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U v- O 







j i .•'-! :i fMiit . 









A1NS WORTH R. SPOFFORD, Librarian of Congress, and 
CHARLES GIBBON, Author of " Robin Gray," etc. 



Vol. HI 


GEBBIE & CO., Pubushsbs 


734169 A 



R 1934 L 

Copyrighted, 1888, by Gkbbie & Oo. 




The Tragedy of the Till Douglas Jerrold 1 

The Traveller Oliver Goldsmith 6 

" Half a Loaf is better than no Bread" Anon. 10 

Gille Machree Gerald Griffin 18 

Dara James Russell Lowell .... 19 

Why Lady Horabury's Ball was Postponed Henry Kingsley 20 

To a Child Joanna BaiUie 80 

Wind and Stars Isa Craig-Knox 30 

,A Blind Boy's Song \ . . . Hannah F. Gould 30 

Married ? or not Married T Anon 81 

The Household Festival Mary Howitt 86 

On Early Rising Professor Wilson 86 

Hymn to Pan John Keats 40 

The Great Balas Ruby Miss Lawranee 40 

The Equality of the Grave James Shirley 49 

The Green Willow John Heywood 60 

The Hall of Silence Anon 60 

Address to an Egyptian Mummy Horace Smith 64 

The Fortunes of Martin Waldeck Sir Walter Scott 66 

The Admiral Guarinos Cervantes 60 

Spring Thomas Nash 62 

The Lost Colony John S. Sleeper 68 

You'll come to our Ball W. Mackworth Praed .... 64 

The Temple of Butterflies Lucy H. Hooper 66 

Quadrille a la Mode Thomas Haynes Bayly ... 68 

The Clown's Reply Oliver Goldsmith 69 

The Jubilee Anon 69 

The Iceberg J. O. Rockwell 76 

The Man in the Bell • Anon 77 

A Vision of Beauty Ben Jonson 79 

Ballad of the Sailor's Children Alexander Whitelaw .... 80 

The Brighton Coach Theodore Hook 81 

Zara's Ear-rings J. G. Lockhart 88 

Extract from "The Bible of Humanity" Jules Michelet 8ft 

Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music John Dryden 91 

The Cry of the Clerk From "Punch" 98 

Ginx's Baby Edward Jenkins, M. P. . . . 94 

Over the Hill to the Poor-House Will Carleton 99 

Over the Hill from the Poor-House Will Carleton 100 

Charon and his Passengers Lucian 102 

The Story of Er Plato 106 

The Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe 107 

Dirge for a Soldier George H. Boker 107 

The Ivy Green . . Charles Dickens 107 

*- A Summer Reminiscence Nathaniel G. Shepherd . . . 108 

^ The Violet William W. Story 108 

^ The Facts in the "Great Beef Contract" S.L.Clemens 109 

(£ Loss of the Arctic Henry Ward Beecher .... 112 

X ' v 




Early Rising John G. Saxe 118 

The Battle of Naseby fjord Macaulay 118 

John Adams, on Natural Aristocracy John Adams 114 

Freebooter Life in the Forest Thomas L. Peacock 117 

Truth to Nature Essential in Poetry Thomas L. Peacock 118 

The Mitherless Bairn William Thorn 119 

Nothing to Wear Wm. Allen Butler 120 

Alpine Heights Krummacher 120 

The Brave Old Oak Henry F. Chorley 120 

Opening of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway . . . Samuel Smiles 121 

Jefferson on Public Debts as Public Blessings Thomas Jefferson 122 

Dido, the Carthaginian Queen Virgil 128 

On Memory Dugald Stewart ...... 127 

Death of Eliza at the Battle of Minden Dr. Erasmus Darwin .... 128 

Song to May Dr. Erasmus Darwin «... 129 

The Bustling, Affectionate, Little American Woman . . . Charles Dickens 129 

Society in Bagdad Sir Robert Ker Porter .... 130 

The Temple of Nature David Vedder 131 

The Three Warnings . Mrs. Thrale 132 

Extracts from Dean Stanley Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, D.D. 133 

The Metamorphoses or Transformations . . • Ovid 185 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England . . Felicia Remans 145 

Jean Paul Richter's Dream Jean Paul Richter 145 

The Forced Marriage Jean Baptiste Poquelin Moliere 147 

July William Morris 167 

Song — From "The Love of Alcestis" William Morris 167 

Defence of the French Revolution Sir James Mackintosh .... 158 

The Constant Prince Pedro Calderon De La Barca . 161 

From the Purgatory of St. Patrick Calderon . • • • 161 

The Highest Good of Man Aristotle 163 

Stages in the History of Crime Mrs. Catherine Crowe .... 164 

The Angel's Whisper Samuel Lover 166 

Picture of Green Heys Fields, Manchester Mrs. Oaskell 166 

On the Study and Use of History Lord Bolingbroke 166 

Old Songs Eliza Cook 168 

The Old Arm-Chair Eliza Cook 169 

From "The Blessed Damozel" Dante Gabriel Rossetti . ... 169 

Distinction between Power and Activity George Combe 170 

The Compassionate African Matron Mungo Park 171 

The Traveller's Pious Fortitude Mungo Park 172 

Rousseau • Louis Simond 178 

Madame Dc Stael Louis Simond 174 

Charlotte Bronte's Protest against Pharisaism Charlotte Bronte 174 

The Orphan Child Charlotte Bronte 175 

Frederick the Great Thomas Carlyle 176 

Await the Issue Thomas Carlyle 177 

In the Downhill of Life John Collins 177 

lines Written in the Church-yard Herbert Knowles 178 

Letter to Monsieur De Coulanges Madame De Sevigne 178 

Description of a Funeral Ceremony Madame De Sevigne 179 

Letter to Madame De Grignan Madame De Sevigne 180 

Durandarte and Belerma Matthew Gregory Lewis ... 180 

Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogine Matthew Gregory Leicis . . . 182 

Character and Career of Francis Xavier Sir James Stephen 182 

Song of the Bell IHedrich von Schiller .... 184 

Algernon Sidney on Government Algernon Sidney 188 

Ariadne Deserted by Theseus Valerius Catullus 192 

Storming the Temple of Mexico W. H. Prescott ... .... 192 

A Nocturnal Reverie Anne, Countess of Winchelsea . 194 

Augustus Cffisar Charles Merivale 196 



Fatal Visit of the Inca to Pizarro Wtn. H. Preseott 196 

The Apple Dumplings and a King Dr. John Wolcoti 198 

Whitbread's Brewery Visited by their Majesties . ... Dr. John Wolcott 199 

Xenophon's Address to the Army George Grote 201 

Character of Dion George Grote ..:.... 202 

The Voyage Heinrich Heine 204 

The Lore-Lei 8 Heinrich Heine 204 

The Emigrants Ferdinand Freiligrath .... 204 

A Night Piece— The Church-yard Thomas Parnell 205 

The Hermit Thomas Parnell 205 

1'he Lady Rohesia R. H. Barham • . 208 

The Culprit Fay Joseph R. Drake .... 211 

Langsyne D. M. Moir {Delta) .... 217 

Song of the Spirit of Music Thomas Moore 217 

A Summer Day Robert Southey 217 

Jacob Flint's Journey Bayard Taylor 218 

To a Rich Man Phineas Fletcher 225 

The Return Mrs. Hemans 226 

Gibraltar : a Night at the Ragged-staff William Leggett 226 

Jeanie Morrison William Motherwell 288 

A Musical Enigma . Rev. C. P. Cranch 284 

You Remember the Maid T. K. Hervey 289 

Bothweil Castle Anon 240 

Bothwell Brigg James Hogg 242 

The Lovers* Mountain Leigh Hunt 243 

Remembrance Alfred De Musset 246 

Last Night Miss Jewshury 246 

The Wow o' Rivven George Mac Donald ..... 246 

The Last Day Robert Pollok 252 

Arnold of Underwalden Anon 254 

My Mother's Grave • . . . Thomas Aird 266 

A Dutiful Nephew Ascanio Mori da Ceno .... 267 

Autumn : a Dirge Percy Bysshe Shelley 269 

The Reign of Summer James Montgomery 270 

Uncle's Will Anon 273 

The Miner James Russell Lowell .... 275 

Love's Hue and Cry James Shirley 275 

Persuasion Jane Austen 276 

To Celia Ben Jonson 284 

The First Frost of Autumn Samuel Griswold Goodrich . . 286 

Virtue Oliver Goldsmith 285 

Scottish Wit and Humour Dean Ramsay 286 

Of Solitude Abraham Cowley 291 

Conjugal Content George Stevens 292 

The Goblin Barber Johann August Musaus . . . 292 

Weep no More Beaumont and Fletcher . . . 802 

The Lament of Tasso Lord Byron 308 

The Gardens of Armida Torquato Tasso 805 

A Poet's Romance James Sheridan Knowles . . . 806 

Were na my Heart Licht Lady Grizel Baillie ' 817 

Aladdin James Russell Lowell .... 317 

Sadik Beg Sir John Malcum 318 

To the Husbandman Goethe 818 

A Tragedy Rehearsed Richard Brinslty Sheridan . . 319 

Via Crucis, Via Lucis James Montgomery 323 

The Treasure-ship Lord Houghton 323 

To the Evening Star Thomas Campbell 823 

How Sharp Snaffles got bin Capital and Wife William Gilmore S>mms , . 324 

The Parish Poor-hou>e George Crabbe 338 

Thoughts and Aphorisms Swift, Pope, and LavaUr . . 330 



Pleasures of Promise S. Laman Blanchard .... 842 

The Vision of the Maid of Ork*n& . , Robert Southey 343 

The Admiral on Shore . . * Mary Russell Mitford .... 346 

The World Matthew Browne 352 

The Dorty Bairn David Wingate 852 

The Mortal Immortal Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley . 853 

The Charm Anon 359 

The Teacher's Lesson S. G. Goodrich 859 

The Pantofles Caspar Gozzi 860 

The Violet-girl . . ' Lord Houghton 361 

Education Martin Luther 362 

My Love Petrarch 364 

The Common Lot , James Montgomery 364 

Drawn for a Soldier Thomas Hood 365 

The Progress of Poesy Matthew Arnold 366 

Happiness Lord Houghton 366 

The Lady of Gollerus T. Ciofton Croker 366 

The Midnight Wind William Motherwell 369 

Hope * Oliver Goldsmith 869 

The Heiress Anon 369 

While Takin a Wift o' my Pipe Edwin Waugh 371 

The Schoolmaster Alexander Wilson 871 

The Turnip The Brothers Grimm .... 372 

Woman Oliver Goldsmith 378 

The Isles of Greece Lord Byron 378 

The Warerley Mystery Anon 374 

The Scott Centenary Anon 87? 



tlTLS. ASTttT. 

Group op Authors (Tennyson, Carlyle, Hawthorne) Frontispiece 

Zerinda (The Hall op Silence) FA. Bridgman . Page 50 

The Spirit of Music A. Bynais .... "217 

The Maid of Orleans Afme. de, Cltatiltion . " 343 




[Douglas Jexrold, bom in London, 3d January, 1808; 
died at Kilburn, London, 8th Juno. 1857. Midshipman, 
printer, dramatist, journalist, novelist, essayist, humour- 
ist— and potent in all the many parts he play ©d. His sue 
oass was won by dint of hard honest work; his end came 
in the sunshine of suooess. He was noted for saying 
"sharp things: " he should also have been noted for saying 
them only when falsehood of some sort or other called 
them forth. He was one of the earliest contributors 
to Punch, in which the Caudle Lectures and other popular 
sketches first appeared. It was as a dramatist and 
humourist that he was best known; but it was the pro- 
ductions of his more serious moods which exhibited his 
best powers, whilst they showed Ids earnest sympathy 
with all who struggled and hoped, and his love of rural 
life. This is most apparent in the Chronicles »f Clover- 
nook, which, according to his son — Mr. Blonehard 
Jerrold— was his pet work. "The Chronicle* are a 
fragment of what it was originally intended by the 
author they should be;'' says Mr. B. Jerrold in his in- 
teresting preface to the admirable edition of his father's 
works issued by Messrs. Bradbury, Evans and Co.; 
" but the fragment, it was his belief, had a better chance 
of reaching the hands of future generations, than the 
rest of his works. All the qualities of his genius shine 
(heir brightest here. The study of benignant nature is 
rich and rare. The 'Legends' have purposes in them, 
from which the author, being in downright earnest with 
the world, could never long wean his fancy. " The fol- 
lowing '• Tragedy of the Till " is one of the legends, told by 
that roost delightful of modern Friar Tucks, "The 
Hermit of Bellyful le." The b.»k is full of quaint fancies, 
and presents a wot Id in which the wrongs of our world 
are humorously set right. '] 

" TT is a strange tale, but it hath the recom- 
-L mendation of brevity. Some folks may 
see nothing in it but the tricksiness of an ex- 
travagant spirit; and some, perchance, may 

1 The chief dramatic works of Douglas Jerrold are : 
Black-eyed Susan; The Rent day; Nell Owynne; Time 
Work* Wonder*; the Bubble* of the Day; the Prisoner of 
War; the Cafs Paw, Ac. His miscellaneous works are : 
Cakes and A le ; Men of Character; Mr*. Caudle** Curtain 
Lectures; Punch's Letters to his Son; The Man Made of 
Money; Story of a Feather; St, Giles and 8t. James; 
Chronicles of Clovemook, 6c. 

VOL. 1H. 

pluck a heart of meaning out of it. However, 
be it as it may, you shall hear it, sir. 

" There was a man called Isaac Pugwash, a 
dweller in a miserable slough of London, a 
squalid denizen of one of the foul nooks of that 
city of Plutus. He kept a shop; which, though 
small as a cabin, was visited as granary and 
store-house by half the neighbourhood. All 
the creature-comforts of the poor — from bread 
to that questionable superfluity, small-beer — 
were sold by Isaac. Strange it was, that with 
such a trade Pugwash grew not rich. He had 
many bad debts, and of all shopkeepers, was 
most unfortunate in false coin. Certain it is, 
he had neither eye nor ear for bad money. 
Counterfeit semblances of majesty beguiled 
him out of bread and butter, and cheese, and 
red herring, just as readily as legitimate royalty 
struck at the Mint. Malice might impute 
something of this to the political principles of 
Pugwash, who, as he had avowed himself again 
and again, was no lover of a monarchy. Never- 
theless, I cannot think Pugwash had so little 
regard for the countenance, of majesty as to 
welcome it as readily when silvered copper as 
when sterling silver. No, a wild, foolish en- 
thusiast was Pugwash, but in the household 
matter of good and bad money he had very 
wholesome prejudices. He had a reasonable 
wish to grow rich, yet was entirely ignorant of 
the by-ways and short-cuts to wealth. He 
would have sauntered through life with his 
hands in his pockets and a daisy in his mouth; 
and dying with just enough in his house to 
pay the undertaker, would have thought him- 
self a fortunate fellow; he was, in the words of 
Mrs. Pugwash, such a careless, foolish, dream- 
ing creature. He was cheated every hour by 
a customer of some kind; and yet to deny 
credit to anybody — he would as soon have 
denied the wife of his bosom. His customers 
knew the weakness, and failed not to exercise 
it. To be sure now and then, fresh from con- 
jugal counsel, he would refuse to add a singfe 



herring to a debtor's score; no, he would not 
be sent to the workhouse by anybody. A 
quarter of an hour after, the denied herring, 
with an added small loaf, was given to the 
little girl sent to the shop by the rejected 
mother, — 'he couldn't bear to see poor children 
wanting anything.' 

"Pugwash had another unprofitable weak- 
ness. He was fond of what he called nature, 
though in his dim, close shop, he could give 
her but a stifling welcome. Nevertheless, he 
had the earliest primroses on his counter, — 
'they threw/ he said, 'such a nice light about 
the place.' A sly, knavish customer presented 
Isaac with a pot of polyanthuses, and, won by 
the flowery gift, Pugwash gave the donor ruin- 
ous credit. The man with wall-flowers regularly 
stopped at Isaac's shop, and for only sixpence 
Pugwash would tell his wife he had made the 
place a Paradise. ' If we can't go to nature, 
Sally, isn't it a pleasant thing to be able to 
bring nature to us ? ' Whereupon Mrs. Pugwash 
would declare that a man with at least three 
children to provide for had no need to talk of 
nature. Nevertheless, the flower-man made his 
weekly call. Though at many a house, the 
penny could not every week be spared to buy a 
hint, a look of nature for the darkened dwellers, 
Isaac, despite of Mrs. Pugwash, always pur- 
chased. It is a common thing, an old familiar 
cry," said the Hermit — "to see the poor man's 
florist, to hear his loud-voiced invitation to 
take his nosegays, his penny- roots; and yet is 
it a call, a conjuration of the heart of man 
overlaboured and desponding — walled in by 
the gloom of a town — divorced from the fields 
and their sweet healthful influences — almost 
shut out from the sky that reeks in vapour 
over him; — it is a call that tells him there are 
things of the earth beside food and covering to 
live for; and that God in his great bounty hath 
made them for all men. Is it not so? " asked 
the Hermit. 

"Most certainty," we answered; "it would 
be the very sinfulness of avarice to think 
otherwise. " 

"Why, sir," Baid the Hermit benevolently 
smiling, "thus considered, the loud lunged 
city bawler of roots and flowers becomes a high 
benevolen e, a peripatetic priest of nature. 
Adown dark lanes and miry alleys he takes 
sweet remembrances — touching records of the 
loveliness of earth, that with their bright looks 
and balmy odours cheer and uplift the dumpish 
heart of man; that make his soul stir within 
him, and acknowledge the beautiful. The 
penny, the ill-spared penny — for it would buy 
» wbeaten roll — the poor housewife pays for 

root of primrose, is her offering to the hopeful 
loveliness of nature; is her testimony of the 
soul struggling with the blighting, crushing 
circumstance of sordid earth, and sometimes 
yearning towards earth's sweetest aspects. 
Amidst the violence, the coarseness, and the 
suffering that may surround and defile the 
wretched, there must be moments when the 
heart escapes, craving for the innocent and 
lovely; when the soul makes for itself even of 
a flower a comfort and a refuge. " 

The Hermit paused a moment, and then im 
blither voice resumed. "But I have strayed 
a little from the history of our small tradesman, 
Pugwash. Well, sir, Isaac for some three or 
four years kept on his old way, his wife still 
prophesying in loud and louder voice the ine- 
vitable workhouse. He would so think and talk 
of nature when he should mind his shop; he 
would so often snatch a holiday to lose it in 
the fields, when he should take stock and balance 
his books. What was worse, he every week 
lost more and more by bad money. With ne 
more sense than a buzzard, as Mrs. Pugwash 
said, for a good shilling, he was the victim of 
those laborious folks who make their money 
with a fine independence of the state, out of 
their own materials. It seemed the common 
compact of a host of coiners to put off their 
base-born offspring upon Isaac Pugwash; who, 
it must be confessed, bore the loss and the 
indignity like a Christian martyr. At last, 
however, the spirit of the man was stung; 
A guinea, as Pugwash believed of statute 
gold, was found to be of little less value than 
a brass button. Mrs. Pugwash clamoured and 
screamed as though a besieging foe was in her 
house; and Pugwash himself felt that further 
patience would be pusillanimity. Where- 
upon, sir, what think you Isaac did? Why, 
he suffered himself to be driven by the voice 
and vehemence ef his wife to a conjurer, who 
in a neighbouring attic was a sideral go-between 
to the neighbourhood — a vender of intelligence 
from the stars to all who sought and duly 
fee'd him. This magician would declare to Pug- 
wash the whereabout of the felon coiner, and — 
the thought was anodyne to the hurt mind of 
Isaac's wife — the knave would be law-throttled. 

" With sad indignant spirit did Isaac Pugwash 
seek Father Lotus; for so, sir, was the conjurer 
called. He was none of your common wizards. 
Oh no! he left it to the mere quack-salvers 
and mountebanks of his craft to take upon 
them a haggard solemnity of look, and to drop 
monosyllables, heavy as bullets, upon the ear 
of the questioner. The mighty and magnifi- 
cent hocuspocus of twelvepenny magicians waa 


Boomed by Lotas. There was nothing in his 
look or manner that showed him the worse for 
keeping company with spirits: on the contrary, 
perhaps, the privileges he enjoyed of them 
served to make him only the more blithe and 
jocund. He might have passed for a gentle- 
man, at once easy and cunning in the law; his 
sole knowledge, that of labyrinthine sentences 
made expressly to wind poor common sense on 
parchment. He had an eye like a snake, a 
constant smile upon his lip, a cheek coloured 
like an apple, and an activity of movement 
wide away from the solemnity of the conjurer. 
He was a small, eel-figured man of about sixty, 
dressed in glossy black, with silver buckles 
and flowing periwig. It was impossible not 
to have a better opinion of sprites and demons, 
seeing that so nice, so polished a gentleman 
was their especial pet. And then, his attic 
had no mystic circle, no curtain of black, no 
death's head, no mummy of apocryphal dragon 
— the vulgar catch-pennies of fortune-telling 
trader. There was not even a pack of cards 
to elevate the soul of man into the regions of 
the mystic world. No, the room was plainly 
yet comfortably set out. Father Lotus reposed 
in an easy chair, nursing a snow-white cat upon 
his knee; now tenderly patting the creature 
with one hand, and now turning over a little 
Hebrew volume with the other. If a man 
wished to have dealings with sorry demons, 
could he desire a nicer little gentleman than 
Father Lotus to make the acquaintance for 
him? In few words Isaac Pugwash told his 
story to the smiling magician. He had, 
amongst much other bad money, taken a 
counterfeit guinea; could Father Lotus discover 
the evil-doer! 

"'Yes, yes, yes/ said Lotus, smiling, 'of 
coarse — to be sure; but that will do but little: 
in your present state — but let me look at your 
tongue. ' Pugwash obediently thrust the organ 
forth. 'Yes, yes, as I thought. 'Twill do 
you no good to hang the rogue; none at all. 
What we must do is this — we must cure you 
of the disease.' 

4 ' ' Disease ! ' cried Pugwash. ' Bating the loss 
of my money, I was never better in all my days. ' 

"'Ha! my poor man,' said Lotus, 'it is the 
benevolence of nature, that she often goes on, 
quietly breaking us up, ourselves knowing no 
more of the mischief than a girl's doll, when 
the girl rips up its seams. Your malady is of 
the perceptive organs. Leave you alone, and 
you'll sink to the condition of a baboon. ' 

'"God bless me!' cried Pugwash. 

'"A jackass with sense to choose a thistle 
from a toadstool will be a reasoning creature 

to you! for consider, my poor soul,' said Lotus 
in a compassionate voice, 'in this world of 
tribulation we inhabit, consider what a be- 
nighted nincompoop is man, if he cannot elect 
a good shilling from a bad one. ' 

"'I have not a sharp eye for money,' said 
Pugwash modestly. 'It's a gift, sir; I'm as- 
sured it's a gift' 

'"A sharp eyel An eye of horn/ said 
Lotus. 'Never mind, I can remedy all that; 
I can restore you to the world and to yourself. 
The greatest physicians, the wisest philosophers, 
have, in the profundity of their wisdom, made 
money the test of wit. A man is believed 
mad; he is a very rich man, and his heir has 
very good reason to believe him lunatic; where- 
upon the heir, the madman's careful friend, 
calls about the sufferer a company of wizards 
to sit in judgment on the suspected brain, and 
report a verdict thereupon. Well, ninety-nine 
times out of the hundred, what is the first 
question put, as test of reason? Why, a ques- 
tion of money. The physician, laying certain 
pieces of current coin in his palm, asks of the 
patient their several value. If he answer 
truly, why truly there is hope; but if he stam- 
mer, or falter at the coin, the verdict runs, 
and wisely runs, mad — incapably mad.' 

" ' I'm not so bad as that/ said Pugwash, a 
little alarmed. 

'"Don't say how you are — it's presumption 
in any man,' cried Lotus. 'Nevertheless, be 
as you may, I'll cure you, if you'll give atten- 
tion to my remedy. ' 

'"I'll give my whole soul to it/ exclaimed 

" ' Very good, very good; I like your earnest- 
ness, but I don't want all your soul/ said 
Father Lotus, smiling — 'I want only part of 
it : that, if you confide in me, I can take from 
you with no danger. Ay, with less peril than 
the pricking of a whitlow. Now, then, for 
examination. Now, to have a good stare at 
this soul of yours.' Here Father Lotus gently 
removed the white cat from his knee, for he 
had been patting her all the time he talked, 
and turned full round upon Pugwash. 'Turn 
out your breeches' pockets/ said Lotus; and 
the tractable Pugwash immediately displayed 
the linings. ' So 1 ' cried Lotus, looking narrowly 
at the brown holland whereof they were made 
— 'very bad, indeed; very bad; never knew a 
soul in a worse state in all my life.' 

"Pugwash looked at his pockets, and then 
at the conjurer: he was about to speak, but the 
fixed, earnest look of Father Lotus held him 
in respectful silence. 

'"Yes, yes/ said the wizard, still eyeing 


the brown holland, ' I can see it all; a vagabond 
bouI; a soul wandering here and there, like a 
pauper without a settlement; a ragamuffin soul.' 

"Pugwash found confidence and breath. 
'Was there ever such a joke? ' he cried ; ' know a 
man's soul by the linings of his breeches' pockets !' 
and Pugwash laughed, albeit uncomfortably. 

"Father Lotus looked at the man with phi- 
losophic compassion. ' Ha, my good friend ! ' he 
said, ' that all comes of your ignorance of moral 

'"Well, but, Father Lotus,' 

"'Peace/ said the wizard, 'and answer 
me. You'd have this soul of your's cured?' 

"'If there's anything the matter with it,' 
answered Pugwash. 'Though not of any con- 
ceit I speak it, yet I think it as sweet and as 
healthy a soul as the souls of my neighbours. 
I never did wrong to anybody.' 

"'Pooh!* cried Father Lotus. 

" ' I never denied credit to the hungry,' con- 
tinued Pugwash. 

•' 'Fiddle-de-dee!' said the wizard very ner- 

'"I never laid out a penny in law upon a 
customer; I never refused small-beer to ' 

" ' Silence 1' cried Father Lotus; 'don't offend 
philosophy by thus bragging of your follies. 
You are in a perilous condition; still you may 
be saved. At this very moment, I much 
fear it, gangrene has touched your soul: never- 
theless, I can separate the sound from the morti- 
fied parts, and start you new again as though 
your lips were first wet with mother's milk.' 

"Pugwash merely said — for the wizard began 
to awe him — ' I'm very much obliged to you.' 

" ' Now,' said Lotus, ' answer a few question*, 
and then I'll proceed to the cure. What do 
you think of money ?' 

" ' A very nice thing/ said Pugwash, ' though 
I can do with as little of it as most folks.' 

"Father Lotus shook his head. 'Well, 
and the world about you?' 

"'A beautiful world,' said Pugwash; 'only 
the wont of it is, I can't leave the shop as 
often as I would to enjoy it. I'm shut in all 
day long, I may say, a prisoner to brick-dust, 
herrings, and bacon. Sometimes, when the 
sun shines, and the cobbler's lark over the way 
sings as if he'd split his pipe, why then, do 
you know, I do so long to get into the fields; 
I do hunger for a bit of grass like any cow.' 

"The wizard looked almost hopelessly on 
Pugwash. 'And that's your religion and 
business? Infidel of the counter! Saracen of 
the till! However — patience,' said Lotus, 
'and let us conclude. — And the men and wo- 
men of the world, what do you think of them ?' 

'"God bless 'cm, poor souls!' said Pugwash. 
'It's a sad scramble some of 'em have, isn't it?* , 

" ' Well,' said the conjurer, 'for a tradesman, 
your soul is in a wretched condition. How- 
ever, it is not so hopelessly bad that I may not 
yet make it profitable to you. I must cure it 
of its vagabond desires, and above all make ii 
respectful of money. You will take this book. ' 
Here Lotus took a little volume from a cup- 
board, and placed it in the hand of Pugwash. 
'Lay it under your pillow every night for a 
week, and on the eighth morning let me see you.' 

"'Come, there's nothing easier than that/ 
said Pugwash, with a Bmile, and reverently 
putting the volume in his pocket — (the book 
was closed by metal clasps, curiously chased) — 
he descended the garret stairs of the conjurer. 

" On the morning of the eighth day Pugwash 
again stood before Lotus. 

" ' How do you feel now?* asked the conjurer 
with a knowing look. 

' ' I haven't opened the book — 'tisjust as I took 
it/ said Pugwash, making no further answer. 

"'I know that,' said Lotus; 'the clasps be 
thanked for your ignorance. ' Pugwash slightly 
coloured; for to say the truth, both he and his 
wife had vainly pulled and tugged, and fingered 
and coaxed the clasps, that they might look 
upon the necromantic page. 'Well, the book 
has worked,' said the conjurer, 'I have it/ 

'"Have it! what?' asked Pugwash. 

' ' ' Your soul/ answered the sorcerer. ' In all 
my practice,' he added, gravely, 'I never had 
a soul come into my hands in worse condition.' 

'"I m possible ! ' cried Pugwash. ' If my soul 
is, as you say, in your own hands, how is it 
that I'm alive ? How is it that I can eat, drink, 
sleep, walk, talk, do everything, just like any 
body else?' 

"'Ha!' said Lotus, 'that's a common mis- 
take. Thousands and thousands would swear, 
ay, as they'd swear to their own noses, that 
they have their souls in their own possession; 
bless you, ' and the conjurer laughed maliciously, 
' i t 'b a popular error. Their souls are altogether 
out of 'em. ' 

"'Wsll,' said Pugwash, 'if it's true that 
you have, indeed, my soul, I should like to 
have a look at it' 

'"In good time/ said the conjurer; 'I'll 
bring it to your house, and put it in its proper 
lodging. In another week I'll bring it to you; 
'twill then be strong enough to bear removal. ' 

'"And what am I to do all the time without 
it?' asked Pugwash, in a tone of banter. 
'Come,' said he, still jesting, 'if you really 
have my soul, what's it like — what's its colour; 
if indeed souls have colours?' 


'"Green — green as a grasshopper, when it 
first came into my hands/ said the wizard; 
'bat 'tis changing daily. More; it was a 
Bkipping, chirping, giddy sonl; 'tis every hour 
mending. In a week's time, I tell you, it will 
be fit for the business of the world.' 

'"And pray, good father — for the matter 
has till now escaped me — what am I to pay 
you for this pain and trouble; for this precious 
care of my miserable soul?' 

" 'Nothing,' answered Lotus, 'nothing what- 
ever. The work is too nice and precious to be 
paid for; I have a reward you dream not of for 
my labour. Think you that men's immortal 
souls are to be mended like iron pots, at tinker's 
price? Oh, no! they who meddle with souls 
go for higher wages.' 

"After further talk Pugwash departed, the 
conjurer promising to bring him home his soul 
at midnight, that night week. It seemed 
strange to Pugwash, as the time passed on, 
that he never seemed to miss his soul; that, in 
very truth, he went through the labours of the 
day with even better gravity than when his 
soul possessed him. And more; he began to 
feel himself more at home in his shop; the 
cobbler's lark over the way continued to sing, 
but awoke in Isaac's heart no thought of the 
fields: and then for flowers and plants, why, 
Isaac began to think such matters fitter the 
thoughts of children and foolish girls, than the 
attention of grown men, with the world before 
them. Even Mrs. Pugwash saw an alteration 
in her husband; and though to him she said 
nothing, she returned thanks to her own 
sagacity, that made him seek the conjurer. 

"At length the night arrived when Lotus 
had promised to bring home the soul of Pugwash. 
He sent his wife to bed, and sat with his eyes 
upon the Dutch clock, anxiously awaiting the 
conjurer. Twelve o'clock struck, and at the 
same moment Father Lotus smote the door-post 
of Isaac Pugwash. 

