those who are acquainted with the productions of Reynolds will perhaps recognize the fitness of the association.

Mrs. Southworth's story of Retribution is being republished in Reynolds's Miscellany, edited by G. W. M. Reynolds, the novelist. Those who are familiar with Reynolds's works will probably see how well it fits.

Mrs. Mowatt, who has just returned from a professional residence in England, we understand will soon give the public a collection of her miscellaneous writings, prefaced by Mary Howitt. The authoress of The Fortune Hunter, under various signatures, has been a very voluminous as well as a very clever writer. She will in a few weeks appear at the Broadway Theatre.

Mrs. Mowatt, who has just come back from her time in England, is expected to soon release a collection of her various writings, with a preface by Mary Howitt. The author of The Fortune Hunter, using different pen names, has been a prolific and talented writer. She will be appearing at the Broadway Theatre in a few weeks.

Miss Beecher has published (through Phillips & Sampson of Boston), her True Remedy for the Wrongs of Women, and the book is much below her reputation. From a person of her character and unquestionable abilities, we looked for a rebuke of those females who have unsexed themselves, such a rebuke as should have brought to life all the latent shame in their natures, and for ever prevented any renewals of the melancholy displays they have made of an unfeminine passion for notoriety. The "wrongs of woman," in the state of New-York at least, are purely ideal; here woman has all the privileges and protections compatible with her destined offices in a civilized society. She undoubtedly has a share of the sufferings to which human nature is subject, but has literally nothing to complain of at the hands of man in the social organization. The individual wrongs of which she is the victim, are for the most part penalties of individual indiscretions, and the remedy for them is to be found in the education of woman for her proper sphere and duties, such education as shall develope her capacities for the relations of domestic life, most of all, for maternity. Miss Beecher treats parties with respect who are entitled to no respect, acknowledges evils which do not exist, and proposes for the elevation of female character plans of very questionable influence.

Miss Beecher has published (through Phillips & Sampson of Boston) her True Remedy for the Wrongs of Women, but the book falls short of her reputation. From someone of her caliber and undeniable skills, we expected a strong critique of those women who have diminished their femininity, a critique that should have awakened any hidden shame within them and permanently stopped any repeats of the sad displays of an unfeminine desire for attention. The "wrongs of woman," at least in the state of New York, are mostly imaginary; here, women enjoy all the rights and protections that align with their roles in a civilized society. While she certainly shares in the sufferings that affect all human beings, she really has no legitimate complaints regarding men in the social structure. The individual wrongs she faces are largely consequences of personal mistakes, and the solution lies in educating women for their true roles and responsibilities, particularly in developing their abilities for family life, especially motherhood. Miss Beecher shows respect for groups that don’t deserve it, acknowledges problems that don’t really exist, and suggests questionable plans for improving women's character.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] Wieseler, Friedrich. Theatergebäude und Denkmaler des Buhnenwesens, beiden Gricchen und Römern. Göttingen, 1851. Vandenhœik und Ruprecht.

[13] Friedrich Wieseler. Theater Buildings and Monuments of Theatrical Arts, both Greeks and Romans. Göttingen, 1851. Vandenhœik and Ruprecht.

[Pg 130]

The Fine Arts.

All Europe abounds in memorials of illustrious men, and in the present time there is more than ever before a disposition manifested to consecrate art to the honor of the benefactors of mankind, or to those who have been most eminent for great qualities. From Munich, we learn by the latest journals, that two colossal statues—those of Gustavus Adolphus and of the Swedish poet Tegner—have just been cast at the royal foundry of that capital, with complete success. Both were modelled by Schwanthaler, and are destined for public places in the city of Stockholm. In France, the inhabitants of Andelys have been inaugurating a statue of Nicolas Poussin, with great ceremonial. On the same day a statue to Poisson, an eminent mathematician, was inaugurated with pomp, at his native place, Pithiviers, near Orleans. A little before, one was erected to Froissart, the quaint old chronicler of knightly deeds, at Valenciennes, where he was born. Jeanne Hachette is about to have one at Beauvais; Gresset, the author of 'Vert Vert', at Amiens; and the village of Rollot, in Picardy, has just caused to be placed in its public square a bust of the translator into French of the Thousand and One Nights, Antony Galland. He was sent by Colbert to the East on account of his great knowledge of the Hebrew and other oriental languages, and on his return published the Arabian Nights, and a treatise on the origin of coffee.

All of Europe is filled with memorials of famous individuals, and nowadays there’s a stronger trend than ever to dedicate art to those who have significantly contributed to humanity or have been known for their great qualities. Recently, we've learned from the latest journals in Munich that two colossal statues—one of Gustavus Adolphus and the other of the Swedish poet Tegner—have just been successfully cast at the royal foundry in that city. Both were designed by Schwanthaler and are intended for public spaces in Stockholm. In France, the residents of Andelys held a grand ceremony to unveil a statue of Nicolas Poussin. On the same day, a statue of the renowned mathematician Poisson was inaugurated with great fanfare in his hometown of Pithiviers, near Orleans. Not long ago, a statue was erected in Valenciennes, where Froissart, the charming old chronicler of chivalric tales, was born. Jeanne Hachette is set to have a statue in Beauvais; Gresset, the writer of 'Vert Vert', will be honored in Amiens; and the village of Rollot in Picardy has just placed a bust of Antony Galland, who translated the Thousand and One Nights into French, in its public square. He was sent by Colbert to the East due to his extensive knowledge of Hebrew and other Eastern languages, and upon his return, he published the Arabian Nights and a study on the origin of coffee.

There is, in fact, scarcely a Frenchman of real eminence in poetry, literature, war, science, statesmanship, or the arts, who is not honored with a statue, either in his birthplace, or in the town made his own by adoption. Most of the statues are erected at the expense of the respective localities; the good people thinking it a duty to render every respect to their illustrious dead. And when they happen to be too poor to incur much cost, they erect a fountain, or some other useful work, which bears the great man's name. In the small and poor village of Chatenay, near Paris, where Voltaire was born, you see, for example, a small plaster bust of him, in an iron cage, and on the parish pump the words "à Voltaire." And, as the Literary Gazette has it, very justly, "the man who should scoff at this simple tribute to genius would be an ass,—it is all that poor peasants can afford to pay." The names of distinguished men are also frequently given by the French to streets and squares. In Paris alone, Molière, Racine, Corneille, Voltaire, Boileau, Montaigne, and I know not how many others, together with men of science by the hundred, have streets named after them: so have Chateaubriand and Béranger; so have even the English Lord Byron and the Italian Rossini. The ships in the navy, too, receive also the names of distinguished men, foreign as well as native—there is a man-of-war named after Newton, and several public works have the name of our own Franklin. But in the United States, although we have sometimes named after soldiers and statesmen, we have scarce any monuments, and no statues at all, except a few of men distinguished in affairs. In Union Square, opposite the house in which he lived, there should be a statue of the great Chancellor Kent; in Richmond, one of Marshall, next to Washington, the greatest of Virginians; in Northampton, one to Jonathan Edwards; in New Haven, one to Timothy Dwight; before the Academy of Sciences in Philadelphia, one to Franklin, one to Rittenhouse, and one to Alex. Wilson; at Cambridge, one to Allston; in Boston, one to Bowditch; and in New-York, memorials of some sort to Audubon, Gallatin, Hamilton, &c.

There’s hardly a French person of true significance in poetry, literature, war, science, statesmanship, or the arts who doesn’t have a statue, either in their birthplace or in the town they adopted. Most of these statues are funded by the local communities, as the residents feel it’s their duty to honor their distinguished deceased. When they can’t afford much, they build a fountain or some other useful structure that carries the great person’s name. In the small, impoverished village of Chatenay, near Paris, where Voltaire was born, you can see, for instance, a small plaster bust of him in an iron cage, and on the village pump, it says "à Voltaire." The Literary Gazette rightly points out, “anyone who mocks this simple tribute to genius would be an idiot—it’s all that poor peasants can afford to give.” The names of notable figures are often used for streets and squares in France. In Paris alone, Molière, Racine, Corneille, Voltaire, Boileau, Montaigne, and countless others, along with hundreds of scientists, have streets named after them: so do Chateaubriand and Béranger; even the English Lord Byron and the Italian Rossini. Naval ships also bear the names of distinguished individuals, both foreign and domestic—there’s a warship named after Newton, and several public works are named after our own Franklin. In the United States, while we have sometimes named places after soldiers and statesmen, we have very few monuments and no statues at all, except for a handful of people notable in public affairs. In Union Square, opposite the house where he lived, there should be a statue of the great Chancellor Kent; in Richmond, one for Marshall beside Washington, the greatest Virginian; in Northampton, one for Jonathan Edwards; in New Haven, one for Timothy Dwight; before the Academy of Sciences in Philadelphia, one for Franklin, one for Rittenhouse, and one for Alex. Wilson; in Cambridge, one for Allston; in Boston, one for Bowditch; and in New York, some memorials for Audubon, Gallatin, Hamilton, etc.

In the new park which is to be reserved in the upper part of the city, we have an opportunity to commemorate the patriotism and misfortunes of the first magistrate chosen by the people of New-York, the first under whom municipal elections were held here, and the first martyr to Liberty in the New World—Governor Leisler. Leisler Park sounds well, and it has additional fitness from the fact, that the unfortunate governor was once proprietor of a part of the grounds to be so appropriated. If it shall not be called Leisler Park, there is another illustrious New-Yorker, whose name appears to have been forgotten by those who have given names to public places here,—Governor Colden, who wrote the History of the Five Nations.

In the new park being set aside in the upper part of the city, we have a chance to honor the patriotism and hardships of the first mayor elected by the people of New York, the first under whom municipal elections took place here, and the first martyr for Liberty in the New World—Governor Leisler. Leisler Park has a nice ring to it and is especially fitting because the unfortunate governor once owned a portion of the land designated for this park. If it’s not named Leisler Park, there’s another notable New Yorker whose name seems to have been overlooked by those naming public spaces here—Governor Colden, who authored the History of the Five Nations.

When the Emperor of Russia was at Rome, four or five years ago, he engaged Barberi, the worker in mosaic, to undertake certain large works, and with the instruction of six Russian students with a view to the establishment of a great school of mosaic art in St. Petersburgh. Since that time Barberi and his pupils have been occupied with works for the imperial residence, the last of which, just completed, consists of an octagonal mosaic pavement, from the ancient design of the round hall in the Vatican Museum, with twenty-eight figures, a colossal head of Medusa in the centre, and a variety of ornaments, all inclosed in a brilliant wreath of fruits, flowers, and foliage. The series already executed consist of four scenic masques, each of which is valued at £5200 sterling. With these finished works Cavaliere Barberi is about to forward to St. Petersburgh a number of vitreous mosaic tablets of every shade and style of drawing and decoration, as models for younger students.[Pg 131]

When the Emperor of Russia visited Rome about four or five years ago, he hired Barberi, a mosaic artist, to work on some large projects and to train six Russian students with the goal of establishing a major school of mosaic art in St. Petersburg. Since then, Barberi and his students have been busy completing works for the imperial residence, the latest of which is an octagonal mosaic floor inspired by the design of the round hall in the Vatican Museum. This piece features twenty-eight figures, a massive head of Medusa in the center, and a variety of decorative elements, all surrounded by a vibrant wreath of fruits, flowers, and foliage. The completed projects include four scenic masks, each valued at £5200. Along with these finished pieces, Cavaliere Barberi is preparing to send a collection of glass mosaic tiles in various colors and styles of design and decoration to St. Petersburg as examples for younger students.[Pg 131]

Tenerani, the most eminent of contemporary Italian sculptors, has finished a statue of Bolivar. The figure is standing, full draped, and holding a laurel crown in the left hand. The pediment is ornamented with three bas-reliefs, the three provinces, Peru, Bolivia, and Colombia. Two statues, Justice and Liberality, symbols of the hero's virtues, stand at the side of the monument, which will be erected in the cathedral of Caraccas. It is a fine instance of the beauty and delicate grace of Tenerani's treatment. The expressive head of "The Liberator," with the high, arched brow, the large, soft, and sagacious eyes, the sharply chiselled but agreeable features, beaming with intellectual radiance, are happily conceived and exquisitely executed.

Tenerani, the most prominent contemporary Italian sculptor, has completed a statue of Bolivar. The figure stands draped and holds a laurel crown in its left hand. The pediment is decorated with three bas-reliefs representing the three provinces: Peru, Bolivia, and Colombia. Two statues, Justice and Liberality, symbols of the hero's virtues, stand beside the monument, which will be erected in the cathedral of Caracas. It showcases the beauty and delicate grace of Tenerani's style. The expressive head of "The Liberator," with its high, arched brow, large, soft, and wise eyes, and finely crafted yet pleasing features radiating with intellectual brilliance, is beautifully conceived and skillfully executed.

In the same kind we note an equestrian statue of Bernadotte by Togelberg, a Swede resident in Rome. The horseman's mantle has fallen aside, the staff of a commander is in his hand, and the able marshal, "king that shall be," looks graciously down from his horse. In his face there is the imperial force of military genius, with the genial grace of sensibility. The horse is finely done.

In the same style, we see an equestrian statue of Bernadotte by Togelberg, a Swedish artist living in Rome. The rider's cape has draped down, he holds a commander's staff, and the skilled marshal, the future king, looks down benevolently from his horse. His face displays the commanding presence of military talent, combined with a warm gracefulness. The horse is beautifully crafted.

Steinhauser's statue of Hahnemann, the father of homœopathy, destined for Leipsic, is almost finished. The same artist has in hand the Goethe monument, designed by Bettina von Arnim. The sketch serves as the illuminated title-page to the second volume of the correspondence with a child. She describes it as follows: "Goethe sits upon a throne, within a semi-niche, his head reaches over the niche, which is not closed above, but is cut away, and seems, half seen, like the moon rising over the rim of a mountain. The mantle, tied round the neck, falls back over the shoulders, and is brought forward again under the arms into the lap. The left hand rests upon the lyre, supported upon the left knee. The right hand, which holds my flowers, is sunk negligently in the same way, and, forgetting fame, he holds the laurel wreath, and looks toward heaven. The young Psyche stands before him, as then I stood, raises herself upon tip-toe to touch the strings of the lyre, which he permits, lost in inspiration."

Steinhauser's statue of Hahnemann, the father of homeopathy, meant for Leipzig, is nearly complete. The same artist is also working on the Goethe monument, designed by Bettina von Arnim. The sketch serves as the decorative title page for the second volume of the correspondence with a child. She describes it like this: "Goethe sits on a throne in a semi-niche, his head extending beyond the niche, which is open at the top, appearing somewhat like the moon rising over a mountain's edge. The mantle, tied around his neck, drapes back over his shoulders and is pulled forward under his arms into his lap. His left hand rests on the lyre, supported on his left knee. The right hand, which holds my flowers, hangs casually in the same way, and, forgetting fame, he holds the laurel wreath and gazes towards heaven. The young Psyche stands before him, just as I did, rising on tiptoe to touch the strings of the lyre, which he allows, lost in inspiration."

The artist has appreciated this conception. He has represented Goethe not as an old man, but as a man of ideal expression, holding indeed the well-won laurel, but with the harp in hand, as if inspiration were exhaustless.

The artist has embraced this idea. He has depicted Goethe not as an elderly man, but as someone with an ideal expression, indeed holding the hard-earned laurel, but also with the harp in hand, as if inspiration were endless.

Herr Kiss's group in bronze of an Amazon encountering a lion has been purchased by the Prince of Prussia as a present for the Queen of England. A copy of the same work in zinc has been purchased by a gentleman from the United States for £2500. It is said that Kiss has received a commission for two other copies for persons in the United States.

Mr. Kiss bronze sculpture of an Amazon facing a lion has been bought by the Prince of Prussia as a gift for the Queen of England. A zinc copy of the same piece has been purchased by a man from the United States for £2500. It's reported that Kiss has been commissioned to create two more copies for buyers in the United States.

The English critics complain that they have not any longer a great portrait painter. This branch of art is declining, and the walls of the Academy this year bear testimony to the fact. From the death of Lawrence to the present time, now more than twenty years, it has been gradually subsiding into the mere record of literal fact—ignoring those great principles which made it once a means of historical record. In America we have occasion for no such regrets. Elliot is equal to any man in the world for a masculine and noble head, and Hicks and several others would in any country or in any time command the applause due to great masters.

The English critics argue that there is no longer a great portrait painter. This art form is on the decline, and the walls of the Academy this year clearly show this truth. Since Lawrence's death over twenty years ago, it has been gradually reducing to just a representation of literal facts—overlooking the significant principles that once made it a means of historical documentation. In America, we have no such regrets. Elliot is as good as any man in the world at creating a strong and noble head, and Hicks and several others would earn admiration in any country or era as great masters.