'"Have you brought it?' asked Pugwash. 

" 'Or wherefore should I come?' said Lotus. 
'Quick: show a light to the till, that your soul 
may find itself at home.' 

"'The till! 'cried Pugwash; 'what the devil 
should my soul do in the till ?' 

" 'Speak not irreverently,' said the conjurer, 
.'but show a light' 

'"May I live for ever in darkness if I do!' 
cried Pugwash. 

'"It is no matter,' said the conjurer: and 
then he cried, 'Soul, to your earthly dwelling- 
place! Seek it — you know it.' Then turning 
to Pugwash, Lotus said, ' It is all right. Your 
Mul's in the till.' 

" ' How did it get there ?' cried Pugwash in 

" 'Through the slit in the counter,' said the 
conjurer; and ere Pugwash could speak again, 
the conjurer had quitted the shop. 

"For some minutes Pugwash felt himself 
afraid to stir. For the first time in his life he 
felt himself ill at ease, left as he was with no 
other company save his own soul. He at length 
took heart, and went behind the counter that 
he might see if his soul was really in the till. 
With trembling hand he drew the coffer, and 
there, to his amazement, squatted like a tailor, 
upon a crown-piece, did Pugwash behold his 
own soul, which cried out to him in notes no 
louder than a cricket's — ' How are you? J am 
comfortable.' It was a strange yet pleasing 
sight to Pugwash, to behold what he felt to be 
his own soul embodied in a figure no bigger 
than the top joint of his thumb. There it 
was, a stark-naked thing with the precise 
features of Pugwash; albeit the complexion 
was of a yellower hue. 'The conjurer said it 
was green,' cried Pugwash; 'as I live, if that 
be my soul — and I begin to feel a strange, odd 
love for it — it is yellow as a guinea. Ha! ha! 
Pretty, precious, darling soul!' cried Pugwash, 
as the creature took up every piece of coin in 
the till, and rang it with such a look of rascally 
cunning, that sure I am Pugwash would in 
past times have hated the creature for the trick. 
But every day Pugwash became fonder and 
fonder of the creature in the till: it was to him 
such a counsellor, and such a blessing. When- 
ever the old flower-man came to the door, the 
soul of Pugwash from the till would bid him 
pack with his rubbish: if a poor woman — an 
old customer it might be — begged for the credit 
of a loaf, the Spirit of the Till, calling through 
the slit in the counter, would command Pug- 
wash to deny her. More: Pugwash never again 
took a bad shilling. No sooner did he throw the 
pocket-piece down upon the counter, than the 
voice from the till would denounce its worthless- 
ness. And the soul of Pugwash never quitted 
the till. There it lived, feeding upon the 
colour of money, and capering, and rubbing 
its small scoundrel hands in glee as the coin 
dropped — dropped in. In time, the soul of Pug- 
wash grew too big for so small a habitation, and 
then Pugwash moved his soul into an iron 
box; and some time after, he sent his soul to 
his banker's — the thing had waxed so big and 
strong on gold and silver." 

"And so," said we, "the man flourished, 
and the conjurer took no wages for all he did 
to the soul of Pugwash?" 

"Hear the end," said the Hermit "For 



aome time it was a growing pleasure to Pug- 
wash to look at his soul, busy as it always was 
with the world-buying metals. At length he 
grew old, very old; and every day his soul grew 
uglier. Then he hated to look upon it; and 
then his soul would come to him, and grin its 
deformity at him. Pugwash died, almost rich 
as an Indian king; but he died, shrieking in 
his madness, to be saved from the terrors of 
his own soul." 

"And such the end/' we said; "such the 
Tragedy of the Till? A strange romance." 

"Romance," said the Sage of Bellyfulle; 
"sir, 'tis a story true as life. For at this very 
moment how many thousands, blind and deaf 
to the sweet looks and voice of nature, live 
and die with their souls in a Till?" 



[Oliver Goldsmith, born at Pallas, Leinster, Ireland, 
10th November, 1728 ; died in London, 4th April, 1774. 
The pathetic and yet amusing narrative of his early 
yean is well known ; his wanderings at home and on 
the Continent, his misfortunes and final settlement in 
London, are familiar to most readers. Of his works 
there is only one opinion : his histories are full of errors 
in the statement of facts ; but are models of English 
composition ; his imaginatiTe work*— poems, comedies, 
and novel* -are olassios. Lately, The Traveller, like 
other important productions of his genius, we fear, has 
been more talked about than read, and therefore we 
reproduce it here. " The TraveUer," wrote Sir 8. 
Egerton Brydges "is indeed a very finished and a very 
noble poem. The sentiments are always interesting, 
generally just, and often new; the imagery is elegant, 
picturesque, and occasionally sublime; the language ie 
nervous, highly finished, and full of harmony. M J 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, alow, 
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po; 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee: 
Still to my brother turns, with oeaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain, 
Eternal blessings crown my earliest Mend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; 
Bless' d be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire : 
Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair: 
Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown' d, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
laugh at the Jests or pranks that never fall, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; 

Or press the bashful stranger to his fljoA, 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 

But me, not destined such delights to shave. 
My prime of life in wandering spent and care: 
ImpelTd with steps unceasing to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view ; 
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 

E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And placed on high, above the storm's career, 
Look downward where a hundred realms appear; 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride, 

When thus Creation's charms around combine. 
Amidst the storey should thankless pride repine! 
8ay, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom vaiaf 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
These little things are great to little man; 
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour 

crown'd ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale; 
Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale! 
For me your tributary stores combine : 
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. 

As Nome lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er. 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures filL 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies: 
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows mil. 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small; 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
Some spot to real happiness eonalgn'd, 
Where my worn souL each wandering hope at rest, 
May gather bliss to see my fellows bless'd. 

But. where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct, when all pretend to knowT 
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid cone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot hia own; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. 
And his long nights of revelry and ease. 
The naked negro, panting at the line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gar*. 
Bach is the patriot's boast where'er we roam, 
His first, best country, ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compere, 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though i utriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind: 
As different good, by art or nature given, 
To different nations makes their hlwurfafs even. 


Nature, * mother kind alike to all, 
StiU grants her bliss at labour's earnest oall ; 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's olifls as Arno's shelvy side ; 
And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
From art more various are the blessings sent ; 
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content 
Yet these each other's power so strong contest, 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment Ails; 
And honour sinks, where commerce long prevails. 
Beooa every state, to one loved blessing prone, 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 
Each to the fav'rite happiness attends. 
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends; 
Till, carried to excess in each domain, 
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect ns it lies : 
Here for a while my proper cares resign'd, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankiud; 
like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right where Apennine ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely bless'cL 
Whatever fruits in different climes were found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; 
These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
And even in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here oontamii;a e the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date 
When commerce proudly flourished through the state: 
At her command the palace learn'd to rise. 
Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies ; 
The canvas glowM beyond e'en Nature warm, 
The pregnant quarry tesm'd with human form : 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail : 
While nought remain'd of all that riches yive, 

But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave; 
And late the nation found with fruitless skill 
Its former strength was but plethorio ill 

Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; 
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind 
An easy compensation seem to And. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade; 
Processions form'd for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, 
The sports of children satisfy the child; 
Each nobler aim, repress' d by long control, 
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; 
While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 
In happier meanness occupy the mind : 
As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway, 
Defaced by time and tott'ring in decay, 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy wnwirf*™ tresx% 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread; 
No product here the barren hills afford, 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword* 
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteor's glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Tet still, even here, content can spread a charm, 
Redress the dime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, 
Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes; 
With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep; 
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, every labour sped, 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed; 
8miles by his oheerful fire, and round surveys 
His children's looks, that brighten at the blase; 
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; 
And e'en those hills, that round his mansion ris% 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 


Dear Is that shed to which his aoul conforms. 
And dear that hill whioh lifts him to the storms; 
And as a child, when soaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
80 the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assign'd; 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confined. 
Yet let them only share the praises due. 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; 
For every want that stimulates the breast 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redress'd. 
Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies. 
That first excites 'desire, and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer Joy ; 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
Their level life is but a smouldering fire, 
Unquenoh'd by want, unfaiiu'd by strong desire ; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow : 
Their moral*, like their pleasures, are but low; 
For, as reflnemeut stops, from sire to son, 
Unalter'd, unixuprov'd, the manners run ; 
And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart 
Home sterner virtue'* o'or the mountain's breast 
May sit, like faloou's cowering on the nest ; 
But all the gentler morals, such as play 
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way, 
These, for disiteroed on timorous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skie4, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn ; and Franco displays her bright domain. 
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleased with ihyse'.f, whom all the world can please, 
How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
With tuneless pipe, beaide the murmuring Loire ! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And, froshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew ; 
And haply, though my harsh touch fault'ring still, 
But mook'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill ; 
Tet would the village praise my wondrous power, 
And danoe. forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 
A li ke all ages. Dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through th« mirthful maze, 
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gesAc lore, 
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 

80 bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display, 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear. 
For honour forms the social temper here : 
Honour, that praise which real merit gains, 
Or even imaginary worth obtains, 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land : 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays. 

And all are taught an avarice of praise; 

They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, 

Till, seeming bless'd, they grow to what they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies* 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought* 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought : 
And the weak soul, within itself un bless'd, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast 
Hence osteutatiou here, with tawdry art, 
Pants fur the vulgar praise which fools impart; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a year; 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws* 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Bmbosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Xethinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm-connected bulwark seems to grow; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry roar; 
8ooops out an empire, and usurps the shove. 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus, while around the wave-subjected mQ 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 
Are here display 'd. Their much-loved wealth impart* 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, 
Even liberty itself is barterM here. 
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys; 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. 
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves. 
And calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heavens ! how unlike their Belgto sires of oldl 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold; 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow; 
How mnch unlike the sons of Britain now ! 
Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing. 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring* 
Where lawm extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes gUdfc 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray. 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined. 
Extremes are only in the master's mind I 


Stern o'er each boMim reason hold* her state, 

With daring aim* irregularly great; 

Pride in tbeir port, defiance in their eye, 

I see the lords of human kind paw by ; 

Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 

By form* unfaahion'd, fresh from Nature's hand, 

Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 

True to imagin'd right, above oontrol, 

While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 

And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; 
Too bless'd indeed were such without alloy, 
But fosterM even by freedom, ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prise too high, 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
The self dependent lordliugs stand alone, 
All claims that bind and sweeteu life unknown : 
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled. 
Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar, 
Beprest ambition struggles round her shore, 
Till overwrought, the general system feels 
Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law. 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
Till time may come, when, script of all her charms, 
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms. 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot name, 
Where kings have toiled, and poets wrote for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, un honoured die. 

Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great ; 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; 
Ami thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt or favour's fostering sun, 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, 
I only would repress them to secure : 
For just exiMtt-ience tells, in every soil. 
That tho-M who think must govern those that toil; 
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, 
Is but U> lay proportioned loads ou each. 
Hence, should one order disproportioned grow. 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

O then how blind to all that truth requires. 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires I 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
Except when fast-approaching danger warms: 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
Contracting regal power to stretch their own, 
Whrn I behold a factious baud agree 
T'K-all it freedom when themselves are free; 

Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law; 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at horns; 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, 
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart; 
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, Brother, curse with me that baleful hour. 
When first ambition struck at regal power; 
And thus polluting honour in its source, 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
Her useful sous exchanged for useless ore? 
Been all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste; 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
Lead stern depopulation in her train, 
And over fields where scattered hamlets rose, 
In barren solitary pomp repose? 
Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call, 
The smiling long-frequented village fall? 
Beheld the duteous sou, the sire decayed, 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
To traverse climes beyond the western main; 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound? 

Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways, 
Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise, 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,i 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine. 
And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss whieh only centres in the mind: 
Why have I strayed from pleasure and repots, 
To seek a good each government bestows? 
In every government, though terrors reign. 
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain. 
How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure. 
Still to ourselves in every place consigned, 
Our own felicity we make or find : 
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, 2 and Damiens' bed of steel. 
To men remote from power but' rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 

i This line Is said in Croker's Botwett to have been 
written by Dr. Johnson, as were also the last ten lines of 
the poem, with the exception of the last couplet but one. 

* Referring to the torture of a red hot iron crown 
fixed round the head of a rebel in Hungary. 


."Hal* a loa* is be*ter than rto feREAD.*' 


In the ancient city of Dort, or Dordrecht, 
in South Holland, on the banks of a canal, 
dwelt, where his father and grandfather resided 
before him, Jan Dirk Peereboom. By trade 
he was a timber-merchant, and was the pur- 
chaser of large rafts which were brought down 
the Rhine for sale, and there broken up; and 
as there were many saw-mills in Dort, and 
ship-building forming a large branch of its in- 
dustry, Jan Dirk Peereboom was a thriving 
man. He prided himself considerably in being 
an inhabitant of the same city which gave birth 
to Gerard Yessius and the brothers De Witt 
But Jan Dirk Peereboom lacked somewhat of 
the usual Dutch prudence in his marriage, for 
instead of entering into the blessed state of 
wedlock with the daughter of a neighbouring 
merchant, where the interests of trade could 
have also been united, he made an alliance 
that much disturbed the consciences of his re- 
latives, who were lineal descendants of those 
excellent and learned worthies who translated 
the Bible into the Dutch language, John 
Bogerman, William Baudart, and Gerson 
Bucer. The alliance into which Jan Dirk 
Peereboom entered was caused by the timber- 
merchant, when on a visit to Amsterdam, be- 
coming fascinated with the charms of Madame 
Coralie Comifo, a principal danseuae of the 
theatre, and who was in high vogue at the 
period in the principal city of Holland. 

She was a widow; and the cause of her be- 
coming so had created considerable interest 
amongst the frequenters of the opera; for 
Monsieur Comifo, getting rich and corpulent 
on an extravagant salary, was representing 
Zephyr in a newly imported ballet from Paris, 
and in which he had to fly lightly through the 
air; this aerial feat was to be accomplished by 
the means of wires which were affixed to a sort 
of pair of stays which were laced round the 
body of the fat Zephyr, and by which he was 
to be guided in various directions across the 
. stage. But Monsieur Comifo forgetting his 
weight, and only thinking of his consequence, 
insisted on performing this principal part. 
He got safely through the rehearsals, but alas! 
on the first night of the representation, as he 
was most gracefully floating through the scenic 
air, the wires suddenly snapped, and, piteous 
to relate, down came Zephyr with such force, 
that he effectually made his way plump through 
the stage of the Amsterdam theatre, which, 

from the peculiar construction of that aquatic 
city, could not boast of the convenience of a 
mezzanitd floor: so poor Monsieur Comifo un- 
fortunately fell into the muddy water, on a 
level with the canals, and surrounded by the 
huge piles on which the edifice was erected. 
Before efficient aid could be obtained, for 
Dutch stage-carpenters are habitually slow, 
Zephyr was drowned. This proved a consid- 
erable damper to the performance of the even- 
ing; and some practical economists amongst 
the spectators, with a proper and exact feeling 
of commercial arrangement, went and demanded 
back the price of admission from the money- 
taker, as the manager of the theatre had made 
a breach of his contract. This being refused, 
the proceeding opened the door to several petty 
lawsuits, and the case being a novel one, and 
quite without precedent, the aforesaid suits, 
which at first were so small that they would 
barely fit anybody, became gradually enlarged, 
until they completely enveloped the persons of 
the fattest and wealthiest burgomasters. 

We will not dwell on this painful subject, . 
but skip over a six months' widowhood, when 
the still charming Madame Coralie was enabled 
again to skip over the stage with her customary 
grace and elasticity. 

It was about this time that Jan Dirk Peere- 
boom arrived in Amsterdam on business, and 
having partaken of a plenteous dinner, and 
indulged in exciting potations, resolved to 
finish his day's amusement by a visit to the 
theatre. But oh! when he saw the celebrated 
Coralie voluptuously dressed — he stared — he 
was breathless — he fell over head and ears in 
love with her. 

The love of a Dutchman is not of so ardent 
a nature as his own Geneva; he usually takes 
it "cold without," but in the instance of Jan 
Dirk Peereboom it was like igniting a cask of 
spirits — he was all in a blaze; he endeavoured 
to smoke off his passion, but in vain; the more 
pipes he smoked, the more enamoured he grew, 
he neglected all his timber concerns. 

"Adieu, for him. 
The dull engagements of the hurtling world] 
Adieu the sick impertinence of praise! 
And hope, and action! for with her alone, 
87 streams and shades, to steal these sighing hours, 
Is all he asks, and all that Fate can give." 

We have quoted the above lines from Achs- 
inside to give a proper notion of the condition 
of Jan Dirk Peereboom. 

The friends at Dort could not divine what 
had come to him, or what detained him bo 
long at Amsterdam. Jan Dirk now thought, 
that as he had observed that perseverance and 



money can carry everything in the world before ' 
them, that he would try their effect. He ac- i 
eordingly obtained an introduction to Ma- 
dame Coralie Comifo, where he made himself 
as agreeable as he could, but that was not very 
sprightly; by his looks and manner he soon 
discovered to the cunning Frenchwoman that 
he was her devoted slave. She acted her part 
to admiration, giving him no encouragement, 
but at the same time, apparently unconsciously, 
displaying in a hundred little ways the charms 
that had captivated him. 

Jan Dirk could no longer endure to exist 
without the fair widow, so he abruptly told 
her the amount of his fortune, and that, if she 
refused to accept him for her mate, he would 
inevitably drown himself in the deepest and 
muddiest canal. 

Now Coralie had a tender heart: she had 
already lost one lover by drowning (poor 
Zephyr!), and she took into consideration that 
the property of Jan Dirk Peereboom was a very 
comfortable thing to retire upon, that dancing 
nightly was a great exertion, and that dancing 
cannot last for ever, though Holbein has en- 
deavoured to perpetuate it in his painted moral 
"The Dance of Death;" she therefore implored 
time to consider. Jan Dirk was delighted, for 
he knew enough of the world to be aware, 
that if a female demands "time to consider," 
she has already fully made up her mind. It 
soon came to preliminaries. At the expiration 
of six months, the conclusion of Madame Coralie 
Comifo's theatrical engagement, she was to 
quit the stage, to be married to Jan Dirk 
Peereboom according to the rites of the Roman 
Catholic Church, as she professed that creed, 
and was very particular; as well as being also 
united to him in the Presbyterian form, in 
which Jan Dirk ha4 been brought up; that her 
own property was to remain in her possession, 
and that she was to have the unlimited power 
of spending it as she pleased. The love of 
Jan Dirk Peereboom also occasioned him to 
give way to a most tyrannical requisition, which 
was no less than that he was to leave off smok- 
ing his pipe, as the smell of tobacco was offen- 
sive to the olfactory nerves of the fair widow. 
Coralie made also some other stipulations, 
which savoured more of a cautious engagement 
with a playhouse director than an agreeable 
understanding with a good-natured husband; 
but these occurred from habit, the lady in her 
day having always been in turmoil with her 
managers. Amongst the articles specified, her 
favourite poodle Mouton (almost as big as a 
sheep) was, if she required it, to travel with 
them; and although she did not condescend to 

give her private reasons for this measure, she 
had frequently found the great benefit of her 
large white, glossy, curled poodle being her 
compagnon du voyage. This will require a 
little explanation, but will simply solve itself 
thus. Madame Coralie, not being permanently 
attached to the Academie Roy ale at Paris, 
frequently visited the provincial theatres of 
France and the Continent generally. Now 
everybody who has travelled abroad is aware 
that there is not the same attention paid by 
landladies, and chambermaids, and garcons, 
to the airing of bed-sheets as is practised in 
England. Indeed, we have heard of the garcon 
sprinkling the bed-clothes with water in the 
interim between the departure of one nightly 
occupant and the arrival of another. Madame 
Coralie had undergone the usual result of this 
refreshing proceeding, and rheumatism was 
consequent; and as rheumatism is decidedly 
the worst disorder, and the most readily taken, 
that a public or private dancer can experience, 
she, with that ingenuity for which French 
women have always been admired, after dis- 
missing the chambermaid or garcon, ordered 
Mouton to jump into the bed. The warm silken 
poodle was so thoroughly accustomed to this, 
that it became a matter of perfect habit, and 
if any damp was in the sheets or coverlets, 
Mouton extracted it unheeded and unhurt, 
rendering her beloved mistress perfectly safe 
from the ravages of cold or sciatica, and leaving 
a minor annoyance only, in the shape of that 
most active, industrious, and (as it has been 
proved in this enlightened age) intellectual 
animal; the Pulex rrritans. 

The six months glided away, and Jan Dirk 
Peereboom, after having been kept in the state 
of misery so delightful to a lover, at length 
was united to the object of his passion. 

He had not dared to mention the matter to 
his grave friends at Dort. It could not be 
supposed that the descendants of the celebrated 
Synod, who were rigid Calvinists, would 
countenance a marriage with a French opera- 
dancer. Perfectly aware of this, Jan Dirk 
Peereboom, accompanied by Madame, went to 

With infinite astonishment Peter Bogerman, 
auctioneer and agent at Dort, received direc- 
tions from Jan Dirk Peereboom to dispose of 
his house, timber-wharf, stock in trade, ships, 
barges, Ac. &c. 

The announcement was the Bubject of con- 
versation in Dort for one entire month. But 
when the sedate, plodding, and money-getting 
merchants ascertained that Jan Dirk had ac- 
tually married Madame Coralie Comifo, than 



was a general commotion of tobacco-puffs, 
turning up the whites of the eyes, hemming, 
and lamentations at his gross imprudence. 
The spinsters of Dort were utterly enraged. 

Jan Dirk Peereboom, in the height of his 
honey-moon, made the reflection that he had 
married to please himself, not to gratify his 
friends. He therefore yisited with his beloved 
Coralie all the places of public amusement, 
and partook of every gaiety that the fascinating 
city of Paris afforded. 

We have in a former page hinted that 
Monsieur Zephyr Comifo had an extravagant 
salary for the performances of himself and wife, 
and this was rendered exceedingly necessary, 
as both Monsieur and Madame were very ex- 
pensive in their habits, stage and otherwise. 

Madame Coralie figured away three pairs of 
shoes nightly, and the fact is recorded to intro- 
duce a personage who will turn out to be of 
some importance towards the end of this narra- 

This individual was named Scheck Stalman, 
and at the period we are describing he was 
in thriving circumstances at Amsterdam as a 
ladies' shoe-maker; he was manufacturer to 
Madame Coralie Comifo. 

When Jan Dirk Peereboom first paid his 
addresses to the enchanting Coralie, she was 
struck by the resemblance in features between 
her lover and her cordonnier. 

Scheck Stalman had an excellent customer 
in Madame Coralie; and though he was occa- 
sionally obliged to give her considerable credit, 
yet, when she did pay, she paid most liberally, 
lie was also in the habit of discounting the 
notes of hand of Monsieur Comifo, at a large 
rate per cent., which the improvidence of the 
dancer rendered necessary; Stalman was there- 
fore a very useful person to Madame, and knew 
exactly the length of her foot. 

But Scheck Stalman in heart was a great 
rogue, he prospered for a time; but when a 
Dutchman is a rogue, perhaps from their ex- 
treme punctuality in business, and exactness 
in keeping accounts, the rogue cannot escape 
detection so long as in other countries. And 
about the period of our tale some new fiscal 
arrangements with the French government in- 
troduced without a duty the manufactures in 
which Scheck Stalman excelled, and his trade 
declined at the moment that he had made 
some unlucky and over-reaching bill-discount- 
ing speculations. All his attempts to reinstate 
himself proving ineffectual, he in despair com- 
mitted a forgery, for which, when convicted, 
he was condemned to a singular punishment, 
we believe peculiar to Holland, and which has 

a refinement of cruelty to recommend it thai 
could only have entered the imagination of a 
Dutch or a China man. 

Scheck Stalman was condemned to seven 
years' imprisonment, and to live without salt 
to his food. 

The consequence of this sentence to the un- 
happy beings who have the misfortune to fall 
under it is that they become dreadfully infested 
with worms. 

Some, whose obstinate spirits could never be 
subdued, used in bravado and ridicule to 
call this punishment the Diet of Worms. 

As we cannot help Scheck Stalman in his 
predicament, however large the bump of bene- 
volence may be on our cranium, there he moat 
remain, and return we to Jan Dirk Peereboom 
and his bride. 

The Dort auctioneer, Peter Bogerman, after 
writing several letters of remonstrance to Jan 
Dirk, but without any avail, proceeded slowly, 
but surely, to Bell the effects to the very beat 
advantage; but the worthy agent, and nearly 
all the town of Dort, were sore on account of 
Jan Dirk Peereboom's marriage; for his family 
had been mixed up with an extraordinary event, 
well recorded in the province. This event has 
been variously related; and at the period it 
occurred it created so great a sensation, that 
the money coined at the mint of the city (pieces 
of which are to be seen to this day), dollars, 
stivers, and doights, bore the impress of a 
milkmaid milking a cow. 

Well, what was the occasion of this? Why, 
the Spaniards, under the cruel Duke of Alva, 
undertook suddenly to surprise the town of 
Dort. They made forced marches in the night, 
and arriving within five miles of the city, 3500 
soldiers were placed in ambush, to wait for an 
opportunity to attack. • 

I n the neighbourhood of Dort resided a farmer, 
by name Booser; his riches consisted of a large 
number of cows, from which he supplied the 
town with milk and butter. When his dairy- 
maids went to their avocations in the morning 
at a very early hour, one buxom lass, Elizabeth 
Peereboom, espied some soldiers in strange 
uniforms lying on the ground behind the 
hedges. With great presence of mind she in- 
sisted on her companions milking the cows as 
usual, and singing merrily; when they had 
completed their task, they returned unmolested 
with their pails to the farm. Elizabeth 
Peereboom now went to Booser, and related 
what she had seen. He was sorely alarmed, 
but took her with him on a horse to Dort, 
where he aroused one of the burgomasters, who 
lost no time in sending for the aid of a forot 



from Rotterdam. The government then com- 
manded the sluices to be opened, which speedily 
laid under water the ground on which the 
Spaniards were in ambuBh, and a great number 
of them were drowned. The timely informa- 
tion and presence of mind of Elizabeth Peere- 
boom thus saved the city, and she was after- 
wards munificently rewarded with a handsome 
annuity, not only on her own life, but to her 
heirs for ever. 

We have made this digression, because Jan 
Dirk Peereboom, being a descendant of the 
noble-spirited milkmaid, was in the present 
receipt of this same annuity, which made him 
care the less about giving up his timber 

All for a time went on gaily with the new- 
married couple, but at length the husband 
began to discover that he was dragged too often 
to the theatres in the evenings, and he grew 
sick of the eternal pirouetting of the various 
corpsdeballet, particularly as Madame criticised 
every dancer with much severity, though she 
insisted on seeing them perform. The morn- 
ings of Jan Dirk Peereboom began now to wear 
heavily for the want of his counting-house and 
timber-yard. He had relinquished his accus- 
tomed employ. 

" A want of oocapatlon is not rat, 
A mind quite racant la a mind dlstren'd." 

His circulation of blood became sluggish, 
his spirits sunk, he grew pettish and fretful; 
he brooded over every little vexation or incon- 
venience; he not only increased his real, but 
conjured up imaginary evils, and got no sym- 
pathy with any one in either; his original and 
grand resource in his bachelorship, under any 
calamity, was a pipe of tobacco; and of this, 
under his marriage articles, he was deprived. 

Jan Dirk Peereboom certainly preferred the 
smell of his late pipe to all the fragrant and 
subtle Parisian perfumes in which his wife de- 

Jan Dirk thought he would endeavour to 
pave the way to resume, with Madame's per- 
mission, his favourite recreation, so be turned 
over in his mind as to how he should introduce 
the subject of tobacco; and as they were sitting 
together, he suddenly said, — 

"Did I ever tell you a curious thing that 
happened to a nephew of mine, of my ovn 
name, whom I sent out as a supercargo to 
Batavia, from whence he was to proceed with 
a freight to Japan?" 

"Never, my dear," replied Madame Coral ie 
Peereboom, yawning. 

"Then I will," continued Jan Dirk, "for I 
think it will amuse you." 

"Don't let it be a very long story, monami* 
again yawned the lady. 

This was a discouraging commencement, 
but Jan was a Hollander, and possessed perse- 
verance; if he was flung in a ditch, he could 
raise an embankment. 

"If I tire you, Ooralie, with my relation, H 
said he, "you can but stop me." 

"What relation was he?" asked Madame. 

"My nephew, Jinks Peereboom," continued 
Jan, "a staid demure clerk, who had been 
brought up with a proper respect for his super- 
iors, and with a knowledge of what is due from 
man to man in any part of the globe; and 
under his immediate charge was placed a 
valuable commodity already imported from 
our other settlements, a ton of tobacco." 

"A h, mon Dieu!" exclaimed Coralie, "don't 
mention that filthy drug, which would poison 
our apartments, and tincture, with its odious 
smell, our linen, — nay, our food; and, more- 
over, our poor poodle Mouton cannot endure 
it; it positively makes his dear eyes water." 

Jan Dirk perceived that he had not made 
much progress: he however persevered. 

" Well, Jinks Peereboom " 

"Who did you say he was?" inquired 
Madame, languidly. 

"My nephew. Well the youth conducted 
himself with credit, arrived at Samarang " 

"Where is that, dear? in Africa?" asked 

"No, my love, Asia." 

"And where is Asia?" said Coralie, with a 
prodigious yawn; "somewhere in America, I 

The imperturbable Dutchman was aroused 
to a smile by this remark; but he felt somewhat 
of a superiority, for the first time, that he ex- 
ceeded his wife in geographical knowledge. 
He did not think it worth while to discompose 
her good opinion of herself by any remark on 
her profound ignorance, but continued his 

"When Jinks Peereboom discharged his 
cargo at Batavia, the ship was newly freighted 
with Dutch goods and the tobacco for 
Japan " 

"Why do you lay that stress on tobacco, 
my dear?" said Coralie. 

"Because," replied Jan Dirk, "I consider 
it to be the most cordial, cheering, and valu- 
able vegetable production supplied by nature. 
I am sure it saved Jinks Peereboom's life. I 
have said the lad was well brought up, and he 
had been informed that the Japanese were a 
very polished, polite, and' ceremonious people, 
and when his ship arrived at the island of 



Desima, on which is situated the Dutch factory, 
Jinks perceived certain of the inhabitants 
waiting to receive him, two of whom, in long 
flowing gowns, held white wands in their 
hands. As Jinks Peereboom was fond of re- 
spect, he took it as a very great compliment 
that two chamberlains, or gentlemen-ushers, 
should have been appointed to superintend his 

"As he landed, these two Japanese chamber- 
lains saluted him very respectfully, but Jinks 
was rather surprised, on casually turning round, 
to observe that one of them had placed his 
white wand against his back from the ground, 
as if taking his altitude; however, he said no- 
thing until they arrived at the Dutch governor's 
dwelling. The governor was a rough Hollander, 
who hated anything like ceremony; and when, 
after dinner, Jinks was expressing his extreme 
satisfaction at the marks of respect with which 
he had been received on his landing by the 
chamberlains with their wands of office, the 
Dutch governor, albeit not a laughing man, 
roared outright in Jinks' face. 

' ' • Ha ! ha ! ha ! chamberlains, indeed ! Bless 
your simplicity, young man! Ha! ha! ha!' 

"Jinks could not comprehend the governor, 
who soon explained, — 

" ' Are you not aware— ha! ha! ha! — that this 
part of the world is most unhealthy in climate 
for Europeans? — not one constitution in ten 
can resist it. The Japanese always have an 
eye to business; those chamberlains, as you call 
them, — ha! ha! ha! — are the undertakers here, 
and they took the earliest opportunity on your 
arrival to measure you for your coffin! Ha! 
ha! ha!' 