For three years Mr. Pyne, the landscape painter, has been taking a series of views in the lake counties of England. The pictures comprise all the important objects in a tour through the country they illustrate, treated under a variety of aspects, which renders the collection valuable in an artistic point of view. A feeling for atmospheric distance is one of Mr. Pyne's most important attributes, and in representing wide reaching views of mountains and lakes he has had full scope for his talent. The pictures are to be copied in a series of colored lithographs, and published in a volume.

For three years, Mr. Pyne, the landscape painter, has been creating a series of views in the lake districts of England. The paintings include all the key sights from a tour through the area they depict, presented in various ways, which makes the collection artistically valuable. A sense of atmospheric depth is one of Mr. Pyne's key strengths, and in showcasing expansive views of mountains and lakes, he has had plenty of opportunities to demonstrate his talent. The artworks will be reproduced in a series of colored lithographs and published in a book.

Among the pictures in the Royal Academy this season are several by British army officers on foreign duty. By the Hon. Lieutenant Colonel Percy there are, A Study of Niagara from the under Horse-Shoe Fall, The River St. Lawrence and Mouth of the Saguenay, and a view on the same river Near the Chaudiere Bridge, Quebec.

Among the paintings at the Royal Academy this season are several by British army officers stationed abroad. By the Hon. Lieutenant Colonel Percy, there are, A Study of Niagara from the under Horse-Shoe Fall, The River St. Lawrence and Mouth of the Saguenay, and a view of the same river Near the Chaudiere Bridge, Quebec.

Rauch, the sculptor, whose statue of Frederic the Great has just been erected in Berlin, has been the object of an artistic ovation. The Academy of Sciences gave a banquet in his honor, the king, royal family, and ministers assisted, and Meyerbeer composed a Cantata for the occasion.

Smoke, the sculptor, whose statue of Frederic the Great has just been put up in Berlin, has been celebrated for his artistic achievements. The Academy of Sciences hosted a banquet in his honor, with the king, royal family, and ministers in attendance, and Meyerbeer wrote a Cantata for the event.

Mr. Healy's picture of Mr. Webster replying to Colonel Hayne is completed, in Paris, and will be brought to New-York in the present month (of August). It is twenty-eight feet long. The painter has published proposals for engravings of it, at twenty dollars per copy.

Mr. Healy's painting of Mr. Webster responding to Colonel Hayne is finished in Paris and will be brought to New York this month (August). It measures twenty-eight feet long. The artist has released proposals for engravings of it, priced at twenty dollars each.

An original painting by Raphael, The Boar Hunt, was destroyed in a recent fire at Downhill House, the family seat of Sir Hervey Bruce, in England.

An original painting by Raphael, The Boar Hunt, was destroyed in a recent fire at Downhill House, the family home of Sir Hervey Bruce, in England.

The French and English journals mention several important improvements of the daguerreotype, some of which are of the same character as Mr. Hill's. Mr. Brady, of this city, has gone to London, to establish a branch of his house in that city.

The French and English newspapers talk about several significant advancements in the daguerreotype, some of which are similar to Mr. Hill's. Mr. Brady, from this city, has traveled to London to set up a branch of his business there.

[Pg 132]

Historical Review of the Month.

THE UNITED STATES.

On the 4th of July the corner stone of the Capitol extension at Washington was laid, before the President of the United States, the Cabinet, army and navy officers, and a very large assemblage of citizens. Mr. Webster delivered on the occasion an address, in which he pointed out with his customary eloquent clearness the extraordinary advances of the country since General Washington, fifty-eight years before, had performed there a similar duty, and for the advantage of condensation and exactness he presented many important facts in the form of a comparative table, as follows:

On July 4th, the cornerstone of the Capitol extension in Washington was laid in front of the President of the United States, the Cabinet, military officers, and a large crowd of citizens. Mr. Webster gave a speech during the event, in which he highlighted, with his usual eloquent clarity, the remarkable progress the country had made since General Washington had performed a similar duty there fifty-eight years earlier. For the sake of clarity and precision, he presented many important facts in a comparative table, as follows:

	1793.	1851.
Number of States	15	31
Representatives and Senators in Congress	135	295
Population of the U. States, 1850	3,929,328	23,267,498
Do. Boston, do.	18,038	136,871
Do. Baltimore, do.	13,503	169,054
Do. Philadelphia, do.	42,520	409,045
Do. New-York (city), do.	33,121	515,507
Do. Washington, do.	——	40,075
Amount of receipts into Treasury, do.	$5,720,624	$43,774,848
Am't of expenditures of U.S., do.	7,529,575	39,355,268
Amount of imports, do.	31,000,000	178,138,318
Do. Exports, do.	26,109,000	151,898,720
Do. Tonnage, do.	525,764	3,535,454
Area of the United States, do.	805,461	3,314,365
Rank and file of the army	5,110	10,000
Militia (enrolled),	——	2,006,456
Navy of the United States (vessels),	None	76
Do. Armament (ordinance),	—	2,012
Number of treaties and conventions with foreign powers	9	90
Number of lighthouses and light-boats	7	372
Expenditures for do.	$12,061	529,265
Area of the first capitol building in square feet	——	14,641
Do. present capitol (including extension)	——	4-1/3 acres
Lines of railroads in miles	——	8,500
Do. Telegraphs	——	15,000
Number of post-offices	209	21,551
Number of miles of post route	5,642	178,671
Amount of revenue from post-offices	$104,747	$5,552,971
Amount of expenditures in the Post-Office Department	72,040	5,212,953
Number of miles of mail transportation	——	46,541,423
Miles of railroad	——	8,500
Public libraries	35	694
Number of volumes in do.	75,000	2,201,632
School libraries	——	10,000
Number of volumes in do.	——	$2,000,000

The recent anniversary—being three quarters of a century from the Declaration of Independence—was celebrated with unusual enthusiasm in nearly all parts of the United States. One small party of secessionists in a southern state chose the occasion for some farcical expressions of treason, and members of another party, equally insane or wicked, in the north, chose to violate the sacredness of the time by avowing a disregard of the Constitution; but on the whole the displays of feeling were such as to gratify a patriotic and hopeful spirit. The new constitution of Maryland went into effect on that day, and in obedience to one of its provisions all the persons confined in its several prisons for debt were then released.

The recent anniversary—marking 75 years since the Declaration of Independence—was celebrated with great enthusiasm across nearly all of the United States. One small group of secessionists in a southern state used the occasion to make ridiculous displays of treason, while members of another equally misguided group in the north chose to disrespect the significance of the day by openly disregarding the Constitution; however, overall, the expressions of sentiment were enough to please a patriotic and hopeful spirit. The new constitution of Maryland went into effect on that day, and in accordance with one of its provisions, all individuals held in its various prisons for debt were released.

The correspondence between the British Minister and the Secretary of State respecting the long-pending difficulties in Central America is not yet concluded. It appears that Great Britain is ready to relinquish her peculiar relations with the so-called Mosquito Kingdom, and surrender her control over San Juan; but she refuses to make that surrender to Nicaragua, which claims an unconditional right in the case, and refuses to submit to any restrictions. There are other territorial difficulties between Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and the other states, which seem difficult of adjustment. On these subjects Sir Henry Bulwer has addressed to the American Government a communication urging its interference to produce an amicable settlement. Mr. Webster has left Washington for a temporary residence in the country, and it is probable that this correspondence will not be concluded until his return, and the return of the British Minister from a contemplated visit to London.

The exchange between the British Minister and the Secretary of State regarding the ongoing issues in Central America is still unresolved. It seems that Great Britain is willing to give up its special relationship with the so-called Mosquito Kingdom and hand over control of San Juan; however, it refuses to make this handover to Nicaragua, which claims an absolute right in the matter and won't agree to any conditions. There are also other territorial disputes involving Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and other neighboring states that appear difficult to resolve. On these issues, Sir Henry Bulwer has sent a message to the American Government, urging its involvement to help reach a peaceful resolution. Mr. Webster has left Washington for a temporary stay in the countryside, and it’s likely that this correspondence won’t be wrapped up until he returns, along with the British Minister, who is planning a trip to London.

It is supposed that an extensive fraud has been committed against the United States Government in the settlement of Mexican claims. The person accused, a Dr. Gardner, received a large sum from the Mexican Commission, but as is now stated, by fraudulent evidence. He is absent in Europe, but the grand jury of Washington has found a bill against him, and his brother and another party implicated in the transaction have been held to bail for perjury.

It is believed that a significant fraud has been committed against the United States Government regarding the settlement of Mexican claims. The person being accused, Dr. Gardner, received a large payment from the Mexican Commission, but it is now said to be based on fraudulent evidence. He is currently in Europe, but the grand jury in Washington has indicted him, and his brother along with another individual involved in the case has been released on bail for perjury.

The Tehuantepec Surveying Expedition has returned to New Orleans. Surveys, which show the practicability of the railroad route, are complete. A few parties have been left on the ground to survey a line for the construction of a carriage road. The Coatzacoatlcos River is reported navigable, for twenty-five miles above its mouth, for ships drawing eleven feet of water. The climate is believed to be healthy. The Mexican government having evinced some unfriendliness to the Tehuantepec project, the interference of the United States has been solicited, but declined. The balance of the fourth installment of the Mexican Indemnity, under the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, was paid at the U.S. Treasury on the 28th of June—amounting to $1,815,400. The whole amount of the installment is $3,360,000. The Court Martial convened at Washington on the 23d June, for the trial of General Talcott, chief of the ordnance department, has closed its labors by the conviction of the accused of all the charges preferred against him, and his dismissal from the service. The charges were: a violation of the 132d article of the regulations for the government of the Ordnance Department; wilful disobedience of orders and instructions from the Secretary of War in relation to a contract for supplies; and conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, among other things, in making a declaration which was positively and wilfully false, and intended to deceive the Secretary of War.

The Tehuantepec Surveying Expedition has returned to New Orleans. Surveys showing the feasibility of the railroad route are complete. A few teams have been left on-site to survey a line for the construction of a carriage road. The Coatzacoatlcos River is reported to be navigable for twenty-five miles upstream from its mouth, for ships drawing eleven feet of water. The climate is thought to be healthy. Because the Mexican government has shown some hostility towards the Tehuantepec project, the United States was asked to intervene but declined. The remainder of the fourth payment of the Mexican Indemnity, under the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, was paid at the U.S. Treasury on June 28th, totaling $1,815,400. The total amount of the installment is $3,360,000. The Court Martial, which convened in Washington on June 23rd for the trial of General Talcott, the head of the ordnance department, has concluded its proceedings by convicting him on all the charges filed against him, resulting in his dismissal from service. The charges included: violating the 132nd article of the regulations governing the Ordnance Department; willfully disobeying orders and instructions from the Secretary of War regarding a contract for supplies; and conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, among other things, for making a declaration that was knowingly false and intended to mislead the Secretary of War.

Preparations for the next presidential canvass are being commenced in many of the States. General Scott has received the nomination of two state conventions—that of Ohio, and that of Pennsylvania—besides having been nominated at public meetings in Delaware, Indiana, and other places. Mr. Woodbury has been nominated in New Hampshire, and meetings of various degrees of importance have expressed preferences for other candidates[Pg 133] in various parts of the country. The crops of all sorts are represented as being in a very prosperous condition throughout all sections: of wheat and potatoes more abundant than ever before, and of cotton and rice very much better than the drought in the early part of the season promised. The Extra Session of the New-York legislature adjourned on the 11th of July, after passing several important bills. That for the enlargement of the Erie Canal is a measure of great moment to the industry and commerce of the state. It provides for the complete enlargement of the Erie Canal within four years, thus securing the immense business which would else seek other avenues to the seaboard, and endowing the state with a large revenue independent of taxes. Chief Justice Bronson, whose political relations give to his opinions in this case a peculiar value, has published an elaborate vindication of the bill's constitutionality. The legislature of New Hampshire adjourned on the 5th of July. The legislature of Connecticut has also adjourned, having elected no Senator in the place of Mr. Baldwin. Resolutions approving of the Compromise Measures, including the Fugitive Slave Law, passed the House by a vote of 113 to 35, but in the Senate they were indefinitely postponed. The Virginia Reform Convention struck out the section of the Constitution prohibiting the legislature from passing a law to allow the emancipation of slaves, and inserted a provision that an emancipated slave remaining in the state over twelve months shall be sold. The legislature is allowed to impose restrictions on the owners of slaves who are disposed to emancipate, but the section giving the legislature power to remove free negroes from the state is stricken out. The murderers of the Cosden family, in Kent Co., Maryland, are sentenced to be hung on the first Friday of the present month.

Preparations for the next presidential election are starting in many states. General Scott has received nominations from two state conventions—Ohio and Pennsylvania—along with nominations at public meetings in Delaware, Indiana, and other locations. Mr. Woodbury has been nominated in New Hampshire, and various meetings have expressed preferences for other candidates in different parts of the country. Reports show that all types of crops are in very good shape everywhere: wheat and potatoes are more abundant than ever, and cotton and rice are doing much better than expected given the earlier drought. The Extra Session of the New York legislature adjourned on July 11 after passing several important bills. One significant measure is the enlargement of the Erie Canal, which is crucial for the state's industry and commerce. It plans to fully enlarge the Erie Canal within four years, securing the massive business that would otherwise look for other routes to the coast and providing the state with a substantial revenue that doesn't depend on taxes. Chief Justice Bronson, whose political connections make his opinions particularly valuable in this case, has published a detailed defense of the bill's constitutionality. The legislature of New Hampshire adjourned on July 5. The legislature of Connecticut has also adjourned without electing a Senator to replace Mr. Baldwin. Resolutions supporting the Compromise Measures, including the Fugitive Slave Law, passed the House with a vote of 113 to 35, but they were indefinitely postponed in the Senate. The Virginia Reform Convention removed the section of the Constitution that barred the legislature from passing a law to allow for the emancipation of slaves and added a requirement that any emancipated slave who stays in the state for over twelve months must be sold. The legislature can impose restrictions on slave owners who want to emancipate their slaves, but the provision allowing the legislature to remove free Black people from the state has been removed. The murderers of the Cosden family in Kent County, Maryland, are sentenced to be hanged on the first Friday of this month.

From California we have intelligence to the 15th of June. San Francisco and Stockton seem to have almost entirely recovered from the effects of the late conflagrations; the burnt districts were being restored with a rapidity surpassing all previous examples of Californian energy, and business, far from being prostrated, had resumed its former activity. The accounts from the mines continued to be encouraging, the yield of gold not having been diminished by the unusual dryness of the winter. The Indian Commissioners have met with great success in their work of pacification, although there were rumors of skirmishes in the northern part of the state. A man named Jennings was lately seized at San Francisco while attempting to escape with a bag of stolen money, and was, after being arrested and tried by a self-constituted Vigilance Committee, condemned, brought out into the plaza, and publicly hung in the presence of a large crowd. A crime so monstrous may well startle the world. If the persons composing the Vigilance Committee have respectable positions in society, this fact but increases the infamy of the transaction, and gives it a more fatal influence. Every member of the committee, consenting to its action, should be deemed guilty of murder, and punished as a murderer, though the magistracy of California should have to invoke for its support in enforcing the laws the whole force of the nation. There is no safety, nor true liberty, where there is not obedience; and it had been better that all the thieves in California in half a century escaped punishment than that one should be punished in this manner.

From California, we have updates as of June 15th. San Francisco and Stockton seem to have nearly fully recovered from the recent fires; the damaged areas are being rebuilt faster than ever before in California's history, and business, instead of being crushed, has returned to its previous level of activity. Reports from the mines remain positive, with gold production not affected by the unusually dry winter. The Indian Commissioners have had significant success in their efforts to promote peace, although there are rumors of skirmishes in the northern part of the state. A man named Jennings was recently caught in San Francisco trying to escape with a bag of stolen money. After being arrested and tried by a self-appointed Vigilance Committee, he was sentenced, taken to the plaza, and publicly hanged in front of a large crowd. A crime this shocking could easily alarm the world. If the members of the Vigilance Committee hold respectable positions in society, it only adds to the disgrace of the act and its more harmful impact. Every member of the committee who agreed to this action should be considered guilty of murder and punished as a murderer, even if the authorities in California have to call upon the full force of the nation to enforce the laws. There is no safety, nor true freedom, where there is no obedience; it would be better for all the thieves in California over the last fifty years to escape punishment than for one to be punished in such a way.

In the Mormon territory of Utah ground was broken for the Great Salt Lake and Mountain Railway on the 1st of May. When this enterprise is completed, preparations will be more vigorously prosecuted for the erection of the Temple. The condition of affairs in the new settlements is represented as encouraging.

In the Mormon area of Utah, construction began for the Great Salt Lake and Mountain Railway on May 1st. Once this project is finished, efforts will ramp up for building the Temple. The situation in the new communities is described as promising.

The tide of emigration continues to flow into Texas from European ports. Milam District, on the Upper Brazos, seems at present to be the favorite point for the colonists. The new town of Kent has lately been erected at Kimball's Bend, and under the auspices of Captain Sir Edward Belcher, R.N., made up of hardy English and Scotch settlers. With the payment of its debt insured by the ten millions received from the United States, Texas must become one of the most flourishing states of the Union.

The wave of people moving to Texas from European ports keeps growing. Right now, the Milam District, located along the Upper Brazos, appears to be the top choice for these settlers. A new town called Kent has recently been established at Kimball's Bend, backed by Captain Sir Edward Belcher, R.N., and populated by tough English and Scottish settlers. With its debt covered by the ten million dollars received from the United States, Texas is destined to become one of the most prosperous states in the Union.

MEXICO.

Recent advices from Mexico lead to apprehensions that the unquiet and unsettled state of affairs may result in open attempts at a revolution in the government, and an effort by the partisans of General Santa Anna to recall him from exile, and place him at the head of the administration. It is understood that the President has abandoned the liberal party and allied himself with the clergy. A vigorous newspaper war is waged against the priests. The Mexican congress is engaged in devising ways and means to raise the necessary revenue to carry on the government. The proposition to impose an additional tax of eight per cent on all foreign merchandise imported into the Republic, has been adopted by the Chamber of Deputies.

Recent reports from Mexico have raised concerns that the current turbulent situation might lead to outright attempts at a government revolution, with supporters of General Santa Anna trying to bring him back from exile and position him as the head of the administration. It's understood that the President has turned away from the liberal party and aligned himself with the clergy. A fierce media battle is being fought against the priests. The Mexican Congress is working on finding ways to generate the income needed to keep the government running. The proposal to impose an additional eight percent tax on all foreign goods imported into the Republic has been approved by the Chamber of Deputies.

BRITISH AMERICA.

The subject of the clergy reserves, which for a quarter of a century has almost been constantly debated in Upper Canada, has lately been agitated with unprecedented earnestness and bitterness. The popular and English party advocate the appropriation of the funds thus accruing to purposes of general education. The Board of Trade of Toronto has passed a vote of censure upon the Council, for having memorialized the government to impose differential duties against American manufactures. The census returns for 1850 give the population of Canada at nearly 800,000. The proceeds of clergy reserve sales, during the year, were $220,428. In the Legislative Assembly, a series of resolutions has been moved for the repeal of the union between Upper and Lower Canada. Efforts are being made to construct a railroad from Halifax to Hamilton, where it is to join the Great Western road, constituting a continuous line from Halifax to Detroit.

The issue of clergy reserves, which has been debated in Upper Canada for the past 25 years, has recently been discussed with unprecedented intensity and hostility. The popular and English factions are pushing for the use of the funds for general education purposes. The Toronto Board of Trade has formally criticized the Council for asking the government to impose higher duties on American goods. According to the 1850 census, Canada's population is nearly 800,000. The revenue from clergy reserve sales this year was $220,428. In the Legislative Assembly, a series of resolutions have been proposed to repeal the union between Upper and Lower Canada. Efforts are underway to build a railroad from Halifax to Hamilton, which will connect with the Great Western road, creating a continuous line from Halifax to Detroit.

WEST INDIES.

We have dates of Port-au-Prince to the 30th of June. The coronation of the Emperor Soulouque will take place very soon. Should no bishop arrive from Rome, the Emperor may create a native bishop. At the coronation, a general amnesty is expected for all political exiles, whose return to Hayti will be beneficial, for among them are men of wealth and intelligence. The affairs of the country have assumed a more pacific aspect. Immediately after the recent proclamation of the Emperor to the Dominicans, several agents[Pg 134] were sent to different points on the frontier, to induce the enemy to enter on amicable relations. With a single exception, these missions were successful, and a number of Dominicans were expected in Port-au-Prince, for purposes of trade. The universal desire of the Haytian people, as well as of the government, is said to be that the dispute may be honorably settled. The Emperor, however, has not relinquished the idea of effecting a reannexation of the territory of Dominica to Hayti. The excessive issues of Treasury bonds and paper currency are proving prejudicial to the true interests of the country. The number of negroes brought to Cuba from the coast of Africa, during the past fourteen months, is 14,500. Very heavy rains have fallen in the interior and in the neighborhood of Manzanilla.

We have updates from Port-au-Prince as of June 30th. The coronation of Emperor Soulouque is coming up soon. If no bishop arrives from Rome, the Emperor might create a native bishop. An overall amnesty is anticipated for all political exiles at the coronation, which will be beneficial since many of them are wealthy and intelligent individuals. The situation in the country has become more peaceful. Right after the Emperor's recent proclamation to the Dominicans, several agents[Pg 134] were sent to various points along the border to encourage friendly relations. With one exception, these missions were successful, and many Dominicans were expected in Port-au-Prince for trade purposes. It is said that the widespread hope of the Haitian people and the government is to settle the dispute honorably. However, the Emperor has not given up on the idea of reannexing the territory of Dominica to Haiti. The excessive issuance of Treasury bonds and paper currency is harming the country's true interests. Over the past fourteen months, 14,500 Africans have been brought to Cuba from the coast of Africa. There have been heavy rains in the interior and around Manzanilla.

SOUTH AMERICA.

In the number of the Christian Review for the July quarter is a very comprehensive, intelligible, and apparently perfectly correct survey of the condition of the South American states, to which we refer readers who would possess more minute information on the subject than can be embraced in this summary.

In the July issue of the Christian Review, there’s a thorough, clear, and seemingly accurate overview of the state of South American countries. We recommend this to readers who want more detailed information on the topic than what this summary can provide.

The condition of Peru appears favorable for the maintenance of peace and order. The laws relating to elections, municipal governments, and other topics connected with the internal affairs of the country, have been considered by Congress, in accordance with the recommendation of the President. The election of Gen. Vivanca, the unsuccessful candidate for the Presidency, as representative in Congress, has been pronounced invalid, on account of his not holding the rights of citizenship. The change of ministry was received with satisfaction in all the departments, except Arequipa, which continued in a state of disturbance. The Governor's proclamation, requiring that all arms should be surrendered to the government, was the occasion of a fresh outbreak. Arequipa was thrown into a state of siege: the streets were filled with barricades: trenches were constructed at all the avenues to the city: and every obstacle opposed to the entrance of the troops which were encamped in the vicinity. Gen. Vivanca, whose party have caused these disturbances, is in prison at Lima; but whether he is personally implicated is uncertain.

The situation in Peru seems good for maintaining peace and order. The laws about elections, local governments, and other matters related to the country’s internal affairs have been reviewed by Congress based on the President's recommendation. The election of Gen. Vivanca, who ran for President but lost, as a representative in Congress has been deemed invalid because he does not have citizenship rights. The change in the government was welcomed in all regions except Arequipa, which remained troubled. The Governor's announcement requiring all weapons to be surrendered to the government led to new unrest. Arequipa was put under a state of siege: the streets were blocked with barricades, trenches were dug at every entrance to the city, and every effort was made to prevent the troops stationed nearby from entering. Gen. Vivanca, whose supporters are behind these disturbances, is in prison in Lima, but it's unclear if he is personally involved.

The Government of Bolivia has issued the plan of a new Constitution, proposing among other measures, the preservation of the Roman Catholic religion as the religion of the state, the maintenance of amicable relations with American and European states, the liberty of the press, the independence of the judicial authority, the freedom of opinion on political subjects, and the protection of foreigners in the exercise of commercial pursuits. A National Convention has been convoked for the 16th of July. The number of deputies was to be 53.

The Government of Bolivia has announced a plan for a new Constitution, which includes several measures such as maintaining the Roman Catholic religion as the state religion, fostering friendly relations with American and European countries, ensuring press freedom, guaranteeing judicial independence, allowing freedom of opinion on political issues, and protecting foreigners in their commercial activities. A National Convention has been called for July 16th, with 53 delegates expected to attend.

An insurrection has taken place in New-Grenada—the two southern provinces, Pasto and Tuquerres, having united in an attempt to overthrow the government, with the aid and encouragement of Ecuador. The President at once dispatched a military force to the scene of the revolt, but at the last advices it had not succeeded in its object, though two or three engagements had taken place. The government has issued proposals for a loan of $400,000 in specie, and unless this is effected soon, recourse must be had to forced contributions to defray the expenses of the war. Congress has abolished slavery, requiring only certain payments to the masters. No disturbance had arisen from the measure.

An uprising has occurred in New Granada— the two southern provinces, Pasto and Tuquerres, have joined forces to try to overthrow the government, with support and encouragement from Ecuador. The President immediately sent a military force to the site of the rebellion, but as of the latest reports, it had not achieved its goal, although there were a couple of skirmishes. The government has proposed a loan of $400,000 in cash, and if this doesn’t happen soon, they will have to resort to forced contributions to cover war expenses. Congress has abolished slavery, requiring only certain payments to the owners. There were no disturbances resulting from this measure.

GREAT BRITAIN.

In the British Parliament important reforms in the Chancery system are still under discussion, and Lord Brougham is as ardent a reformer as he was thirty years ago. The census of Great Britain, taken on the 31st of March last, is a remarkable document. It shows that the small cluster of the British isles contains a larger population than the whole of this republic, exclusive of its slaves. The metropolis numbers upwards of two millions and a quarter, and added to its denizens during the last ten years about as many souls as New-York now reckons within its limits. But a more extraordinary and altogether different result appears in Ireland. It seems that the population of Ireland is at this moment very little more than six millions and a half. It is absolutely less than it was in 1821, and more than two millions short of the number that would have been reached in the natural order of things, but for the extraordinary occurrences of the last ten years. So startling a fact will of course become the subject of the closest inquiries.

In the British Parliament, important reforms in the Chancery system are still being discussed, and Lord Brougham is just as passionate about reform as he was thirty years ago. The census of Great Britain, taken on March 31st, is an impressive document. It shows that the small group of British Isles has a larger population than the entire United States, not counting its slaves. The capital city has over two million and a quarter residents, and in the last ten years, it added about as many people as New York currently has within its borders. However, a more surprising and completely different result appears in Ireland. It seems that Ireland's population is currently just over six and a half million. This is actually less than it was in 1821 and over two million short of what the population would have naturally reached if not for the extraordinary events of the past decade. Such a shocking fact will certainly become the focus of intense scrutiny.

The Anti-Papal Bill finally passed the House of Commons, by a large majority, on the 4th of July. It had previously been amended on the motion of Sir F. Thesiger, and in spite of the opposition of the ministers, so as to be much more than the Government had designed. These amendments make provisions of the bill extend to all Papal bulls and rescripts, impose a penalty of one hundred pounds upon any who obtain or publish them, and make it the right of any individual to sue for the recovery of the fine. The law is stringent, and in America would be both impolitic and unnecessary. But there is no doubt that the Lords will adopt the bill, and that it will become the law of the land. The state of the Church and its abuses have been presented in the Commons by Mr. Horsman, Sir B. Hall, and Lord Blandford, who brought up various facts, and contended that a bishop need not have better pay than a prime minister, that the funds of the establishment were enough to support an efficient clergy and leave something for national schools, and that the Church does not supply the spiritual wants of the people. Such discussions must finally result in the overthrow of the establishment. Some excitement is caused by an appeal addressed to the Italians by the authorities at Rome asking for aid to Roman Catholic missions in London, in which "this great work is most earnestly recommended to the charity of Italian believers, and to the zeal of the bishops of Italy." Archbishop Minucci, of Florence, has also called on the people of his diocese for aid in constructing an Italian church in London, where "the spiritual wants of the faithful" may be cared for, and announcing an indulgence of one hundred days for those who shall contribute for this object.

The Anti-Papal Bill finally passed the House of Commons with a significant majority on July 4th. It had been previously modified due to a motion by Sir F. Thesiger, and despite opposition from the ministers, it turned out to be much more than what the Government intended. These amendments extend the bill's provisions to all Papal bulls and rescripts, impose a penalty of one hundred pounds on anyone who obtains or publishes them, and grant individuals the right to sue for the recovery of the fine. The law is strict and would be both politically unwise and unnecessary in America. However, it's clear that the Lords will approve the bill, making it the law of the land. The state of the Church and its abuses have been brought to attention in the Commons by Mr. Horsman, Sir B. Hall, and Lord Blandford, who presented various facts and argued that a bishop shouldn’t earn more than a prime minister, that the Church's funds are sufficient to support an effective clergy and provide for national schools, and that the Church fails to meet the spiritual needs of the people. These discussions will likely lead to the downfall of the establishment. Some excitement has been sparked by an appeal from the authorities in Rome asking Italians to support Roman Catholic missions in London, where "this great work is earnestly recommended to the generosity of Italian believers, and to the dedication of the bishops of Italy." Archbishop Minucci from Florence has also urged the people in his diocese to help construct an Italian church in London, where "the spiritual needs of the faithful" can be addressed, announcing a hundred-day indulgence for those who contribute to this cause.

An attempt has been made to prevent the adulteration of coffee with chicory. It was thought possible to do this by means of a government inspection, but the motion failed. The Exhibition is still prosperous. The gross receipts already amount to a million and a half of dollars.

An effort has been made to stop the mixing of coffee with chicory. It was believed that this could be achieved through government inspections, but the proposal didn't succeed. The Exhibition is still thriving. The total revenue has already reached one and a half million dollars.

The number of troops in Ireland has, in consequence[Pg 135] of the quiet and improved condition of that country, been reduced from about 26,000 to the present strength of 18,000 men. The decrees of the Thurles synod, condemning the Queen's colleges, as institutions "dangerous to faith and morals," have been sanctioned by the Pope, without any change or qualifications. Some slight alterations have been made in the statutes of the synod, respecting matters of ecclesiastical discipline in the various dioceses; but those which refer to the colleges have been approved without any modification. The Cork Constitution says, "There is a great diminution in the number of emigrants proceeding to America. Only four or five vessels are now at the quays preparing to leave. It is with difficulty the requisite number of emigrants can be made up, many preferring to go by Liverpool."

The number of troops in Ireland has, as a result[Pg 135] of the calm and improved situation in the country, been reduced from about 26,000 to the current strength of 18,000 men. The decrees from the Thurles synod, which condemn the Queen's colleges as institutions "dangerous to faith and morals," have been approved by the Pope without any changes or qualifications. Some minor adjustments have been made to the synod's statutes regarding ecclesiastical discipline in various dioceses; however, those related to the colleges have been accepted without any alterations. The Cork Constitution states, "There is a significant decrease in the number of emigrants heading to America. Only four or five ships are currently at the docks getting ready to depart. It's becoming difficult to gather the necessary number of emigrants, with many choosing to leave from Liverpool instead."

Nearly a hundred Hungarian refugees had arrived at Southampton, from Constantinople. Lord John Russell has intimated that the Government will defray the expense of their passage to New-York, and of their subsistence during the time they may remain in Southampton, waiting arrangements for this purpose. Amongst the refugees is the distinguished Hungarian Lieut. General Loisar Messaros.

Nearly a hundred Hungarian refugees had arrived in Southampton from Constantinople. Lord John Russell has indicated that the Government will cover the cost of their passage to New York and their living expenses while they stay in Southampton, waiting for arrangements. Among the refugees is the notable Hungarian Lieutenant General Loisar Messaros.

Preparations for another Peace Congress have been made on a large scale. In one important particular the London Congress will be distinguished above all others; and that is, in the greater breadth of representative character which it will acquire; for associated bodies who have never hitherto manifested a direct interest in the peace question are preparing to send delegates on this occasion.

Preparations for another Peace Congress have been made on a large scale. One major thing that sets the London Congress apart from all others is the increased diversity of representation it will have; groups that have never shown a direct interest in the peace issue before are getting ready to send delegates this time.

The official returns of the shipwrecks of the United Kingdom during the past year, show that the average is nearly two a day; and the amount, thus far, four vessels only propelled by steam, and six hundred and sixty-eight sailing vessels of every description. The difference in the number of steam and sailing vessels afloat is far from the proportion of disasters. Navigation by steam is thus demonstrated to be much the safest.

The official reports on the shipwrecks of the United Kingdom from the past year show that the average is nearly two a day; so far, there have been only four steam-powered vessels and six hundred sixty-eight sailing vessels of all kinds. The difference between the number of steam and sailing vessels on the water is not reflected in the number of disasters. This shows that steam navigation is much safer.

The 4th of July was celebrated in London with appropriate honors by the American residents and others. Mr. George Peabody issued cards of invitation to meet the United States Minister and Mrs. Lawrence at a fête which he was to give in the evening, and about seven or eight hundred persons were present, including the American families in London, and a large proportion of the nobility and public persons in England, by whom the idea was received with the greatest satisfaction. The Duke of Wellington, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Lord Mayor, the Duke of Valencia, the Count and Countess Pulzki, Lord Glenelg, Viscount Canning, Miss Burdett Coutts, the American Ministers to London, St. Petersburg, and Brussels, and a great number of other eminent persons attended, besides Catharine Hayes, Lablache, Gardoni, and Cruvelli, who sang during the evening, and were received with more than usual applause. The affair was one of the grandest of the season.