"Jinks Peereboom was aghast, but became 
somewhat relieved by the governor asking him 
if he had brought plenty of tobacco. Jinks 
replied in the affirmative. 

"'Then,' said the governor, 'your only 
chance is to smoke morning, noon, and night, 
as I do.'" 

"The filthy wretches!" exclaimed Coralie; 
in fact, the lady was as much exasperated 
against the Indian weed as James the First 
and sapient, of "Counter- blast" memory. 

Jan Dirk Peereboom now positively pined 
in the absence of his pipe. He was a man of 
his word, and he had promised to abandon the 
luxury in Mb wife's presence. He had held 
out now some months, but he could no longer 
resist. One day a party was made up, consist- 
ing of several artistes of the Grand Opera, to 
go to St. Cloud, on a sort of pic-nic recreation, 
and Mynheer and Madame Peereboom were 
included in the invitation. Jan Dirk, who for 

some time past had been nauseated with the 
society of dancers, made up his mind to be 
taken ill on the morning of the event, not so 
very bad as to prevent his dear Coralie from 
Joining her friends, but sufficiently indisposed 
to afford an excuse for staying away. He, 
however, had very little difficulty in persuading 
his wife to go and enjoy the day in the fresh 
air with her light-hearted companions. But 
directly the carriages, with their gay occupants 
and eatable and drinkable contents, had rattled 
away from the door, the Dutchman, with a 
feeling of satisfaction to which he had been a 
stranger for some time past, involuntarily ex- 
claimed, — 

"Now / will go and make a day of it!" 

He bad promised not to smoke at home, but 
that was no reason why he might not take a 
whiff of tobacco abroad; so he repaired to the 
neighbourhood of the Palais Royal, where he 
was not long in scenting out the Estam&net 
dHollande, which he briskly entered, and was 
speedily furnished with the objects of his desire 
— tobacco and an Amsterdam gazette. The 
room was so full of smoke, reeking from the 
lips and the bowls of the pipes of the habitues, 
that he could scarcely discern a feature in the 
company; but each frequenter was enjoying 
himself, and not caring a straw for any one 

Here Jan Dirk Peereboom filled his pipe 
again and again without intermission, until he 
had whiffed off three dozen replenishments, 
with a liquid accompaniment of veritable 
Schiedam, by way of atonement for the time 
he had lost since his wedding-day. He resumed 
his accustomed placidity, and glanced, as well 
as the clouds of smoke permitted, at the Am- 
sterdam gazette, when his eye caught an adver- 
Untie: — 

"Jinks Peereboom begs leave to acquaint his friends 
and the public that he has commenced the business of 
general broker at Dort on his own account, and trust* 
that his long experience in the house of Means. Claren- 
bach and Voutc, as well as in the service of his ancle 
Jan Dirk Peereboom, will enable him to do Justice to 
those friends who may be pleased to favour him with 
their commands. 

"His office is established at No. 14 west side of the 
Great Canal Street, where all orders will meet with 
immediate attention." 

Jan Dirk sighed as he read the modest ad- 
vertisement of his nephew, and inwardly wished 
that he himself had put forth such an an- 
nouncement to the public. Another newspaper, 
the Amsterdam Courant, was lying on a table, 
around which sat three Dutch merchants, 
smoking at each other like rival steam-boats. 
In this paper was a fac-simile of young Jinkrf 



advertisement. Jan Dirk's back was toward 
this party, but he had the infinite mortification 
to listen to a dialogue broken all to bits by 
pipe-puffs, to the following effect: — 

let Smoker. — "I see by this paper that 
Peereboom the younger is commencing busi- 
ness." (Puff, p^ff.) 

2d Smoker. — "What a confounded ass his 
uncle Jan Dirk made of himself by marrying 
that French dancer! Three years hence, he 
will not have a stiver to bless himself with." 
(A huge puff.) 

3d Smoker.— "Oh! fool as Jan Dirk has 
been, he knows how to take care of his money! " 

2d Smoker. — "Then he goes the right way 
about it, for this very morning I saw his wife 
with a gay party of people in three carriages, 
apparently going out of town for &f$te for the 

1st Smoker. — " That is not done for nothing." 

2d Smoker. — "His credit is gone at Dort, 
although he must still be rich, besides being 
the holder of the milkmaid's annuity; and, I 
warrant me, he will soon melt down his guil- 
ders in the bank of Amsterdam." 

These remarks made Jan Dirk Peereboom 
feel very uncomfortable, and he was reluctant 
to discover himself, after having been stigma- 
tized as an ass and fool, without resenting it; 
he in his own defence puffed up such a cloud 
of smoke that he became invisible; for, indeed, 
now he began to think that he had done rather 
a weak thing. 

After the Dutch merchants had quitted the 
e&taminet, Jan Dirk ventured to go home, 
where, subsequent to some uneasy reflections, 
he reclined himself at full length on a sofa, 
and went fast asleep. When Madame Coralie 
Peereboom returned from her country excursion, 
having inhaled during the whole day the pure 
air of St. Cloud, her senses were mightily an- 
noyed by the strong odour of odious tobacco 
(and the French tobacco being a government 
monopoly, it is notoriously the worst on the 
face of the globe). . 

" O mon Dieu ! " she exclaimed as she entered, 
"these fumes will annihilate me! What has 
happened during my absence?" 

And then she discovered Jan Dirk snoring 
heavily. She shook him up briskly, but he 
was not at all inclined to stir; and under the 
influence of the smoking, the Schiedam, and 
his wounded feelings, as well as the peculiar 
irritability which moHt persons have felt at 
certain periods at being waked from a nap, he, 
for the first time since hi* marriage, exhibited 

his real Dutch temper. The air and tempera- 
ture of the climate of Holland has, as a matter 
of course, an effect on the national character, 
and incline to produce phlegmatic disposition 
both of body and mind. And yet a Dutchman 
is irascible, especially if heated with liquor. 
Therefore, when Coralie, shaking his arm, in a 
shrill tone of voice demanded where he had 
been, he replied, — 

"What is that to you?" 

"Jan Dirk, what have you been about?" 

Mynheer Peereboom answered with a hic- 
cup, — 

"Why do you expect I should tell you when 
I don't know myself?" 

"Indeed, sir!" said Coralie impatiently, "I 
see no reason why I Bhould not ask you." 

" If women were to always have their wills," 
grunted Jan Dirk, "the world would be rarely 

" How, what is all this?" exclaimed Madame, 
in a tone of utter surprise, "did you not marry 
me for love?" 

"Yes, and you married me for money; so 
you have your reward, and I have mine!" 

"What is it that now offends you?" asked 
Coralie, a little subdue*!. 

Jan Dirk answered gloomily, "Two clergy- 

"What, in the name of Heaven, have they 
done to you ?" inquired Madame. 

"They married me!" groaned Dirk, — "fet- 
tered me in both churches — Catholic and Pro- 
testant; — I find that I have been a great fool!" 

"I am glad to observe that you have some 
discernment," tartly replied Coralie; and she 
indignantly left the room, told her fiUe de 
chambre that Monsieur had unaccountably 
come home in a state of intoxication, and that 
she intended to lock herself in her chamber, 
and to see him no more that night. 

Jan Dirk stretched himself on the sofa, and 
presently fell into a profound slumber. 

Here was the first open matrimonial dispute. 

Coralie could scarce believe what she heard, 
for, with a considerable portion of French 
vanity, she imagined that her husband was 
devoted in his affection for her, though she 
was aware that she had never loved him. 

The obstinate nature of Jan Dirk Peereboom 
would not permit him to make any concession 
in the morning, although the facile French 
woman gave every opportunity; bo that the 
h light wound, which might have been healed 
by the soothing bandage of common sense and 
good temper, gradually grew more and more 
inflamed, until it created a constant petulance 
in the wife and moody brutality in'the husband* 



And in this miserable way did they pass 
eight years, occasionally travelling from place 
to place, occasionally residing in Paris. Coralie, 
to dissipate thought, dissipated her own money, 
over which Jan Dirk had no control, while 
Mynheer Peereboom, whenever he could find 
an opportunity, steeped his cares in Schiedam, 
cognac, and tobacco. 

This ill-paired couple were now, for the first 
time in their lives, in the agreeable city of 
Aix-la-Chapelle, with a view of the benefit that 
Jan Dirk Peereboom might derive from the 
mineral waters; for, from his inebriated habits, 
his health had commenced visibly to decline: 
he was about fifteen years older than Coralie. 
But all the bathing in the emperors spring, 
and all the drinking the sulphureous waters of 
a temperature of about 143° Fahrenheit, proved 
of no avail to Jan Dirk. 

One day as the man and wife were being 
driven in a carriage east of Aix-la-Chapelle, to 
the neighbouring little town of Burtschied, 
Coralie, looking out of the window, beheld a 
face she well remembered, although she had 
not seen its owner for years. 

The said owner was standing at the door of 
a mean-looking shop, overhung with one an- 
tiquely built story. The wares in the window, 
though few, did not accord with the appearance 
of the warehouse, being of superior form and 
workmanship. Madame Coralie recognized 
Scheck Stalman; but oh, how altered in ap- 
pearance! instead of the bustling, well-fed, rich, 
supercilious cordonnier, who once had all the 
better part of the ladies of Amsterdam on his 
books, peered from the portal, as if almost 
ashamed to breathe fresh air (probably because 
he had been of late years unaccustomed to it), 
the prison-discharged criminal, who had been 
sentenced to live on food witJiout salt, with a 
pale cadaverous countenance furrowed with the 
traces of care and Buffering. Madame Peere- 
boom could not resist remarking that the in- 
disposition that had reduced her husband still 
rendered their features as much alike as when 
he and Stalman were both in robust health. 
She took an after opportunity to drive over 
alone to Burtschied, when she entered the 
little shop, and, to the surprise of Stalman, 
introduced herself, and gave him an order to 
supply her with her chaussure. He expressed 
himself in terms of gratitude at this unexpected 
visit and employ. From old associations, 
Madame Coralie Peereboom did Stalman, in 
his reduced circumstances, other charitable 

Jan Dirk Peereboom decayed gradually, and, 
being of a superstitious (urn of mind, added ( 

to his ailments of body, he beckoned Coralie 
to his bedside, and, in great confidence, com- 
municated to her that he had heard, during 
the preceding night, continually the death- 
watch clicking. The study of entomology at 
this period being very little attended to, the 
terror that this noise inflicted upon hypochon- 
driac persons frequently caused the event im- 
agined to be prognosticated. Madame Peere- 
boom could not instil any sort of confidence 
into her husband by laughing at the affair; 
and he lay restless and oppressed, listening to 
the heart-sickening tick of a small beetle, that 
was, in its own mode of merriment, giving an 
affectionate call to its female companion. 

A few days more passed, and Jan Dirk 
rapidly declined. He then told Coralie thai 
he had not made any will! 

The physician of Aix-la-Chapelle who at- 
tended was a perfect stranger to them, and as 
he had to visit a vast number of equally perfect 
strangers who resorted to Aix-la-Chapelle when 
it was too late to render them the slightest 
professional service, he was quite contented to 
receive his fees, without being very particular 
as to further intimacy or any inquiries into 

Madame Peereboom became exceedingly an- 
xious when she heard that Jan Dirk was likely 
to die intestate; she was aware that she never 
would have any claim to the "Milkmaid'a 
Annuity," as that must, by the original grant, 
descend to the next male akin bearing the 
name of Peereboom; but still, with Jan Dirk's 
saving habits latterly, there must be a consid- 
erable sum in the bank of Amsterdam. Coralie 
had no one to advise with her — she was at a 
distance even from her dancing friends, and 
while she was reflecting as to how she should 
act, the Angel of Death suddenly arrested the 
body and soul of her husband. 

After the first shock was over, she resumed 
her presence of mind. She felt she was utterly- 
ruined to all intents and purposes, as no will 
had been made in her favour; she racked her 
theatrical brains, which, by the way, had often 
assisted the stage inventions of her former 
husband, to devise a scheme by which she 
might secure to herself the property of her 
second. At length she hit upon a notion which 
she imagined would prove infallible. 

Coralie was a woman of adventurous charac- 
ter, and had to contend with difficulty from 
early youth. The first thing she did was to 
refrain from giving any alarm in the ready- 
furnished house in which they resided; it was 
evening, and she securely locked up the bed- 
chamber door, wherein poor Jan Dirk Peereboom 



lay. The next step was to wrap herself up in 
a large silk mantle, secretly to make her way 
through the garden-door unobserved, even by 
a servant, and to walk hastily to the little 
town of Burtschied, where she suddenly rapped 
at the door of the humble shop of Scheck Stal- 
man. He was utterly surprised at beholding 
Madame Coralie, and thought that she had 
come to rebuke him because he had not finished 
her blue silk shoes; and yet it was a strange 
time of night for her to come alone. Coralie 
then thus addressed Stalman: — 

" You are under some obligations to me?" 

" Greater than I can ever possibly repay," 
answered the cvrdvimier. 

"You must immediately come with me to 
Aix-la-Chapelle, and without asking any ques- 
tions," said Madame. 

"I am ready," replied Stalman, promptly. 

And they quitted the house together, and 
walked on in the dark; during which Coralie 
told Stalman what had occurred to her husband, 
that he had died without a will, remarked on 
the extraordinary resemblance existing between 
the two persons, and then, rogue as she cer- 
tainly was, proposed that Stalman should go 
to bed in the house, personate Jan Dirk Peere- 
boom, and dictate a will in her favour, and 
that she would so amply reward him, that he 
would be provided for during the remainder of 
his existence. 

There was a plausible reason for supposing 
that this expedient would succeed, as they 
were all strangers in the city of Aix-la-Chapelle. 

The great difficulty to be overcome was to 
introduce Stalman into the house unseen. 
Coralie unlocked the garden-gate, and told 
him to remain concealed in a summer-house 
until she came to fetch him. 

She then went in-doors, and going to the 
room where she had left her JiUe de chambre 
at work, said to her suddenly, — 

"How has your master been during my ab- 

"Very quibt indeed," said the unconscious 
girl, who had ofttimes been disturbed by the 
effects of Jan Dirk's drunkenness. 

** I do not like that quiet," remarked Coralie, 
"it bodes no good; go you, my good girl, for 
the doctor, you know where he lives, and tell 
him I wish to speak to him immediately." 

The chamber-maid obeyed her mistress. 
' Madame then Bent her other servant, who offi- 
ciated as her cook, to the poulterer's, to buy 
the smallest and tenderest chicken she could 
find, to make some broth. 

Having despatched them both on these 
errands, she admitted Stalman at the garden- 

you m. 

door, made him ascend to a spare bed-room, 
where he got into bed, and, attired in a night- 
gown and cap of Jan Dirk Peereboom's, his 
own worm-eaten frame made him exactly to 
resemble a man in the last stage of life. There 
were plenty of empty physic-bottles to place 
about the room. 

The cook returned first home, and began 
busily to prepare the chicken-broth for her 
poor master; she even shed some honest tearsf 
into the stew-pan, by way of salting it mildly. 

Then arrived the JiUe de chambre with the* 
physician, and this was the moment that re- 
quired all the dexterous art of Coralie as an 

She told the doctor that her husband had 
aroused, and was so far better that she had 
been induced to remove him to a fresh bed, 
and was now in a mild slumber, from which 
she should not like to hazard awaking him, 
apologized for bringing him out, but handed 
him his fee, and at the same moment, after 
sending the Jille de chambre out of the room, 
she in a confidential tone acquainted the 
physician with that which he before knew, that 
they were strangers in the city, and that she 
would be eternally under obligation to him, 
as her husband had neglected the extremely 
necessary obligation of every man who had any- 
thing to bequeath, — in fact, he had not made 
his will; if he (the physician) would be good 
enough to recommend to her an honest attorney. 

The physician immediately stated that he 
had a brother, a most respectable person, who 
followed the law; — and if he had stated that 
be had also a cousin that was an undertaker, 
he would not have spoken falsely. They were 
a profitable sort of family circle amongst them- 
selves, as far as turmoils, tumours, wills, 
medicine, and coffins went. 

The physician took his departure, promising 
to send his brother the lawyer, but ventured 
to entertain sanguine hopes that the patient 
might recover, although at the moment he felt 
perfectly confident that there was a job for his 
cousin the undertaker. 

Madame Peereboom was thus far completely 
successful, but she continued in a state of con- 
siderable anxiety until the attorney arrived, 
attended by two clerks as witnesses; she took 
them up to the chamber where Stalman was 
in bed, entreating them to go very gently that 
her poor husband might not be disturbed; the 
attorney and the two clerks, led by Coralie, 
entered the room on tiptoe. 

" He is awake, " said Madame; and addressing 
Stalman, who, from the effect of the Diet of 
Worms, certainly looked the character he re- 



presented to the life, or rather, we ahould say, 
to the death — raised his head from the pillow, 
and rolled his eyes so horribly, that the very 
clerks were alarmed; he spoke, with apparent 
difficulty, "Who are these people?" 

Coralie replied, "My dear, did not yon ex- 
press a wish that I should send for a profes- 
sional gentleman, to receive directions about 
your property?" 

Stalman sighed, "Ah! we know not how soon 
calamity may fall on us in this world. I shall 
not be long in it." 

The attorney here interposed in a bland tone 
of voice, saying, "Put reliance in Heaven, sir; 
never give up hope. I am certain you will re- 
cover. I see it in your face. " 

The two clerks winked at each other; and 
the attorney, notwithstanding that which he 
had just uttered, lost no time in preparing the 
necessary document. 

"And now, my poor sufferer," said Madame 
Coralie Peereboom, " to whom will you bequeath 
your property?" 

The attorney had commenced writing the 
customary preamble, when Scheck Stalman, 
having been lifted up by his supposed wife — 
looked as if every instant he was going to give 
up the ghost; he then uttered distinctly, but 
in a faint voice, "To you, my beloved Coralie, 
I bequeath half of my estate." 

"Half?" said Coralie, faintly. 

"Half," repeated Stalman. "The other 
half of my estate," continued the impostor, 
" I hereby bequeath to Scheck Stalman, shoe- 
maker of Burtschied, and formerly of Amster- 

The widow was thunderstruck at being so 
entrapped, any one might have knocked her 
down with a straw, the reply was so different 
from that which she expected; but in the cleft 
stick in which she had placed herself she did 
not dare to negative the will of Stalman, for 
fear of losing the whole of the property; while 
the cunning old rogue in bed was laughing in 
his sleeve at the thought of dividing with her 
the fruits of a project which Madame Peere- 
boom had intended for her own sole benefit 
(a small annuity excepted for the shoemaker.) 

There was now no alternative left for her; 
but it was with great bitterness and mortifica- 
tion that, falling into her own trap, she saw 
Stalman (his hand shaking very much, and 
the pen almost guided by the attorney) sign J. 
I). Peereboom to the will, which was duly at- 
tested by the two clerks. The testament was 
taken away to be registered, and affidavits 
were made by the clerks, before the proper legal 
authorities, that the testator at the period of 

signing it was so dreadfully ill that the signa- 
ture was hardly to be recognized as the hand- 
writing (when compared with the real sign- 
manual of Jan Dirk) of the husband of Madame 
Coralie Peereboom. 

The moment the attorney and clerks were 
gone, Madame flew at Stalman, and overloaded 
him with reproaches for his roguery and in- 
gratitude; and as she was rating him vehe- 
mently, he very calmly advised her to hold her 
tongue, or her servants would overhear her, 
and then every stiver would be lost, that the 
best thing for her to consider was how to get 
him, unobserved, out of the house again; and 
then to send for the undertaker to prepare the 
funeral of her real husband. At last he talked 
so sensibly to her, getting louder and louder 
in his tone every minute, that Coralie Peere- 
boom was compelled to own the truth of the 
proverb which we have thus displayed, that 

" Half a loaf is bktteb than no bbaaix" 
— Eraser's Magazine. 


Oille machree, 1 

Sit down by me, 
We now are joined, and ne'er shall sever; 

This hearth's our own, 

Our hearts are one, 
And peace is ours for ever ! 

When I was poor, 
Your father's door 
Was closed against your constant lover; 
With care and pain 
I tried in vain 
My fortunes to recover. 
I said, "To other lands 111 roam, 

Where Fate may smile on me, love; w 
I said, " Farewell, my own old home ! w 
And I said, "Farewell to thee, love!" 
Sing OUU machree, <fcc 

I might have said, 

My mountain maid, 
Come live with me, your own true lover; 

I know a Bpot, 

A silent cot, 
Your friends can ne'er discover, 
Where gently flows the waveless tide 

By one small garden only; 
Where the heron waves his wings so wide, 
And the linnet sings so lonely ! 

Sing Oille machree, Ac 

i Brighton* ot raj hmrX. 



I might have said, 

My mountain maid, 
A fathers right was never given 

True hearts to curse 

With tyrant force 
That have been blest in heaven. 
But then, I said, " In after years, 

When thoughts of home shall find her, 
My love may mourn with secret tears 
Her friends, thus left behind her." 

Sing GUI* machree, die. 

Oh, no, I said, 

My own dear maid, 
For me, though all forlorn for ever, 

That heart of thine 

Shall ne'er repine 
O'er slighted duty— never. 
From home and thee though wandering far, 

A dreary fate be mine, love ; 
I'd rather live in endless war, 

Than buy my peace with thine, love. 

Sing OUle machrec, <£c. 

Far, far away, 

By night and day, 
I toiled to win a golden treasure, 

And golden gains 

Repaid my pains 
In fair and shining measure. 
I sought again my native land, 

Thy father welcomed me, love; 
I poured my gold into his hand, 

And my guerdon found in thee, love. 

Sing CfUle mackrec, 

Sit down by me, 
We now are joined, and ne'er shall sever; 

This hearth's our own, 

Our hearts are one, 
And peace is ours for ever. 

Gebald Griffin. 

DARA. 1 

When Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand 
Wilted with harem-heats, and all the land 
Was hovered over by those vulture ills 
That suuff decaying empire from afar, 
Then, with a nature balanced as a star, 
Dara arose a shepherd of the hills. 

He who had governed fleecy subjects well 
Made bis own village by the self -same spell 
Secure and quiet as a guarded fold ; 
Then, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees, 
Under his sway, to neighbour villages 
Order returned, and faith, and justice old. 

* From Under Ike WUUtvn mud Other Poeme. Boston : 
Uuugbton A Co. 

Now when it fortuned that a king more wise 
Endued the realm with brain and hands and eyes, 
He sought on every side men brave and just; 
And having heard our mountain shepherd's praise, 
How he refilled the mould of elder days, 
To Dara gave a satrapy in trust. 

So Dara shepherded a province wide, 
Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took more pride 
Than in his crook before; but envy finds 
More food in cities than on mountains bare; 
And the frank sun of natures clear and rare 
Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds. 

Soon it was hissed into the royal ear, 
That, though wise Dara's province, year by year, 
like a great sponge, Bucked wealth and plenty up, 
Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's behest, 
Some yellow drops, more rich than all the rest, 
Went to the filling of his private cup. 

For proof, they said, that, wheresoe'er he went, 
A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, 
Went with him; and no mortal eye had seen 
What was therein, save only Dara's own ; 
But, when 'twas opened, all his tent was known 
To glow and light with heapdd jewels' sheen. 

The king set forth for Dara's province straight; 
There, as was fit, outside the city's gate, 
The viceroy met him with a stately train, 
And there, with archers circled, close at hand, 
A camel with the cheat was seen to stand : 
The king's brow reddened, for the guilt was plain. 

" Open me here," he cried, "this treasure-chest ! " 
Twas done; and only a worn shepherd's vest 
Was found therein. Some blushed and hung the 

Not Dara; open as the sky's blue roof 
He stood, and "O my lord, behold the proof 
That I was faithful to my trust," he said. 

"To govern men, lo all the spell I had! 
My soul in these rude vestments ever clad 
Still to the unstained past kept true and leal, 
Still on these plains could breathe her mountain 

And fortune's heaviest gifts serenely bear, 
Which bend men from their truth and make 

them reel. 

"For ruling wisely I should have small skill. 
Were I not lord of simple Dara still ; 
That sceptre kept, I could not lose my way." 
Strange dew in royal eyeB grew round and bright, 
And strained the throbbing lids;— before 'twas 

Two added provinces blest Dara's sway. 

James Russju* Lowbia. 




[Henry Kingiley, born 1830; died at Cuckfleld. 
Sussex, 24th May, 1876. He was a novelist and Journal- 
ist of remarkable power. Upon leaving Oxford, in 1853, 
he proceeded to Australia, where he spent five year*. 
Shortly after his return to England he became for 
some time editor of the Edinburgh Daily Review. 
For that Journal he acted as war oorres(iondent during 
eight weeks of the FranooPrnssiMn war; and, after the 
famous battle of Sedan, was the first Englishman who 
entered the town. His chief works are Geoffr* y Handyn; 
Ravtwho*; The Hillyart and the Burton*; Austin BUU*: 
Madenvnsdle Mathilde; Stretton; Hetty (a cheap edi- 
tion of these is published by Macmiilau A Co); Old 
Margaret; Hn-nby Mills, which hare been issued by 
Tinsley Brothers; and The Orange Garden (his last novel). 
Geoffrey Hamlyn is generally regarded as his most 
raccessful book; bat there is good workmanship in ail 
he wrote.] 

Court Journal, April 12th. — "Lady Horn- 
bury's ball on May 2d is unavoidably post- 

" What ie the matter?" gaid all the world 
and his wife. On this occasion the world and 
his wife were very easily satisfied; Sir John 
most have had another stroke, and Lady 
Hornbury would soon be the most beautiful 
widow in England of her age, while her daugh- 
ter Edith would be one of the greatest heir- 
eases. The male line was notoriously extinct. 
Sir John was a shrewd man of business, a little 
apt to be near, and the very last man in the 
world to enrich unnecessarily a successor to 
his house in the shape of a new husband for 
Lady Hornbury. The world and his wife were 
easily satisfied; one of the pleasantest houses 
in London would be closed that season, and of 
course Lady Hornbury could not go out in the 
present state of her husband's health. So 
said the world that week; but the world was 
astonished out of all propriety when it went 
into the Park next day to find Sir John — 
faultlessly dressed and as upright as if par- 
alysis and he had never made acquaintance — 
riding his celebrated bay, with his faultlessly 
appointed groom quite a long way behind him, 
by no means close to him, as he used to ride 
when Sir John was likely to have a seizure. 
The world, in short, was utterly puzzled; the 
more bo when he answered that Lady Horn- 
bury was perfectly well, but had been called 
suddenly from town on business, and would 
probably not appear for a considerable time. 
Sir John was a man who generally did his own 

• From Hornby Mills and Other Stories, by Henry 
Kingsley. 2 vols. London ; Tinsley Brothers. 

business as well as his wife's, and it seemed 
very strange that he should be riding about so 
coolly in the Park, and Lady Hornbury gone 
away on business. Mystery was added to 
mystery when Hunter, of the Dragoons, came 
on the scene and reported himself returning from 
the camp at Chalons, where he had been pro- 
fessionally examining the French cavalry: he 
said that he had met Lady Hornbury at the 
station at Calais, just getting into the Pari* 
train. Here was a great mystery; Edith Horn- 
bury was at school in Paris, and was to come 
out at the great ball now postponed. What 
on earth was the matter? 

Sir John and Lady Hornbury were, de- 
servedly, nearly the most popular people in 
London; they were wealthy, clever, kindly, 
and good-humoured. He was much older than 
she, but she was absolutely devoted to him, 
and never left him for an instant in his very 
numerous illnesses, one of which had resulted 
in a very dangerous attack of paralysis. There 
was perfect confidence between them, although 
Sir John had hitherto left all matters relating 
to his daughter to the care of his wife, only 
asking from time to time how the girl waa 
getting on. She was all that could be desired; 
discreet, beautiful, accomplished, and perfectly 
obedient in everything, a most model young 
lady in every respect: early in her life she had 
shown a will of her own, but it seemed to have 
been perfectly subdued by her parents' kind- 
ness and indulgence. An event which had 
taken place a year before this had shown her 
submission in the most remarkable way. She 
had been staying at a country house, her old 
Aunt Hornbury's, where there was a large 
general society, and a style of living under the 
careless, good-humoured old maid most con- 
ducive to mild flirtation, or, what the old lady 
called it, " the young people being happy to- 
gether. " The old lady, however, drew a pretty 
sharp line in these matters, and thinking that 
Edith's attention was a little too much en- 
gaged by a very handsome young fellow, a 
Mr. Holmsdale, wrote to her mother quietly, 
and Edith went very submissively home. Her 
mother never mentioned the matter to her, 
and all was perfectly secret, until, some montha 
after, the maid who had been with her at her 
aunt's tremblingly told her that Miss Edith 
was corresponding with this Mr. Holmsdale, 
and handed her a letter, of which the following 
were the contents : — 

' 'Sir — Once more I request you to cease 
this utter folly. I have unfortunately once 
told you that you are not indifferent to me, 
and for that one expression in a moment of 



weakness I am to be persecuted to death. You 
must take your final answer, and further 
letters from you, sir, will be instantly laid 
before my father." 

" I think that our girl has behaved very 
well indeed," said Sir John, when his wife 
showed htm the letter. "Deuced well I 
wish my sister would keep her house in better 
order. The girl shan't go there again. I 
think we are very well out of it; give me the 

" What are you going to do with it?" 

"Send it to him addressed in my hand- 
writing, with my name signed in the corner. 
I shall send it under cover to my sister; her 
butler knows his address. Who is this Holms- 

"I don't know; the villain!" exclaimed 
Lady Hombury. 

"We don't know that he is a villain, my 
dear," said Sir John; "he must be a gentle- 
man, or my sister would never have had him 
to her house. 9 ' 

"A clandestine correspondence!" said Lady 
Hombury, bridling. 

"My dear, did we have no clandestine cor- 
respondence when I was a younger brother, 
and a dragoon, with five hundred a year, and 
you a fine lady, with Lord Bumpeter at your 
heels everywhere? Did not you tell me once 
that if your mother pressed on the match with 
him that you would run away with me on five 
hundred a year and your own fortune, and 
trust to my poor brother Tom to get us some- 
thing? And you would have done it, my lady, 

" I was very young and foolish," said Lady 

"Well, and Edith is young and wise," said 
Sir John, kissing her. " Now the first thing 
to do is to turn that maid of Edith's out of the 

" Why, we owe her much/' said Lady Horn- 

" I tell you that no right-thinkrng young 
woman would have betrayed a kind and gentle 
young mistress like Edith in a love affair," 
said the atrocious dragoon, Sir John. " What 
would you have said to your own maid in old 
times if nhe had done it to you?" 

The argumentum ad hammem was a little 
too much for honest Lady Hombury, and she 
had to laugh again. "But," she added, "if 
we send her away she will talk about the 
natter all over the town and country." 

" Well, then, double her wages and let her 
stay," said Sir John; "but don't let me see 
her. And as for Edith, let bar have change 

of scene; give her a year's school somewhere. 
Send her to Comtesse d'Aurilliac, at Paris; 
she can't come to any harm with that old 

" My daughter will come to no harm any- 
where," said Lady Hombury, proudly. 

" That I am quite sure of, my dear. But 
the society at the old lady's pension is very 
agreeable, none but the very best legitimist 
girls, and no followers allowed." 

" I would not be vulgar, Sir John, if I were 
in your place," said the lady; "will you ever 
forget the barracks?" 

" You were very nearly knowing a good deal 
about them yourself, my lady, that night when 
you proposed to run away with me." 