The 4th of July was celebrated in London with fitting honors by American residents and others. Mr. George Peabody sent out invitations to meet the U.S. Minister and Mrs. Lawrence at a party he hosted in the evening, and around seven or eight hundred people attended, including American families living in London, as well as many members of the nobility and public figures in England, who welcomed the idea with great enthusiasm. The Duke of Wellington, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Lord Mayor, the Duke of Valencia, Count and Countess Pulzki, Lord Glenelg, Viscount Canning, Miss Burdett Coutts, the American Ministers to London, St. Petersburg, and Brussels, along with many other notable individuals, were present, as well as singers Catharine Hayes, Lablache, Gardoni, and Cruvelli, who performed during the evening and received exceptional applause. The event was one of the most impressive of the season.

FRANCE.

In France the chief events of importance are connected with the project for the revision of the Constitution. After a long struggle the subject was given to a committee, at the head of which was De Tocqueville. His report, as presented to the committee on the 4th of July, had not at the last dates received when this sheet goes to press, come before the public in an authentic form; but it is understood that it treats of three principal points. In the first place, M. de Tocqueville enters boldly into the question between the republicans and monarchists. He examines with skill the pretensions of the republic to Divine right put forward in the Commission itself by General Cavaignac, and sustained by him with impassioned energy and an accent of conviction which astonished the members. M. de Tocqueville denies this pretended Divine right, and maintains that of the nation to choose the form of government that may best suit it—a right which is absolute, superior, and indisputable. Secondly, he is said to oppose, by anticipation, any species of amendment which would have the effect of confining the next Constituent Assembly within any limits, or force on it the obligation of revising the constitution for the sole end of ameliorating and consolidating them, and to maintain that the Constituent Assembly should be invested with a general and unlimited mission, in order that it may act in the plenitude of a really constituent power; and thirdly, he is described as expressing hopes that the Assembly will adopt the proposition accepted by the majority of the commission; that a constituent assembly will be chosen; that the constitution will be revised or remodelled; and in such case that all will consider it their duty to conform to it; that if the proposition of revision be not admitted, the constitution of 1848 shall remain as the supreme and sovereign law for all; that the only alternative will be to maintain, until the term of a new period of three years, the provisional form of the actual government—it being of course understood, that, in such case, each person will feel it his duty to conform to the constitution, and to abstain from every act which would be tantamount to its violation. It is added that M. de Tocqueville developes this proposition in such a manner as to oppose all unconstitutional candidateships; that is, of the actual President, the Prince de Joinville, and Ledru Rollin. The friends of Louis Napoleon have favored the revision, in the hope that by it they might prolong his term. Several speeches lately made by the president have given a more favorable impression than that which he made at Dijon. One at Poitiers, on the occasion of the opening of a railroad, has given satisfaction to moderate men of all parties, who believe it honest.

In France, the key events of importance are related to the proposal to revise the Constitution. After a long struggle, the topic was handed over to a committee led by De Tocqueville. His report, which was presented to the committee on July 4th, has not yet been made public in an official form by the time this goes to press; however, it is understood to address three main points. First, M. de Tocqueville boldly tackles the issue between republicans and monarchists. He skillfully examines the claims of the republic's Divine right, presented in the Commission by General Cavaignac, who passionately argued his case with a conviction that surprised the committee members. M. de Tocqueville disputes this alleged Divine right and asserts the nation's right to choose the form of government that suits it best—an absolute, superior, and indisputable right. Secondly, he is said to preemptively oppose any amendments that would restrict the next Constituent Assembly or force it to revise the constitution solely to improve and solidify it, arguing that the Constituent Assembly should have a general and unlimited mission to act with true constituent power. Thirdly, he expresses hope that the Assembly will adopt the proposal approved by the majority of the commission; that a constituent assembly will be elected; that the constitution will be revised or reworked; and that everyone will feel obligated to comply with it; that if the revision proposal is not accepted, the constitution of 1848 will remain the highest law for all; and that the only alternative will be to maintain the provisional form of the current government for another three years, with the understanding that, in this case, everyone will feel it's their duty to adhere to the constitution and avoid any actions that would violate it. It is noted that M. de Tocqueville elaborates on this proposal in a way that opposes all unconstitutional candidacies; specifically against the current President, the Prince de Joinville, and Ledru Rollin. Louis Napoleon's supporters have backed the revision, hoping it would extend his term. Recent speeches made by the president have created a more positive impression than his speech in Dijon. One at Poitiers, during the opening of a railroad, has satisfied moderate members from all parties, who find it genuine.

A bill to interdict clubs has been again adopted without any attempt at alteration. General Aupick is announced as the new ambassador to Spain. Count Colonna Walewski, an illegitimate son of the Emperor Napoleon, has reached the highest round of the diplomatic ladder by being sent as ambassador to the Court of St. James. The Pays announces that the question of Abd-el-Kader's captivity is on the point of receiving a satisfactory solution. The committee charged to examine the bill for the ratification of the treaties of La Plata is disposed to propose simply the ratification of those treaties. At Charente, recently, thirty-two adult Roman Catholics of both sexes, in the presence of a numerous congregation, in the Protestant church, publicly abjured the Roman Catholic and embraced the Protestant faith.

A bill to ban clubs has been adopted again without any changes. General Aupick is announced as the new ambassador to Spain. Count Colonna Walewski, an illegitimate son of Emperor Napoleon, has reached the top of the diplomatic ladder by being appointed ambassador to the Court of St. James. The Pays reports that the issue of Abd-el-Kader's imprisonment is about to be resolved satisfactorily. The committee assigned to review the bill for ratifying the treaties of La Plata is likely to suggest simply ratifying those treaties. Recently in Charente, thirty-two adult Roman Catholics of both genders, in front of a large congregation in the Protestant church, publicly renounced Roman Catholicism and embraced the Protestant faith.

A measure introduced by M. de St. Beuve in the National Assembly for a commercial reform,[Pg 136] by modifying the present restrictive tariff, so as to accomplish a gradual approach to free trade, had been rejected by a majority of 428 to 199. M. Thiers on this occasion made a great speech against free trade, which is much criticised by the English press. The London Times calls Thiers the evil genius of France.

A proposal put forward by M. de St. Beuve in the National Assembly for a commercial reform,[Pg 136] aimed at adjusting the current restrictive tariff to gradually shift toward free trade, was turned down by a majority of 428 to 199. M. Thiers gave an impactful speech against free trade during this time, which received a lot of criticism from the English media. The London Times refers to Thiers as the evil genius of France.

The most recent commercial letters received from various parts of France represent affairs as somewhat recovering from the gloomy appearance they wore some days since. The manufacturers have received numerous orders for the great fair of Beaucaire, which will be held in July. The Bank of France has announced a dividend of fifty-five francs per share for the first half year of 1851.

The latest business letters from different regions of France indicate that things are starting to improve from the bleak situation they were in just a few days ago. Manufacturers have received many orders for the big fair in Beaucaire, scheduled for July. The Bank of France has declared a dividend of fifty-five francs per share for the first half of 1851.

ITALY.

On the evening of the 7th of May, the Count Piero Guicciardini, the descendant of the great historian, had met in a private house in Florence six persons whose names are given in a decree, and before the party broke up, Count Guicciardini read and expounded a chapter of the Gospel of St. John. At ten o'clock the house was entered by eight gendarmes; a perquisition began, in the style now customary in Tuscany; the depositions of the party assembled were taken down; and as it was fully proved by such depositions that a chapter of the Bible had been read by Count Guicciardini, the whole of the seven offenders were straightway led to the police delegation of Santa Maria Novella, where their arrest was signed by the delegate, and a little after midnight they were lodged in the Bargello, or public prison. For ten days Count Guicciardini and his companions were kept in confinement and subjected to repeated examinations, and finally the sentence of forced residence in different parts of the Tuscan Maremme was passed on each of the accused. This illustration of the liberality of the Roman Catholic Church—though in perfect keeping with its perpetual policy—has produced a profound sensation. It might have escaped without much observation but for the eminence of the parties, and the claims made lately in England, that the Roman Catholic authorities were as tolerant as they asked that others should be to them, in all matters of personal rights.

On the evening of May 7th, Count Piero Guicciardini, a descendant of the great historian, met with six people at a private home in Florence. Before the gathering ended, Count Guicciardini read and explained a chapter from the Gospel of St. John. At ten o'clock, eight police officers entered the house, and a search began in the style typical of Tuscany. The statements of those present were recorded, and it was conclusively shown through these statements that Count Guicciardini had read a chapter of the Bible. As a result, all seven individuals were promptly taken to the Santa Maria Novella police station, where the officer in charge signed their arrest. Shortly after midnight, they were placed in the Bargello, the public prison. For ten days, Count Guicciardini and his companions were held in confinement and subjected to repeated interrogations. Ultimately, each accused received a sentence of forced relocation to different areas of the Tuscan Maremma. This incident, showcasing the open-mindedness of the Roman Catholic Church—which aligns perfectly with its ongoing policies—has caused a significant stir. It might have gone unnoticed were it not for the prominence of those involved and the recent claims in England that the Roman Catholic authorities were as tolerant as they expected others to be regarding personal rights.

The French military commandant in Rome has been exercising his authority with great, but probably requisite severity. Two Roman soldiers have been tried by French court martial, and executed for riotous conduct, and seven others have been doomed to the same fate. The Pope also has been threatened with expulsion from the Quirinal Palace, which the above-mentioned authority thought at one time would be essential as a military post. So far, the weak-minded holder of St. Peter's keys has not suffered the mortification of a second forced retreat, although, between his military guardians of France and Austria and his own discontented subjects, his position is scarcely an enviable one. The three young Englishmen arrested at Leghorn yet remain imprisoned; but their real names do not appear.

The French military commander in Rome has been exercising his authority with significant, but probably necessary severity. Two Roman soldiers have been tried by a French court martial and executed for unruly behavior, and seven others have been sentenced to the same fate. The Pope has also been threatened with eviction from the Quirinal Palace, which the aforementioned authority at one point considered essential as a military base. So far, the indecisive keeper of St. Peter's keys has not faced the humiliation of a second forced retreat, although, caught between his military protectors from France and Austria and his own dissatisfied subjects, his position is hardly enviable. The three young Englishmen arrested in Leghorn still remain imprisoned; however, their real names have not been revealed.

GERMANY.

The military authorities of Austria give as much offence in Germany as the French in Rome. At Hamburg, several citizens have been killed in a fray with the Austrian soldiers, begun by the insolence of the latter. In Hesse Cassel, the Government has been compelled to grant immunities to the Roman Catholic clergy, scarcely compatible with the institutions of a Protestant country, under the compulsion of Austrian bayonets.

The military leaders of Austria cause just as much anger in Germany as the French do in Rome. In Hamburg, several citizens have been killed in a conflict with the Austrian soldiers, which was started by the arrogance of the latter. In Hesse Cassel, the Government has been forced to give privileges to the Roman Catholic clergy that barely fit with the principles of a Protestant country, all due to the pressure from Austrian soldiers.

The Göttingen Professors have decided that the Government of Electoral Hesse was not required by the Constitution to procure the assent of the Chambers to the levy of taxes last year; this is the point on which the revolutionary manifestations turned. We have not the Constitution at hand, and cannot apprehend the grounds of this decision, but it is singular that all the magistrates and people of the country, who ought to have known something of their constitution, should have unanimously held a different opinion. The Prussian government have withdrawn the summons for the assembling of the provincial diets, no doubt on account of the universal condemnation excited by it. A decided schism has of late manifested itself in the commercial policy advocated by North and South Germany. Whilst the attempt to procure higher protective duties in the Zollverein has continually been defeated by the liberal principals supported by Prussia. South Germany, on the other hand, has come forward openly with the intention to assert an independent line of action.

The Göttingen Professors have determined that the Government of Electoral Hesse was not required by the Constitution to get approval from the Chambers for last year's tax levy; this is the issue that sparked the revolutionary outbursts. We don’t have the Constitution available, so we can't fully understand the reasoning behind this decision, but it’s strange that all the local officials and citizens, who should know their own constitution, held a completely different view. The Prussian government has canceled the call for the provincial diets to meet, likely due to the widespread backlash against it. Recently, a clear divide has emerged in the commercial policies championed by North and South Germany. While attempts to raise protective tariffs in the Zollverein have consistently been blocked by the liberal principles backed by Prussia, South Germany has openly sought to pursue a separate course of action.

SPAIN.

Accounts from Madrid of the 2d July, state that M. Jose Sanchez Ocana, director general of the public treasury, has been appointed under secretary of state of the finance department, in the place of M. Bordia, director general of the customs. M. Rudulfo, inspector of the finances at Madrid, succeeded M. Ocana in the direction of the public treasury. France, by her diplomatic agents at Madrid, strives to influence the Spanish government in regard to a more active repression of the slave trade in its colonies. Mr. Schoelcher adverted to the passage of the recent speech of the Emperor of Brazil, touching the abolition of the traffic, as meant simply to please England—"like all other speeches from thrones, in which the design is to give a sort of satisfaction to the foreign powers with whom friendly relations are desirable." The amendment was rejected by 339 nays to 230 ayes.

Reports from Madrid dated July 2 indicate that M. Jose Sanchez Ocana, the director general of the public treasury, has been appointed as the undersecretary of state for the finance department, replacing M. Bordia, the director general of customs. M. Rudulfo, the finance inspector in Madrid, has taken over M. Ocana's role as the director of the public treasury. France, through its diplomatic representatives in Madrid, is attempting to persuade the Spanish government to take stronger measures against the slave trade in its colonies. Mr. Schoelcher referenced a recent speech by the Emperor of Brazil about the abolition of the traffic, suggesting it was merely intended to please England—"like all other speeches from thrones, which aim to offer some form of appeasement to the foreign powers with whom friendly relations are sought." The amendment was rejected with 339 votes against and 230 votes in favor.

RUSSIA.

Letters from Posen allude to an ukase which had appeared, compelling all individuals throughout Russia and Poland to sell to the government, within a specified period, whatever uncoined silver they might have in their possession. An indemnity in paper money was authorized to be given on behalf of the treasury. A body of Belgian weavers and dyers has been engaged to go to St. Petersburg to set up their trade. In Circassia the Russian army has met with a serious defeat; in a battle where it had 25,000 men engaged, it lost 5,000.

Letters from Posen mention a decree that has come out, requiring everyone in Russia and Poland to sell any uncoined silver they have to the government within a set timeframe. They will receive compensation in paper money from the treasury. A group of Belgian weavers and dyers has been hired to travel to St. Petersburg to establish their business. In Circassia, the Russian army suffered a significant defeat; in a battle involving 25,000 troops, they lost 5,000.

AUSTRIA AND TURKEY.

The Emperor has appointed Count Rechburg Internuncio at the court of Constantinople. Accounts from Comorn state that violent shocks of an earthquake were felt there on the 1st. The shocks were accompanied by violent claps of thunder. The clocks in all the church towers struck; scarcely a single house remained uninjured; numerous chimneys fell in, and the furniture and utensils in the rooms were overthrown and broken. Many accidents had occurred, but providentially, not any of a fatal nature are yet known.

The Emperor has appointed Count Rechburg as the Internuncio at the court of Constantinople. Reports from Comorn say that there were strong shocks from an earthquake felt there on the 1st. The shocks were accompanied by loud claps of thunder. The clocks in all the church towers chimed; hardly a single house was left unharmed; many chimneys collapsed, and the furniture and items in the rooms were knocked over and broken. There were many incidents, but fortunately, none that have been reported are fatal so far.

[Pg 137]

Scientific Discoveries and Proceedings of Learned Societies.

The British Association met this year on the second of July, at Ipswich. Among those present we notice the names of Prince Albert, the Prince of Canino, the Duke of Argyle, the Earl of Rosse, the Earl of Enniskillen, the Earl of Sheffield, Lord Monteagle, Lord Londesborough, Lord Stradbroke, Lord Rendlesham, Lord Abercorn, Lord Alfred Paget, Lord Wrottesley, the Bishop of Oxford, Sir Charles Lemon, Sir Roderick Murchison, Sir Charles Lyell, Sir Henry de la Beche, Sir Edward Cust, Sir William Jardine, Sir William Middleton, Sir W. J. Hooker, Sir J. T. Boileau, Professors Airy, Asa Gray, Harvey, Sedgwick, Henslow, Owen, Sylvester, Forbes, Bell, Anstead, Phillips, and Faraday, Dr. Lyon Playfair, Dr. Hooker, and many eminent scientific men.

The UK Association met this year on July 2nd in Ipswich. Among those present, we see the names of Prince Albert, the Prince of Canino, the Duke of Argyle, the Earl of Rosse, the Earl of Enniskillen, the Earl of Sheffield, Lord Monteagle, Lord Londesborough, Lord Stradbroke, Lord Rendlesham, Lord Abercorn, Lord Alfred Paget, Lord Wrottesley, the Bishop of Oxford, Sir Charles Lemon, Sir Roderick Murchison, Sir Charles Lyell, Sir Henry de la Beche, Sir Edward Cust, Sir William Jardine, Sir William Middleton, Sir W. J. Hooker, Sir J. T. Boileau, Professors Airy, Asa Gray, Harvey, Sedgwick, Henslow, Owen, Sylvester, Forbes, Bell, Anstead, Phillips, and Faraday, Dr. Lyon Playfair, Dr. Hooker, and many other distinguished scientists.