Lady Hornbury swept out of the. room ma- 
jestically and left Sir John laughing. There 
was very little conversation between mother 
and daughter, for Edith found in a day or two, 
by an answer which came from Holmsdale, 
that her father and mother knew everything. 
She was completely impassive in their hands; 
but apparently the Holmsdale wound had 
gone a little deeper than her mother had 
thought for. Edith spoke very little, and 
seemed cheerful at the thought of going to 
Paris. In a week she was with the Comtesse 

Every letter from the comtesse breathed de- 
lighted admiration for her charming and beau- 
tiful pupil. Since madame had been forced 
by the lamentable occurrences of the Revolu- 
tion (her two aunts perished in the September 
massacres) to take pupils, she had never had 
such a pupil as Edith. She was the admira- 
tion of every one who had seen her, and the 
brightest star in her little legitimist galaxy: 
everything went perfectly well for three months, 
and Sir John and Lady Hombury were de- 

About this time there came to Sir John and 
Lady Hombury a lumbering young nobleman 
of vast wealth, who was in some sort a connec- 
tion of theirs ; so near that they called him 
cousin. He called one morning to say that 
he was going to Paris, and to burden himself 
with any commissions to Edith. 

" I should like to see my old playmate very 
much," he said. " I was a lover of hers when 
we were in the schoolroom ; I should like very 
much to see her once more, though I suppose 
she is getting too fine for me." 

There was not the slightest objection to his 
seeing as much of his cousin as he chose, and 
Lady Hornbury wrote a note in her best French 
(Madame d'Aurilliac did not speak English, nor 
did Lord Lumberton speak French), whereby 



the Comtesse d' Aurilliac was requested to re- 
ceive Lord Lamberton as one of their own 
family. The comtesse received him in French, 
and he responded in English: he stayed on in 
Paris, and in two months the comtesse found 
it necessary to write to Lady Hornbury as 
follows: — 

"Madame, — My Lord Lumberton's visits 
are extremely frequent here, and I should be 
very glad to know your instructions as regards 
them. I have not the least reason to believe 
that anything has passed between milord and 
your beautiful daughter, but at the same 
time, madame, I think that he thinks of her a 
little more than he does of my other young 
ladies, while she treats him with merely the 
kindness of a cousin. I observe that in our 
little family parties she prefers dancing with 
M. de Rocroy, a gentleman of the very highest 
refinement and introduction, until lately gen- 
tleman- in -waiting to his most Christian Majesty 
Henri V. at Frohsdorf (whom may the holy 
saints have in their keeping ! ) ; M. de Rocroy, 
however, appears as indifferent to her as she is 
to him. This feeling of milord Lumber-ton's 
may ripen into an attachment, or it may not 
I only await your instructions as to my manage- 
ment in this affair." 

" What shall we do now?" said Lady Horn- 
bury to her husband. 

"Do!" said Sir John. "Nothing at all. 
If Lumberton likes to fall in love with her, I 
don't see why we should put a spoke in his 
wheel. The lad is a good honest fellow enough, 
and would make any woman in the world happy. 
Old d'Aurilliac says that she doesn't care for 
him, so there is no immediate danger: let 
Lumberton go to her, but don't say anything 
to thegirl herself. Write and tell old d'Aurilliac 
chat we approve of his visits. " 

" But Edith is not out," said Lady Hornbury. 

" My banker's book tells me that," said Sir 
John. "If she can make up her mind before 
she does come out, all the better for her/' 

" He may gain her affections before she lias 
had an opportunity of choosing. " 

" That is precisely what happened to your- 
self, and if you don't regret it I am sure I don't ; 
you know that we were engaged before you 
came out. No, there is not an unmarried man 
in London whom I would prefer to Lumberton. " 

" But, Sir John, submissive as Edith is now, 
you must remember the time, not so very long 
ago, when she had both a will and temper of 
her own. Any attempt to force her inclina- 
tions would be fatal. " 

" When will a woman learn to argue?" said 
Sir John, testily. " I don't want to force her 

inclinations, I only want her to receive Lnm- 
berton's visits. If you don't wish Lumberton 
to see her, you are doing the very best thing 
to make her think more of him by sending him 
to the right-about without the ghost of a cause." 

Lady Hornbury gave way after a time, good- 
humou redly. She was a woman, and, good 
and honest as she was, would very much have 
liked to have had Edith out in London, and to 
have gone through that game of chess with 
eligible suitors as castles and knights, and with 
ineligible suitors as pawns, in which every 
British mother delights. But she yielded; 
Lumberton would most certainly "do." She 
wrote to Madame d'Aurilliac at once before 
she went out, and, being in a hurry, wrote in 
English. What follows is part of her letter: — 

"Both Sir John and I quite approve of 
Lord Lumberton's visits. Edith and he were 
cousins and playmates, and the matter is quite 
a family one. " 

Which madame, with the aid of a diction- 
ary, translated to mean that the two families 
had agreed on a mariage de conveyance in the 
French fashion. 

The effect of this wonderful discovery on the 
part of madame was singularly delightful to 
Lord Lumberton, who was by this time honestly 
head over heels in love with his cousin ; and 
also singularly and terribly disagreeable to poor 
Edith, who, for reasons of her own, was nearly 
out of her mind. Whenever Lord Lumberton 
came now he was left alone with her, Madame 
d'Aurilliac always quitting the room after a 
short time, with a far-seeing air, as though 
she was looking towards St. Petersburg to see 
if the ice was breaking up so as to allow of 
navigation ; and the young ladies leaving also 
with that air of eqiitglerie or archness of which 
some Parisian ladies are mistresses, and which 
has occasioned more than one British islander, 
while suffering from the spleen, to long to 
throw his loots at their heads. Lumberton 
desired to do nothing of the kind ; he was in 
love, and he liked it, though sometimes he 
would have wished when they were alone that 
ho had something to say for himself. Edith 
of course knew that he loved her, and she had 
oo dislike for him, but would chat with him 
over old times, about his sisters, his horses, his 
dogs, and such things, which helped him on 
wonderfully. Edith knew that some day or 
another he would speak, and she was quite 
ready for him. Good fellow as he was, she 
would as soon have married a chiffonier. She 
never alluded to his attentions to her mother, 
and Madame d'Aurilliac only occasionally men- 
tioned his presence at her house as a matter of 


form. So matters went on for months, until 
there came a cataclysm. Lady Hornbury re- 
ceived this letter: — 

"Madame, — When I receive a viper into 
my bosom, or a snake into my house, what do 
I do? I expel that snake or that viper. 
Madame, I have discovered a snake in the 
form of your daughter's maid, Rose Dawson, 
and I have expelled her with ignominy, having 
first had her boxes searched by warrant from 
the Juge d' Instruction. Madame, we found 
four thousand francs in gold, which we could 
not retain, so she is gone free. 

" My eyes, madame, have long been directed 
in a certain quarter. I have now, in conse- 
quence of the Revolution, to address my atten- 
tion to the forming of young ladies. I turve 
therefore an eye not readily deceived. I have 
noticed for a long time looks of intelligence 
pass between M. de Rocroy and your daughter's 
beautiful, but wicked, maid. I saw an intrigue, 
and I watched ; last night they were in the 
shrubbery together for an hour, and at last I 
came on them as they were saying farewell 
Him I banished my house at once, telling him 
that his sacred majesty Henri V. (whom the 
virgin and saints preserve till he comes to his 
own !) should hear of this violation of my hearth. 
Her I despatched as you have heard. I have 
broken the truth to your sweet and gentle 
daughter, who has acquiesced, though with 

"I told you that girl was no good," said 
Sir John. " You had better send for her home 
and provide for her, or she will be talking about 
the Holmsdale business with emendations and 
additions. I shall, if Lumberton ever says 
anything to me about Edith, tell him the whole 
of that matter." 

" I suppose we ought," said Lady Hornbury. 
" If Lumberton cannot see how well she be- 
haved, he is unworthy of her ; but wait till he 
speaks, for it is not everybody's business. I 
don't think that he cares much for her. I hear 
nothing of it from Madame." 

But Lumberton spoke very shortly after- 
wards. He spoke kindly, honestly, and ten- 
derly. He said he would wait any time she 
chose, that she should come out and look round 
in the London world to see if there was any 
one she liked better, but that he would not 
take No as an answer now. He looked so 
noble and manly in his faith and honour, that 
for one instant she felt inclined to confide every- 
thing to him, but she felt a chill as she reflected 
that she was in France, and that a deadly duel 
would be the consequence. She had been ready for 
him very long, and she was ready for him now. 

" Cousin," she said, "if you think that I do 
not love you and respect you for what you 
have said, you are very much mistaken ; but I 
vow before Heaven that if you ever speak to 
me like this again I will enter the Romish 
church and take the veil." 


" Do you remember in old times my starv- 
ing myself for a day because I was not allowed 
to go to Lady Maitland's children's ball?" 

" Yes, I remember it." 

" I will starve myself for good if you ever 
speak to me like this again. Now you must 
go ; you must go at once." 

" Never to meet again?" 

" Never until you have given up all intention 
or hope of mentioning this subject to me." 

"Then it is never," said the poor young 
gentleman. "Good-bye, Edith." And so he 

" I could have managed him in no other 
way," thought Edith, after he had gone. 
" Poor fellow ! how happy he will make some 
good woman when he has forgotten me." . . . 

On the 11th of April Lady Hornbury received 
the following telegram : — 

"D'Aurilliac, Rue St. Honore, Paris, to 
Lady Hornbury, Portland Place, London. 
Come instantly. Frightful trouble about 

''What on earth is the matter now?" said 
Sir John. 

"I can't conceive," said Lady Hornbury. 
"Edith must be ill. I must hurry away. 
Put off the ball." 

And so we have got round to the beginning 
of the story again. 

We must, however, leave Lady Hornbury to 
go to Paris, and stay in London with Sir John 
for a short time. Sir John took his ride in the 
Park very comfortably in spite of Madame 
d'Aurilliac's telegram, he not believing that 
anything very great was the matter. During 
Mb ride he met with an old friend who inquired 
after his wife, and on being told that she was 
gone to Paris, asked Sir John to come and take 
dinner with him. Sir John declined, on the 
ground that his lawyer was coming to dine 
with him, and to discuss very particular busi- 
ness. " Indeed," he said, "old Compton is so 
very urgent and mysterious that he makes me 
a trifle uneasy : his news is very disagreeable, 
because he says that he will only discuss it 
after dinner." 

" That looks bad," said his old friend, laugh- 
ing. " I'll bet you five pounds that you have 
lost some money." 

"I suppose I have," said Sir John. "I 



shall sell that hone and groom yonder. What 
will you give me for them?" 

"I'll take the hone/' said Mb old friend, 
"but I won't have the groom. You and your 
wife have an ugly trick of making your servants 
so comfortable that they are discontented every- 
where else." 

So they parted, and Sir John went home to 
dinner at six, the hour in which he delighted, 
but at which he never was allowed to dine 
when Lady Hornbury was at home. Mr. 
Compton was very punctual, but was evidently 
very serious ; and before dinner was over Sir 
John had calculated his losses at about from 
ten to twenty thousand pounds. When the 
servants were out of the room, and Mr. Comp- 
ton proposed business, that gentleman looked 
so very grave that Sir John thought he should 
be well out of it with fifty thousand. 

" Now, frowner, how much is it?" said Sir 
John, laughing. "How much is it? Put a 
name to the figure, and have it over." 

" To what figure, Sir John?" 

" To the figure of the sum I have lost. You 
look so black that I have put it at fifty thous- 
and pounds. Is it the colliery?" 

" The colliery is doing splendidly, Sir John. 
The sixty-fathom level has been struck, and 
the seam is seven feet thick. But " 

"What is it, then?" 

" Sir John, did you ever hear of your bro- 
ther, Sir Thomas's, domestic life?" 

"Yes," said Sir John. 

" Do you remember a certain Marchioness 
de Toul?" 

"And poor Tom's connection with her? 

" I fear that he married her." 

" Then why on earth did he keep his mar- 
riage secret?" 

" He was not proud of it," said Mr. Compton. 
" It was a discreditable affair from beginning 
to end. She found that by her conduct she 
had lost all claim upon society, and she led 
him a terrible life, accusing him, perhaps with 
reason, of having cut her off from the world 
she loved so well. She got terribly anxious 
about her future state — superstitiously so. She 
left him to enter a religious house at Amiens." 

" Yes," said Sir John. 

"I fear," said Mr. Compton, "that he had 
married her before she left him: in fact, I 
know it." 

" Good Heaven ! " exclaimed Sir John. 

" Yes ; and I fear that, out of mere spite to 
him and to hiB family, she concealed the fact 
that she had a son by him in that religious 
house. Such is apparently the case, however, 

and according to the other party's statement*, 
that same son is alive." 

"This is too monstrous to be true I" said 
Sir John. 

" I don't know what to make of it/' said 
Mr. Compton. " You never can reckon on an 
angry woman. It would seem that she left 
with the lady superior at her death a packet 
which was not to be opened for twenty-four 
years. This trust was handed from one lady- 
superior to another, and was opened last year 
only. It contains, according to the other 
party, the proofs of her marriage and of the 
birth of this boy, which the other party have 
verified and are prepared to bring into court 
to-morrow. ' The other party have a terrible 
case, and Watson and Hicks are about the 
most respectable and safe firm in London." 

"Then I have never been Sir John Horn- 
bury at all?" said Sir John, with a coolness 
which utterly astonished Mr. Compton. 

" If their story is right," said Mr. Compton. 
" We have got to see about that." 

" What became of this boy?" 

" He was given over to the Jesuits, and was 
brought up at Stonyhurst. His mother pro- 
vided for him partly with the nine thousand 
pounds which she had drawn from the estate 
in three years, and partly from her own pro- 
perty, which was a very good one. The 
Jesuits were honest stewards for the boy, ac- 
cording to Watson and Hicks, and although 
he refused to become a priest, the young man 
, is pretty well off." 

" Do you believe this story?" 

Mr. Compton did not speak one word, bnt 
shook his head. 

" Ruin?" said Sir John, quietly. 

"It looks very much like it," said Mr. 
Compton. " I have been busy about the thing 
without troubling you, and I cannot at present 
see that we have a leg to stand on. But I 
come to the strangest part of the whole story. 
This young man will make any compromise 
which you please on your own terms ; will leave 
you in possession of the estates and title for your 
life ; will do anything you can suggest, on one 

" You amaze me. What is his condition?" 

" The hand of Miss Edith. " % 

" Like his impudence," exclaimed Sir John, 
"to ask Edith to marry him before she has seen 
him. Why, Compton," he went on, almost 
violently, "if Edith were to offer to save me 
by such an unnatural match, I would refuse 
my consent in such terms as would render a 
renewal of the offer impossible. I would sooner 
live in a garret on bread than consent to such. 



an arrangement. And Edith, my own daughter, 
ao you think that she would degrade herself 
by marrying a man she did not love? You 
know, her better, Compton?" 

" I do, Sir John, and I know you pretty well 
also. Of course neither of you would consent 
for an instant— only " 

"We shall have nothing, then," said Sir 
John, "if this be true. My poor Mary, my 
poor Mary ! " 

" You will have Lady Hornbury's fortune, 
Sir John, five hundred a year." 

"Aye, but he will want that. I must be 
£300,000 in his debt." 

" It is settled on herself." 

"Aye, but I will make her give it to him — 
every penny; she never disobeyed me yet, and 
she will not now." 

Mr. Compton looked at his old friend with 
eyes which were brightened with admiration. 
"And this," he thought, "is the man whom 
the world calls mean in money matters, and 
jealous of his young wife?" "Sir John," he 
continued aloud, " I have something to tell 
you which will surprise you more than any- 
thing, my dear old friend. This young man 
has told Watson in confidence, and Watson has 
told me in confidence, that he not only knows 
Miss Edith, but is absolutely certain that he 
gained her affections eight months ago when 
she was staying with her aunt. Mr. Holms- 
dale says " 

" What ! " cried Sir John. 

"Mr. Holmsdale — by-the-by, I forgot to 
tell you that the young gentleman who claims 
to be Sir Richard Hornbury goes by the name 
of Holmsdale, which the Jesuits gave him 
(they seem to have given him none of their evil 
ways, for he is behaving very well) — Mr. 
Holmsdale says that he is absolutely certain 
that his attentions would not be disagreeable 
to Miss Edith, and should his claim, on examin- 
ation, be allowed by you, he asks you to put 
the question to the young lady herself." 

"Why, Compton," said Sir John, solemnly, 
striking his hand on the table, "Lady Horn- 
bury and I sent that young man to the right- 
about with a flea in his ear eight months ago. 
I believe Edith did care for him, though she 
behaved splendidly, sir; nobly." 

" Of that I have no doubt," said Mr. Comp- 
ton. " Now the question is, supposing all 

things go wrong with us, will you ?" 

" You must ask her mother about that. If 
Edith really cares for the man, I would drop 
my title and live quietly at Huntly Bank on a 
thousand a year. I should be sorry to lose my 
Mrvants and horses, but Mary could go into 

society as well as Mrs. Hornbury as she could 
as Lady Hornbury. No, if she cares for this 
man, and he is really the man " 

" Of which we are not sure as yet," inter- 
rupted Mr. Compton. 

" Of which we are not sure as yet," repeated 
Sir John ; " I would do anything I could for 
peace. For, Compton, we must not take this 
into court without a very good case; a better 
one than we have at present. I am not going 
to throw £100,000 into Watson and Hicks' 
lap, and leave you unpaid." 

" I'd fight the matter for you if you were 
bankrupt to-morrow, Sir John," exclaimed 
Mr. Compton. 

" I have not the least doubt of it at all, yon 
obstinate old man. Now I will go to bed and 
sleep over it I should like to see this Holms- 
dale. Have you any idea whether he knew of 
this when he first knew my daughter?" 

"Yes," said Mr. Compton, "as Watson 
pointed out to me, he had been to them about 
his claim before he ever saw her. His affec- 
tion for her is utterly disinterested. When he 
got his dismissal from her he waited to see if 
he could see her again, and win her affections 
entirely without letting her know the fearful 
power in his hands. Watson says — and Watson 
knows young men pretty well — that Mr. Holms- 
dale will not move in the matter at all during 
your life unless Miss Edith marries some one 
else. That is Watson's opinion. I am of 
opinion that he might if he was to find a 
young lady more accessible than Miss Edith, 
but that is all guess-work. Has Miss Edith 
any predilections in another quarter?" 

" That good ass Lumberton seems smitten," 
said Sir John, "but I don't think old d'Aurilliac 
has given him much chance. Good night !" 

We must now leave Sir John to his own 
thoughts, and take flight to Paris, where the 
most terrible events were taking place. Lady 
Hornbury got to the Hdtel Meurice by two 
o'clock in the day, and by half-past two she 
was in the salon of Madame d'Aurilliac, in the 
Rue St. HonorS, awaiting that lady's pleasure 
with deep anxiety. She had not asked for 
Edith, considering it wiser to see the duenna 
herself. It is worthy of note that Lady Horn- 
bury had been thinking matters over, and had 
come to the conclusion that Edith was not ill. 
Having allayed her maternal fears on this point 
without the least foundation, she had travelled 
on alone, and by thinking about her sea-sick- 
ness, the rumbling of the railway, and her post- 
poned ball, she had arrived in Paris extremely 
cross, and was just nourishing a mortal hatred 
against Madame d'Aurilliac for having tele- 



graphed instead of writing more fully, when 
that good lady entered the room in full war 
paint and feathers, looking daggers. Lady 
Hornbury saw that there was going to be a 
fight, and was determined that she would not 
be the last to begin it. The conversation was 
carried on in French, which was greatly to 
Madame d'Aurilliac's advantage. But then 
Lady Hornbury had a great advantage in not 
understanding the most stinging of Madame's 
points, and so preserving a coolness which de- 
serted that lady at one period of the conversa- 

" How do you do, madame, and how is my 
daughter Edith? May I ask the reason of this 
mysterious telegram, and whether my daughter 
is ill?'* 

"I am not in the least degree aware of the 
state of your daughter's health, madame." 

"Would you be kind enough to explain 
yourself, madame?" 

" Certainly. Your daughter left here five 
days ago." 

"And where is she gone, if you please?" 
said Lady Hornbury. 

" Into Burgundy." 

" With your leave, madame?" 

" No, madame, without my knowledge. I 
have nourished a viper in my bosom which I 
was weak enough not to expel." 

" If you allude to my daughter as a viper, 
madame, you forget yourself; and as for ex- 
pelling her, she seems to have expelled herself. 
Are any further explanations convenient?" 

" I have been most grossly deceived, yet I 
have borne everything. Madame, when I took 
your daughter into my house, did you say a 
word about the clandestine correspondence with 

" Certainly not," said Lady Hornbury. " It 
was no business of yours: and what you choose 
to call a clandestine correspondence was limited 
to a single letter from her, in which she forbade 
Mr. Holmsdale to speak to her." 

" Madame, her late maid tells quite another 
story," said Madame d'Aurilliac. 

" If madame chooses to believe the word of 
a discharged and most unprincipled servant in 
preference to mine, I can only pity madame: 
my daughter is incapable of a mean or under- 
handed action." 

" I think that you will change your opinion 
of Madame Rocroy directly," said Madame 

" Madame Rocroy? I never heard of the 
woman," said Lady Hornbury. 

"Tour daughter Edith is now Madame 
Rocroy/' said Madame d'Aurilliac. " She was 

married four days ago secretly at the mairiecrf 
this arrondissement, and afterwards at the Car- 
melite chapel in the Rue de Brissac, and at the 
Protestant church in the Rue d'Aguesseau." 

Though Madame d'Aurilliac said this while 
she was looking straight into the eyes of Lady 
Hornbury, the Englishwoman never flinched 
or changed colour. Her mouth was as dry as 
dust, and her heart going wildly, but she never 
moved a muscle before the Frenchwoman. 
" Not before her," she thought, "not before 
that woman." 

" And who," she asked, "is the gentleman 
whom madame has selected for my son-in-law?" 

" Madame is kind enough to throw the blame 
on me. I thank madame very much indeed 
for allowing me to admit a viper to my house, 
and then throwing the blame of what has hap- 
pened on me." 

" Now, my dear madame," said Lady Horn- 
bury, who by this time had managed to moisten 
her dry mouth and get her heart a little quiet 
"We do not want any more vipers, if you 
please ; we have had vipers enough. I must 
ask you civilly to give me an account of this 
matter from beginning to end, first requesting 
you to give me your honour as a D'Aurilliac 
that my daughter was married as you say." 

" Madame de Rocroy/' said Madame d'Au- 
rilliac, "has made a marriage which I should 
have recommended myself had it been sanc- 
tioned by your ladyship. M. de Rocroy is a 
gentleman in every way worthy of the best 
woman in France, and of fortune, not large, 
but good. He is a gentleman high in favour 
with his majesty Henri Y., as these jewels 
will show. It would seem that his majesty 
condescended to take interest in the love affairs 
of M. de Rocroy, and knew what was going 
on, for these jewels have arrived only to-day 
from Frohsdorf as a bridal present for Madame 
Rocroy. Here are the jewels, my lady ; per- 
haps you will take charge of them." 

" Thank you," said Lady Hornbury, coolly. 
" I may as well take them until my daughter 
arrives in England: they are very fine jewels; 
indeed, I think that I will wear them myself 

until my daughter, Madame , what name 

did you say?" 


" Ah ! Rocroy claims them. And now, my 
dear creature, how did all this come about? I 
am really dying to know." 

" Insular wretch J" thought Madame d'Au- 
rilliac ; "she cares nothing for her daughter." 

There was a wild, nearly bursting heart 
behind Lady Hornbury's broad bosom which 
told another tale though; and one sentence 



Wis ringing in the ear of her mind continually 
—"It will kill John ; it will kill John:" but 
she faced the Frenchwoman as though she had 
no fox under her tunic 

"In consequence of your directions with 
regard to the visits of Lord Lumberton as the 
fiance* of Miss Hornbury " 

" None such were given/' said Lady Horn- 
bury, interrupting. 

' ' I beg madame's pardon. Here is madame's 
letter, in which you told me that his visits were 
a family affair." 

" I wish I had written in French/' said Lady 

" I wish you had, madame. I suppose that 
with that letter in my hand I may be excused 
from blame." 

"Go on with your tale, and we will talk 
about blame afterwards," said Lady Hornbury, 
who felt a trifle guilty, though she would have 
died sooner than show it 

" In consequence of that letter I admitted 
Lord Lumberton's visits ; nay, after I had dis- 
covered the affair Holmadale, I encouraged 

Lady Hornbury nodded, and sneezed in the 
most unconcerned manner, and said, " Go on, 
madame, for you begin to interest me." 

" I encouraged his visits, knowing what I 
knew, and at last he proposed to her. She re- 
fused him with scorn, and he told me of it. I 
went to her and told her that in consequence 
of the affair Holmadale she was destined to 
marry that young man by her parent's orders." 

" Oh, you told her that, did you, madame?" 
said Lady Hornbury. 

"Yes, madame; I considered that I was 
acting under your instructions, and I told her 
that. I told her that she must give Lord 
Lumberton a favourable answer in five days. 
On the second day after that she was gone, and 
at night the young Comte de Millefleurs came 
and told me all that had happened: he had 
acted as groomsman, and his sister as brides- 

" How very nice of them," said Lady Horn- 
bury. " You have not got such a thing as a 
hair-pin, have you, countess? for I slept in the 
train last night, and my hair is coming down. 
Now about this young Millefleurs. He is quite 

" He is gentleman-in- waiting to his majesty 
Henri V." 

"Ah! we call him Comte de Chambord; I 
respect your prejudices ; he will claim his title 
as King of France some day, and I wish he may 
get it." (This vulgarism was utterly lost on 
Madame d'Aurilliac. ) " Well, madame, if you 

will send me a note of my daughter's expenses 
here to my hotel to-night I will discharge it 
May I ask, had you any suspicions of the atten- 
tions of M. de Rocroy towards my daughter?" 

"Madame's memory is short. I thought 
that his attentions were directed to youi 
daughter's maid, and so I discharged her; 
she was only the go-between subsidized by 

"Ah! I see," said Lady Hornbury. "Well, 
madame, I suppose that neither of us has 
much cause to talk about this matter. I do 
not want to talk about it, and I should think 
you did not either. You had better not If 
you hold your tongue I will hold mine; if you 
speak I will ruin you: you depend on your 
pension ; and affairs of this kind, so grossly 
misconducted as this has been by you, would 
ruin a dozen pensions." 

So Lady Hornbury got into her fiacre and 
went to the Hotel Meurice after her great 
victory. Madame d'Aurilliac would have given 
a year's income had she seen her in her bed- 
room, alone with her maid, an old friend, who 
had been her nurse in times gone by. 

"Pinner," said Lady Hornbury, throwing 
herself in a chair, " I have borne up Wore' 
that woman, but I am going to die." 

" What is the matter, my lady?" said the 
maid, kneeling before her. 

" I never can face Sir John. And oh, my 
Edith ! my Edith ! dearer than ever, why could 
you not have trusted your mother?" 

" Is Miss Edith dead?" asked the frightened 

" No, Pinner ; but she has married a French- 
man, and deceived us all. Oh, Madame d'Aurill- 
iac, I will remember you!" 

Pinner got her mistress to bed as soon as 
possible. Lady Hornbury wrote a letter to 
her daughter, poste restante, Dyon, full of 
tenderness and kindness, only regretting th&t 
Edith had not confided in her, and putting her 
entirely in the right about Lord Lumberton's 
attentions. " I will nj>t conceal from you the 
fact, my darling, that we should have liked 
you to marry Lord Lumberton, but that old 
idiot, Madame d'Aurilliac, mistook everything. 
As for this Rocroy of yours, give him a box on 
the ears for me, and tell him that I will give 
him another when I meet him." 

That was the way that Lady Hornbury got 
out of the difficulty: was she a wise woman, or 
was she not? I think that she was wise. She 
said to Pinner before she cried herself to sleep, 
" She shall love me still, though that miserable 
old Frenchwoman made her distrust me. We 
must be off by the first train to Calais, and 



I must break it to Sir John. That woman 
d'Aurilliac will send in her bill to-night Wait 
up and pay it It will be 10,000 francs, or 
thereabouts. Don't haggle ; Til give her her 
receipt some day/ 1 

Sir John slept oyer Mr. Compton's astonish- 
ing communication, and he came to this con- 
clusion, that it was in all probability perfectly 

In the first place, it was obvious that Compton 
believed it, and Compton was the first solicitor 
in London. It was also obvious that Watson 
believed it, and Watson was the last man in 
the world to take up a case unless he was as 
good as certain. Compton might still find 
something not known as yet, but it seemed 
highly improbable. Sir John quietly acqui- 
esced in the matter as far as he was concerned : 
the worst thing was the breaking it to his wife. 

" How will she take it?" he repeated to him- 
self a hundred times over. " There will be one 
explosion when I tell her the truth about Comp- 
ton's story, and another when I order her to 
give up her fortune. I wonder how she will 
go through with it Poor sweetheart, she has 
never seen trouble yet" 

Here she was, late the next day, fresh from 
Paris with a new bonnet and a frank smile. 
"Now, John," she said, "you may kiss me, 
but if you rumple my bonnet you rumple two 
pound four, and so I warn you. And how are 
you, my dear?" 

" I am as well as ever I was, I think," said 
Sir John. "I am wonderfully well. But I 
will come up to your dressing-room while you 
change your dresB for dinner, for I have some 
very heavy news to tell you." 

" I suppose that you have heard about half 
the truth, John," she said. " Come up and 
tell your story, then I will tell mine. Any one 
to dinner?" 

" Mr. Compton." 

"The very man," she said. "Now, my 
dear, tell me your story while I am dressing. " 

" Mar}', I fear we are utterly ruined." 

"How? In money?" she asked, combing 
her hair. 

" I fear so." 

" How very curious ! Have you been specu- 

" No. I am, it would seem, not Sir John 
Hornbury at all." 

"Don't say another word," she cried. " I 
know what is the matter. Tom was married, 
and had a son." 

" My darling, I fear that it is only too true." 

" I knew it," she said, looking at him trium- 

phantly, and plying her hairbrushes. "I 
knew it as soon as you spoke. Tell me all 
about it, and don't keep me waiting. I waa 
certain it was that when you spoke." 

Sir John sat down and told her the whole 
matter, as Compton had related it, from be- 
ginning to end. 

" Well," she said, "surprises will never cease 
in the world. At all events, we have my for- 
tune, and we can be very comfortable on that.' 9 

" Mary," said Sir John. 

"Yes, dear." 

"If this man is proved to be my nephew, I 
shall owe him about £300,000." 

" I am afraid so ; but we never can pay it" 

" We can pay him your £15,000." 

"If you think it necessary to your honour, 
of course I will obey you; but it leaves us 
penniless. I suppose that we ought to give it 
I will tell you what I can do better than most 
women — I can give music lessons." 

" You are not afraid of the future, then, 
without a penny?" 

" Not in the least I have got you, John, 
and it will go hard but what I will keep you. 
/ am not afraid so long as you are with me." 

" Come here, you golden woman, and sit on 
my knee," said Sir John. 

She came, and their cheeks were together, 
and her brown hair was mingling with his 
gray hair, and they sat in the silence of love. 

" Then you do not mind it?" he asked. 

" I don't see that there is anything to mind 
in it," she said. " I like money and society 
more than most, but I love you better than all. 
We are not the first people who have lost their 
money, and we shan't be the last. I should 
have liked my fifteen thousand pounds for your 
sake, but it must go if it turns out that we 
have been living false lives." 

" Edith could make everything straight for 
us," said Sir John. 


" The claimant is that young man Holms- 
dale who was in love with Edith. He will never 
move in the matter during my lifetime if Edith 
marries him. He says that he has won her love 
could the match be brought about And, by 
the way, how is Edith, for I had forgotten to 
ask you?" 

" Now this is checkmate," said Lady Horn- 
bury. "How is Edith? Why, Edith is as well 
as a bride can expect to be. Edith, living in 
that atmosphere of lies which every French- 
woman carries about with her, has been fright- 
ened by old D' Aurilliac into running away with 
a French count Edith is now Madame de 



" Is he a gentleman?" asked Sir John. 
" Oh yes ; a man about Frohsdorf. By-the- 
by, here are the jewels which the Comte de 
Chambord sent her." 

"She might have done worse/' said Sir 
John. ' ' Has he money ? " 
" He has enough," said Lady Hornbury. 
" Well, then, under the circumstances, we 
really must not grumble," said Sir John. 
"Now come, let us go down and meet old 

Old Compton was waiting for them, and 
dinner was waiting for all three of them ; but 
old Compton wanted a few words on business 
before they went into the dining-room. 

" Sir John," he said, "you have, I suppose, 
put her ladyship in possession of the facts?" 
" I have," said Sir John. 
"My lady," said Mr. Compton, "I have 
been at work ever since I spoke to Sir John, 
and I have to tell your ladyship that we have 
not a leg to stand on; those Jesuits are good 
men of business." 

" Well, we have prepared our minds. We 
are beggars." 

" Sir John told you the terms of the com- 

"Yes," said Lady Hornbury, "but such a 
compromise happens to be impossible. My 
daughter Edith has married a Frenchman. 
She is now Madame de Rocroy." 
"Madame de what! 1 * shouted old Compton. 
" Madame de Rocroy," said Lady Hornbury. 
"My daughter's husband's name is Richard 
de Rocroy." 

" Have the goodness to bring me a glass of 
wine," said old Compton, " I am faint." 

Lady Hornbury rang the bell violently, and, 
not waiting for the footman, hurried Mr. 
Compton and Sir John into the dining-room, 
where she poured out a glass of wine. 

"Don't you see what you have done?" said 
Mr. Compton, after he had drunk his wine. 
"Not in the least," said Lady Hornbury. 
"Don't you see that your daughter has mar- 
ried Holmsdale, the very man we wanted her 
to marry? This Holmsdale, whom I believe 
to be your nephew, always has taken the title 
of Rocroy in France. Your daughter has 
married her cousin, and we are uncommonly 
well out of it. Sir John, do you forget every- 
thing when you forget that the family name 
of the De Touls was Rocroy?" 

"I had completely forgotten it," said Sir 
John. And so they went to dinner and dis- 
cussed matters very quietly. 

"How could this astounding result have 
come about?" said Sir John. 

"It is perfectly plain to me now that we 
have to thank the folly and stupidity of the 
Com tease d'Aurilliac for this," said Lady 
Hornbury. "She put things in a false light 
to Edith, and Edith was foolish enough to 
believe that we should force her into a marriage 
with Lumberton. Well now, what do you say 
about my going to Dijon and taking Mr. 

"Or what do you say to my going to Dijon 
and taking Lady Hornbury?" said Mr. Comp- 

"Well, you must fight it out on the way as 
to who is the commander-in-chief," said Sir 
John, " but you had better both go. Compton, 
you have full power to act for me with this 
man. I feel sure that I shall like him. Mary, 
my love, what do you say to dropping the title, 
and becoming Mrs. Hornbury?" 

" I think on the whole that it would be the 
best thing to do for Edith's sake. The world 
will say some hard things of us — will say, for 
example, that we discovered the justice of the 
claim, and sacrificed our daughter to save our- 
selves, but we, knowing otherwise, can laugh 
at that. However, nothing can be done until 
I have taken Mr. Compton to Dijon." 

Edith had written a letter to her mother, 
which had crossed that lady's; she was there- 
fore profoundly astonished, as she was sitting 
alone deeply anxious, to see her mother come 
sailing into the room, and saying, "My sweet 
Edith, get me some tea. I am as tired as if I 
had walked all the way. Where is your cousin ? ' ' 

"My cousin, mamma?" 

"I should say your husband. Don't you 
know that you have married your cousin, and 
are Lady Hornbury? Come here and kiss me, 
you curious child. So he has never told you." 

Meanwhile Mr. Compton and Edith's hus- 
band had been in conversation. At first that 
young gentleman refused emphatically to touch 
the estates, titles, or anything else, save a 
decent allowance from Sir John. The most 
that he could be got to do was this: he was to 
be received as a nephew of Sir John's and heir 
to the baronetcy at Sir John's death, drawing 
such money as should be decided on from the 
estates. The marriage was to be immediately 
announced, and Sir John was at once to be 
told to do so. 

"Now, my dear sir, I want to ask you to do 
a certain thing very much." 

" I will do it," said Richard Hornbury. 

"Goat once, to-morrow, to Frohsdorf, and 
take your wife with you. You are pretty sure 
of a welcome there." 

"/ see/' said the bridegroom, laughing. 


People in London have got over the matter 
very easily. Sir John appeared in the Park on 
hid famous hone, and told everybody his own 
version of the affair. His daughter Edith 
had married her cousin Dick abroad, and her 
mother had gone over to see her. The bride 
and bridegroom were staying with the Comte 
de Chambord at Frohsdorf : the jewels which 
the bride had received from the legitimist aris- 
tocracy were very handsome, monstrous hand- 
some: the girl had won everybody's heart over 

The world was a little puzzled about this 
new nephew of Sir John's, and also rather 
amazed at the suddenness of the marriage; but 
there came half a dozen other things to wonder 
•\bout, ind so the postponement of Lady Horn- 
fury's Hall was soon forgotten. 


Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, 

And curly pate, and merry eye. 
And arm and shoulder round and sleek, 

And soft and fair? — thou urchin sly ! 

What boots it who with sweet caresses 
First called thee his, — or squire or hind? 

Since thou in every wight that passes 
Dost now a friendly playmate find. 

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning, 

As fringed eyelids rise and fall ; 
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running, 

Is infantine coquetry alL 

But far a-field thou hast not flown; 

With mocks and threats, halttisp'd, half- 
I feel thee pulling at my gown, 

Of right good-will thy simple token. 

And thou must laugh and wrestle too, 
A mimic warfare with me waging , 

To make, as wily lovers do, 
Thy after-kindness more engaging. 

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, 
And new-oropt daisies are thy treasure: 

I'd gladly part with worldly pelf 
To taste again thy youthful pleasure. 

But yet, for all thy merry look, 
Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming 

When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, 
The weary spell or hornbook thumbing. 

Well ; let it be !— through weal and woa, 
Thou know'st not now thy future range; 

life is a motley shifting show, 
And thou a thing of hope and change ! 


The stars are shining fixed and bright, 
I stand upon the windy height, 
Alone with sorrow and the night 

O stars so high, from earth apart, 

Te are the hopes that stirred my heart; 

O wind, its beating wings tbou art. 

The wind may rave, the starry spheral 
Unheeding shine, nor moved by fears 
Nor shaken into trembling tears. 

O hush, wild heart, regarded not; 
Sink to the level of thy lot, 
In pity sink, and be forgot. 

Isa Cbaig-Kvox. 


Oh ! tell me the form of the soft summer air, 

That tosses so gently the curls of my hair ! 

It breathes on my lip, and it fans my warm cheek, 

Yet gives me no answer, tho' often I speak. 

I feel it play o'er me refreshing and kind, 

Yet I cannot touch it— I'm blind ! oh ! I'm blind ! 

And music, what is it? and where does it dwell? 
I sink, and I mount, with its cadenoe and swell; 
While touch'd to my heart with its deep thrill- 
ing strain, 
Till pleasure, till pleasure is turning to pain. 
What brightness of hue is with music combined ? 
Will any one tell me? I'm blind 2 oh ! I'm blind ! 

The perfumes of flowers that are hovering nigh, 
"What are they? On what kind of wings do they 

Are not they sweet angels, who come to delight 
A poor little boy, that knows not of sight? 
The sun, moon, and stars are to me undefined, 
Oh! tell me what light is: I'm blind 1 oh! I'm 


Haxvah F. Gould. 

i Appropriate and beautiful mvsio, oompowd bj W. 
R. Dempster for this song, U published by R. Cooks It 
pa, London 





The Countess yon Werbe became a widow 
very young. Her husband was old and rich 
when he asked her in marriage. She rejected 
his addressee, and wept in the arms of her 
father. Her father laughed at her tears. He 
did not conceive how it was possible to reject 
the count, and his daughter did conceive it. 
Her father reckoned the estates of the count, 
and she reckoned his years. 

She had sometime before become acquainted 
with Herr von Welt, who had fewer estates, 
and fewer years over his head, danced well, 
talked tenderly, and loved ardently. But the 
count was pressing — the father severe — the 
Herr von Welt was poor, and the count rich. 
She continued to love the Herr von Welt, and 
gave the count her hand. , 

The count had no children. The gout and 
a cough reminded him of temperance, and he 
retired in the arms of Hymen to one of his 
estates. The young countess lived in solitude; 
the count coughed worse, and remained with- 
out children. His old age and his infirmities 
increased every day; in two years he left the 
world and his estates, and the young wife was 
a widow. 

She laid aside her white dresses and put on 
black. The countess was fair — the dark dress 
set off her complexion — mourning became her. 

The count left her all his property: but old 
people are often fantastical! According to a 
singular condition of the will, if she married 
again, the greatest part of the property reverted 
to one of his relations, living at the residence. 

Herr von Welt hastened to comfort the 
widow. He found her beautiful, and she found 
him as amiable as before. He talked all day 
long without coughing, and she listened to 
him all day long without yawning. He could 
relate a thousand little anecdotes, and the 
countess was curious. He spoke of the torch 
of love and his own feelings, and the countess 
felt. He described the torments of separation, 
and the anxieties which had martyred him, 
and the countess was compassionate. He lay 
at her feet; protestations of his passion streamed 
from his lips, and his tears upon her hand, 
and the countess loved; but she thought with 
tears on the conditions of the will. She was 
melancholy. It was already six weeks since 
the count, had bid adieu to his gout for ever, 
and grief appeared now for the first time on 
the countenance of the countess. 

"My dear friend," said Herr von Welt to 
her in the morning, "you torment yourself 
with doubts, and it remains in your own power 
to put an end to them." 

" How so?" said the countess. 

"You believe in the possibility," continued 
he, "of my ceasing to love you; you consider 
the band of the feelings not strong enough to 
withstand time; but, my dear friend, how easy 
it is for the hand of the priest to join ours 
together; you will then be tranquillized." 

"Have you then forgotten the will?" said 
she weeping. 

" My love, the question now is only about 
making you easy. We will be married pri- 
vately. You and I, the priest — and love will 
hear our oath." 

" But you see, there must be a priest," said 
she, nastily. 

"Let me manage that," said Herr von Welt. 
" Here in the neighbourhood lives an old 
man, who is borne down by poverty and close 
upon a century of years. He is as worthy as 
the times in which he was born, and as silent 
as the tomb which will soon receive him. He 
will carry our secret with him* to the grave, 
and we will bury it in our bosoms." 

The countess threw herself into his arms, 
and entreated him to hasten. Welt did so. 
The conscience of the priest was tranquillized; 
twilight, and a distant summer-house, con- 
cealed them from the eye of suspicion, and 
Welt embraced with rapture — his wife. 

A year passed away; she no longer looked 
after him with inquietude when he rode out, 
and his eyes were no longer fixed on her window 
when he returned; she could yawn when ho 
related, and he sometimes felt ennui though 
she was sitting by him — but they lived together. 
The servants had observed familiarities not 
warranted by friendship; yet their attachment 
did not appear to be ardent enough to account 
well for their being together. A year had 
made them feel secure, and they no longer paid 
that strict attention which they did at first to 
their conduct and conversation. People began 
to conjecture, to doubt, at last to believe, and 
after a time to impart their sentiments to each 

The Count von Werbe, who was to inherit 
the property in default of the condition of the 
will being observed, was at this time out of 
favour with the prince, through the intrigues 
of his numerous creditors, and had left the 
residence with his wife, to take refuge in the 
arms of nature. He had purchased the situa- 
tion of grand chamberlain to the prince — had 
squandered his property by giving balls and 


f&tes, and destroying his health by dancing 
and dancers. His wife was formerly a lady of 
honour — people had formerly paid homage to 
her charms — she was formerly surrounded by 
a circle of admirers, but the boundaries of this 
circle grew smaller, and it was now many years 
since she had found the residence empty and tire- 
some, and the taste of the times quite spoiled. 

Their estate joined that of the countess. 
The count attended with much interest to the 
suspicions which were imparted to him, and 
hastened to the castle of the counters to pay 
his respects to her as a relative, and to convince 
himself of the truth of the opinion of his neigh- 
bours; but he did not convince himself. The 
countess was prepared for his visit. The Herr 
von Welt was tender and attentive — his eyes 
riveted on her. The countess showed all the 
cordiality of friendship and the attentions of 
a warmer affection. The count returned home 

" Dear Augusta/' said the count, as he 
entered the chamber of his wife, "our neigh- 
bours are not prudent. It is only necessary 
to see them both to give no credit to the tale 
they have amused us with. I was there two 
hours, and he had not the courage to come 
within three steps of her." 

" But that proves for us," cried the countess; 
' 'he would have sat at one end of the room 
and she at the other. " 

" Not so, my love," said the count; "respect 
seemed to keep him at a distance. Their eyes 
sought each other — her countenance appeared 
to complain of my presence. Then the interest 
with which they spoke of each other! No, my 
love, wc see each other — we talk to each other, 
but believe me, on my word they are not 
married. " 

"But," said the countess, "our neighbours 
haveeyes; did you never, then, observe nothing 
which can justify their opinion?" 

"My love," replied the count, "you may 
suppose that I observed everything very atten- 
tively. It is not my fault if our creditors are 
not paid." 

"Trifles often betray us," said the countess. 
"Reflect a little; did she not once drop her 
pocket-handkerchief? " 

" Her pocket-handkerchief?" said the count, 
and considered a little; "no, but her fan fell 
down. " 

"And she picked it up again?" said the 
countess, quickly. 

"Truly yes, she picked it up," said the 
count, looking at her with astonishment. 

" And he was there, and suffered it?" said 
the countess. 

The count looked thoughtful — she struck 
him playfully on the shoulder: "Believe me, 
good count, our neighbours are in the right" 

"When I consider well," said the count, "it 
appears to me probable; she was very well 
dressed; her toilette was certainly a few months 
behind the fashion, but we are in the country, 
and I was astonished at her taste." 

"And he?" asked the countess. 

" He held a long dissertation upon taste: he 
went through the whole history of fashions, 
from the fig-leaf of the first lady to the last 
gala-dresB of the grand-duchess. He particu- 
larly admired the Grecian costume." 

"And was she dressed like a Greek?" said 
the countess quickly. 

"Oh no," said the count: "she was true 
German — buried up to the chin." 

" They are man and wife," said the countess, 
throwing herself into his arms. 

" But her eyes," said the count, shaking his 

' ' You are a keen observer," said the countess. 
" What proofs do you wish to have? The lover 
would have fallen to the ground with the fan, 
the husband remained quietly seated; the lover 
would have had eyes only to admire, the 
husband had time for a long conversation; the 
lover would have been delighted to see a Ger- 
man woman he admired dressed in the German 
fashion, and the husband praised the Greek 
women. My dear count, are you not aware of 
all that?" 

The count laughed. "Well," said lie, "we 
are invited to-morrow to our neighbour the 
chamberlain; the Herr von Welt and the coun- 
tess will likewise be there. In a large society 
we fancy ourselves less remarked, and give 
ourselves up more to our ease; we can therefore 
both observe them. You may be in the right, 
but her countenance, and her eyes. I have 
had the honour, during the last fifteen years, 
of presenting many married men to his royal 
highness, and I know mankind well! Matri- 
mony has a peculiar look, something like de- 
spair — if you are right, my knowledge of 
mankind is good for nothing. " 

The next day all the company was assembled 
at the chamberlain's except the countess and 
Herr von Welt. The chamberlain was im- 
patient, all eyes turned toward the road; at 
last a cloud of dust was observed, and then 
the carriage of the countess driving quickly 
up. She was looking out of the right window 
of the carriage. Welt, leaning on his arm, was 
looking out of the other. The lady of the 
grand chamberlain touched her husband and 
smiled; he turned round good-humouredly, and 



laid in a loir voice, " I believe yon are right." 
The carriage stopped; Welt sprang out, the 
servants assisted the countess; he stood quietly 
by and brushed the dust from his coat ' ' They 
are man and wife/' said the grand chamberlain's 
lady softly. 

"Yes, yes, I begin to doubt my knowledge 
of mankind," said the count. 

The countess made excuses for being so late; 
Welt knit his brow in vexation. Dinner was 
announced; the master of the house offered his 
arm to the lady of the grand chamberlain. 
The grand chamberlain and Welt, the countess 
and a strange lady remained. Welt offered 
his arm to the strange lady, and left the coun- 
tess to the grand chamberlain. His wife looked 
back and smiled; the grand chamberlain 
nodded significantly. The society was gay. 
Welt sat between the countess and the strange 
lady. He conversed with the stranger on 
fashion and feeling, and left the countess to be 
amused by the grand chamberlain. The latter 
imiled, his wife looked at him good-humour- 
edly. After dinner Welt approached the 
countess. He talked of the influence of the 
body oyer the mind, which occasioned satiety 
in everything. The countess yawned. "That 
is the body," said she. Welt continued calmly 
talking, and the body of tne countess yawned 

The grand chamberlain stole up to his lady. 
"They are man and wife," she whispered. 

"It is certain," said the grand chamberlain. 

The chamberlain proposed a walk in the 
garden, and* the company went A narrow 
plank led to a fine waterfall. The grand 
chamberlain had brought his vertigo with him 
from the residence; the chamberlain was too 
lusty to trust himself on the plank, and the 
ladies were timid. Welt sought to tranquillize 
them. He escorted them over the plank; but 
he offered his services last to the countess. 

The grand chamberlain stood smiling on one 
aide, and his wife stood smiling at him from 
the other. It was evening, and the company 
hastened back to the house. The countess was 
behind, Welt near her. He walked on thought- 
fully; she followed him fatigued. 

The grand chamberlain pressed the hand of 
his wife. The carriages were ordered; the 
party separated, and hastened home. 

"You are a clever woman, mj r love," said 
the grand chamberlain; "it is certain they are 
man and wife." 

"Now, my dear," said the countess, "only 
take the pains to get certain proofs." 

"Leave me alone," said the count "The 
thing is clear, and when that is the case! there 

vol. m. 

must be proofs." Accordingly he went round 
the neighbourhood to obtain more information; 
but he wanted proof, and could only procure 
conjectures. People had heard this, and seen 
that; one referred to another; and when he 
wanted proofs, the one had said nothing, and 
the other had heard nothing. He came back 
sorrowful. "My dear," said he, "I return 
just as rich in conjectures, and as poor in 

"Indeed!" said the countess. "Can the 
people yet doubt that they are married?" 

"Alas! no," said the count; "but no one 
can prove it However, I will try what I can 
do; the day after to-morrow Herr von Welt 
has business in the residence; I will send im- 
mediately to my lawyer. We must take advan- 
tage of the moment, for conjectures lead to 

The lawyer was called; they were shut up 
together, and on the second day he drove to 
the chateau of the countess. 

"All alone?" said the grand chamberlain, 
as he entered the room with an appearance of 

"Herr von Welt is in town," said the coun- 
tess; "he will be sorry that he was not at 
home when he finds that you have been here." 

The grand chamberlain took a seat near her; 
he admired the arrangement of the house, and 
some pictures which were in the room. 

"My husband was a connoisseur," said the 
countess. " The collection of paintings he has 
made proves his taste." 

"Ah! his taste proves other things still 
more," said the count, smiling; and he kissed 
her hand. "But he was an extraordinary 
man; he had caprices, which he showed even 
to the last; his will proves that" 

The countess looked at him surprised. The 
grand chamberlain appeared not to observe it, 
and continued, "So young as you are, tore- 
main a widow can only be the caprice of an 
old jealous husband, who wishes to torment 
you after his death. The poor man forgot that 
the heart is very susceptible at your age." 

The countess cast down her eyes and blushed. 

"Herr von Welt is an old acquaintance, at 
least I think so," said the grand chamberlain. 

" I have known him above four years," said 
the countess embarrassed. 

"He was remarked at court for his talents 
and affability," continued the grand chamber- 
lain, smiling, and his smile was expressive; 
" but the last year he has been quite lost to the 
court and to the world. How is it possible for 
him not to forget the caprices of an old man 
who is dead?" 



The countess was evidently more embar- 

"Why were you not sincere with me?" said 
he, softly, and took her hand. "Tour secret 
is known in the neighbourhood, why would 
you conceal it from me?" 

The countess started up terrified. "Is it 
possible?" said she — and her voice faltered. 
"Can the old man have — Oh, count! what do 
you know — what is known?" 

"Do you think," said the count, "that I 
watch my advantage so servilely?" and hi* 
tone was tender and sincere. " I will aec and 
hear nothing. Enjoy in peace what you liave 
dearly enough bought, by a sacrifice of two 
years. But, dear counters, I have children, 
who may hereafter complain of my pliability 
and indulgence. I must therefore do some- 
thing to fulfil the duty of a father. Another 
in my place would here require—he would 
lay before you proofs on which to ground his 
claims, but I spare your heart, and respect 
your secret. The friend is silent — it is the 
father only entreats." 

"Alas!" cried the countess, and tears 
streamed from her eyes, " what do you require 
of me?" 

The grand chamberlain drew a paper out of 
his pocket " You know," he continued calmly, 
"that my property is greatly embarrassed. 
Your husband left you large estates, and a 
great fortune; I am silent on his will, of which 
I make no use; but this wound which I give 
to my interest must not continue bleeding in 
my children. Sign, therefore, this writing, 
my dear friend. You undertake therein to 
discharge a part of my debts, which have been 
occasioned by my service in the state, and 
your secret will ever remain concealed." 

He fetched a pen. The countess in the 
meantime recovered her presence of mind. 

"Allow me," said she, more tranquilly, "to 
request that you will present me the proofs on 
which you ground your suspicions?" 

"Why so?" said he, smiling, "the govern- 
ment will, perhaps, soon communicate some 
to you." 

"The government?" said the countess, terri- 

"You know," continued he, "the steady 
course of justice; you will be cited. It is cer- 
tainly only a form, but still unpleasant. You 
must appear and take your oath." 

"Oh heavens!" cried the countess, and her 
voice faltered again. 

"You take your oath," said the grand 
chamberlain, "an4 remain in possession of 
your property, " 

The countess seized the pen hastily. "Your 
children shall lose nothing," said she, and 
signed. The grand chamberlain kissed the 
hand which returned him the paper, and went 
gaily to his carriage. 

Herr von Welt returned the* next day. " We 
are betrayed," said the countess, and threw 
herself weeping into his arms. 

" Betrayed?" said he, astonished. 

"The old priest must have chattered," said 
the countess. 

"Indeed!" says Welt, "he has not spoken 
these nine months, for he is dead." 
I The countess looked confounded. She related 
| to him the visit of the grand chamberlain, his 
> behaviour, and her signature, 
i "That is a deception," cried Welt, "he has 
taken you by surprise; but he shall not long 
enjoy his triumph." He hastened out of the 
room, ordered his horse, and rode to the grand 
chamberlain. The count came to meet him on 
the steps. * 

" 1 have a word to say to you, count," said 
Welt; "but I should wish it to be in private." 

"A word also with you, for it is time to ait 
down to dinner, and you must be our guest," 
said the grand chamberlain affably, and led 
him into the room. 

"Count," said Welt, "you expressed a sus- 
picion yesterday to the countess, in which I 
am concerned." 

"Quite right," replied the count; "people 
told me of these conjectures, and I repeated 
them to the countess." 

"Count!" said Welt, "by what can you 
prove j'our conjectures?" 

"We will talk about it after dinner," said 
the grand chamberlain; "it is already on the 
, table. Our conversing longer may occasion 
' surprise, and you do not, of course, wish that 
! we should furnish the people with more ma- 
terial* for conjectures?" 

Welt bowed embarrassed. "After dinner, 
then," said he, and his tone was somewhat 
milder. The grand chamberlain opened the 
dining-room door, and introduced him to his 

Two sons of the count were at table with 
them. The youngest, the mothers darling, 
sat next her, and amused himself by getting 
under the table to pinch the calf of his father s 
leg. The count drew up his feet several times, 
making a wry face ; but the strength of the 
I darling seemed to increase, for he clung like a 
crab to the calf. The grand chamberlain at 
last kicked him from him with an exclamation, 
and the darling fell screaming at his mother's 
i feet, 



"The child grows unbearable/' cried the 
grand chamberlain, as he rubbed the calf of 
his leg, which was smarting with pain; and 
the mother wiped the tears from the cheeks of 
the little one. "Poor child!" said she, "has 
he hurt yon?" 

"Go on spoiling him/' said the count, "and 
he will one day give your heart as much pain 
as he has now done my calf." 

"Only do not torment him," said the mother, 
stroking his cheeks; "he must be allowed to 
grow like the tree of the field. It was so that 
Jean Jacques wished boys to be educated." 

" But he is to be a gentleman of the cham- 
ber," said the father, "and you will at last 
make a Jean Jacques of the boy. He will then 
be good for nothing at most but to be a stable- 

"When the children are grown up," said 
she, coldly, "you may present them at court; 
that you may understand, but do not interfere 
in their education. You do not wish the 
tender plants to wither before their time." 

The grand chamberlain was silent, and 
looked vexed; the countess expatiated on the 
virtues of her children, and the cruelties of 
certain fathers, who had no steady principle of 

The storm subsided by degrees, and they 
rose from table. Welt impatiently reminded 
the count of his promise, who conducted him 
into his room. 

"Herr von Welt," said the grand chamber- 
lain, as he begged him to be seated, "am I 

Herr von Welt looked at him with astonish- 

"I do not know what this question means, 

"Ton were not a witness at our marriage; 
you did not accompany us to the altar: may I 
be allowed to ask by what means you know we 
are married?" 

"I think you must be joking," said Welt; 
"how I know? — people have told me so." 

"Ton consider that as a proof, then?" said 
the grand chamberlain quickly. 

"You embarrass me," said Welt; "I knew 
it before I had the honour of seeing you, and 
my eyes convinced me." 

"What have you seen, then?" asked the 

"Ohl" said Welt, "there are certain trifles 
which soon discover that connection. One is 
more familiar together, one is not so attentive 
to the choice of expressions when speaking 
together, and sometimes one differs about the 
mode of education." 

"Precisely so," continued the grand cham- 
berlain, "the ardour of first love is gone by, 
but we live together, we bestow our attention 
on strangers, and leave our wives to be enter- 
tained by others: we walk onwards lost in 
thought, and forget that a wife is following." 

"Count!" said Welt embarrassed, "you 
describe the most minute features of the pic- 
ture. But we have digressed from the main 
point of our conversation." 

"And I think we have been constantly dis- 
cussing it," said the grand chamberlain; he 
went to his bureau and took out a paper — 
"will you have the kindness to deliver this to 
the countess? You may read it, Herr von 
Welt; it is the ratification of my promises. 
You see I therein renounce my claim according 
to the will." 

"The countess will be astonished at your 
generosity," said Welt; " but she delivered you 
a contract yesterday which she requires back." 

"Indeed!" said the grand chamberlain, 
"then I beg you to return me my writing. — 
But, Herr von Welt, you have withdrawn your- 
self entirely from court. — Do you know that 
people have made observations upon it ? Thence 
arise conjectures; you must have rendered a 
few people jealous. I give you warning, my 
dear friend; no one can hurt you, but they 
seek to revenge themselves on the countess." 

"How is that possible?" said Welt, aston- 

"I am entreated to ground a complaint on 
the conjectures I have heard : I have not done 
so, but have explained my apprehensions to 
the countess. The ecclesiastical court, which 
puts the consciences of his royal highness's 
subjects to proof, can put her upon her oath." 

Welt looked over the paper much agitated. 
" I will give your renunciation to the countess," 
said he, getting up. 

"And if she wishes her contract again," said 
the grand chamberlain, smiling, "it lies here 
amongst my papers." 

"Count," said Welt, "the countess will not 
be behind you in generosity. Her property 
comes from her husband, who bore your name, 
and I am convinced she will be happy to appro- 
priate a part of the property to support the 
splendour of his family." 

He took a friendly leave of the count, who 
accompanied him to the hall door. 

"Will you not soon travel?" said the grand 
chamberlain, as they descended the steps. 

"Possibly very soon/' said Welt; "I mean 
to accompany the countess, who is anxious to 
be in a warmer climate." 

"Well, the observations you make on your 



journey cannot be otherwise than instructive," 
said the grand chamberlain. "But, my dear 
friend/' he continued, "when in London or at 
Madrid you see a man sitting opposite a lady, 
and the lady lets fall her fan, and he does not 
stoop to pick it up, or when he speaks learnedly, 
and the lady yawns — and they yawn at Madrid 
as well as here — then believe me, they are 
man — and wife." 

Herr yon Welt threw himself on his horse. 

"Ride fast," said the count laughing; 
"make haste home; a gallop will confound the 
neighbours, who always walk their horses home 
to their wires." 

Welt laughed, and spurred his animal. The 
grand chamberlain soon after satisfied his 
creditors, and returned to court. 


Twas whan the harvest moou came slowly up, 
Broad, red, and glorious o'er dark grove* of pine ; 

In the htuh'd ere, when closed the flow'ret's cup, 
And the blue grape hung dewy on the vine, 
Forth from a porch where tendrill'd plants entwine, 

Weaving a shadowy bower of odorous things, 
Rich voioes came, telling that there were met 

Beauty and youth and mirth, whose buoyant wings. 
Soaring aloft o'er thoughts that gloom and fret. 
Gave man release from care, or lured him to forget 

And, as the moon rose higher In the sky, 
Casting a uiimio day on all around, 

Lighting dim garden paths, through branches high, 
That cast their chequer'd shadows on the ground ; 
Light maidens, dancing with elastic bound, 

Like miry revellers, in one place were seen ; 
And gentle friends were slowly pacing where 

The dark, thick laurels formed a bowery screen ; 
And merry children, like the moonlight fair 
With their wild pealing laughter AlTd the perfumed air. 

Another hour,— and in a lighted room, 
Where glorious pictures lined the lofty wall 

They sate in social ease :— no brow of gloom. 
No sadden'd, downcast eye, that might recall 
Borrowful musing, dimm'd the festival. 

It was in honour of a gallant youth 
Those friends were met,— the friends he dearest loved,— 

All wishing he were there— and well, in sooth, 
Might his gray father unto tears be moved, 
listening to his grateful praise, — his tears were unre- 

Her bright eyes sparkling with delight and lore, 
Told his young sister of his travels wide, 

Of pleasant sojourn in some palmy grove, 
And Indian cities in their gorgeous pride; 

Of desert isles where savage tribes abide, 

And glorious shores and regions of old fame : 
Then were his trophies from all lands display*, 

Belt, baraoan. and bow of wondrous frame. 
High nodding crest, and deadly battle blado. 
And birds of curious note in glittering plumes axnsj'd. 

And, in her Joyful phrase, she told how he. 
Ere their next meeting, o'er the wave would t 

Like a glad spirit, to partake their glee, 
And oast delight and interest round his 1 
Gaily she told, how sitting in that room 

When the next harvest-moon lit up the pane, 
He should himself his marvellous tales relate. 

—Alas ! encircled by the Indian main, 
That night beneath a tamarind-tree he sat 
Heart sick with thoughts of home and r^^-gn on 
his late. 

The heavy sea broke thundering on the shore, 
The dark, dark night had gatherM in the sky. 

And from the desert mountains came the roar 
Of ravening creatures, and a wild, shrill cry 
From the soared night-birds slowly wheeling by.— 

And there he lay, beneath the spreading tree, 
Feverish and faint, and over heart and brain 

Bush'd burning love, and sense of misery, 
And wild, impatient grief; and longings vain 
Within his blessed home to be at rest again. 