At a recent meeting of the Asiatic Society in London, a report of the Oriental Translation Committee mentioned the printing of the second volume of the Travels of Evliva Effendi, of the fifth volume of Haji Khalfæ Lexicon, and of the Makamat of Hariri. The Committee had received from Col. Rawlinson the offer of a translation of the valuable and rare geographical work of Yakút, which it accepted, and is about to proceed with the printing of the third and concluding volume of M. Garcin de Tassy's Histoire de la Littérature Hindoui et Hindoustani, including a Memoir on Hindústani Songs, with numerous translations. The Report concluded with noticing the presentation of William the Fourth's gold medal to Prof. H. H. Wilson, in acknowledgment of his services to Oriental literature generally, and especially in testimony of the merits of his translation of the Vishnu Purana.

At a recent meeting of the Asian Society in London, a report from the Oriental Translation Committee mentioned the printing of the second volume of the Travels of Evliva Effendi, the fifth volume of the Haji Khalfæ Lexicon, and the Makamat of Hariri. The Committee received an offer from Col. Rawlinson for a translation of the valuable and rare geographical work of Yakút, which they accepted, and they are about to begin printing the third and final volume of M. Garcin de Tassy's Histoire de la Littérature Hindoui et Hindoustani, which will include a Memoir on Hindústani Songs with many translations. The report concluded by noting that William the Fourth presented a gold medal to Prof. H. H. Wilson in recognition of his contributions to Oriental literature in general, and especially in acknowledgment of the quality of his translation of the Vishnu Purana.

The annual Report of the Council gave some notice of the progress of Babylonian and Assyrian decipherment as carried out by Colonel Rawlinson, and now in the course of communication to the world by the Society. The Babylonian version of the great Behistún inscription was exhibited on the table; and, in allusion to it, the Report contained a concise résumé of what had been done from the information of Colonel Rawlinson himself, who is of opinion that the inscriptions read extend over a period of 1,000 years—from b.c. 2000 to 1000; that he has ascertained the religion of the ancient Assyrians and Babylonians to have been strictly Astral or Sabæan; and as he finds among the gods the names of Belus, Ninus and Semiramis, he thinks that the dynasties given by the Greeks were, in fact, lists of mythological names. The geography of Western Asia as it was 4,000 years ago appears to be clearly made out. Col. Rawlinson finds a king of Cadytis, or Jerusalem, named Kanun, a tributary of the king who built the palace of Khursabad, warring with a Pharaoh of Egypt, and defeating his armies on the south frontier of Palestine. The Meshec and Tubal of Scripture were dwelling in North Syria, the Hittites held the centre of the province, and the commercial cities of Tyre and Sidon and Gaza and Acre flourished on the coasts. And so well does Colonel Rawlinson find the geography made out, that he is of opinion he can identify every province and city named in the inscriptions.

The annual report from the Council highlighted the progress in deciphering Babylonian and Assyrian texts, as carried out by Colonel Rawlinson, which is now being shared with the public by the Society. The Babylonian version of the famous Behistún inscription was displayed on the table, and the report included a brief summary of what Colonel Rawlinson himself has achieved. He believes that the inscriptions cover a time span of 1,000 years—from 2000 B.C. to 1000 B.C.; he has determined that the ancient Assyrians and Babylonians practiced a strictly Astral or Sabæan religion; and he notes that among the gods mentioned are Belus, Ninus, and Semiramis, leading him to conclude that the dynasties listed by the Greeks were likely mythological names. The geography of Western Asia as it existed 4,000 years ago appears to be clearly defined. Colonel Rawlinson discovered a king of Cadytis, or Jerusalem, named Kanun, who was a tributary to the king that built the palace of Khursabad. This king fought against a Pharaoh of Egypt and defeated his armies at the southern border of Palestine. The Meshec and Tubal mentioned in Scripture were living in North Syria, the Hittites occupied the central part of the region, and the thriving commercial cities of Tyre, Sidon, Gaza, and Acre flourished along the coasts. Colonel Rawlinson is so confident in the geographical details that he believes he can identify every province and city mentioned in the inscriptions.

The last Bulletin of the Geographical Society of Paris, opens with an appeal to the governments of Europe and America, for the adoption of a Common First Meridian. The author, M. Sedillor, is a high authority in geographical science, and would trace an imaginary line in the midst of the Ocean; designate it by some "systematic term," acceptable to all, and bring, thus, Europe and the new world into a community of views and interests apart from all national prejudices or pretension. The appeal followed by a letter of M. Jomard on the same subject, and another from the traveller Antony D'Abbadie, who prefers Mont Blanc, or Jerusalem—"against which the Christians of America can have no objection." Among the contents of the Bulletin, is a notice of Lieut. Com. MacArthur's report, eighteenth December, 1850, to Professor Bache, which has been translated entire for the Hydrographical Annals, a periodical work. Mr. Squier's Observations on the Route of the Proposed Canal across the Isthmus of Nicaragua, are also translated. There is a paper of some compass, on the various projects and undertakings for a communication between the Oceans and a like one on the services rendered to geography by the French and British missionaries. Those of the German and American, who have not been less zealous, will be duly credited and recorded, when materials can be obtained for the purpose.

The latest Bulletin of the Geographic Society of Paris starts with a call to the governments of Europe and America to adopt a Common First Meridian. The author, M. Sedillor, is a recognized expert in geographical science and suggests drawing an imaginary line in the middle of the ocean, giving it a "systematic term" that everyone can agree on, and thus uniting Europe and the New World in their perspectives and interests, free from national biases or pretensions. This appeal is followed by a letter from M. Jomard on the same topic and another from traveler Antony D'Abbadie, who suggests Mont Blanc or Jerusalem—"against which Christians in America can object." Among the contents of the Bulletin is a notice of Lieut. Com. MacArthur's report from December 18, 1850, to Professor Bache, which has been fully translated for the Hydrographical Annals, a periodical publication. Mr. Squier's Observations on the Route of the Proposed Canal across the Isthmus of Nicaragua are also included in translation. There's a detailed paper on various projects and efforts for connecting the Oceans, along with another discussing the contributions to geography made by French and British missionaries. The contributions of German and American missionaries, who have been equally passionate, will be properly acknowledged and recorded when the material is available.

At the meeting for the 22nd May, of the Royal Society of Literature, in London, a very interesting Greek MS. was exhibited. It is owned by a Mr. Arden, who purchased it of an Arab near Thebes. It is nearly four yards long, divided into pages or columns containing twenty-eight lines, the length of which exceeds six inches, and the breadth two inches; the whole is written in a large and clear hand, with great accuracy, since few corrections or interpolations are visible. Although it is difficult to assign to it the actual age, still there seems to be every reason to conjecture that it is of the commencement of the present era—or indeed, which is by no means improbable, that it was written a century or two before the birth of Christ. The delicacy of the texture of the papyrus will afford a strong presumption in favor of the latter period; for it is well known to Egyptologists that a coarseness and inferiority of papyrus indicate a more recent date. The first portion of the MS. is much broken, and presents many gaps and fragments; the end of it bears the title of an Apology, or Defence of Lycophron. The second, or larger portion of the MS., is much more perfect, as it contains only here and there an hiatus, which will probably be easily restored; at its termination we are informed that it is a Defence of the accusation of Euxenippus against Polyeuctus. The author of these orations will, in all likelihood, prove to be the great Athenian orator Hyperides, whose works have been long lost. Indeed, this appears to be almost certain, since some of the Greek lexicographers mention a speech of Hyperides 'for Lycophron,' and another 'against Polyeuctus concerning the accusation.' But who Lycophron was, and what was the nature of the defence for him, remain to be more[Pg 138] amply detailed. The subject of this second oration, however, appears to be known,—for Polyeuctus, the Athenian orator, was accused, with Demosthenes, of receiving a bribe from Harpalus. Moreover, the fragments of a papyrus MS. procured a few years ago at Egyptian Thebes by Dr. Harris, lately ably edited by Mr. Babington, at Cambridge, and proved to be parts of the oration of Hyperides against Demosthenes, are so exceedingly similar, both in handwriting and the papyrus, to the present MS. belonging to Mr. Arden, that it is not improbable but that they may have been copied by the same Greek scribe and may originally have formed one entire MS. roll of the orations of Hyperides. A careful examination and comparison of these interesting MSS. will, after a time, decide these questions.

At the meeting on May 22nd of the Royal Society of Literature in London, a fascinating Greek manuscript was displayed. It belongs to a Mr. Arden, who bought it from an Arab near Thebes. It’s nearly four yards long, divided into pages or columns with twenty-eight lines each, measuring more than six inches in length and two inches in width. The whole thing is written in a large, clear hand with impressive accuracy, as there are few corrections or additions visible. While it's hard to pinpoint its exact age, there are good reasons to believe it dates back to the beginning of the current era—or, quite plausibly, that it was written a century or two before Christ was born. The fine texture of the papyrus strongly suggests the latter period, as Egyptologists know that coarser, lower-quality papyrus indicates a more recent date. The first part of the manuscript is quite damaged, showing various gaps and fragments, whereas the end contains a title referring to an Apology or Defense of Lycophron. The second, larger portion of the manuscript is much more intact, having only a few gaps that are likely to be easily filled in. At its conclusion, we learn that it serves as a Defense of the accusation made by Euxenippus against Polyeuctus. The author of these speeches is likely to be the renowned Athenian orator Hyperides, whose works have long been lost. This conclusion seems almost certain since some Greek lexicographers mention a speech by Hyperides 'for Lycophron' and another 'against Polyeuctus regarding the accusation.' However, who Lycophron was and the specifics of the defense for him remain to be explored more[Pg 138] thoroughly. Nevertheless, the topic of this second oration appears to be known, as Polyeuctus, another Athenian orator, was accused, alongside Demosthenes, of taking a bribe from Harpalus. Additionally, fragments of a papyrus manuscript acquired a few years ago at Egyptian Thebes by Dr. Harris, which Mr. Babington has recently edited in Cambridge, have proven to be parts of Hyperides’ speech against Demosthenes. These fragments are remarkably similar in both handwriting and papyrus quality to the current manuscript owned by Mr. Arden, making it likely that they might have been copied by the same Greek scribe and originally belonged to a single manuscript roll of Hyperides' orations. A careful examination and comparison of these intriguing manuscripts will eventually answer these questions.

At a late sitting of the Paris Academy of Medicine, M. Orfila, the celebrated toxicologist, read a paper on Nicotine—the poison used in the Bocarme murder. It is the essential principle of tobacco. Virginia tobacco yields the largest proportion of nicotine; from twenty pounds, were extracted four hundred grammes of the poison; a gramme is equal to 15·444 grains troy. The Maryland leaf affords about a third of that quantity. Nicotine is nearly as powerful and rapid as prussic acid with the animal economy. Five or six drops applied to the tongue of a dog, killed in ten minutes. The progress which medical jurisconsults have made recently, is so great, that poisoning by morphine, strychnine, prussic acid, and other vegetable substances, hitherto regarded as inaccessible to our means of investigation, may now be detected and recognized in the most incontestable manner. M. Ortila, in closing his notice, says: "After these results of judicial medical investigation, the public need be under no apprehension. No doubt intelligent and clever criminals, with a view to thwart the surgeons, will sometimes have recourse to very active poisons little known by the mass, and difficult of detection, but science is on the alert, and soon overcomes all difficulty; penetrating into the utmost depths of our organs, it brings out the proof of the crime, and furnishes one of the greatest pieces of evidence against the guilty."

At a late meeting of the Paris Academy of Medicine, M. Orfila, the renowned toxicologist, presented a paper on Nicotine—the poison used in the Bocarme murder. It is the main ingredient found in tobacco. Virginia tobacco contains the highest amount of nicotine; from twenty pounds, four hundred grammes of the poison were extracted; a gramme is equal to 15.444 troy grains. The Maryland tobacco leaf yields about a third of that amount. Nicotine is nearly as potent and fast-acting as prussic acid in the body. Five or six drops placed on a dog's tongue can kill it in ten minutes. The advancements that medical experts have made recently are so significant that poisoning with morphine, strychnine, prussic acid, and other plant-based substances, once thought to be beyond our investigative capabilities, can now be detected and identified in a clear manner. M. Orfila, concluding his notice, states: "Following these outcomes of forensic medical investigation, the public need not fear. While intelligent and skilled criminals may sometimes use highly effective poisons that are little known to most people and hard to detect, science is vigilant and soon overcomes every challenge; probing into the deepest parts of our bodies, it reveals evidence of the crime and provides one of the strongest pieces of proof against the guilty."

In the London Royal Institution, May 23, M. Ebelman, of the Sèvres works, near Paris, being present with various specimens of the minerals which he has produced artificially,—Mr. Faraday stated the process and results generally. The process consists in employing a solvent, which shall first dissolve the mineral or its constituents; and shall further, either on its removal or on a diminution of its dissolving powers, permit the mineral to aggregate in a crystaline condition. Such solvents are boracic acid, borax, phosphate of soda, phosphoric acid, &c.:—the one chiefly employed by M. Ebelman is boracic acid. By putting together certain proportions of alumina and magnesia, with a little oxide of crome or other coloring matter, and fused boracic acid into a fit vessel, and inclosing that in another, so that the whole could be exposed to the high heat of a porcelain or other furnace, the materials became dissolved in the boracic acid; and then as the heat was continued the boracic acid evaporated, and the fixed materials were found combined and crystallized, and presenting new specimens of spinel. In this way crystals having the same form, hardness, color, specific gravity, composition, and effect on light as the true ruby, the cymophane, and other mineral bodies were prepared, and were in fact identical with them. Chromates were made, the emerald and corundum crystalized, the peridot formed, and many combinations as yet unknown to mineralogists produced.

In the Royal Institution of London, on May 23, M. Ebelman from the Sèvres works near Paris presented various examples of the minerals he has artificially created. Mr. Faraday explained the process and outcomes in general terms. The method involves using a solvent that first dissolves the mineral or its components; then, once the solvent is removed or its dissolving power decreases, it allows the mineral to form a crystalline structure. Common solvents include boracic acid, borax, phosphate of soda, phosphoric acid, etc.; the main one used by M. Ebelman is boracic acid. By combining specific amounts of alumina and magnesia with a bit of chromium oxide or other coloring agents and melting boracic acid in a suitable container, which is then placed inside another container to be exposed to the intense heat of a porcelain or similar furnace, the materials dissolve in the boracic acid. As the heat continues, the boracic acid evaporates, leaving the fixed materials to combine and crystallize, resulting in new specimens of spinel. In this manner, crystals were produced that have the same shape, hardness, color, specific gravity, composition, and optical properties as genuine rubies, cymophane, and other minerals, making them virtually identical. Chromates were created, emeralds and corundum were crystallized, peridot was formed, and many combinations not yet known to mineralogists were produced.

At a meeting of the Berlin Academy of Sciences, held on May 31 last, the venerable Alexander von Humboldt made an interesting communication upon some observations of singular movements of fixed stars. It seems that at Trieste, January 17, 1851, between 7 and 8 o'clock P.M., before the rising of the moon, when the star Sirius was not far from the horizon, it was seen to perform a remarkable series of eccentric movements. It rose and sank, moved left and right, and sometimes seemed to move in a curved line. The observers were Mr. Keune, a student in the upper class of the gymnasium, and Mr. Thugutt, a saddler, both certified to be reliable persons. The family of the latter also beheld the phenomena, Mr. Keune, with his head leaned immovably against a wall, saw Sirius rise in a right line above the roof of a neighboring house, and immediately again sink out of sight behind it, and then again appear. Its motions were so considerable that for some time the beholders thought it was a lantern suspended by a kite. It also varied in brilliancy, growing alternately brighter and fainter, and now and then being for moments quite invisible, though the sky was perfectly clear. As far as it is known, this phenomenon has been remarked but twice before, once in 1799 from the Peak of Teneriffe by Von Humboldt himself, and again nearly fifty years later, by a well-informed and careful observer, Prince Adalbert, of Prussia.

At a meeting of the Berlin Science Academy on May 31, the esteemed Alexander von Humboldt shared some intriguing observations regarding unusual movements of fixed stars. On January 17, 1851, in Trieste, between 7 and 8 P.M., just before the moon rose and when the star Sirius was near the horizon, it was observed making a notable series of strange movements. It rose and fell, moved left and right, and at times appeared to move in a curvy path. The observers were Mr. Keune, a student in the upper class of the gymnasium, and Mr. Thugutt, a saddler, both known to be reliable individuals. Mr. Thugutt's family also witnessed the phenomena. Mr. Keune, with his head pressed firmly against a wall, saw Sirius rise in a straight line above the roof of a nearby house, then sink from view behind it, only to reappear again. The movements were so pronounced that for a while the observers thought it was a lantern hanging from a kite. The star's brightness also fluctuated, getting alternately brighter and dimmer, and at times completely vanishing for moments, even though the sky was completely clear. To the best of our knowledge, this phenomenon has only been noted two other times before: once in 1799 from the Peak of Tenerife by Von Humboldt himself, and again nearly fifty years later by a knowledgeable and careful observer, Prince Adalbert of Prussia.