Another year— and the relentless wave 
Had wash'd away the white bones from the shore 5— 

And, mourning for his son, down to the grave 
Had gone the old man with his locks all hoar;— 
The household festival was held no more ;— 

And when the harvest-moon came forth again. 
O'er the dark pines, in red autumnal state, 

Her light fell streaming through the window pane 
Of that old room, where his young sister sate 
With her down-droop'd head, and heart all dnsoUto. 
Mart Howxtt. 


I hope that you are not an early riser. If yon 
are, throw this into the fire — if not, read it. 
But I beg your pardon; it is impossible that 
you can be an early riser; and if I thought 
so, I must be the most impertinent man in 
the world; whereas, it is universally known 
that I am politeness and urbanity themselves. 
Well then, pray what is this virtue of early 
rising, that one hears so much about? Let us 
consider it, in the first place, according to the 
seasons of the year — secondly, according to 
peoples' profession — and thirdly, according to 
their character. 

Let us begin with spring — aay the month of 



March. Tou rise early in the month of March, 
about five o'clock. It is somewhat darkish — 
at least gloomyish — dampish — rawish — cold- 
ish — icyish — snowyish. You rub your eye» 
and look about for your breeches. You find 
them, and after hopping about on one leg for 
about five minutes, you get them on. It 
would be absurd to use a light during that 
season of the year, at such an advanced hour 
as five minutes past five, so you attempt to 
shave by the spring dawn. If your nose es- 
capes, you are a lucky man; but dim as it is, 
you can see the blood trickling down in a hun- 
dred streams from your gashed and mutilated 
chin. I will leave your imagination to conjec- 
ture what sort of neckcloth will adorn your 
gullet, tied under such circumstances. How- 
ever, grant the possibility of your being dressed 
— and down you come, not to the parlour, or 
your study — for you would not be so barbar- 
ous — but to enjoy the beauty of the morning, 
— as Mr. Leigh Hunt would say, "out of doors." 
The moment you pop your phiz one inch beyond 
the front wall, a scythe seems to cut you right 
across the eyes, or a great blash of sleet clogs 
up your mouth, or a hail shower rattles away 
at you, till you take up a position behind the 
door. Why, in goodness' name, did I leave 
my bed? is the first cry of nature — a question 
to which no answer can be given, but a long 
chitter grueing through the frame. You get 
obstinate, and out you go. I give you every 
possible advantage. You are in the country, 
and walking with your eyes, I will not say open, 
but partly so, out of a country gentleman's 
house worth five thousand a year. It is now 
a quarter past five, and a fine sharp blustering 
morning, just like the season. In going dawn 
stairs, the ice not having been altogether melted 
by the night's rain, whack you come upon your 
posteriors, with your toes pointing up to hea- 
ven, your hands pressed against the globe, and 
your whole body bob, bob, bobbing, one step 
after another, till you come to a full stop or 
period, in a circle of gravel. On getting up 
and shaking yourself you involuntarily look 
up to the windows to see if any eye is upon 
you — and perhaps you dimly discern, through 
the blind mist of an intolerable headache, the 
old housekeeper in a flannel night-cap, and 
her hands clasped in the attitude of prayer, 
turning up the whites of her eyes at this inex- 
plicable sally of the strange gentleman. Well/ 
my good sir, what is it that you propose to 
do? will you take a walk in the garden and 
eat a little fruit — that is to say, a cabbage 
leaf, or a Jerusalem artichoke? But the gar- 
dener is not quite so great a goose as yourself, 

and is in bed with his wife and six children. 
So I leave you knocking with your shoulder 
against the garden gate — in the intervals of 
reflection on the virtue of early rising in spring. 

March, April, and May are gone, and it is 
summer — so if you are an early riser, up, 
you lazy dog, for it is between three and four 
o'clock. How beautiful is the sunrise! What 
a truly intellectual employment it is to stand 
for an hour with your mouth wide open, like 
a stuck pig, gazing on the great orb of dayt 
Then the choristers of the grove have their 
mouths open likewise; cattle are also lowing — 
and if there be a dog-kennel at hand, I warrant 
the pack are enjoying the benefits of early 
rising as well as the best of you, and yelping 
away like furies before breakfast The dew 
too is on the ground, excessively beautiful no 
doubt — and all the turkeys, how-towdies, ducks, 
and guinea-fowls, are moping, waddling, and 
strutting about, in a manner equally affecting 
and picturesque, while the cawing of an adja- 
cent rookery invites you to take a stroll in the 
grove, from which you return with an epau- 
lette on each shoulder. You look at your 
watch, and find it is at least five hours till break- 
fast — so you sit down and write a sonnet to 
June, or a scene of a tragedy; — you find that 
the sonnet has seventeen lines — and that the 
dramatis persona;, having once been brought 
upon the stage, will not budge. While reduc- 
ing the sonnet to the bakers' dozen, or giving 
the last kick to your heroine, as she walks off 
with her arm extended heavenwards, you 
hear the good old family bell warning the 
other inmates to doff their night-caps — and 
huddling up your papers, you rush into the 
breakfast-parlour. The urn is diffusing its 
grateful steam in clouds far more beautiful 
than any that adorned the sky. The squire 
and his good lady make their entree with 
hearty faces, followed by a dozen hoydens and 
hobbletehoys — and after the first course of rolls, 
muffins, dry and butter toast, has gone to that 
bourne from which the fewer travellers that 
return the better — in come the new-married 
couple, the young baronet and his blushing 
bride, who, with that infatuation common to 
a thinking people, have not seen the sun rise 
for a month past, and look perfectly incorrigi- 
ble on the subject of early rising. 

It is now that incomprehensible season of 
the year, autumn. Nature is now brown, red, 
yellow, and everything but green. These, I 
understand, are the autumnal tints so much 
admired. Up then and enjoy them. Which- 
ever way a man turns his face early in the 
morning, from the end of August till that of 



October — the wind seems to be blowing direct 
from that quarter. Feeling the rain beating 
against your back, you wonder what the deuce 
it can have to do to beat also against your 
face. Then, what is the rain of autumn in 
this country — Scotland ? Is it rain, or mist, 
or sleet, or hail, or snow, or what in the name 
of all that is most abhorrent to a lunged ani- 
mal is it? You trust to a greatcoat — Scotch 
plaid — umbrella — clogs, &c Ac &c. ; but of 
what use would they be to you if you were 
plopped into the boiler of a steam-engine? 
Just so in a morning of autumn. You go 
out to look at the reapers. Why the whole 
corn for twenty miles round is laid flat — ten 
million runlets are intersecting the country 
much farther than fifty eyes can reach — the 
roads are rivers, the meadows lakes — the moors 
seas — nature is drenched, and on your return 
home, it indeed you ever return (for the chance 
i* that you will be drowned at least a dozen 
times before that), you are traced up to your 
bed-room by a stream of mod and gravel, 
which takes the housemaid an hour to mop 
up, and when fold after fold of cold, clammy, 
sweaty fetid plaids, benjamins, coats, waist- 
coats, flannels, shirts, breeches, drawers, wor- 
steds, gaiters, clogs, shoes, Ac., have been 
peeled off your saturated body and limbs, and 
are laid in one misty steaming heap upon an 
unfortunate chair, there, sir, you are standing 
in the middle of the floor, in puria naiurcUibus, 
or, as Dr. Scott would say, in statu quo, a 
memorable and illustrious example of the glory 
and gain of early rising. 

It is winter — six o'clock — you are up — you 
Ray so, and as I have never had any reason to 
doubt your veracity, I believe you. By what 
instinct, or by what power resembling instinct, 
acquired by long, painful, and almost despair- 
ing practice, you have come at last to be able 
to find the basin to wash your hands, must 
for ever remain a mystery. Then how the 
hand must circle round and round the inner 
region of the wash-hand stand, before, in a 
blessed moment, it comes in contact with a 
lump of brown soap. But there are other 
vessels of china, or porcelain, more difficult to 
find than the basin: for as the field is larger, 
so is the search more tedious. Inhuman man! 
many a bump do the bed-posts endure from 
thy merciless and unrelenting head. Loud 
is the crash of clothes-screen, dressing-table, 
mirror, chairs, stools, and articles of bed- room 
furniture, seemingly placed for no other pur- 
pose than to be overturned. If there is a cat 
in the room, that cat is the climax of comfort. 
Hissing and snuffing, it claws your naked legs, 

and while stooping down to feel if she has 
fetched blood, smack goes your head through 
the window, which you have been believing 
quite on the other side of the room; for geo- 
graphy is gone — the points of the compass, are 
as hidden as at the North Pole — and on madly 
rushing at a venture out of a glimmer supposed 
to be the door, you go like a battering-ram 
against a great vulgar white-painted clothes- 
chest, and fall down exhausted on the uncar- 
petted and Bliddery floor. Now, thou Matutine 
Rose of Christmas, tell me if there be any ex- 
aggeration here? But you find the door — so 
much the worse, for there is a passage leading 
to a stair, and head over heels you go, till yon 
collect your senses and your limbs on the bear- 
skin in the lobby. 

You are a philosopher, I presume, so yon enter 
your study — and a brown study it is with a 
vengeance. But you are rather weak than 
wicked, so you have not ordered poor Griczy 
to quit her chaff and kindle your fire. She 
is snoring undisturbed below. Where is the 
tinder-box ? You think you recollect the pre- 
cise spot where you placed it at ten o'clock the 
night before, for, being an early riser-up, yon 
are also an early lier-down. You clap your 
blundering fist upon the ink-stand, and you 
hear it spurting over all your beautiful and 
invaluable manuscripts — and perhaps over the 
title-page of some superb book of prints, which 
Mr. Blackwood, or Mr. Miller, or Mr. Con- 
stable, has lent you to look at, and to return 
unscathed. The tinder-box is found, and the 
fire is kindled — that is to say, it deludes yon 
with a faithless smile; and after puffing and 
blowing till the breath is nearly out of your body, 
you heave a pensive sigh for the bellows. You 
find them on a nail, but the leather is burst 
and the spout broken, and nothing is emitted 
but a short asthmatic pluff, beneath which the 
last, faint spark lingeringly expires — and, like 
Moses when the candle went out, you find your- 
self once more in the dark. After an hour's 
execration, you have made good your point, 
and with hands all covered with tallow (for 
depend upon it, you have broken and smashed 
the candle, and had sore to do to prop it up with 
paper in a socket too full of ancient grease) , 
sit down to peruse or to indite some immortal 
work, an oration of Cicero or Demosthenes, or 
an article for Ebony. Where are the snuffers? 
up-stairs in your bed-room. You snuff the 
long wick with your fingers, and a dreary 
streak of black immediately is drawn from 
top to bottom of the page of the beautiful Ox- 
ford edition of Cicero. You see the words, and 
stride along the cold dim room in the sulks. Your 


object has been to improve your mind — your 
moral and intellectual nature — and along with 
the rest, no doubt, your temper. You there- 
fore bite your lip, and shake your foot, and 
knit your brows, and feel yourself to be a most 
amiable, rational, and intelligent young gentle- 

In the midst of these morning studies, from 
which the present and all future ages will 
derive so much benefit, the male and female 
servants begin to bestir themselves, and a 
vigorous knocking is heard in the kitchen of 
a poker brandished by a virago against the 
great, dull, keeping-coal in the grate. Doors 
begin to bang, and there is heard a clattering 
of pewter. Then comes the gritty sound of 
sand, as the stairs and lobby are getting made 
decent; and, not to be tedious, all the unde- 
finable stir, bustle, uproar, and stramash of a 
general clearance. Your door is opened every 
half minute, and formidable faces thrust in, 
half incuriosity, and half in sheer impertinence, 
by valets, butlers, grooms, stable-boys, cooks, 
and scullions, each shutting the door with his 
or her own peculiar bang; while whisperings, 
and titterings, and horse laughter, and loud 
guffaws, are testifying the opinion formed by 
these amiable domestics of the conformation 
of the upper story of the early riser. On rush- 
ing into the breakfast parlour, the butt end of 
a mop or broom is thrust into your mouth, as, 
heedless of mortal man, the mutched mawsey 
is what she calls dusting the room; and, stagger 
where you will, you come upon something 
Nirly; for a man who leaves his bed at six of a 
winter morning is justly reckoned a suspicious 
character, and thought to be no better than 
he should be. But, as Mr. Hogg says, I will 
pursue the parallel no farther. 

I have so dilated and descanted on the first 
head of my discourse, that I must be brief on 
the other two, namely, the connection between 
early rising and the various professions, and 
between the same judicious habit and the 
peculiar character of individuals. 

Reader, are you a Scotch advocate? You 
say you are. Well, are you such a confounded 
ninny as to leave a good warm bed at four in 
the morning, to study a case on which you 
will make a much better speech if you never 
study it at all, and for which you have already 
received £2, 2s. Do you think Jeffrey hops 
out of bed at that hour? No, no, catch him 
doing that Unless, therefore, you have more 
than a fourth part of his business (for, without 
knowing you, I predict that you have no more 
than a fourth part of his talents), lie in bed 
till half-past eight If you are not in the ! 

Parliament House till ten, nobody will miss 
you. Header, are you a clergyman? — A man 
who has only to preach an old sermon of his 
old father need not, surely, feel himself called 
upon by the stern voice of duty to put on his 
small-clothes before eight in the summer, and 
nine in winter. Reader, are you a half-pay 
officer? — Then sleep till eleven; for well- 
thumbed is your copy of the Army List, and 
you need not be always studying. Reader, are 
you an editor? — Then dose till dinner; for the 
devils will be let loose upon thee in the even- 
ing, and thou must then correct all thy slips. 

But I am getting stupid — somewhat sleepy; 
for, notwithstanding this philippic against 
early rising, I was up this morning before ten 
o'clock; so I must conclude. One argument 
in favour of early rising, I must, however, 
notice. We are told that we ought to lie down 
with the sun, and rise with that luminary. 
Why? is it not an extremely hard case to be 
obliged to go to bed whenever the sun chooses 
to do so? — What have I to do with the sun — 
when he goes down, or when he rises up? 
When the sun sets at a reasonable hour, as he 
does during a short period in the middle of 
summer, I have no objection to set likewise, 
soon after; and, in like manner, when he takes 
a rational nap, as in the middle of winter, I 
don't care if now and then I rise along with 
him. But I will not admit the general prin- 
ciple; we move in different spheres. But if 
the sun never fairly sets at all for six months, 
which they say he does not very far north, are 
honest people on that account to sit up all that 
time for him? That will never do. 

Finally, it is taken for granted by early 
risers that early rising is a virtuous habit, 
and that they are all a most meritorious and 
prosperous set of people. I object to both 
clauses of the bill, none but a knave or an 
idiot — I will not mince the matter — rises early, 
if he can help it Early risers are generally 
milk-sop 8poonies, ninnies with broad unmean- 
ing faces and groseteyes, cheeks odiously ruddy, 
and with great calves to their legs. They slap 
you on the back, and blow their noses like a 
mail-coach horn. They seldom give dinners. 
"Sir, tea is ready." "Shall we join the ladies?'* 
A rubber at whist, and by eleven o'clock the 
whole house is in a snore. Inquire into his 
motives for early rising, and it is perhaps to 
get an appetite for breakfast. Is the great 
healthy brute not satisfied with three penny- 
rolls and a pound of ham to breakfast, but he 
must walk down to the Pierhead at Leith to 
increase his voracity? Where is the virtue of 
gobbling up three turkey's eggs, and demoliih- 



ing a quartern loaf before his majesty's lieges 
are awake? But I am now speaking of your 
red, rosy, greedy idiot Mark next your pale, 
sallow early riser. He is your prudent, calcu- 
lating, selfish, money -scrivener. It is not for 
nothing he rises. It is shocking to think of 
the hypocrite saying his prayers so early in the 
morning, before those are awake whom he 
intends to cheat and swindle before he goes to 

I hope that I hare sufficiently exposed the 
folly or wickedness of early rising. Henceforth, 
then, let no knavish prig purse up his mouth 
and erect his head with a conscious air of su- 
periority, when he meets an acquaintance who 
goes to bed and rises at a gentlemanly hour. 

Paorasoa Wiubon. 


O thou, whoa* mlghtj palace roof doth hang 

From Jagged trunk*, and overshadowed! 

Eternal whiapera. gloom*, the birth, life, death, 

Of unaeen flower* in heavy peaoBfalneae, 

Who lov'at to aee the Hamadryad* dreai 

Their ruffled locks, where meeting hazel* darken, 

And through whole solemn hotus dost ait and hearken 

The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 

In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds 

The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth ; 

Bethinking thee, how melancholy loath 

Thou waat to lose fair Syrinx— do thou now, 

By thy love* milky brow! 

By all the trembling maze* that she ran. 

Hear us, great Pan ! 

Thou to whom every fawn and satyr flies 
For willing service ; whether to surprise 
The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit; 
Or upward rugged precipices flit, 
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; 
Or by mysterious entioement draw 
Bewildered shepherds to their path again ; 
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, 
And gather up all fandfbileat sheUs 
For thee to tumble into Naiad's oelle. 
And. being hidden, laugh at their outpeeping ; 
Or to delight thee with fsntastio leaping, 
The while they pelt each other on the crown 
With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cone* brown- 
By all the echoes that about thee ring, 
Hear us, O Satyr king! 

O hearkener to the loud clapping shears, 
While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
A ram goes bleating : Winder of fhe horn. 
When auouleU wild- hours routing tender ooru 

Anger our huntsman : Breather round our flsfl 
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms: 
Strange ministrant of undesoribed sounds, 
That come a swooning over hollow grounds, 
And wither drearily on barren moors : 
Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
Leading to universal knowledge-see, 
Great son of Dryope, 

The many that are come to pay their tow* 
With leaves about their brows I 

Be still the unimaginable lodge 

For solitary thinkings: such 

Conception to the very bourne of heaven, 

Then leave the naked train; be still the leaven 

That spreading in this dull and clodded earth. 

Gives it a touch etherea l a new birth; 

Be still a symbol of immensity ; 

A firmament reflected in a sea ; 

An element Ailing the space between ; 

An unknown — but no more : we humbly screen 

With uplift hands our forehead*, lowly banding, 

And giving out a about most heaven-rending, 

Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean 

Upon the Mount Lycean I 

Josh Ksasu. 



For faythe of knyghte may ne'er be broken 
Come lyfe, come dethe, hya worde must be 
Paste kepte, by lawe of chevalrye.— Sir Anuu&t. 

At the period when oar tale commences, 
although the glories of Creasy and Poictiera 
as yet were not, these mingled influences of 
romance and chivalry pervaded every bosom. 
The spirit-stirring lay of the minstrel found 
an echo in every heart; the warlike tale of the 
disour had not been told in vain; and each 
knight, revelling in joyful anticipations of 
chivalrous enterprise, cast an eager glance 
toward the fair plains of Normandy and strong 
castles of Guienne, and awaited, impatiently 
as hiB falcon for her prey, as his war-steed for 
the battle-field, the summons that should bid 
him set lance in rest, and advance the red 
cross into the very heart of France. And now- 
had the call been given, and a joyous response 
was returned by each valiant heart; for the 
high-minded Jane, Countess de Montfort, had 
sent Sir Amaury de Clisson to supplicate 
knightly aid of Ring Edward III. on behalf 
of herself and her small garrison at Hennebon, 
then besieged by Charles of Bloia. What knight 



©ould resist the call to do battle in the cause 
of a fair and noble lady, whose husband was 
captive in a far distant dungeon? a lady, too, 
whose chivalrous and "right valiant" bearing 
had rendered her the theme of admiration in 
every castle hall throughout the land? King 
Edward gave instant assent; and under the 
auspices of that bravest and gentlest of knights, 
that "flower and grace of all chivalry/' Sir 
Walter Manny, a goodly array of knights and 
men-at-arms, with six thousand chosen archers, 
made ready. 

On the evening preceding their departure, 
the streets of London were filled with a busy 
crowd; and as the summer's sun sank brightly 
to rest, there might be seen armourers hurrying 
to and fro, with file and hammer, or brightly 
burnished armour; herald-painters with newly 
blazoned shield or pennon; esquires carefully 
bearing the long slender lance or richly-gilded 
helmet; and young pages lightly bounding 
along with ribbon, scarf, or kind message, the 
parting gift of some "fay re damosel;" and 
many a man-at-arms, strong of limb and huge 
of size, and many a tall archer with sheaf of 
snowy-fledged arrows, and coat of Lincoln 
green, pressed hastily on, carolling snatches of 
ancient ballads, and gazing with delighted 
wonder at the splendid show (even then) of the 
London shops, or stopping to admire the grace- 
ful beauty of the cross in West-cheap, at this 
period one of the "lions" of London. 

Amid these picturesque groups, a knight 
clad in tight long hose, pointed shoe, short 
tunic, and flat cap, leading a lady of remark- 
able beauty, whose long and delicately pearl- 
braided hair and ample silken robe, which, 
but for the care of her attendant page, would 
have swept the ground, passed along, and at 
length entered a house where one of the foreign 
dealers in gems and in the superior kinds of 
armour had taken up his residence. They 
ascended the dark and narrow staircase, which 
seemed to lead but to some mean abode (for 
the foreign merchant, to whom the protection 
of the wealthy and powerful London guilds 
was denied, found his safety in the apparent 
meanness of his dwelling), and entered an 
apartment which, in its size, the richness of its 
furniture, and the splendour of the plate and 
armour scattered about, formed a strong con- 
trast with the rudeness of the entrance. There, 
at a table covered with a rich carpet, and sur- 
rounded by carved chests of various sizes, sat 
their owner, a Jew of advanced age and vener- 
able appearance, who arose as the knight and 
lady entered, and, with more of dignity than 
ciight have been expected in one of that pro- 

scribed race, bade them welcome. Struck by 
the unexpected splendour of the apartment, 
and still more by the appearance of the master 
— for the Jews, although fifty years had elapsed 
since their expulsion, were still the objects of 
undefined and traditionary horror — the lady 
half drew back, while the knight, who seemed 
to be well known to the owner of these precious 
stores, advanced with a pleasant smile to the 

" Well, Eleazar of Bruges," said he, "I have 
come to put your boastful saying to the test, 
ere I cross the seas to-morrow; so unlock your 
caskets, bring forth your choicest jewels, and 
let me see if I can find a gem so beautiful that 
even I myself shall deem it a worthy gift to 
my lady." 

Eleazar of Bruges returned the smile, and, 
taking a small casket, applied the key to the 
intricate lock, "Ay, most noble knight, 
jewels so costly and so richly set that Sir Tris- 
trem might have offered them to 'la belle 
Iseult,' or 'Morgain la fay* been won by them 
to release her long- slumbering King Arthur," 
pried the Jew, to whom the language of romance 
in the course of his various dealings among 
the fair and noble had become aa familiar as 
his own. 

"Nay, more costly, more beautiful, must 
they be," cried the knight, with a look of proud 
exultation, leading the lady toward the table, 
"since it is for one more lovely than 'la belle 
Iseult/ and more witching than 'Morgain la 

"And fit lady-love for Sir Johan de Boteler, 
the Lord of Warrington, who made all Flanders 
ring with the praise of his valour/' said the 

"Nay, peace, I pray you," said the knight; 
"time presses, bring forth your jewels." 

"W T hat say you to this, or this?" said the 
Jew, successively taking from the casket rings 
and brooches, enriched with gems of the finest 
water, and chains of the most delicate work- 
manship, while the lady looked on in silent 

"Nay, none of these," said the knight 
" Have you still that carcanet of whose beauty 
you so boasted at Bruges — the heart-shaped 
ruby, inclosed within a border of that knightly 
flower, the Jleur de aouvenanee?" 

" We will see no more," said the lady, "for 
these are costly and beautiful enow, methinks, 
even for our sweet lady and queen." 

"They are so, fair lady," replied the Jew; 
"but choose not until you have seen the ruby, 
which I purchased not long since of a stranger 
at Bruges. Father Abraham ! 'tis without 



flaw or blemish, and gloweth like the carbuncle 
that lighteth the hall of the Soldanof Babylon," 
Thus saying, he arose, and from a trebly-locked 
iron chest drew forth another casket. 

"Hasten, good Eleazar," said the knight, 
"name your price, and doubt not the depth of 
my purse." 

" Shall Eleazar of Bruges take payment of 
the Lord of Warrington," cried the Jew, "when 
by his knightly prowess I was rescued with my 
treasures from the brutish populace at Lisle?" 

" Speak not of that," returned the knight, 
hastily ; "a knight is ever bound to defend 
the defenceless — but bring it forth, and fear 
not for the price." 

"I fear not," said the Jew, "for I would 
you would but take it without payment." 

'* That may not be," said the knight, per- 
emptorily ; "the gift that a knight presents 
to his lady must either be won in fight or pur- 
chased with his purse — but hasten, I pray 

The Jew took from the very bottom of the 
casket a small box, and, opening it, displayed 
to the admiring gaze of the lady a carcanet, 
whose delicately enamelled border of forget- 
me-nots inclosed a ruby of such size and of 
such rich and dazzling brilliancy that the eye 
almost ached at beholding it. 

" This doth indeed remind me of tales of 
the eastern land," cried the lady, as she took 
the splendid gem from the box by its delicate 
gold chain, and, holding it up, gazed with an 
intensity of admiration which she in vain en- 
deavoured to suppress. 

" The price?" whispered the knight,beckon- 
ing to the page who adranced with his purse — 
not the slender silk net of modern times, but 
a substantial leather pouch, embroidered and 
embellished with gold or silver studs, some- 
times even with gems, which was at this period 
always either carried in the hand or suspended 
from the girdle. 

" Say nought of payment," replied the Jew. 

" It is for my lady, and I may not receive it 
as a gift." 

" Well then, thirty marks," replied the Jew. 

Altogether unconscious of the value of gems, 
the knight, bidding the young page count out 
the specified sum, delightedly fastened the 
splendid jewel around his lady's neck, and 
they both departed. 

Neither lady nor knight knew that the ruby 
* had changed from the Jew's to the Christian's 
hands at less than one-fifth of its real value. 
The existence of gratitude in a Jew was too 
little credited for the knight to suspect that 
he had himself proved it, and that he was to 

prove it still further in matters of higher im- 
port. The Lady Edith was under the guardian- 
ship of the king's jewel-master, Sir Nicholas 
de Farendone, who wished her to wed the rich 
knight Sir Matthew Trelauny, although he 
knew that her heart had been given to the Lord 
of Warrington. The latter owned little more 
than the reputation of being a brave and noble 
gentleman, and he was now counting upon 
success in Brittany for store of ransoms of 
captive knights wherewith to repurchase his 
father's estates. Then he had little doubt of 
winning the favour of Sir Nicholas de Faren- 
done to his suit for the hand of Lady Edith. 

The following day the armament destined 
for the relief of Hennebon departed, followed 
by the eager good wishes and prayers of the 
whole population. The Countess de Montfort 
was sorely besieged by the French, who had 
nearly beaten down the strong walls of Henne- 
bon. At length the promised succour came, 
but we need not delay the current of our story 
to tell here how bravely the flower of English 
chivalry repulsed the French beneath the walls 
of Hennebon, how well the battle of QuimperI6 
was fought when Don Louis of Spain, severely 
wounded, was forced to put to sea in a crazy 
boat, still followed by the victorious English. 

But that brilliant victory was the beginning 
of misfortunes to the Lord of Warrington; for, 
after chasing Don Louis both by sea and land, 
on the third evening Sir Walter Manny and 
his gallant companions in arms, in the pride 
of victory, stood before the strongly forti- 
fied castle of Roche Perion. Then said Sir 
Walter Manny, "Good gentlemen, I would 
that we might attack this strong castle, all 
weary as I am, had 1 but any one to aid me." 
Then said the knights, "Go on boldly, sir, 
for we will fol low you even until death ! " And, 
raising their battle-cry, "St. George for merry 
England!" and advancing the standard on 
which the lilies of France glittered beside the 
lions of Plantagenet, they rushed to the assault. 
But Girard de Maulin was no mean enemy; he 
manned the walls with good cross-bowmen, 
who shot so unerringly that many knights 
were slain and some wounded, and among 
them was the Lord of Warrington, and Sir 
Matthew Trelauny, his rival, also. 

Nor did his ill-fortune end here: Ren6, the 
brother of De Maulin, hearing news of the 
attack, armed forty men, and, coming suddenly 
on the knight and esquires, who lay wounded 
in a field near at hand, took them all pri- 
soners, and carried them to his tower of Favoet. 
Unable to reduce the castle, and grieving 
much for the loss of his slain and imprisoned 



companions, Sir Walter Manny returned to 
Mennebon, and prepared to give battle to 
Charles of Blois and Don Louis of Spain, who, 
haying rallied their scattered forces, had now 
encamped within a short distance of the city. 

One afternoon, while the archers were list- 
lessly wandering up and down the town, eagerly 
awaiting the time that should again place 
them in battle-array against the host of France, 
and the knights were playing at chess, or 
pledging each other in Gascoigne wine to the 
success of the noble countess, a message from 
their leader summoned them to the council, 
where with surprise and horror they learned 
that the two valiant knights, Sir Johan de 
Boteler and Sir Matthew Trelauny, had that 
morning been brought from Favoet to the 
French camp for instant execution, at the 
demand of Don Louis of Spain. Astonished 
beyond measure at this most unchivalrous and 
most unheard-of intention, the English knights 
looked at each other, wholly unable to deter- 
mine what course should be pursued. Then 
Sir Walter Manny, ever prompt with wise 
counsel in the camp as with bold daring in the 
field, rose up, and thus said he: 

" Right gallant sirs, it would be great 
honour to us if we could deliver out of danger 
yonder two knights, and even if we should 
fail when we put it in adventure, yet will King 
Edward our master thank us, and so will all 
other noble men, for who would not put him- 
self right gladly in peril to save the lives of 
two such valiant knights ! " 

The proposal was joyfully received, and the 
chivalrous leader, having sent the greater part 
of his men out at the gate that fronted the 
French camp, in order to provoke an attack, 
he himself, with a hundred men-at-arms and 
five hundred archers on horseback, sallied out 
at the postern, and, going round to the back 
of the camp, forced his way toward the tent, 
where, bound, and awaiting their almost im- 
mediate execution, the two knights lay. To 
loose them from their bonds, to place swords 
in their hands, and cause each to mount a 
steed which he had provided, was but the work 
of a moment; and, his generous plan thus 
accomplished, Sir Walter rode back swiftly as 
he came, to call off the main body of his forces 
from their feigned assault. 

The first thought of the captives, so unex- 
pectedly liberated, was to endeavour to enter 
Hennebon in the train of their valiant de- 
liverer; but Sir Walter and his archer-band 
spurred so quickly, that they were soon left in 
the distance, and Sir Matthew Trelauny, who 
had been more severely wounded than his 

rival, with great difficulty urged his slower- 
paced steed onward. 

" Good Sir Matthew," said the Lord of War- 
rington, suddenly returning, "your wounds 
are unhealed, and your horse less swift than 
mine — mount my steed, and make the best of 
your way to Hennebon, and St. George and 
St. Michael speed you!" 

"I may not, my generous rival," replied 
the almost fainting knight; "St George, 
patron of all good chivalry, forbid that I 
should accept an- offer that might place your 
life in jeopardy!" 

" Nay, deny me not," persisted the Lord of 
Warrington, dismounting; "rivals though we 
be, we are brethren in misfortune; lose no 
time — look yonder. " 

Sir Matthew Trelauny turned his head, and 
clouds of dust in the distance too plainly 
showed that a company of the enemy was ap- 
proaching. He looked on the blood that was 
fast oozing from his unhealed wound, and on 
the sword which he was unable to wield — half 
an hour on a swift steed would place him safely 
within the walls of Hennebon — there was no 
time for either to lose in fruitless debate — the 
strong instinct of self-preservation prevailed, 
and he mounted the swifter steed. 

"Farewell, my generous rival," said he; 
"no longer rival, but brother." 

" That cannot be," said the Lord of War- 
rington mournfully; " you are pledged to run 
three courses against me in the August tour- 
nament, and may I lose all favour of my lady 
if I meet you not there! — But, away! ride, 
ride for your life!" 

The Lord of Warrington leaped on his rival's 
horse, and endeavoured to spur toward Hen- 
nebon. Ill fortune a second time pursued 
him : some of the scouts from the French army 
came up, and, after a brave but ineffectual 
struggle, he was led captive to Roche Perion. 

It was in vain for our hapless knight that 
Charles of Blois was finally driven back, that 
a truce was completed, and that the victorious 
army, accompanied by the countess, had sailed 
to England: closely confined, although no 
longer in danger of his life, in the topmost 
tower of Roche Perion, he sat disconsolately 
day by day, looking out upon the distant 
towers of Hennebon and the dark blue sea be- 
yond. One day, while thus mournfully sitting, 
almost questioning the justice of Heaven, 
which for a deed of knightly generosity seemed 
thus to have requited him with stern imprison- 
ment, he heard the distant Bounds of the 
heralds' trumpets, as they passed along the 
road leading from Hennebon, to proclaim in 



every town that owned the role of the Earl of 
Montfort notice of the coming tournament. 
And nearer and nearer came the gay proces- 
sion, until the proud blazonry of the banners 
and the scarlet tabards glittering with gold 
broidery were distinctly risible ; he heard the 
peremptory flourish of the trumpets, and — 
harsh sound to a prisoned knight — almost the 
yery words of the spirit-stirring proclamation, 
that summoned all the chivalry of France and 
England to assemble at the tournament in 
Smithfield, "on the morrow of the Assumption 
of our Lady." 

"Saints! must my companions in arms, 
nay, my rival himself, take part in this gallant 
festival," cried the Lord of Warrington, lean- 
ing his head against the bars of his window, 
overcome with the feeling of his forlorn condi- 
tion, "and must I remain here without chance 
of going forth, nay, without money to pay my 
ransom, and unable to fulfil my vow?" 

Surely Borne one pronounced his name! — 
He looked down, and Eleazar of Bruges was 
standing just below. 

"Alas, brave knight!" said he, "I have 
come hither to seek thee — and now have I 
found thee thus! But be not cast down; I 
have money for thy ransom, and thou shalt 
go forth to the tournament." 

" It may not be," replied the much wonder- 
ing Lord of Warrington. "Girard de Maulin 
will take no ransom, even though I might offer 
it, until Charles of Blois returns. Would that 
he might but suffer me to cross the seas to 
fulfil my promise, and I would return right 

" It shall be so," said the Jew. "Girard 
de Maulin longs for a right Damascus dagger 
greatly as you do to ride forth to the tourna- 
ment; I will seek him; 'leave all to me, and it 
shall be well." 

The same evening the door of his dungeon 
opened, and the chatelain of Roche Perion 
stood before him. "Sir Johan de Boteler," 
said he, "I have heard of your great desire to 
be at the tournament, and, in return for your 
noble present, I will grant you absence from 
hence for fourteen days, only taking your 
knightly word that you will go straight 
thither, return straight hither, neither raising 
your visor nor declaring your name all the 
time of your sojourn in London." 

" I accept your offer right gladly," cried the 
knight, "and pledge you my word that I will 
but proceed to the tournament, and then re- 
turn hither and again yield myself prisoner." 

The day of the tournament arrived, with all 
its gay devices, gorgeous pageantry, and gallant 

show of mimic war. Along the gravelled and 
tapestry-decked streets, from the Tower to 
the lists in Smithfield, fourscore esquires in. 
gay apparel slowly passed, each riding a noblo 
steed, adorned with plumed chanfron, gilded 
martingale, and silken bases, rich with armor- 
ial bearings; while fourscore noble ladies, each 
mounted on a fair palfrey, led by a chain of 
silver her favourite knight These were the 
English chivalry; but, on arriving at the lists, 
many French and many Flemish knights, and 
among them the Earl of Hainault, the queen's 
brother, stood ready. 

But one there was, who, in plain armour, 
bearing a shield without device, and distin- 
guished by a fetter-ring on his right ankle, 
attracted much inquiry. Nought, however, 
could be learned regarding him, save that he 
was a knight from Brittany, come hither to 
fulfil a vow. Such vows were common in the days 
of chivalry; and many a bright eye cast a look 
of more eager interest upon the nameless knight 
than on him who rode conspicuous in the 
richest armour, or him whose proud quarter- 
ings embossed his courser's bases to the very 
ground. Nor did the nameless knight gainsay by 
his deeds the interest thus excited: with lance 
and sword, in the lists as at the barriers, he was 
equally successful; and when the heralds pre- 
sented the victorious knights to the queen and 
the ladies, he received from the fair hand of 
Phttippa the second prise, an emerald ring of 
great value. 

"Who is yonder Breton knight?" said the 
king; "bring him before me, and tell him 
now he may well declare his name." 

It was in vain that knight, herald, even the 
gentle Philippa herself, pressed him to unlace 
his helmet or declare his name: toHheir urgent 
entreaties he replied that he was forbidden by 
his vow, and to the courteous and lofty feel- 
ing of chivalrous times that one word was 

The queen and the ladies, accompanied by 
the knights, retired to the neighbouring pavil- 
ion, while the nameless knight leaned against 
the barriers, absorbed in sorrowful reflection. 
He had crossed the seas to fulfil his vow, but 
his rival had not met him in the tournament. 
Lady Edith, on whose fair face he had hoped 
to gaze, was absent; he had been successful to 
the very height of his expectations; he had 
won praise from the queen and honour from the 
monarch; still, entangled by his luckless vow, 
he must return to captivity, nor could his lady- 
love know that the Breton stranger was indeed 
an Englishman and her own true knight 

Turning with a sick heart from tbe gay scene 



wound him, and easting a sorrowful look 
toward the mansion of the king's jewel-master, 
into which he dared not trust himself to enter, 
he bent his steps toward the house of the Gray 
Friars, hoping that, since it was within "the 
soke and aldermanrie" of Sir Nicholas de Far- 
endone, he might obtain some little informa- 
tion from some prosing friar or garrulous lay- 
brother. But in vain did he pace the cloisters; 
neither gray friar nor lay-brother appeared; 
and, at the sound of the even-song bell, he re- 
verently entered the church; and, endeavouring 
to cast aside his burden of anxieties and con- 
flicting cares, he knelt devoutly at the altar. 

The psalms were sung; the prayers were 
said; the friars, two and two, quitted the 
church; and the scanty congregation had de- 
parted: still the stranger knight lingered. At 
length the rays of the declining sun, stream- 
ing through the rainbow-tinted panes, warned 
him it was time to depart, and seek some con- 
veyance over seas. He arose — but whence was 
that low and sweetly- breathed voice? and who 
was that beauteous damsel who, in simple 
white robe and unbraided hair, knelt at the 
neighbouring altar? Who else, when all were 
gay and joyous, would seek the solitude of the 
church and the solace of prayer, save she who 
mourned the captivity of her affianced knight 
—the Lady Edith! 

Overjoyed at this unexpected meeting, scarcely 
conscious of what he did, the unknown knight 
drew the ring, the reward of his chivalrous feats, 
from his bosom, and laid it before her. "Fare- 
well, sweet Edith," said he; "my vow compels 
me to return ere to-morrow; farewell!" 

The lady rose hastily. " What say you of 
returning ? — and wherefore this disguise? — and 
wherefore this speed to depart, when Heaven 
has thus sent you back?" cried she, recogniz- 
ing him. 

"Alas! sweet Edith, I must — I have pledged 
my knightly word, and it must not be broken. 
Farewell! Heaven grant we may meet again!" 

"0 stay!" cried the lady; then, remember- 
ing the place in which they stood and the sacred - 
ness of a vow, she added sadly, " But saints 
forfend that I should urge my dearest friend 
to break his knightly vow! Nay, take this 
token;" and, with trembling hand, she un- 
clasped the rich ruby carcanet, her only orna- 
ment, from her neck; "refuse it not, you know 
not its value, its great value. O take it! who 
knows but it may defray your ransom?" 

"It never shall/' replied the knight. "Sweet 
Edith, I take it, but as a token from you — 
farewell!" and, unable to repress his feelings, 
he rushed from the church. 

Unwilling to hazard the risk of recognition 
in the narrow streets of London, the Lord of 
Warrington, mounting his steed, took the road 
outside the walls. With a heavy sigh his eye 
glanced over the fair scene before him. All 
was bright, all was joyous; the laugh, the shout, 
and sounds of distant music, floated pleasantly 
on the light breeze, while from every spire rung 
out the music of the evening bells. 

"So 'hither to the greenwood tree/ Sir 
Unknown Knight! " cried the leader of a troop 
of merry masquers, laying hold of the knight's 
bridle, "for I am commanded by the queen 
of faerie to bring yon to her presence." 

The eve of the tournament was a gay carni- 
val, in which it was the favourite pastime of 
the younger knights and ladies to enact as 
closely to the letter as possible the wild and 
brilliant incidents of chivalrous romance. 

Remonstrance was as vain as resistance; the 
luckless knight suffered them to lead him 
whither they would: and ere long he found 
himself in a richly decked pavilion, where, 
representative of the faBry queen, the gentle 
Philippa herself, fit presiding genius of so gay 
and romantic a scene, sat, surrounded by a 
company of the fairest damsels of her court, 
clad in the appropriated dress of her assumed 
character, the robe of grass green, the favourite 
colour of faerie, the " gridelin mantle," the 
narrow circlet of jewels on her open brow, while - 
two beautiful white grayhounds, with golden 
collars, lay at her feet. And with graceful 
courtesy Philippa greeted the nameless knight, 
and urged him playfully to declare his name; 
while many an attendant noble cast looks of 
ill-suppressed rage at the highly-favoured stran- 

"And whence comes that fair jewel you 
wear round your neck?" said the queen. 

"Pardon me, sweet lady and sovereign," 
interposed Sir Walter Manny, who, in the fan- 
cied dress of one of King Arthur's knights, 
stood near; "this knight hath come hither 
under vow of concealment; now to demand an 
answer wherefore he became possessed of that 
fair jewel might lead to some disclosure of 
whence he cometh, or who he is." 

"You are right," said Philippa, smiling. 
" Sir Knight, we will ask ye nought — only let 
me one moment look at it, for, saints! I never 
saw ruby so bright! " 

Fearing, though he scarcely knew why, that 
the carcanet so lucklessly brought to light as 
he bent before the queen might cause him 
farther mischance, the unhappy knight hesi- 
tated, and again Sir Walter Manny, with his 
characteristic courtesy, interfered. " My sweet 



lady/' said he, " how do we know but that the 
jewel may have some device or motto, whereby 
the giver or the owner may be discovered? — 
This nameless knight you may wel I believe is cap- 
tive to no light and fanciful vow, but to a stern 
and solemn oath — let him depart in peace, I 
pray you, that he may have no cause to com- 
plain of unknightly usage during his sojourn 

Thanks to this generous intercession, the 
knight was permitted to depart without further 
questioning, and one of the royal guard was 
directed to guide him safely through the city. 

On the morrow King Edward entered his 
council-chamber at Westminster, no longer the 
gay and chivalrous monarch, the graceful pre- 
sident of the tournament, with a well-turned 
compliment for each victorious knight, and a 
word of gentle flattery for each fair lady, but 
moody and anxious, with stern brow and angry 
reply, even to his most cherished councillors. 

"My lords," said he, "you all know how 
fiercely France hath opposed our claim to her 
crown, and you all know right well how in the 
council and on the battle-field we have no cause 
to fear her. But now, not content with a fair 
and open warfare, she hath sought other mea- 
sures, and hath caused to be taken from our 
jewel-house a gem upon whose safe custody 
our success against her depends. Among our 
jewels is one, the great balas ruby, which Coeur 
de Lion won from Philip Augustus, and which 
a wise man then declared, so long as it was in 
the keeping of England the fortunes of France 
should quail before her — this jewel is lost!" 

An involuntary expression of alarm burst 
from the whole council; for the belief in the 
powerful and mysterious qualities of precious 
stones was during the middle ages an unques- 
tioned article of the popular faith. 

The king's jewel-master had that morning 
returned from Florence, and he was instantly 
summoned to the royal presence. 

Unconscious of the trouble that awaited 
him, Sir Nicholas de Farendone, worn and 
weary as one returned in eager haste, but with 
well-pleased look as one who bore glad tidings, 
entered the council-room, followed by several 
attendants bearing huge leather bags, carefully 
bound and sealed. 

"Our sweet lady hath been right favourable, 
my liege," said he, kneeling; "and I have 
brought with me ten thousand gold crowns 
from the Bardi, in part of the loan which I 
have raised." [This loan historical accuracy 
obliges us to say was never, alas! repaid, but 
caused the bankruptcy of that celebrated Flor- 
entine house two or three years afterward.] 

"It is well," said the king carelessly, for to 
his excited mind the sight of the well filled 
money-bags, though his exchequer was almost 
empty, offered no solace; "but we wonld ask 
you respecting a jewel for which diligent search 
hath been made." 

' ' Saints ! what jewel ? " cried the jewel-master ; 
"every one was safe when I left England, and 
for those I took with me I found an excellent 
market — the great balas ruby alone sold for 
two hundred marks at Bruges." 

" The great balas ruby! false traitor, daredst 
thou sell that jewel on which the success of 
my war depends?" 

"There is some mistake, my liege," inter- 
posed the chancellor, "for we have good and 
sufficient evidence that that ruby was carried 
away but yesterday. We farther know thai 
among the royal jewels are two great balas 
rubies, and that the second was placed there 
by your wise grandfather, to the end that, by 
their great likeness, the stealing of the fortunate 
one might be rendered more difficult." 

" This is the list of jewels my liege commanded 
me to sell," said the jewel-master, producing 
a small piece of parchment — for our earlier 
monarch* often found that selling a portion of 
the crown-jewels was a more speedy, if not 
more pleasant way of raising supplies, than by- 
extorting benevolences at the lance point, and 
gifts by threats of "donjon and gallows-tree." 

"Yes, my lords," continued the chancellor, 
"and that precious jewel, thus strangely lost, 
was undoubtedly in the possession of the stranger 
knight who yesterday won the second prise at 
the tournament. He was seen near the house 
of the Gray Friars hanging somewhat cautiously 
about his neck: when brought to the queen's 
pavilion this was discovered to be a heart- 
shaped ruby; and it was observed how fearfully 
he drew back when the queen asked to look at 
it, and how earnestly, as though for his life, 
he prayed to depart Moreover, Breton as he 
might pretend to be, he was an Englishman, 
and spoke, so saith the yeoman who conducted 
him to the Vintry, English as well as he; 
while what places his perfidy beyond all doubt 
is, that he asked for passage not to Hennebon 
but to Vannes, the very stronghold of Charles 

"'Tis plain as daylight," said Edward, 
laying down the parchment. "You, Sir 
Jewel-master, are not to blame; you sold the 
larger ruby. The precious and charmed one, 
that inclosed in the wreath of fieur de $ouvcn- 
ance, is smaller." 

"St. Mary!" cried the jewei-maater, "it 



''Sold that, false traitor?" 

"My liege gave no description, save the 
'largest' — that was the largest; I knew not 
the high value yon set on it, and I sold it to a 
Jew at Bruges full three months since." 

" But a jewel just like it is said to have been 
seen not long since in your very house/' said 
the chancellor, "where it was said to be kept 
secretly. " 

"I see it all/' said the king fiercely; "you 
pretended to mistake the jewel, and took it to 
your own house, and then, after having made 
your bargain with the King of France, fearing 
danger if it were in your own possession, you 
sent a trusty messenger to convey it away. 
Arrest this traitor!" 

"My liege," said Sir Walter Manny, "be 
not so hasty; I would stake my knightly honour 
on that young stranger: I pray you send not 
yonder worthy knight to prison on such light 
evidence. " 

"Sir Walter Manny, perchance, knows 
somewhat more about the stranger knight, 
seeing that he interposed to save him from 
discovery, and caused him to be sent safely 
away/' replied the chancellor sternly. 

"I did but what I would do again," replied 
Sir Walter proudly. 

The council separated in much confusion, 
Sir Walter lamenting the harsh doom of the 
jewel-master, and musing over the events of 
the preceding day, bent his footsteps to the 

" Good Sir Walter Manny, what is this about 
a missing jewel and a stranger knight?" said 
a meanly dressed old man; "tell me, I pray 
you, for I may bring you aid." 

"Alas ! good man, " replied the valiant knight, 
"it is beyond your skill." 

" It must be difficult indeed then," returned 
the old man proudly; "refuse not my aid, Sir 
Walter, though you know me not — many a 
jewel, mean though I seem, hath passed through 
my hands, and perchance even this lost one." 

There was somewhat in the manner of the 
aged man that commanded Sir Walter Manny's 
attention : he looked earnestly at him, and in 
the swarthy countenance and flashing eye re- 
cognized a Jew, whom, though he knew not 
his name, he had often met in Flanders. He 
hastily detailed the particulars, bade him use 
his utmost skill to discover the missing jewel, 
and promised him a fitting reward. 

Again a smile, almost of scorn, passed over 
the old man's face. "Speak not of reward — 
that will be gained in restoring the jewel. I 
know where it is; I know who possesses it. Go 
to the king, Sir Walter; pray him to grant a 

respite of only ten days to the jewel-matter, 
and all shall be well." 

"But who hath taken it? and how may I 
tell that you will not deceive me?" 

The Jew drew nearer, and whispered two or 
three words in his ear. 

"I will trust you to the utmost/' cried the 
well-pleased knight ' ' Farewell ! " He turned 
to depart; when, looking up to the palace 
windows, he observed the eyes of the king fixed 
upon him, with a mingled expression of anger 
and grief. 

That evening there was high feasting at the 
palace; but even a deeper shade clouded King 
Edward's brow. Was it possible that his most 
favourite knight, his most cherished compan- 
ion, was in league with his enemies against 
him? — and yet, it was Sir Walter Manny who 
had yesterday interfered even thrice on behalf 
of that traitor knight; it was he, too, who had 
urged delay at the council; it was he who en- 
gaged in mysterious converse about the lost 
jewel with a stranger and a foreigner even 
under the palace windows; and, when charged 
with perfidy, had scarcely made a reply. 

"A boon, King Edward!" cried Philippa, 
advancing with a gay smile to the recess where, 
involved in sad and conflicting thoughts, he 
moodily sat; "a boon for the queen of faSrie! " 

"It is granted, fairest," said the king, half 
unconsciously; "what would you?" 

"That you take no farther steps in the busi- 
ness of this lost jewel, until ten days are past." 

"Madam!" said the king fiercely, starting 
up, "would that I might deny you! — That 
perfidious knight, Sir Walter Manny, hath 
prayed you to ask this boon, that the leaders 
of the plot may escape. My word is pledged, 
and I cannot go back — but I here solemnly 
vow, that never shall he advance my banner, 
never again see my face, until all and every 
one in whose hands that jewel hath been stand 
together before me." 

While the rash vow of the king and the pro- 
bable fate of the jewel-master occupied every 
mind, the vessel that bore the Lord of Warring- 
ton bounded swiftly along, and ere the close of 
the fourth day entered the harbour of Vannes. 
He proceeded to Roche Perion, but there new 
marvels awaited him. He was received with 
strange courtesy, complimented on his knightly 
honour, shown an order from Charles of Blois 
directing his instant liberation, and told that 
his ransom had been paid by a Jew, who had 
returned to England. Bidding a joyful fare- 
well to his prison towers, the Lord of War- 
rington hastened away, and in little more 



than a week again stood upon Vintry quay, no 
longer the unknown knight, forbidden by his 
tow to disclose his name, but as the brave Sir 
Johan de Boteler, one of the valiant leaders of 
the army in Brittany, and the knight for 
whom Sir Walter Manny had done so splendid 
a deed of chivalrous valour. 

But short was his joy : from the busy groups 
that crowded the quay he soon learned the 
story of the lost jewel, the stranger knight, 
the disgrace of Sir Walter Manny, and the 
imminent peril of the luckless jewel-master, 
who, his ten days' respite having expired, was 
that very morning to be brought before the 

"It is through me and this luckless pur- 
chase," cried he bitterly; while the strangely 
generous conduct of the Jew, and his singular 
anxiety that he should purchase that jewel, 
assumed to his excited mind the guise of a 
deeply laid and malignant plot, to work not 
merely his ruin, but that of him from whom 
he had first received his gilt spur, and beneath 
whose auspices he had first unfurled his pennon. 
To make his instant way to Westminster, to 
acknowledge himself the stranger knight, and 
to exhibit the ruby carcanet, was his first im- 
pulse; and he wildly hastened to fulfil it. 

Onward he went; but, as he drew near the 
king's palace, the busy gathering of the guard 
and the eager pressure of the crowd, as the 
hapless jewel -master was conducted along, 
caused him to turn aside, when an unseen 
hand grasped his collar, and an earnest voice 
exclaimed — 

" Blessed be His name that hath sent you !" 

He looked round, and beheld Eleazar of 

"There is no time to lose," said he; "three 
messengers have I sent over seas for you — so 
hasten — give me the carcanet — all depends on 

"And wherefore?" said the knight, with a 
look of distrust. 

"Peace!" said the Jew, sternly; "you will 
thank me erelong" — and, before he was aware, 
the delicate gold chain was broken, and the 
Jew had vanished with his prize. 

" You must come hither with me, my fair 
sir," said one of the guard coming up; "me- 
thinks I took you down to the Vintry a week 
ago; the next road that I shall lead you will be 
through Our Lady's grace to the gallows-tree. " 

King Edward and his assembled nobles sat 
in council: the hapless jewel -master was placed 
before them : but, ere the proceedings com- 
menced, another prisoner was brought in and 
placed beside him, 

"Who is this?" said the chancellor. 

"My right valiant companion in arms, and 
one who, to save my life, put his own in 
jeopardy," cried a young knight rushing for- 
ward. ' ' My brave Sir Johan de Boteler, where- 
fore art thou here!** 

"Because I determined to fulfil my vow, 
Sir Matthew Trelauny," replied the Lord of 
Warrington; and alas! that, through it, such 
unmerited disgrace should have befallen Sir 
Walter Manny." 

"St. George is my witness I had kept my 
vow," returned Sir Matthew Trelauny, "had 
not the king sent me into Flanders, from 
whence I have but just returned." 

"Then it was you, Sir Knight, who came to 
the tournament as a stranger from Brittany," 
said the chancellor, sternly. "But what say 
you of the jewel?" 

"I purchased a ruby, heart-shaped, inclosed 
in enamel, for thirty marks, of a Jew, named 
Eleazar of Bruges, and it was that which I 
wore, and which was mistaken for one more 

"Produce it," said the chancellor. 

" Would that I could ! but, even as I came 
hither, that accursed Jew — though I scarce 
should say so, since he hath ever seemed to be 
my friend — took it from me. Would that 
Eleazer of Bruges were here! " 

"He is here," said a hooded stranger beside 
him, "though no longer Eleazer of Bruges," 
throwing back his hood, and drawing himself 
up proudly, "but Matthias Ben Judah of 
Toledo. King Edward, thou knowest me 

" I do, and most gladly do I welcome thee," 
said the king, instantly recognizing the learned 
alchemist, whose fame had gone forth over the 
whole of Europe, and whose aid had been 
sought by many a Christian monarch, and by 
Edward himself, to replenish their exhausted 
treasuries by his fancied skill. 

"And thou knowest this jewel," said the 
Jew, laying the ruby carcanet on the table. 

" I do, right well — precious, priceless jewel ! " 
cried Edward; "but how earnest thou possessed 
of it?" 

"By purchase from a stranger, but whom 1 
find to be he who stands there, and I sold it to 
this knight." 

"And for thirty marks only?" said the 

"I did: — little do you, little does the Lord 
of Warrington suspect the priceless service 
he rendered me, when my dwelling was beset 
by the brutal populace at Lisle. It was 
not for my gold that I trembled, not for my 



jewels, scarcely even for my safety, but for 
that precious vial of liquid, bequeathed to me 
by that learned adept, my father, by which 
I trust erelong to obtain the mighty secret 
The brave arm of the Lord of Warrington 
drove back the craven churls; and I then 
rowed that, in whatever trouble he might be, 
or whatever gift he might wish to obtain, I 
would always stand his friend. Good sire, I 
have released you from your rash vow; the 
jewel and the purchasers are all before you: 
suffer me therefore to pray a guerdon, since 
it was for this purpose, as you I know will 
scarcely refuse me, that I took from him this 
jewel — it is, that you will restore to the Lord 
of Warrington the estates which through 
poverty his father sold, and allow him to 
obtain the Lady Edith." 

"Grant it, good king/' cried Sir Matthew 
Trelauny, sinking on his knee. 

"Do you say thus, my generous rival!" ex- 
claimed the Lord of Warrington, overwhelmed 
with joy and surprise. 

"Not so generous as you, my true friend," 
replied his rival, smiling. "The lady favours 
you, and I am your debtor for life." 

"Bid Sir Walter Manny hither," cried King 
Edward, looking joyfully around. "Good 
Matthias of Toledo, ten thousand thanks to 
you — brave Sir Johan de Boteler, whatever 
you wish is granted — my worthy Sir Nicholas 
de Parendone, you must forgive my harshness, 
it was my own error; but from this time forth 
you shall have no reason to complain. And 
you, my tried and true friend," and his voice 
faltered, "what shall I say for my rash speech, 
Sir Walter? what shall I do for you?" 

"Nought, my dear sovereign," replied the 
chivalrous Manny, "save never to think of 
it again." 

" Follow me, brave knights," cried the king, 
rising, "and you, too, good Matthias: we will 
hold high festival and receive the gratuiations 
of our faerie queen. And for this precious 
jewel, lest it should again be lost, I will place 
it in the keeping of my patron, St. George, 
for it shall be set in a chalice for his altar." 

And so it was — erelong a splendid gold 
chalice, executed under the superintendence of 
Sir Nicholas de Farendone, with "the great 
balas ruby" conspicuously set, was placed upon 
the high altar of St George's chapel, where for 
generations it remained, challenging admira- 
tion from all, until that worthy monarch Henry 
the Eighth, with whom to see, to covet, and to 
take were synonymous, caused the beautiful 
chalice to be coined into gold pieces, and placed 
the gem among the crown-jewels. Nor few 

vol. iil 

were the after- vicissitudes of "the great balas 
ruby." It decked the bosom of the vain and 
hapless Anne Boleyn, when, unconscious of her 
short-lived regality, she moved in state from 
the abbey to Westminster Hall ; it blazed in 
the gorgeous stomacher of her more fortunate 
daughter, when, hailed as "goddess more than 
queen," she presided over the princely revels 
and pageants of Kenilworth; it shone proudly 
on the threadbare gray hat of her sapient sue-/ 
cessor when he edified the Star Chamber withf 
lectures on theology, demonology, and that 
subject dearer than all, his divine right; and 
it glowed on the rich point collar of his un- 
happy son, when for the last time he quitted 
Whitehall, whither he was only to return a 
captive condemned to execution. At length, 
all its varied fortunes past, in the attempt to 
convey the crown-jewels to Holland, this splen- 
did gem was lost: that deep depository of long 
accumulated treasure, that vast jewel-chamber 
of all past generations, the ocean, finally en- 

Miss Lawbaxgb. 1 


The glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armour against fate; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings : 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield; 
They tame but one another still: 
Early or late, 
They stoop to fate, 
And must give up their murmuring breatk, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow, 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
Upon Death's purple altar now 
See, where the victor-victim bleeds: 
Your heads must come 
To the cold tomb, 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 

Jambb Shiblet (1060). 

i Author of London in the Olden Time. 
•This Is said to have been a favourite song of 
Charles II. 





All a green willow, willow, 

All a green willow it my garland. 

ALul by what means may I make ye to know 
The nnkindneai for kindness that to ma doth growl 
That one who most hind lore on me should bestow, 
Most unkind nnkindness to me she doth show. 
For all a green willow is my garland I 

To have love and hold love, where lore is so sped, 
Oh ! delicate food to the lover so fed I 
From love won to U>f lost where lovers be led, 
Oh ! desperate dolor, the lorer is dead I 

For all a green willow is his garland ( 

She said she did lore me, and would love me still, 
She swore above all men I had her good-will ; 
She said and she swore she would my will fulfil ; 
The promise all good, the performance all ill ; 

For all a green willow is my garland I 

Now, woe with the willow, and woe with the wight 
That windeth willow, willow garland to dight! 
That dole dealt in allmys* is all amiss quite! 
Where lovers are beggars for allmys in sight, 

No lover doth beg for this willow garland I 

Of this willow garland the burden seems email, 
But my break-neck burden I may it well call ; 
Like the sow of lead on my bead it doth fall I 
Break head, and break neok, back, bones, brain, heart, 
and all! 

All parts pressed in pieoas 1 

Too ill for her think I best things may be had, 
Too good for me thinketh she things being most bad, 
All I do present her that may make her glad, 
All she doth present me that may make me sad; 

This equity nave I with this willow garland ! 

Could I forget thee, as thou oanst forget me, 
That were my sound mult, whioh cannot nor shall be ; 
Though thou, like the soaring hawk, every way flee, 
I will be the turtle still steadfast to thee, 

And patiently wear this willow garland I 

All ye that have had love, and have my like wrong, 
My like truth and patience plant still ye among ; 
When feminine fancies for new love do long, 
Old love cannot hold them, new love is so strong, 
For all. 

Jomr Hbtwoqd (died 1576). 

1 This is the ballad of whioh a fragment is sung by 
Desdemona in Othdio, act iv. soene 8. 

1 The allmys-dish, or alms-dish, was the dish in the 
old balls and oountry houses where bread was placed 
for the poor. 



On the banks of the sonorous river Tsampa, 
whose thundering cataracts refresh the burning 
soil, and sometimes shake the mighty moun- 
tains that divide Thibet from the empire of 
Mogul, lived a wealthy and esteemed Lama, 
whose lands were tributary to the supreme 
Lama, or sacerdotal .emperor, the governor of 
the whole country from China to the pathless 
desert of Cobi. But although his flocks and 
herds were scattered over a hundred hills, and 
the number of his slaves exceeded the stars in 
heaven, yet was he chiefly known throughout 
all the East as the father of the beautiful 
Zerinda. All the anxiety that Lama Zarin 
had ever experienced arose from the conviction 
that he must soon leave his beloved daughter; 
and the question was always present to his 
mind, "Who will guard her innocence when I 
shall have quitted her for ever?" The Lama 
was at this time afflicted with a dreadful 
malady, peculiar to the inhabitants of the 
country in which he resided, which threatened, 
in spite of all that medicine could do, to put 
a speedy period to his existence. 

One day, after an unusually severe attack of 
his disorder, he sent for the fair Zerinda, and 
gently motioning her to approach his couch, 
thus addressed her: — 

"Daughter of my hopes and fears, Heaven 
grant that thou mayest smile for ever; yet 
whilst my soul confesses its delight in gazing 
on thee, attend to the last injunctions of thy 
dying father: The angel of death, who ad- 
monishes and warns the faithful in the hour of 
sickness before he strikes the fatal blow, has 
summoned me to join thy sainted mother, who 
died in giving birth to thee. Yet let me not 
depart to the fearful land of death, and leave 
my daughter unprotected. Oh ! my Zerinda, 
speak I Hast thou ever seriously reflected on 
the dangers to which thy orphan state must 
shortly be exposed, surrounded as thou wilt be 
by suitors of various dispositions and preten- 
sions ; some wooing, with mercenary cunning, 
thy possessions through thy person: others 
haughtily demanding both, and threatening a 
helpless heiress with their powerful love?" 