"In the great Exhibition," the Athenæum says, "Daguerreotypes are largely displayed by the French,—as might have been expected, that country being proud of the discovery: but the examples exhibited by the Americans surpass in general beauty of effect any which we have examined from other countries. This has been attributed to difference in the character of the solar light as modified by atmospheric conditions; we are not, however, disposed to believe that to be the case. We have certain indications that an increased intensity of light is not of any advantage, but rather the contrary, for the production of daguerreotypes; the luminous rays appearing to act as balancing powers against the chemical rays. Now, this being the case, we know of no physical cause by which the superiority can be explained,—and we are quite disposed to be sufficiently honest to admit that the mode of manipulation has more to do with the result than any atmospheric influences. However this may be, the character of the daguerreotypes executed in America is very remarkable. There are a fulness of tone and an artistic modulation of light and shadow which in England we do not obtain. The striking contrasts of white and black are shown decidedly enough in the British examples exhibited in the gallery,—but here there are coldness and hardness of outline. Within the shadow of the eagle and the striped banner we find no lights too white and no shadows too dark: they dissolve, as in Nature, one into[Pg 139] the other in the most harmonious and truthful manner,—and the result is, more perfect pictures. The Hyalotypes or glass pictures are of a remarkable character. They are but a modification of the processes of Mr. Talbot and of M. Evrard as applied to glass; but the idea of copying Nature on this material,—and, having obtained a fixed picture of the shadowed image, of magnifying it by means of the magic lantern, and thus producing a truthful representation of the original,—is certainly due to the artist of Philadelphia. Many beautiful views of the Smithsonian Institute, of the Custom-house at Philadelphia, and of churches in several cities in the United States, show the minuteness of the detail which can be obtained by the use of the albuminized glass. Amongst the professed improvements Mr. Beard exhibits some enamelled daguerreotypes, in which the permanence of the picture is secured by a lacquer."

"In the Great Exhibition," the Athenæum states, "Daguerreotypes are prominently displayed by the French, as expected, since that country takes pride in the discovery. However, the examples shown by Americans generally surpass the beauty of those we've seen from other countries. This has been attributed to the difference in the quality of solar light affected by atmospheric conditions; we, however, don't believe that's the case. We have indicators that an increase in light intensity isn't beneficial and may actually be counterproductive for making daguerreotypes, as the bright rays seem to balance out the chemical rays. Given this, we can't find any physical reason to explain the superiority, and we are honest enough to admit that the technique used plays a bigger role in the results than any atmospheric factors. Regardless, the quality of daguerreotypes produced in America is quite impressive. They have a richness of tone and an artistic play of light and shadow that we don't achieve in England. The stark contrasts of white and black are clearly visible in the British examples exhibited in the gallery, but there is a certain coldness and harshness in the outlines. Beneath the shadow of the eagle and the striped banner, there are no overly bright highlights or intensely dark shadows; they blend together, as in Nature, in the most harmonious and truthful way, resulting in more perfect pictures. The Hyalotypes or glass pictures are particularly noteworthy. They are merely a variation of the processes developed by Mr. Talbot and M. Evrard for glass, but the concept of capturing Nature on this material—and, after achieving a fixed image of the shadowed picture, magnifying it using a magic lantern to create an accurate representation of the original—is definitely credited to the artist from Philadelphia. Many beautiful views of the Smithsonian Institute, the Custom House in Philadelphia, and churches in various U.S. cities illustrate the fine detail that can be achieved using albuminized glass. Among the claimed improvements, Mr. Beard showcases some enameled daguerreotypes, where the longevity of the image is protected by a lacquer."

In the Royal Geographical Society, in London, the President, regretting the undignified controversies respecting the rise and course of the Nile which had taken place, unhesitatingly expressed his conviction that no European traveller, from Bruce downwards, had yet seen the source of the true White Nile. Concerning this, we may still exclaim "Ignotum, plus notus, Nile, per ortum."

In the Royal Geographical Society in London, the President, disappointed by the undignified debates about the origins and path of the Nile, boldly stated his belief that no European traveler, starting from Bruce, had actually seen the true source of the White Nile. Regarding this, we can still say "Ignotum, plus notus, Nile, per ortum."

Experiments with chloroform as a propelling power, in the place of steam, are now making in the port of L'Orient; and there is reason to hope, from the success which has already attended them, that they will result in causing a considerable saving to be effected in cost and in space.

Experiments with chloroform as a propulsion method, instead of steam, are currently taking place in the port of L'Orient; and there is reason to believe, based on the success they have already shown, that they will lead to significant savings in both cost and space.

The Geological Society of France will hold its annual meeting this year at Dijon. The Congress will commence on the 14th of September.

The Geoscience Society of France will hold its annual meeting this year in Dijon. The Congress will start on September 14th.

Recent Deaths.

General M. Arbuckle, U.S.A., died on the 11th of June, at Fort Smith. He was about 75 years of age, and had been nearly fifty years in the army, and twenty on the Arkansas frontier. At the time of his death, he was commander of the 7th Military Department of the United States Army, and had held that station for several years, and was peculiarly calculated for the office, being thoroughly acquainted with the Indians, and Indian character, he always had their confidence, and by that means, kept up and maintained friendly relations with them on behalf of the United States. The St. Louis Republican remarks that, "as a man, Gen. Arbuckle was honest and humane, loved and respected by every person with whom he had intercourse. No one pursued a more straight-forward course in all transactions. He was strictly economical in expenditures for the Government. His whole mind was engrossed with the present expedition of the 5th Infantry to the Brazos, and on the frontier of Texas, and he gave orders and directions for conducting, it as long as he was able to converse."

General M. Arbuckle, USA, passed away on June 11th at Fort Smith. He was around 75 years old and had served nearly fifty years in the army, with twenty of those on the Arkansas frontier. At the time of his death, he was the commander of the 7th Military Department of the United States Army and had been in that position for several years. He was particularly suited for the role, having a deep understanding of the Indians and their character, which earned him their trust, allowing him to maintain friendly relations on behalf of the United States. The St. Louis Republican notes that, "as a man, Gen. Arbuckle was honest and compassionate, loved and respected by everyone he interacted with. No one was more straightforward in all dealings. He was very economical in government spending. His entire focus was on the ongoing mission of the 5th Infantry to the Brazos and the Texas frontier, and he continued to give orders and guidance for it as long as he was capable of speaking."

The Chevalier Parisot de Guymont, who belonged to the family of Lavalette, the illustrious Grand Master of the Order of Malta, of which the chevalier was one of the few surviving knights, has just died in the convent of St. Jean de Catane, in Sicily, to which the directing chapter of that celebrated order had retired. He distinguished himself in the expedition which the last grand master sent against Algiers towards the end of the eighteenth century; and General Bonaparte, when he took possession of Malta, demanded to see M. de Guymont, and received him with marked distinction. He was in the seventy-seventh year of his age.

The Chevalier Parisot de Guymont, a member of the Lavalette family, which is known for the illustrious Grand Master of the Order of Malta, of whom the chevalier was one of the last surviving knights, has just passed away in the convent of St. Jean de Catane in Sicily, where the governing chapter of that renowned order had taken refuge. He made a name for himself during the expedition the last grand master sent against Algiers toward the end of the eighteenth century; and General Bonaparte, upon taking control of Malta, requested to meet M. de Guymont and welcomed him with notable respect. He was seventy-seven years old.

Sir J. Graham Dalzell, Bart., died on the seventeenth of June in Edinburgh, aged seventy-seven years. He was president of the Society for promoting Useful Arts in Scotland, vice-president of the African institute of Paris, and author of several works on science and history, and of various articles in the 'Encyclopædia Britannica.

Sir J. Graham Dalzell, Baronet., passed away on June 17th in Edinburgh, at the age of seventy-seven. He served as the president of the Society for Promoting Useful Arts in Scotland, was the vice-president of the African Institute in Paris, and wrote several works on science and history, as well as various articles for the 'Encyclopædia Britannica.'

The widow of Thomas Sheridan, died in London on the ninth of June. She was the author of Carwell, a very striking story illustrating the inequalities of punishment in the laws against forgery. In a later novel, Aims and Ends, the same feminine and truthful spirit showed itself in lighter scenes of social life, observing keenly, and satirizing kindly. Mrs. Sheridan wrote always with ease, unaffectedness, and good-breeding, her books every where giving evidence of the place she might have taken in society if she had not rather desired to refrain from mingling with it, and keep herself comparatively unknown. After her husband's early death she had devoted herself in retirement to the education of her orphan children; when she re-appeared in society it seemed to be solely for the sake of her daughters, on whose marriages she again withdrew from it; and to none of her writings did she ever attach her name. Into the private sphere where her virtues freely displayed themselves, and her patient yet energetic life was spent, it is not permitted us to enter; but we could not pass without this brief record what we know to have been a life as much marked by earnestness, energy, and self-sacrifice, as by those qualities of wit and genius which are for ever associated with the name of Sheridan. Three daughters survive her, and one son—Lady Dufferin, the Hon. Mrs. Norton, Lady Seymour, and Mr. Brinsley Sheridan, the member of Parliament for Shaftesbury.

The widow of Thomas Sheridan died in London on June 9th. She was the author of Carwell, a powerful story highlighting the inequalities in punishment under forgery laws. In her later novel, Aims and Ends, the same insightful and truthful voice emerged in lighter scenes of social life, observing keenly and humorously critiquing society. Mrs. Sheridan wrote effortlessly, with sincerity and grace; her books clearly show the prominent place she could have held in society, had she not preferred to stay away from it and remain relatively unknown. After her husband’s early death, she dedicated herself to raising her orphaned children in seclusion; when she eventually returned to society, it seemed only for her daughters’ sake, and after their marriages, she withdrew once more. She never attached her name to any of her works. While we can’t enter into the private life where her virtues shone through and her patient yet dynamic existence was spent, we cannot overlook this brief acknowledgment of a life marked by dedication, energy, and selflessness, alongside the wit and talent forever linked to the name Sheridan. She is survived by three daughters and one son—Lady Dufferin, the Hon. Mrs. Norton, Lady Seymour, and Mr. Brinsley Sheridan, the Member of Parliament for Shaftesbury.

From Stockholm we hear of the death of Mr. Andre Carlsson, Bishop of Calmar, and author of numerous and important works on philology, theology and jurisprudence. He occupied at one time the chair of Greek language and literature at the University of Lund, and was, say the Swedish papers, in his place in the Diet, a champion of religious liberty and parliamentary reform. He has died at the great age of 94.

From Stockholm, we learn of the death of Mr. Andre Carlsson, Bishop of Calmar, and the author of many significant works on philology, theology, and law. He once held the chair of Greek language and literature at the University of Lund and was, according to Swedish newspapers, a strong advocate for religious freedom and parliamentary reform in his role in the Diet. He passed away at the age of 94.

Poland has lost a writer of distinction, chiefly on geographical subjects, in the person of Count Stanislaus Plater. He had long been eminent both in society and in literature.[Pg 140]

Poland has lost a notable writer, especially on geographical topics, in Count Stanislaus Plater. He was well-respected in both society and literature.[Pg 140]

General James Miller died in Temple, New-Hampshire, on the 7th of July, of paralysis, aged 76 years. He was born in Peterboro, N. H., and bred to the profession of the law. In 1810 he entered the Army, and served with distinction throughout the last war with Great Britain. He rose rapidly from the rank of captain to that of major general. He was present at Tippecanoe, under Gen. Harrison, but was prevented by sickness from taking part in the battle. He rendered eminent services in the battles of Chippeway, Bridgewater, and Lundy's Lane, making himself conspicuous by his courageous and intrepid conduct. It was at the last named battle that he is said to have uttered the renowned declaration, "I'll try, sir," when asked if he could storm an important and nearly impregnable position of the enemy. Gen. Miller was subsequently made Governor of the Territory of Arkansas. Afterwards he was collector of the port of Salem, which post he resigned in 1840. He is the "old soldier collector" referred to in the introduction to Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter.

General James Miller died in Temple, New Hampshire, on July 7th, from paralysis, at the age of 76. He was born in Peterboro, NH, and trained as a lawyer. In 1810, he joined the Army and served with distinction during the last war with Great Britain. He quickly advanced from captain to major general. He was present at Tippecanoe under Gen. Harrison, but illness kept him from fighting in the battle. He provided significant support in the battles of Chippewa, Bridgewater, and Lundy's Lane, standing out for his bravery and fearless attitude. During the last battle, he is famously quoted as saying, "I'll try, sir," when asked if he could lead an attack on a crucial and nearly impenetrable enemy position. Gen. Miller later became Governor of the Territory of Arkansas. After that, he served as the collector of the port of Salem, a position he stepped down from in 1840. He is the "old soldier collector" mentioned in the introduction to Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter.

The celebrated Polish General Uminski died at Wiesbaden on the 16th of June. He was one of the most prominent actors in the last Polish Revolution, but for several years had lived in great retirement at Wiesbaden. He was born in the year 1780, in the Grand Duchy of Posen. As early as 1794 he commenced his military career, as a volunteer under Kosciusko. When the Poles were summoned to new efforts for freedom by Dombrowski, in 1806, Uminski was among the first to take up arms. He formed a Polish Guard of Honor for Napoleon, fought at Dantzick, received a wound at Dirschau, where he was taken prisoner and sentenced to death by a Prussian Court Martial. His sentence was not executed, however, as Napoleon threatened reprisals. In the war against Austria he commanded Dombrowski's advanced guard, was made Colonel, and formed the 10th. hussar-regiment, which signalized itself at Masaisk, in 1812, and at whose head he was the first to enter Moscow. In the retreat, he saved the life of Poniatowski. At the battle of Leipsic, where he acted as Brigadier General, he was again wounded and taken prisoner. After the dissolution of the national army of Poland, he entered into the Polish-Russian service but soon obtained his discharge, and lived in retirement in Posen, though without intermitting his efforts for the freedom of Poland. In the year 1821 he helped to found a patriotic union, was arrested after accession of Nicholas I, and in the year 1826 sentenced to six years' imprisonment in the fortress of Glogau. Escaping from this in 1831, he went to Warsaw, and took part as a common soldier in the battle of Wawre. The next day he was made General of Division. On the 25th of February he beat Diebitsch at Grodno, and distinguished himself in several other battles. Outlawed and hung in effigy at Kosen, he found an asylum in France. The remainder of his subsequent life he passed in Wiesbaden. Uminski was also known as a writer on military affairs. Those who knew him in the latter years of his exile, are loud in their praises of the sweetness, benevolence, and dignity of his character. He will be remembered for his devotion to Polish liberty, and the people, who in future times shall struggle for the same boon, will gain new encouragement from his glorious example.

The renowned Polish General Uminski passed away in Wiesbaden on June 16th. He played a key role in the last Polish Revolution but had lived a mostly quiet life in Wiesbaden for several years. Born in 1780 in the Grand Duchy of Posen, he started his military journey as a volunteer under Kosciusko in 1794. When the Poles were called to fight for freedom again by Dombrowski in 1806, Uminski was among the first to join the cause. He established a Polish Honor Guard for Napoleon, fought at Dantzick, and was injured at Dirschau, where he was captured and sentenced to death by a Prussian court martial. However, his execution was stayed as Napoleon threatened retaliation. During the war against Austria, he led Dombrowski's advance guard, was promoted to Colonel, and established the 10th Hussar Regiment, which distinguished itself at Masaisk in 1812, and he was the first to enter Moscow. During the retreat, he saved Poniatowski's life. At the Battle of Leipsic, where he served as Brigadier General, he was wounded again and taken prisoner. After the Polish national army was disbanded, he joined the Polish-Russian service but soon resigned and lived in Posen, continuing to work for Poland's freedom. In 1821, he co-founded a patriotic union, was arrested after Nicholas I came to power, and in 1826 was sentenced to six years in Glogau fortress. He escaped in 1831, went to Warsaw, and fought as a common soldier at the Battle of Wawre. The next day, he was promoted to General of Division. On February 25th, he defeated Diebitsch at Grodno and excelled in several other battles. Outlawed and hung in effigy in Kosen, he found refuge in France. He spent the rest of his life in Wiesbaden. Uminski was also recognized as a military writer. Those who knew him in his later years of exile praise him for his kindness, generosity, and dignity. He will be remembered for his commitment to Polish liberty, and future generations fighting for the same cause will draw inspiration from his remarkable legacy.

Viscount Melville died on the tenth of June. He was in his eightieth year, having been born in 1771. In 1809, he (then the Right Honorable Robert Dundas), was President of the Board of Trade under the Perceval administration. He succeeded his father in 1811, and, in 1812, when Lord Liverpool assumed the reins, he became first Lord of the Admiralty, which office he held during that long administration which ceased in April, 1827, by the death of the Premier. Mr. Canning having been called to power, Lord Melville retired with the majority of his former colleagues, which caused some surprise at the time, as he was favorable to the claims of the Catholics, which was understood to constitute the bond of the new administration. The Canning administration had a brief career, and that of Lord Goderich, the present Earl of Ripon, which attempted to carry on affairs after the death of Canning, was still more brief. On the Duke of Wellington becoming Prime Minister, early in 1822, Lord Melville resumed his former office, the First Lord of the Admiralty, and continued until the breaking up of the Tory Administration, and the advent of the Reform Ministry of Earl Grey, in November, 1830. He then ended his official career, but for several years attended occasionally in the House of Lords, but he chiefly resided at the family seat.

Viscount Melville died on June 10th. He was 80 years old, having been born in 1771. In 1809, he was known as the Right Honorable Robert Dundas and served as President of the Board of Trade under the Perceval government. He took over from his father in 1811, and in 1812, when Lord Liverpool came to power, he became First Lord of the Admiralty, a position he held throughout that long administration, which ended in April 1827 with the death of the Prime Minister. When Mr. Canning took over, Lord Melville stepped down along with most of his former colleagues, which surprised many, as he supported the Catholics' rights, a key issue for the new government. The Canning administration was short-lived, as was that of Lord Goderich, the current Earl of Ripon, who tried to continue after Canning's death. When the Duke of Wellington became Prime Minister in early 1822, Lord Melville returned as First Lord of the Admiralty and served until the Tory government broke up and Earl Grey's Reform Ministry took over in November 1830. He wrapped up his official career then, but for several years, he occasionally attended the House of Lords, mostly living at the family estate.

Mr. Dyce Sombre died in London, July 1. His history is very generally known. He was understood to be the son of a German adventurer in India, of the name of Summer, who espoused the late Begum Oomroo. All manner of wild and scandalous stories are afloat as to the life of this woman and the death of her husband. After her death, Mr. Dyce Sombre came to Europe, and first made himself remarkable, in Italy, by the extraordinary black marble monument which he caused to be executed and sent to India in memory of his benefactress. His arrival in England, with a reputation of almost fabulous wealth, attracted much notice. He became one of the fêted lions of the season, and ultimately married, in 1840, Mary Anne, daughter of the Earl St. Vincent. A separation soon took place, and the legal proceedings consequent on this ill-starred marriage, followed by those adopted for the purpose of establishing Mr. Dyce Sombre's lunacy—were long matters of public talk and universal notoriety. His attempt to enter public life was seconded by the "worthy and enlightened" electors of Sudbury, who sent him to Parliament, from whence he was speedily ejected on petition—the borough being soon afterwards disfranchised. For the last few years Mr. Sombre has resided on the Continent, to escape the effects of the decision of the Court of Chancery in his case—a decision against which he had come over to petition when he was seized with his fatal illness. In consequence of his death in a state of lunacy, his money in the funds, railway shares, and other property, of the annual value of £11,000, will become divisible between Captain Troup and General Soldoli, the husbands of his two sisters, who are next of kin. An additional sum, producing £4,000 a year, will also fall to their families on the death of Mrs. Dyce Sombre.

Mr. Dyce Sombre died in London on July 1. His story is widely known. He was believed to be the son of a German adventurer in India named Summer, who married the late Begum Oomroo. Various wild and scandalous stories circulate about this woman's life and her husband's death. After her passing, Mr. Dyce Sombre moved to Europe, first gaining attention in Italy for the remarkable black marble monument he commissioned and sent to India in memory of his benefactress. His arrival in England, with a reputation for almost unbelievable wealth, drew significant attention. He became one of the celebrated figures of the season and eventually married Mary Anne, the daughter of the Earl St. Vincent, in 1840. A separation happened soon after, and the legal battles that followed this ill-fated marriage, along with those related to proving Mr. Dyce Sombre's mental instability, were topics of public discussion and notoriety for a long time. His attempt to enter public life was supported by the "worthy and enlightened" voters of Sudbury, who elected him to Parliament, from which he was quickly removed following a petition—the borough was soon thereafter disenfranchised. In the last few years, Mr. Sombre lived on the Continent to avoid the repercussions of the Court of Chancery's ruling in his case—a ruling he had come to challenge when he fell ill. Because he died while in a state of lunacy, his money in the funds, railway shares, and other property totaling an annual value of £11,000 will be divided between Captain Troup and General Soldoli, the husbands of his two sisters, who are his closest relatives. An additional sum generating £4,000 a year will also go to their families upon the death of Mrs. Dyce Sombre.

Bishop Medano, of Buenos Ayres, died in the second week of April. He was 83 years old.[Pg 141]

Bishop Medano, from Buenos Aires, passed away in the second week of April. He was 83 years old.[Pg 141]

The Earl of Shaftesbury, one of the most notable of the members of the House of Lords, died at his country residence in Dorsetshire, on the 2d of June, aged eighty-four years. Though neither an orator nor a statesman, he was one of the most remarkable personages of the age in which he lived. His position as a public servant was quite peculiar; and his character, though it could not be called eccentric, had little in common with the world around him. Croply Ashley Cooper, was the second son of the fourth Lord Shaftesbury. That Lord Shaftesbury who became Chancellor in the reign of Charles II. was the first peer in the Cooper family, and under the title of Lord Ashley was a member of the Cabinet well known by the name of "the Cabal" To him we are indebted for the Habeas Corpus Act, at least for being its chief promoter; and he is likewise entitled to the gratitude of posterity for having introduced a measure to render the Judges independent of the crown. The third Earl—grandson of the first—was the celebrated author of the Characteristics. The fourth was his son; the fifth and sixth Earls were his grandsons; the former of these dying without male issue in 1811, the earldom devolved on the deceased, who was born in London on the 21st of December, 1768. From Winchester, where he was contemporaneous with Sidney Smith, and Archbishop Howley, he in due course went to Christchurch, where he passed his time as most young men of rank do at college, and graduated with quite as much credit as was then usually attained by the son of an Earl; after which he made those excursions on the continent of Europe that our ancestors were accustomed to call "the grand tour;" and all these operations he brought to a close before he had completed his twenty-second year. His next step was to get into Parliament, and a seat in the House of Commons was obtained for him in the usual way by family influence, Dorchester having had the advantage of calling him its member from the thirtieth of January, 1790, for a period exceeding twenty-one years. This was pretty good experience in the more active branch of the Legislature, though the body that elected him was of that small and quiet order of constituencies that do not greatly overburden their members with the labors of representation. Mr. Cropley Ashley Cooper had, therefore, had a long apprenticeship to political life, when, by the death of his elder brother, on the fourteenth of May, 1811, he succeeded to the peerage as sixth Earl of Shaftesbury.

The Earl of Shaftesbury, one of the most prominent members of the House of Lords, passed away at his home in Dorsetshire on June 2nd at the age of eighty-four. Although he wasn't an orator or a statesman, he was one of the most notable figures of his time. His role as a public servant was quite unique, and although he wasn't eccentric, his character was quite different from those around him. Croply Ashley Cooper, was the second son of the fourth Lord Shaftesbury. The Lord Shaftesbury who became Chancellor during Charles II's reign was the first peer in the Cooper family and, under the title of Lord Ashley, was a well-known member of the Cabinet referred to as "the Cabal." We owe him gratitude for being the main promoter of the Habeas Corpus Act, and he is also remembered for introducing a measure to make the Judges independent of the crown. The third Earl—grandson of the first—was the famous author of the Characteristics. The fourth was his son, and the fifth and sixth Earls were his grandsons. The former died without male heirs in 1811, leading to the earldom passing to the deceased, who was born in London on December 21, 1768. After attending Winchester, where he was contemporaneous with Sidney Smith and Archbishop Howley, he went on to Christchurch, where he lived like most young men of privilege do at college, graduating with about as much distinction as was typical for the son of an Earl at that time. He then went on the continental trips referred to by his predecessors as "the grand tour," and he completed all these adventures before turning twenty-two. His next move was to enter Parliament, and he secured a seat in the House of Commons through the usual family connections, with Dorchester benefiting by having him as its member from January 30, 1790, for over twenty-one years. This provided him with significant experience in the more active branch of the Legislature, even though the constituency that elected him was small and quiet, which meant they didn't burden their members much with the demands of representation. Mr. Cropley Ashley Cooper had thus gained considerable experience in political life when, following the death of his elder brother on May 14, 1811, he inherited the title of sixth Earl of Shaftesbury.

The Earl was nearly forty years of age when, upon the death of Fox, the Tories recovered their long possession of office, and among their good deeds may be reckoned their appointment of Lord Shaftesbury, then Mr. Cooper, to the office of Clerk of the Ordnance. To the duties of his department he applied himself with marvellous zeal, and it was always his own opinion that he there first acquired those habits of industry and method which rendered him one of the most efficient members of the Upper House. When, on the death of his elder brother, he reached the dignity of the peerage, he thought it necessary to resign the clerkship of the Ordnance, though his private fortune was scarcely sufficient for a man encumbered with an earldom and a large family. He took his seat as a peer in June, 1811, and it was not until November, 1814, that he became permanently the Chairman of Committees; the duties of which place were well done for nearly forty years by "old" Lord Shaftesbury, who was never old when business pressed. Strong common sense, knowledge of the statute law, and above all, uncompromising impartiality, made him an autocrat in his department. When once he heard a case, and deliberately pronounced judgment, submission almost invariably followed. A man of the largest experience as a Parliamentary agent has been heard to say that he remembered only one case in which the House reversed a decision of Lord Shaftesbury; and on that occasion it became necessary to prevail on the Duke of Wellington to speak in order to overcome the "old Earl." It would not be easy to cite many instances of men who have taken as active part in the business of a deliberative assembly after the age of 75; but the labors of Lord Shaftesbury were continued beyond that of fourscore. To all outward seeming he was nearly as efficient at one period of his life as at another. By the time he had reached the age of fifty,—which was about half-way through the fifteen years that Lord Liverpool's Ministry held the government,—Lord Shaftesbury's knowledge of his duties as chairman to the Lords was complete, and then he appeared to settle down in life with the air, the habits, the modes of thought and action, natural to old age. Although there are few men now alive whose experience would enable them to contrast his performance of official duties with the manner in which they were discharged by his predecessor, yet, even in the absence of any thing like data, there seems to be a general impression that the House of Lords never could have had a more efficient chairman. He was certainly a man of undignified presence, of indistinct and hurried speech, of hasty and brusque manner, the last person whom a superficial observer would think of placing in the chair of the greatest senate that the world has ever seen; yet it cannot be said that their lordships were ever wrong in their repeated elections of Lord Shaftesbury; for in the formal business of committees he rarely allowed them to make a mistake, while he was prompt as well as safe in devising the most convenient mode of carrying any principle into practical effect. He was no theorist; there was nothing of the speculative philosopher in the constitution of his mind; and he therefore readily gained credit for being what he really was, an excellent man of business. It is well known that the Lords, sitting in committee, are less prone to run riot than the other House; still it required no small ability to keep them always in the right path, as was the happy practice of Lord Shaftesbury. In dealing with minute distinctions and mere verbal emendations, a deliberative assembly occasionally loses its way, and members sometimes ask, "What is it we are about?" This was a question which Lord Shaftesbury usually answered with great promptitude and perspicuity, rarely failing to put the questions before their Lordships in an unmistakable form. Another valuable quality of Lord Shaftesbury as a chairman consisted in his impatience of prosy, unprofitable talk, of which, doubtless, there is comparatively little in the Upper House; but even that little he labored to make less by occasionally reviving attention to the exact points at issue, and sometimes, by an excusable manœuvre, shutting[Pg 142] out opportunity for useless discussion. When he sat on the woolsack as speaker, in the absence of the Lord Chancellor, he deported himself after the manner of Chancellors; but when he got into his proper element at the table of the house, nothing could be more rapid than his evolutions; no hesitation, no dubiety, nor would he allow any one else to pause or doubt. Often has he been heard to say, in no very gentle tones, "Give me in that clause now;"—"That's enough;"—"It will do very well as it is;"—"If you have anything further to propose, move at once;"—"Get through the bill now, and bring up that on the third reading." He always made their Lordships feel that, come what might, it was their duty to "get through the bill;" and so expeditious was the old Earl, that he would get out of the chair, bring up his report, and move the House into another committee in the short time that sufficed for the Chancellor to transfer himself from the woolsack to the Treasury bench and back again.

The Earl was nearly forty when, after Fox's death, the Tories regained their long-held office. Among their positive actions was appointing Lord Shaftesbury, then Mr. Cooper, as the Clerk of the Ordnance. He threw himself into his duties with remarkable enthusiasm and believed that it was in this role that he first developed the work habits that made him one of the most effective members of the Upper House. When he inherited the peerage after his older brother's death, he felt he had to resign from the Clerkship of the Ordnance, even though his personal fortune was barely enough for someone with an earldom and a large family. He took his seat as a peer in June 1811, and it wasn’t until November 1814 that he became the permanent Chairman of Committees; a role that "old" Lord Shaftesbury held for nearly forty years, never seeming old when work needed to be done. His strong common sense, understanding of the law, and, above all, unwavering impartiality made him a powerful figure in his field. Once he heard a case and made a decision, compliance almost always followed. A highly experienced Parliamentary agent recalled only one instance where the House overturned Lord Shaftesbury's ruling, and it took the Duke of Wellington's support to persuade the "old Earl." It’s rare to find many who actively participate in a deliberative assembly past the age of 75, yet Lord Shaftesbury continued his work well into his eighties. He appeared equally effective at different points in his life. By the age of fifty—around halfway through the fifteen years of Lord Liverpool’s Ministry—Lord Shaftesbury fully understood his chairman duties in the Lords and seemed to settle into life with the demeanor, habits, and thinking typical of older age. While there are few people alive today who could compare his performance to that of his predecessor, there seems to be a general belief that the House of Lords could hardly have had a more capable chairman. He was certainly not dignified in appearance, with unclear and hurried speech and a blunt manner, the last person a casual observer would expect to lead the world's greatest senate; yet their lordships were never mistaken in repeatedly electing Lord Shaftesbury, for in formal committee business he rarely allowed mistakes, and he was both quick and reliable in finding the best ways to implement any principle effectively. He was not a theorist; he lacked the speculative philosopher mindset, which earned him a reputation as an outstanding businessman. It is known that members of the Lords, when sitting in committee, are less likely to stray off course than their counterparts in the other House; still, it took considerable skill to keep them on track, which was Lord Shaftesbury’s successful approach. When dealing with subtle distinctions and minor verbal changes, a deliberative assembly can occasionally lose focus, leading members to ask, "What are we discussing?" This was a question Lord Shaftesbury typically answered quickly and clearly, rarely failing to present their Lordships with the issues in a straightforward manner. Another important quality of Lord Shaftesbury as a chairman was his intolerance for dull, unproductive talk, which, of course, is somewhat limited in the Upper House; but even that small amount he worked to reduce by frequently refocusing on the key points and sometimes diplomatically cutting off unnecessary discussion. When he sat on the woolsack as speaker in the Lord Chancellor’s absence, he acted like Chancellors do; but when he was at the table, he moved swiftly, without hesitation or uncertainty, and he wouldn't let anyone else pause or hesitate. He was often heard saying, in no gentle manner, "Give me that clause now;"—"That's enough;"—"This is fine as it is;"—"If you have anything more to propose, do it now;"—"Let's finish the bill now and bring up the next one for third reading." He always made their Lordships feel that, no matter what, it was their duty to "finish the bill;" and so efficient was the old Earl that he could step out of the chair, present his report, and move the House into another committee in the time it took the Chancellor to move from the woolsack to the Treasury bench and back again.

Mr. Thomas Wright Hill, eminent in England for some of the most important improvements that have been made in the means of education during this century, died on the 9th of June, at the age of eighty-eight. Hazelwood School, near Birmingham, established by Mr. Hill, was the most successful, as it was the first large experiment as to the practicability of governing boys by other principles than that of terror, of extending the range of scholastic acquirements beyond a superficial knowledge of the learned languages, and of making the acquisition of sound knowledge not only a duty but a delight. The views of Mr. Hill were set forth in Plans for the Government and Liberal Instruction of Boys in large numbers, drawn from Experience, first published in 1823; and a very elaborate paper in the Edinburgh Review of Jan. 1825, brought the system into general notice.

Mr. Thomas Wright Hill, well-known in England for some of the most significant improvements in education during this century, passed away on June 9th at the age of eighty-eight. Hazelwood School, located near Birmingham and founded by Mr. Hill, was the most successful and the first large experiment to determine whether boys could be governed by principles other than fear, expand the scope of their academic learning beyond just a basic understanding of classical languages, and transform the pursuit of genuine knowledge into both a responsibility and a joy. Mr. Hill's ideas were outlined in Plans for the Government and Liberal Instruction of Boys in large numbers, drawn from Experience, which was first published in 1823; a detailed article in the Edinburgh Review in January 1825 brought widespread attention to the system.

The London Builder contains a brief notice of Melchior Boisserée, brother to Sulpize Boisserée, whose death is much regretted throughout Germany. It was so far back as the year 1804, that three young men, citizens of Cologne, conceived the idea of collecting and resuscitating the mediæval art-relics of the Rhine-lands. But what was, probably, but contemplated as a provincial undertaking, soon attracted the eyes of Europe, and became a great fact of modern art-history. When, about 1808, Sulpize Boisserée determined to devote himself entirely to the work on the Cologne Cathedral, Melchior and his brother Bertram continued the research and collection of ancient paintings. But already in 1810, the old pictures had outgrown the scanty spaces appropriable to them at Cologne. They were transferred first to Heidelberg, and in 1819 the three brothers migrated with them to Stuttgardt, where the king afforded room to this unique gathering of mediæval art. It was Melchior who chiefly attended to the restoration of the pictures, and enriched the collection during his travels in the Netherlands, in 1812 and 1813. Having found some of the pictures of Hemling and Memling, it was he who first attracted notice to these excellent, hitherto hardly known artists. In 1827 the collection was sold to Ludwig of Bavaria, and as the Pinakotheka (where they were to be placed) was not ready, the pictures were conveyed to Schleissheim. In this retirement, Melchior Boisserée devoted his whole attention to the art of glass painting, which at that time was nigh considered as lost. If now such great things are accomplished at Munich in this department of Art, it was Melchior (conjointly with his brother Bertram) who paved the way by this collection of old specimens, seen with astonishment by travellers from the whole of Europe. When Bertram had died (about 1830), Melchior joined his brother Sulpize at Bonn, where Melchior, in the prosecution of his favored Art-studies, concluded his life in serene quiet and contentment.

The London Builder includes a brief mention of Melchior Boisserée, brother of Sulpize Boisserée, whose passing is greatly mourned across Germany. It dates back to 1804 when three young men from Cologne came up with the idea to collect and revive the medieval art relics of the Rhine region. What they initially thought would be a local project quickly caught the attention of Europe and became a significant part of modern art history. Around 1808, Sulpize Boisserée decided to focus entirely on the work of the Cologne Cathedral, while Melchior and his brother Bertram continued to research and collect ancient paintings. By 1810, however, the old paintings had outgrown the limited space available in Cologne. They were first moved to Heidelberg, and in 1819, the three brothers relocated with them to Stuttgart, where the king provided space for this unique collection of medieval art. Melchior primarily took charge of restoring the paintings and enhanced the collection during his travels in the Netherlands in 1812 and 1813. He discovered works by Hemling and Memling, and it was he who first drew attention to these excellent, previously little-known artists. In 1827, the collection was sold to Ludwig of Bavaria, and since the Pinakotheka (where the paintings were to be displayed) was not yet ready, they were moved to Schleissheim. During this period, Melchior devoted himself entirely to the art of glass painting, which was nearly seen as a lost art at the time. Today, as significant advancements are made in Munich in this art form, it was Melchior (along with his brother Bertram) who laid the foundation with this collection of old samples, which amazed travelers from all over Europe. After Bertram's death around 1830, Melchior joined his brother Sulpize in Bonn, where Melchior quietly and contentedly pursued his beloved art studies until the end of his life.

In the death of Christian Tieck, German sculpture has lost one of its most illustrious ornaments, a man of rare intelligence, of long experience, and of profound artistic cultivation. He was born in Berlin, on the 14th of August, 1776, and early destined for a sculptor. The poetic genius and rare qualities of his brother Lewis Tieck, the poet, his elder by three years, and the graceful artistic and literary accomplishments of a sister, afterward the Baroness Knooring, inspired the young sculptor with the warmest interest in the then young and hopeful German literature and art. This taste he never lost. Perhaps no artist, so distinguished as an artist, was ever so devoted to various study, to the last moment of his life.

In the death of Christian Tieck, German sculpture has lost one of its most remarkable figures, a man of exceptional intelligence, extensive experience, and deep artistic refinement. He was born in Berlin on August 14, 1776, and was destined to be a sculptor from an early age. The poetic talent and unique qualities of his brother Lewis Tieck, the poet, who was three years older, along with the graceful artistic and literary skills of their sister, later Baroness Knooring, sparked his strong interest in the then-emerging German literature and art. This passion never faded. Perhaps no artist as accomplished as he was ever so dedicated to a wide range of studies right up until the end of his life.

In 1797, he went to Paris as Royal Pensioner, and although a sculptor, entered David's studio, and in the year 1800 took the prize for sculpture. In 1801 he returned to Berlin, and his distinguished talent was acknowledged. Goethe immediately summoned him to Weimar, and employed him in the adorning of the Ducal palace, and in the moulding of a series of busts. Of this latter an idealized head of Goethe and of the philologist Frederic August Wolf, are the best. The young Tieck continued in the closest correspondence with his brother, who was then pursuing his poetical studies at Jena and Dresden, and they went with Rumohr to Italy, in the year 1805, and there by his beautiful busts, won the friendship of William Von Humboldt, a man of the most delicate and accurate artistic taste, as well as of the noblest character and intellectual ability. Madame de Staël invited Tieck to execute sculptures at Coppet, for the Neckar family, and in 1809 the Prince Royal of Bavaria, Louis, selected Tieck to mould the busts for the projected Walhalla. He did them, and in 1812 passed into Switzerland. He lived in Zurich, where Rauch was then engaged upon his noble work, the reclining statue of Queen Louisa, now at Charlottenburg, and a warm friendship was formed between the sculptors. In 1819 he returned to Berlin, was elected into the Senate of the Academy, and appointed Professor by the Grand Duke of Weimar. He then quietly devoted himself to his art, and Berlin is beautiful with Tieck's sculptures. Named, in 1830 director of the Gallery of Sculpture, he did not relax his artistic activity, and after a long illness he died gently in the spring of his year, in the seventy-fifth year of his age.

In 1797, he went to Paris as a Royal Pensioner, and even though he was a sculptor, he joined David's studio and won the prize for sculpture in 1800. In 1801, he returned to Berlin, where his exceptional talent was recognized. Goethe quickly invited him to Weimar to work on decorating the Ducal palace and creating a series of busts. Among these, the idealized busts of Goethe and the philologist Frederic August Wolf stand out the most. The young Tieck kept in close touch with his brother, who was then studying poetry in Jena and Dresden. In 1805, they traveled to Italy with Rumohr, where Tieck's beautiful busts earned them the friendship of William Von Humboldt, a man of remarkable artistic taste and noble character. Madame de Staël invited Tieck to create sculptures at Coppet for the Neckar family, and in 1809, the Prince Royal of Bavaria, Louis, chose Tieck to sculpt busts for the planned Walhalla. He completed those and moved to Switzerland in 1812. He lived in Zurich, where Rauch was busy working on the noble reclining statue of Queen Louisa, now in Charlottenburg, and a strong friendship developed between the two sculptors. In 1819, he returned to Berlin, was elected to the Senate of the Academy, and appointed Professor by the Grand Duke of Weimar. He then dedicated himself quietly to his art, and Berlin is enriched by Tieck's sculptures. In 1830, he was named director of the Gallery of Sculpture, but he did not cease his artistic efforts. After a long illness, he peacefully passed away in the spring of that year, at the age of seventy-five.

His elder brother Lewis, the most deservedly famous of the living illustrations of German literature, the only worthy translator of Shakspeare, the most genial friend, the most single-hearted of poets, whom the King honors and who loved Novalis—now seventy-eight years old, awaits in continued and patiently endured illness the gentle guiding of death to his best friend and brother.

His older brother Lewis, the most deservedly famous living example of German literature, the only worthy translator of Shakespeare, the best friend, and the most sincere poet, who is honored by the King and loved Novalis—now seventy-eight years old—awaits, in ongoing and patiently endured illness, the gentle guidance of death to his best friend and brother.

[Pg 143]

Ladies' Summer Fashions.

The strong and superb stuffs of winter are quite superseded by ball dresses, at the various watering places. The élégantes seek toilettes which, without being rich, are remarkable for lightness and tasteful patterns. We commend a white mousseline dress, with three flounces, simply hemmed; a long sash of ribbon of colored taffeta; natural flowers in the hair and on the front of the dress; a dress of colored taffeta, white or straw ground, or blue or pink ground; these stuffs are striped, or running and small patterns, or great branches with detached bouquets. Barèges are also much worn, with white ground sprinkled with little rose-buds; silk barège, with wreaths of flowers, are newer. The shape of the bodies of evening dresses has not undergone much change. Berthes are still worn, forming a point in front, only varying in the disposition of the ornaments, interspersed with small ribbons or lace and mousseline. Natural flowers will be worn for headdresses and bouquets. Walking dresses are much in vogue of barèges and mousseline, the body skirted, open in front, and lower down than in winter. We must mention a new dress, named Albanaise, made of barège. It is of several shades, but the most recherché are gris poussière, or dust gray. Five dull silk stripes begin from the bottom of the dress; then an intervening space and four other stripes; another space and, to finish, three more stripes ending right in the belt, always diminishing in size. We have also seen a jaconet dress, embroidered à l'Anglaise as an apron to the waist; the body embroidered at the edge flat, as well as in the skirts and sleeves; and three knots of blue taffeta fastened the bodice. For the country, dresses of Chinese nankeen and Persian jaconet are worn; and to protect from the sun, a kind of hood, of similar stuff. There are a great many black lace schales, embroidered muslins, printed barège, square or long, with cashmere patterns.

The heavy and fancy winter fabrics are completely overshadowed by ball gowns at the different resorts. The stylish crowd looks for outfits that, while not extravagant, are notable for their lightness and stylish designs. We recommend a white muslin dress with three simple flounces; a long sash made of colorful taffeta; natural flowers in the hair and on the dress's front; a dress made of colored taffeta with white or straw backgrounds, or blue or pink backgrounds; these fabrics come in stripes, small patterns, or large branches with scattered bouquets. Barège is also very popular, featuring a white background dotted with tiny rosebuds; silk barège with floral wreaths is a newer option. The silhouette of evening dresses hasn’t changed much. Berthes are still in style, forming a point at the front, with variations in decoration using small ribbons or lace and muslin. Natural flowers will be used for hairpieces and bouquets. Walking dresses made of barège and muslin are trending, with the skirt open at the front and cut lower than in winter. We should mention a new style called Albanaise, made of barège. It comes in several shades, but the most sought-after is gris poussière, or dust gray. Five dull silk stripes start from the bottom of the dress; then there’s a gap followed by four more stripes; another gap, and finally three more stripes that taper off at the waist, always getting smaller. We've also seen a jaconet dress embroidered à l'Anglaise as an apron at the waist; the bodice is flat-embroidered at the edges, along with the skirts and sleeves; three bows of blue taffeta secure the bodice. For the countryside, dresses made of Chinese nankeen and Persian jaconet are worn, along with a type of hood made from similar fabric for sun protection. There is a wide variety of black lace schales, embroidered muslins, printed barège, both square and long, featuring cashmere patterns.

The scarf mantelet is also much in fashion, and the article which permits of the most frequent[Pg 144] change; a point scarcely perceptible in the middle of the back makes it still more graceful. It is made in all shades, but the most comme-il-faut are black; it is more suitable, and sets off the freshness of the dress. It is trimmed with lace, fringe, or net, covered with small velvet dots. We have seen some quite covered with common embroidery; others embroidered with arabesques intermingled with braid and silk, and black jet.

The scarf mantelet is really trendy right now, and it's the item that changes the most often[Pg 144]; a barely noticeable detail in the middle of the back makes it even more elegant. It's available in all colors, but the most comme-il-faut is black; it's more appropriate and highlights the freshness of the outfit. It features lace, fringe, or netting, decorated with small velvet dots. We've seen some completely covered in simple embroidery; others are adorned with arabesques mixed with braid, silk, and black jet.

For the seaside there are also worn many mantelets, which remind us of the winter by their shape; but the materials are somewhat lighter, chiefly of thin summer cloth, or felt of gray shades.

For the beach, there are also many worn mantelets, which remind us of winter by their shape; but the materials are a bit lighter, mainly made of thin summer fabric or felt in gray tones.

The Promenade Dress, on the preceding page, is of a rich plain chocolate-colored silk, made perfectly simple. Pardessus of a damson-colored brocaded silk, the lower part of which, as well as the large sleeves, being decorated with a magnificent double fringe, the under and deepest being of black, and the upper composed of long silk tassels, put at equal distances. Leghorn bonnet, trimmed with pink silk, cut the width of a broad ribbon, and pinked at the edge; the interior having a fulling of the pink silk encircling the face, with brides to match.

The Promenade Dress on the previous page is made from luxurious plain chocolate-colored silk, designed to be beautifully simple. There's a wrapper made of damson-colored brocaded silk, with the lower part and large sleeves featuring an impressive double fringe— the inner and deepest part is black, while the outer part consists of long silk tassels placed evenly apart. The Leghorn bonnet is trimmed with pink silk, cut the width of a wide ribbon, and has a pinked edge; the inside is lined with pink silk that frames the face, complete with matching brides.

Coarse straw chapeaux, though principally intended for the country, are employed, though not much, for morning neglige, in town, and will be very much in request for the watering-places; they are of the capote form, in open-work, and lined with taffeta, of one of the colors of the ribbon that trims them. The ribbon is always plaided, and the most fashionable has a great variety of colors; the knots are large, and formed of several coques, divided in the middle by a torsade of ribbons; some are decorated with ribbons only, but small flowers and foliage may be employed to trim the interior of the brim. Fancy chapeaux are composed of bands of paille dentelle, alternating with rose-colored taffeta biais, &c. Rice straw is also employed a good deal for fancy chapeaux that are formed of more than one material.

Coarse straw hats, while mainly designed for the countryside, are also worn, though not very often, for casual mornings in the city, and they will be quite popular at resorts; they are in the style of the capote, made with open work, and lined with taffeta in one of the colors of the ribbon that decorates them. The ribbon is always plaid, and the trendiest ones come in a wide range of colors; the bows are large, consisting of several coques divided in the center by a twist of ribbons; some are adorned with only ribbons, but small flowers and leaves can also be used to decorate the inside of the brim. Fancy hats are made of bands of paille dentelle mixed with rose-colored taffeta biais, etc. Rice straw is also widely used for stylish hats crafted from multiple materials.

The following figures are copied from Parisian fashion plates for 1811. The shortness of the frocks should certainly satisfy the most extreme innovators of the present time.

The following figures are copied from Parisian fashion plates for 1811. The shortness of the dresses should definitely satisfy the most extreme trendsetters of today.

LADIES' FASHIONS IN PARIS FORTY YEARS AGO.

WOMEN'S FASHION IN PARIS FORTY YEARS AGO.

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THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Science, and Art.

VOLUME IV

AUGUST TO DECEMBER, 1851.

PREFACE TO THE FOURTH VOLUME.

CONTENTS:

THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. IV. NEW-YORK, AUGUST 1, 1851. No. I.

REV. CALVIN COLTON.

A GLANCE AT THE WATERING PLACES.

NOAH WEBSTER.

DR. MERLE D'AUBIGNE AND THE ENGLISH CHURCH.

THE EXILE'S SUNSET SONG.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY J. R. THOMPSON.

DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

THE GAME OF CHESS.

FROM A PLAY.

THE COUNTESS IDA HAHN-HAHN.

JULES JANIN, AND THE PARIS FEUILLETONISTES.

ODE XX. OF ANACREON.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME DACIER FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY MARY E. HEWITT.

SWEDISH LANDSCAPES: BY HERR ANDERSEN.

VERSES

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY R. H. STODDARD.

A CHAPTER OF PARODIES.

MARTHA HOPKINS.

A BALLAD OF INDIANA.

WORSER MOMENTS.

THE ANNOYER.

SAMUEL BROWN.

THE BRITISH HUMORISTS: DESCRIBED

BY MR. THACKERAY.

ALRED.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY ELMINA WALDO CAREY.

CHRISTOPHER NORTH ON ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[1]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHAPTER XXXV.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

FOOTNOTES:

THE CASTLE OF BELVER.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF ARAGO.

THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[2]

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DE ST. GEORGES.

XVI.—MADEMOISELLE CREPINEAU'S LOVER.

XVIII. RUIN.

XVIII. THE KING.

XIX. A REVELATION.

FOOTNOTES:

From Fraser's Magazine.

A TROT ON THE ISLAND.

BY CHARLES ASTOR BRISTED.

FOOTNOTES:

From Chamber's Edinburgh Journal.

PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A DUTCH POET.

From Household Words.

OUR PHANTOM SHIP: CHINA.

From "Reminiscences of an Attorney" in Chambers's Edinburgh Miscellany.

THE CHEST OF DRAWERS.

MY NOVEL:

OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE,[8]

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

BOOK VI.—INITIAL CHAPTER.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.