He then reminded hi$ daughter that he had 
lately presented her with the portraits of se- 
veral princes who had solicited a union with 
his house, which they had sent to her accord- 
ing to the custom of Thibet, where the parties 




R L 







f £et» page MD) 



R L 



ean never behold each other till they are mar- 
ried; proceeded to give a brief outline of their 
various characters; and concluded by asking 
her which of all these mighty suitors she 
thought she should prefer? Zerinda sighed, 
but answered not. Lama Zarin desired her 
to withdraw, compare their several portraits, 
and endeavour to decide on which of the Lamas 
she could bestow her love. At the word love 
Zerinda blushed, though she knew not why; — 
her father, who saw the crimson on her cheek, 
but attributed it to timidity, again urged her 
to withdraw, and be speedy in her decision. 
Zerinda replied with a smile — 

"My father knows that he is the only man 
I ever saw, and I think the only being I can 
ever love; at least my love will ever be con- 
fined to those objects which delight or benefit 
the author of my being:" and turning round, 
she continued, playfully, " I love this favourite 
dog which my father bo frequently caresses; I 
loved the favourite horse on which my father 
rode, until he stumbled, and endangered his 
master's life; but when the tiger had dragged 
my father to the ground, and he was delivered 
by his trusty slave, I loved Ackbar; and since 
my father daily acknowledges that he saved 
his life, I lovs Ackbar stilL" 

"Zarin heard her artless confession with a 
smile, but reminded her that Ackbar was a 

"But which of those Lamas who now de- 
mand my love has created an interest in my 
heart by services rendered to thee like those of 
the slave Ackbar? And yet I have not seen 
either his person or his picture; nor know I 
whether he be old or young — but I know that 
he saved the life of Lama Zarin, and therefore 
do I love Ackbar." 

The old Lama gently reproved his child for 
her freedom of expression; he explained to her 
that love was impious, according to the laws of 
Thibet, between persons of different ranks in 
society. Zerinda left her father, and as she 
stroked her favourite dog a tear trembled in 
her eye, from the apprehension that she might 
peesibly be guilty of impiety. 

About this time the slave Ackbar, who for 
his services had been advanced from the chief 
of the shepherds to be chief of the household, 
had an audience of his master; observing him 
to be unusually dejected, he declared that he 
himself had acquired some knowledge of medi- 
cine, and humbly begged permission to try his 
skill in a case in which every other attempt 
had proved unsuccessful. The Lama heard 
his proposal with a mixture of pleasure and 
contempt. The slave, nothing daunted by 

the apparent incredulity of his master, pro- 
ceeded — 

"May Lama Zarin live for ever! — I boast no 
secret antidote, no mystic charm, to work a 
sudden miracle; but I have been taught in 
Europe the gradual effects of alterative medi- 
cines; 'tis from them alone that I hope to gain 
at length a complete victory over your disease; 
and if in seven days' time the smallest change 
encourages me to persevere, I will then boldly 
look forward, and either die or conquer." 

Lama Zarin assented, and from that day 
became the patient of Ackbar, whose new ap- 
pointment of physician to the Lama gave him 
a right to remain always in his master's pres- 
ence, save when the beautiful Zerinda paid her 
daily visit to her father, at which times he was 
invariably directed to withdraw. 

The firet week had scarcely elapsed when 
the Lama was convinced that his disease was 
giving way to the medicines of his favourite; 
his paroxysms indeed returned, but grew every 
day shorter in duration; and in proportion as 
Ackbar became less necessary in his capacity 
of physician, his company was so much the 
more courted by Zarin as an associate. He 
possessed a lively imagination, and had im- 
proved his naturally good understanding by 
travel in distant countries. Thus his conver- 
sation often turned on subjects which were 
quite new to his delighted master. They talked 
of the laws, religion, and customs of foreign 
nations, comparing them with those of Thibet; 
and by degrees the slave became the friend, and 
almost the equal, of the Lama. Amongst other 
topics of discourse the latter would frequently 
enumerate the virtues and endowments of his 
beloved daughter, whilst Ackbar listened with 
an interest and delight for which he was quite 
at a loss to account. On the other hand, the 
Lama, in the fulness of his gratitude, could 
not avoid speaking of the wonderful skill and 
knowledge displayed by the slave, nor forbear 
relating to Zerinda the substance of the various 
conversations which had passed between them. 

It happened one day, when he had been re- 
peating to his daughter the account which the 
physician had given him of European manners, 
that Zerinda blushed and sighed: her father 
entreated to know the cause of her emotion, 
when she confessed that he had so often men- 
tioned the extraordinary acquirements of this 
young slave, that she could think of nothing 
else; and that in her dreams she saw him, and 
fancied he was a Lama worthy of her love; 
then turning to her father, she asked, 

"Oh, Lama, tell me! can my sleep be im- 



Zarin beheld her with emotion, and told her 
that she must think of him no more. 

"I will endeavour to obey," she replied; 
"but I shall dream, and sleep will impiously 
restore the thoughts which I will strive to 
banish during the day. " 

The Lama, dreading the effects of the passion 
which he had himself kindled in hi* daughter's 
breast, resolved never again to mention in her 
presence the name of Ackbar; but this resolu- 
tion was formed too late: love of the purest 
kind had taken possession of the maiden's 
heart; and whilst she struggled to obey her 
father, her sunken eye and wasted form pro- 
claimed the strife of feeling in her breast. 

It was impossible for Lama Zarin to conceal 
from his physician the sickness of Zerinda; 
and whilst he confessed alarm for his daughter's 
life, he plainly saw that he had too often de- 
scribed that daughter to his favourite; he saw, 
too, that which it was impossible for Ackbar 
to conceal; that he had been the fatal cause of 
a mutual passion between two lovers who had 
never seen, and but for him would never have 
heard of, each other. Thus circumstanced (even 
if the laws of Thibet had permitted the visits 
of a male physician) prudence would have for- 
bidden his employing the only skill in which 
he now had confidence; but Zerinda, whose 
disease was occasionally attended by delirium, 
would call upon the name of Ackbar, and add, 
" He saved the life of my father, and he only 
can save that of the dying Zerinda." 

Overcome by his daughter's agony, the af- 
flicted father inwardly cursed the cruel laws of 
Thibet, and assured her that she should see 
the physician Ackbar. Zerinda listened with 
ecstasy to the voice of Zarin; and knowing 
that that which a Lama promises must ever 
be performed, the assurance fell like balsam 
upon her heart; but the Lama had not fixed 
the period when his sacred promise should be 
fulfilled, nor could he be prevailed on to do so 
till he had retired and weighed the consequences 
of what had fallen from his lips. The oftener 
he revolved the subject in his mind, the more 
the difficulties appeared to diminish, till at 
length he resolved to disregard the slavish 
prejudices and customs of his country. 

Elated by the prospect of being enabled to 
secure the future happiness of two individuals 
so deservedly dear to him, he determined to 
ask the sanction of that higher power to which 
all the Lamas of Thibet are subject. He 
accordingly lost no time in despatching mes- 
sengers to the grand Lama who resided at 
Tonker, and with whom his influence was so 
great that he had sanguine hopes of obtaining 

whatever he might request, even though the 
boon craved should be contrary to the »yi«*.mg 
laws of the country; and being unable to con- 
ceal the joy he felt at the consummation of 
happiness which awaited the lovers, he com- 
municated to Ackbar the plan of future bliss 
which he had formed for him, and raised in 
the breast of the physician a transport of hope 
which neither his love nor his ambition had 
ever before dared to cherish. To Zerinda he 
promised that she should be withheld the sight 
of her lover but one week longer, or till the 
messenger should return from the great Lama 
at Tonker! 

From this time the physician was no longer 
necessary; but the week appeared an age to 
the expecting hearts of Ackbar and the beauti- 
ful Zerinda. 

Seven days having at length expired, the 
messenger arrived from Tonker with the fol- 
lowing reply : — 

"The most Sacred Sultan the Sovereign 
Lama, who enjoys the life for ever, and at 
whose nod a thousand princes perish or revive, 
sendeth to Lama Zarin greeting; report hath 
long made known at Tonker the beauty of the 
maid Zerinda; and by thy messenger we learn 
the matchless excellence of the slave Ackbar. 
In answer, therefore, to thy prayer that these 
may be united, mark the purpose of our sov- 
ereign will, which, not to obey, is death, 
throughout the realms of Thibet. The lovers 
shall not see each other till they both stand 
before the sacred footsteps of our throne at 
Tonker, that we ourselves may, in person, 
witness the emotion of their souls." 

This answer, far from removing their sus- 
pense, created feelings a thousand times more 
terrible. The Lama Zarin believed that it 
portended ruin to himself and family: he now 
reflected on the rash step which he had taken, 
and feared that his sanguine hopes had been 
deceived by frequent conversations with a stran- 
ger, who had taught him to think lightly of 
the laws and customs of Thibet He again 
recalled to mind the grand Lama's bigotry and 
zeal, and knowing that he must obey the sum- 
mons, trembled at his situation. 

Ackbar was too much enamoured to think 
of any danger which promised him a sight of 
his beloved mistress; and the only circumstance 
that occasioned him uneasiness was, lest the 
beauty of Zerinda should tempt the Supreme 
Lama to demand her for his own bride; but 
Zerinda, whose thoughts were all purity, re- 
vered the Lama for his decree, and believed 
that it proceeded from his desire of being wit- 
ness to the mutual happiness of virtuous love* 



With these sentiments she looked only with 
joy to the period of their departure, which was 
fixed for the ensuing day; when they set out 
with all the pomp and splendour of an Eastern 

After three days' journey, during which the 
Lama Zarin sometimes travelled in the splendid 
palanquin of his daughter, and sometimes rode 
on the same elephant with Ackbar, dividing 
his attention between the conversation of each, 
but unable to suppress his apprehensions or 
dissipate the fears of his foreboding mind, the 
cavalcade arrived at Tonker, and proceeded 
without delay to the tribunal, which was held 
in the great "Hall of Silence." 

At the upper end of this superb apartment 
sat, on a throne of massive gold, the Supreme 
Lama; before him, at some distance, were two 
altars, smoking with a fragrant incense; and 
around him knelt a hundred Lamas, in silent 
adoration (for in Thibet divine honours are 
paid to the Supreme Lama, who is supposed to 
live for ever, the same spirit passing from 
father to son). To this solemn tribunal Lama 
Zarin was introduced by mutes, from an apart- 
ment directly opposite to the throne, and knelt 
in awful silence between the smoking altars. 
At the same time, from two doors facing each 
other, were ushered in Ackbar and Zerinda, 
each covered by a thick veil, and accompanied 
by a mute, both of whom fell prostrate before 
the throne. A dreadful stillness now prevailed, 
— all was silent as death, — whilst doubt, sus- 
pense, and horror, chilled the bosoms of the 
expecting lovers. In this fearful interval the 
throbbings of Zerinda's heart became distinctly 
audible; her father heard them, and a half- 
smothered sigh stole from his bosom, and re- 
sounded through the echoing dome. At length 
the solemn, deep-toned voice of the Supreme 
Lama uttered these words: 

"Attend I and mark the will of him who 
speaks with the lips of Heaven; arise! and hear! 
know that the promise of a Lama is sacred as 
the words of Allah, therefore are ye brought to 
behold each other, and in the august presence, 
by a solemn union, to receive the reward of 
the love which a fond father's praise has kindled 
in your souls, and which he having promised, 
must be fulfilled. Prepare to remove the veils. 
Let Lama Zarin join your hands, and then 
embrace each other; but on your lives utter 
not a word; for know that in the 'Hall of 
Silence* 'tis death for any tongue to speak 
save that which utters the decrees of Heaven!" 

He ceased; and his words, resounding from 
the lofty roof, gradually died upon the ear, till 
the same dreadful stillness again pervaded the 

Hall; at length on a given signal the mutes 
removed their veils at the same moment, and 
exhibited the beauteous figures of Ackbar and 
Zerinda. They gazed in speechless rapture on 
each other, till by another sign from the throne 
the father joined their hands; and Ackbar, as 
commanded, embraced his lovely bride; while 
she, unable to support this trying moment, 
fainted in his arms. It was now that her lover, 
unmindful of the prohibition, exclaimed — 

"Help, my Zerinda dies!" 

Instantly the voice from the throne ejaculated 
with dreadful emphasis, "Ackbar dies!" upon 
which two mutes approached with the fatal 
bow-string, and, seizing their victim, fixed an 
instrument of silence upon his lips, whilst 
others hurried away the fainting Zerinda, in- 
sensible to the danger of her lover; but the 
Lama Zarin, unable to restrain the anguish of 
his soul, cried out with bitterness — 

"If to speak be death, let me die also; but 
first, I will execrate the savage customs, and 
curse the laws which doom the innocent to 
death for so trivial an offence. " 

He would have proceeded, but the tyrant's 
slaves surrounded him and prevented him from 
uttering another word. Silence being restored, 
the Supreme Lama again vociferated — 

" Know, presumptuous and devoted wretches, 
that before ye brake that solemn law which 
enjoins silence in this sacred presence, ye were 
already doomed to death! Thou, Lama Zarin, 
for daring to degrade the holy priesthood of 
Lamas by marrying thy daughter to a slave; 
and thou, Ackbar, for presuming to ally thy- 
self with one of that sacred race. The promise 
which Lama Zarin made was literally fulfilled; 
these daring rebels against the laws of Thibet 
have seen and been united to each other; and 
the embrace which was permitted was doomed 
to be the last. Now, therefore," added he, 
addressing the mute, "perform your office on 
Ackbar first." 

They accordingly bound their victim, who 
was already gagged, to one of the altars, and 
were about to fix the silken string upon his 
neck, when they on a sudden desisted, and 
prostrating themselves before Ackbar, per- 
formed the obeisance which is paid only to the 
heir of the sacred throne of Tonker. 

A general consternation seized all present, 
and the Supreme Lama, descending from his 
throne, approached the victim, on whose left 
shoulder (which had been uncovered by the 
executioner) he now perceived the mystic 
characters by which the sacred family of Thibet 
are always distinguished at their birth. When 
he beheld the well-known mark, the voice of 



nature confirmed the testimony of hi* eyesight, 
and falling on the neck of Ackbar, he ex- 
claimed — 

"It is my son, my long lost eon! let him 
speak: henceforth this place shall no longer be 
called the "Hall of Silence," but the "Hall of 
Joy/' for in this room will we celebrate to- 
morrow the nuptials of Ackbar and Zeriada!" 

The history then goes on to explain this 
singular event by relating that some Jesuit 
missionaries who had gained access to the 
capitol of Thibet, in their seal for their religion, 
had found means to steal the young heir to the 
throne, then an infant; hoping to make use of 
him in the conversion of his father's people; 
but in their retreat through the great desert 
of Cobi, they had been attacked by banditti, 
who slaughtered them all, and sold the young 
Lama for a slave. He had served in the Otto- 
man army, — he had been taken by the Knights 
of Malta, afterwards became servant to a French 
officer, with whom he travelled through Europe; 
he finally accompanied him to India; there, in 
an engagement with the Mahrattas, he had 
been again taken prisoner and sold as a slave 
to some merchants of Thibet ; by this means 
he came into the service of the Lama Zarin, 
without knowing anything of his origin, or the 
meaning of the characters he bore on his left 
shoulder, and which had been the cause of 
effecting this wonderful discovery. 

The history concludes with an account of 
the nuptials of Ackbar and Zerinda. Their 
happiness was unexampled; for the lessons 
which the young Lama had learned in the 
school of adversity, and the observations be 
had made in the various countries through 
which he had travelled, prepared him to abolish 
many of the cruel and impious customs which 
had till then disgraced the legislature of Thibet. 

(In Bdzoni's Exhibition.) 

And thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story !) 
In Thebes' streets three thousand years ago, 

When the Memnoninni was in all its glory, 
And Time had not begun to overthrow 

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 

Of whioh the very ruins are tremendous. 

Speak I for thou long enough hast acted Dummy, 
Thou hast a tongue— come— let us hear its tune : 

Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above-ground, Mummy I 
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 

But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs aud features. 

Tell us— for doubtless thou canst recollect. 
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's mate; 

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 
Of either Pyramid that bears his name? 

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homerf 

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 

By oath to tell the mysteries of thj trader- 
Then say what secret melody was hidden 

Iu Memnon's statue which at sunrise playM? 
Perhaps thou wert a Priest— if so, my struggles 
Are vaiu, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. 

Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat. 
Has hob-a-nob'd with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; 

Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat. 
Or doffd thine own to let Quean Dido peas, 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch at the great temple's dedication. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd. 
Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled, 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalm'd. 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled :— 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou oouldst develop, if that witherM tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, 

How the world look'd when it was fresh and young. 
And the great Deluge still had left it green— 

Or was it then so old that History's pages 

Contain'd no record of its early ages? 

Still silent, incommunicative elf t 
Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; 

But prithee tell us something of thyself, 
Roveal the Mcrets of thy prison-house ; 

Sincu in the world of spirits thou hast slumber'd, 

Wbat hast thou seen— what strange adventures num- 
ber 'd? 

Siixw first thy form was in this box extended, 
We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations • 

The Ronuui empire has begun and ended. 
New worlds have risen— we have lost old nations. 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled, 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head 
When the great Persian oonqueror Cambyses 

March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 

And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be oonmsVd, 
The nature of thy private Ufo unfold :— 

A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, 
And tears adown that dusty cheek have roll'd :— 

Have children olimb'd those knees, and kiat*d that fnott 

What was thy name aud station, age and raoet 



Statue of fleah — Immortal of the dead I 

Imperishable type of evanesoenoe ! 
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 

And standest undecayed within our presence, 
Thon wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, 
Ifhan the great Tramp •hall thrill thee with its warning. 

Why should this worthies tegument endure, 

If Ha undying gnest be lost for evert 
O let us keep the soul embalm" d and pure 

In living virtue, that when both must sever, 
Although corruption may our frame ooasume, 
Th* immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. 

Horaos Smith. 


The solitudes of the Han Forest in Germany, 
bat especially the mountains called Blockberg, 
or rather Brockenberg, are the chosen scene 
for tales of witches, demons, and apparitions. 
The occupation of the inhabitants, who are 
either miners or foresters, is of a kind that 
renders them peculiarly prone to superstition, 
and the natural phenomena which they witness 
in pursuit of their solitary or subterraneous 
profession are often set down by them to the 
interference of goblins or the power of magic 
Among the various legends current in that 
wild country there is a favourite one, which 
supposes the Harz to be haunted by a sort of 
tutelar demon, in the shape of a wild man, of 
huge stature, his head wreathed with oak leaves, 
and his middle cinctured with the same, bear- 
ing in his hand a pine torn 'dp by the roots. 
It is certain that many persons profess to have 
seen such a form traversing, with huge strides, 
in a line parallel to their own course, the op- 
posite ridge of a mountain, when divided from 
it by a narrow glen; and indeed the fact of the 
apparition is so generally admitted, that modern 
scepticism has only found refuge by ascribing 
it to optical deception. 2 

In elder times the intercourse of the demon 
with the inhabitants was more familiar, and, 
according to the traditions of the Harz, he was 
wont, with the caprice usually ascribed to these 
earth-born powers, to interfere with the affairs 
of mortals, sometimes for their weal, sometimes 

i From The Antiquary. •• The outline of this story," 
■aid Sir Walter Scott in a Note to the Novel, "is 
tiken from the German." 

3 The shadow of the person who sees the phantom 
being reflected upon a oloud of mist, like the image of 
the magio lantern upon a white sheet, is supposed to 
have formed the apparition. 

for their woe. But it was observed that even 
his gifts often turned out, in the long-run, 
fatal to those on whom they were bestowed, 
and it was no uncommon thing for the pastors, 
in their care of their flocks, to compose long 
sermons, the burden whereof was a warning 
against having any intercourse, direct or in- 
direct, with the Harz demon. The fortunes 
of Martin Waldeck have been often quoted by 
the aged to their giddy children, when they 
were heard to scoff at a danger which appeared 

A travelling capuchin had possessed himself 
of the pulpit of the thatched church at a little 
hamlet called Morgenbrodt, lying in the Harz 
district, from which he declaimed against the 
wickedness of the inhabitants, their commun- 
ication with fiends, witches, and fairies, and, 
in particular, with the woodland goblin of the 
Harz. The doctrines of Luther had already 
begun to spread among the peasantry, for the 
incident is placed under the reign of Charles 
Y., and they laughed to scorn the zeal with 
which the venerable man insisted upon his 
topic. At length, as his vehemence increased 
with opposition, so their opposition rose in 
proportion to his vehemence. The inhabitants 
did not like to hear an accustomed quiet de- 
mon, who had inhabited the Brockenberg for 
so many ages, summarily confounded with 
Baalpeor, Ashtaroth, and Beelzebub himself, 
and condemned without reprieve to the bottom- 
less Tophet. The apprehensions that the spirit 
might avenge himself on them for listening to 
such an illiberal sentence, added to their na- 
tional interest in his behalf. A travelling 
friar, they said, that is here to-day and away 
to-morrow, may say what he pleases: but it is 
we, the ancient and constant inhabitants of 
the country, that are left at the mercy of the 
insulted demon, and must, of course, pay for 
all. Under the irritation occasioned by these 
reflections, the peasants from injurious language 
betook themselves to stones, and having pebbled 
the priest pretty handsomely, they drove him 
out of the parish to preach against demons 

Three young men, who had been present and 
assisting on this occasion, were upon their re- 
turn to the hut where they carried on the 
laborious and mean occupation of preparing 
charcoal for the smelting furnaces. On the 
way, their conversation naturally turned upon 
the demon of the Harz and the doctrine of the 
capuchin. Max and George Waldeck, the two 
elder brothers, although they allowed the lan- 
guage of the capuchin to have been indiscreet 
and worthy of censure, as presuming to deter- 



mine upon the precise character and abode of 
the spirit, yet contended it was dangerous, in 
the highest decree, to accept of his gifts, or 
hold any communication with him. He was 
powerful, they allowed, but wayward and ca- 
pricious, and those who had intercourse with 
him seldom came to a good end. Did he not 
give the brave knight, Ecbert of Rabenwald, 
that famous black steed by means of which 
he vanquished all the champions at the great 
tournament at Bremen ? and did not the same 
steed afterwards precipitate itself with its rider 
into an abyss so steep and fearful, that neither 
horse nor man were ever seen more? Had he 
not given to Dame Gertrude Trodden a curious 
spell for making butter come? and was she 
not burned for a witch by the grand criminal 
judge of the Electorate, because she availed 
herself of his gift? But these, and many other 
instances which they quoted, of mischance and 
ill-luck ultimately attending on the apparent 
benefits conferred by the Harz spirit, failed to 
make any impression upon Martin Waldeck, 
the youngest of the brothers. 

Martin was youthful, rash, and impetuous; 
excelling in all the exercises which distinguish 
a mountaineer, and brave and undaunted from 
his familiar intercourse with the dangers that 
attended them. He laughed at the timidity 
of his brothers. "Tell me not of such folly," 
he said; "the demon is a good demon — he lives 
among us as if he were a peasant like ourselves 
— haunts the lonely crags and recesses of the 
mountains like a huntsman or goatherd — and 
he who loves the Harz Forest and its wild scenes 
cannot be indifferent to the fate of the hardy 
children of the soil But if the demon were 
as malicious as you would make him, how 
should he derive power over mortals, who barely 
avail themselves of his gifts, without binding 
themselves to submit to his pleasure? When 
you carry your charcoal to the furnace, is not 
the money as good that is paid you by blas- 
pheming Blaize, the old reprobate overseer, as 
if you got it from the pastor himself? It is 
not the goblin's gifts which can endanger you 
then, but it is the use you shall make of them 
that yon must account for. And were the 
demon to appear to me at this moment and 
indicate to me a gold or silver mine, I would 
begin to dig away even before his back were 
turned, and I would consider myself as under 
the protection of a much Greater than he while 
I made a good use of the wealth he pointed 
out to me. 

To this the elder brother replied, that wealth 
ill won was seldom well spent; while Martin 
presumptuously declared, that the possession 

of all the treasures of the Harz would not mak* 
the slightest alteration on his habits, morals, 
or character. 

His brother entreated Martin to talk less 
wildly upon this subject, and with some diffi- 
culty contrived to withdraw his attention, by 
calling it to the consideration of the approach- 
ing boar-chase. This talk brought them to 
their hut, a wretched wigwam, situated upon 
one side of a wild, narrow, and romantic dell, 
in the recesses of the Brockenberg. They re- 
leased their sister from attending upon the 
operation of charring the wood, which requires 
constant attention, and divided among them- 
selves the duty of watching it by night, ac- 
cording to their custom, one always waking 
while his brothers slept 

Max Waldeck, the eldest, watched during 
the two first hours of the night, and was con- 
siderably alarmed by observing, upon the op- 
posite bank of the glen, or valley, a huge fire 
surrounded by some figures that appeared to 
wheel around it with antic gestures. Max at 
first bethought him of calling up his brothers; 
but recollecting the daring character of the 
youngest, and finding it impossible to wake 
the elder without also disturbing Martin — 
conceiving also what he saw to be an illusion 
of the demon, sent perhaps in consequence of 
the venturous expressions used by Martin on 
the preceding evening, he thought it best to 
betake himself to the safe-guard of such prayers 
as he could murmur over, and to watch in great 
terror and annoyance this strange and alarming 
apparition. After blazing for some time, the 
fire faded gradually away into darkness, and 
the rest of Max's watch was only disturbed by 
the remembrance of its terrors. 

George now occupied the place of Max, who 
had retired to rest The phenomenon of a 
huge blazing fire, upon the opposite bank of 
the glen, again presented itself to the eye of 
the watchman. It was surrounded as before 
by figures, which, distinguished by their opaque 
forms being between the spectator and the 
red glaring light, moved and fluctuated around 
it as if engaged in some mystical ceremony. 
George, though equally cautious, was of a 
bolder character than his elder brother. He 
resolved to examine more nearly the object of 
his wonder; and accordingly, after crossing 
the rivulet which divided the glen, he climbed 
up the opposite bank, and approached within 
an arrow's flight of the fire, which blazed ap- 
parently with the same fury as when he first 
witnessed it 

The appearance of the assistants who sur- 
rounded it resembled those phantoms which 



ire seen in a troubled dream, and at once con* 
firmed the idea he had entertained from the 
first, that they did not belong to the human 
world. Amongst these strange unearthly forms, 
George Waldeck distinguished that of a giant 
overgrown with hair, holding an uprooted fir 
in his hand, with which, from time to time, 
he seemed to stir the blazing fire, and having 
no other clothing than a wreath of oak leaves 
around his forehead and loins. George's heart 
sunk within him at recognizing the well-known 
apparition of the Harz demon, as he had been 
often described to him by the ancient shepherds 
and huntsmen who had seen his form traversing 
the mountains. He turned, and was about to 
fly ; but upon second thoughts, blaming his own 
cowardice, he recited mentally the verse of the 
Psalmist, "All good angels, praise the Lord!" 
which is in that country supposed powerful 
as an exorcism, and turned himself once more 
towards the place where he had seen the fire. 
But it was no longer visible. 

The pale moon alone enlightened the side of 
the valley; and when George, with trembling 
steps, a moist brow, and hair bristling upright 
under his collier's cap, came to the spot on 
which the fire had been so lately visible, marked 
as it was by a scathed oak-tree, there appeared 
not on the heath the slightest vestiges of what 
he had seen. The moss and wild flowers were 
unscorched, and the branches of the oak-tree, 
which had so lately appeared enveloped in 
wreaths of flame and smoke, were moist with 
the dews of midnight 

George returned to his hut with trembling 
steps, and, arguing like his elder brother, re- 
solved to say nothing of what he had seen, lest 
he should awake in Martin that daring curiosity 
which he almost deemed to be allied with im- 

It was now Martin'B turn to watch. The 
household cock had given his first summons, 
and the night was well-nigh spent Upon ex- 
amining the state of the furnace in which the 
wood was deposited in order to its being coked 
or charred, he was surprised to find that the 
fire had not been sufficiently maintained; for 
in his excursion and its consequences George 
had forgot the principal object of his watch. 
Martin's first thought was to call up the slum- 
berers; but observing that both his brothers 
slept unwontedly deep and heavily, he respected 
their repose, and set himself to supply the fur- 
nace with fuel without requiring their aid. 
What he heaped upon it was apparently damp 
and unfit for the purpose; for the fire seemed 
rather to decay than revive. Martin next 
went to collect some boughs from a stack which 

had been carefully cut and dried for this pur- 
pose; but when he returned, he found the fire 
totally extinguished. This was a serious evil, 
and threatened them with loss of their trade 
for more than one day. The vexed and mor- 
tified watchman set about to strike a light in 
order to re-kindle the fire, but the tinder was 
moist, and his labour proved in this respect 
also ineffectual. He was now about to call up 
his brothers, for circumstances seemed to be 
pressing, when flashes of light glimmered not 
only through the window, but through every 
crevice of the rudely-built hut, and summoned 
him to behold the same apparition which had 
before alarmed the successive watches of his 
brethren. His first idea was, that the Muhller- 
haussers, their rivals in trade, and with whom 
they had had many quarrels, might have en- 
croached upon their bounds for the purpose of 
pirating their wood, and he resolved to awake 
his brothers, and be revenged on them for their 
audacity. But a short reflection and observa- 
tion on the gestures and manner of those who 
seemed to "work in the fire," induced him to 
dismiss this belief, and although rather scep- 
tical in such matters, to conclude that what 
he saw was a supernatural phenomenon. " But 
be they men or fiends," said the undaunted 
forester, "that busy themselves yonder with 
such fantastical rites and gestures, I will go 
and demand a light to rekindle our furnace." 
He relinquished, at the same time, the idea of 
awaking his brethren. There was a belief that 
Buch adventures as he was about to undertake 
were accessible only to one person at a time; 
he feared also that his brothers, in their 
scrupulous timidity, might interfere to pre- 
vent his pursuing the investigation he had 
resolved to commence; and therefore, snatch- 
ing his boar-spear from the wall, the un- 
daunted Martin Waldeck set forth on the 
adventure alone. 

With the same success as his brother George, 
but with courage far superior, Martin crossed 
the brook, ascended the hill, and approached 
so near the ghostly assembly, that he could 
recognize, in the presiding figure, the attributes 
of the Harz demon. A cold shuddering assailed 
him for the first time in his life; but the recol- 
lection that he had at a distance dared and 
even courted the intercourse which was now 
about to take place confirmed his staggering 
courage, and pride supplying what he wanted 
in resolution, he advanced with tolerable firm- 
ness towards the fire, the figures which sur- 
rounded it appearing still more wild, fantastical, 
and supernatural the more near he approached 
to the assembly. He was received with a loud 



shout of discordant and unnatural laughter, 
which, to his stunned ears, seemed more alarm- 
ing than a combination of the most dismal 
and melancholy sounds that could be imagined. 
"Who art thou?" said the giant, compressing 
his savage and exaggerated features into a sort 
of forced gravity, while they were occasionally 
agitated by the convulsion of the laughter which 
he seemed to suppress. 

"Martin Waldeck, the forester," answered 
the hardy youth; — "and who are you!" 

"The King of the Waste and of the Mine," 
answered the spectre; — "and why hast thou 
dared to encroach on my mysteries?" 

" I came in search of light to rekindle my 
fire," answered Martin hardily, and then re- 
solutely asked in his turn, "What mysteries 
are those that you celebrate here?" 

"We celebrate," answered the complaisant 
demon, "the wedding of Hermes with the 
Black Dragon — But take the fire that thou 
earnest to seek, and begone — no mortal may 
long look upon us and live." 

The peasant struck his spear point into a 
large piece of blazing wood, which he heaved 
up with some difficulty, and then turned round 
to regain his hut, the shouts of laughter being 
renewed behind him with treble violence, and 
ringing far down the narrow valley. When 
Martin returned to the hut his first care, 
however much astonished with what he had 
seen, was to dispose the kindled coal among 
the fuel so as might best light the fire of his 
furnace; but after many efforts, and all the 
exertions of bellows and fire-prong, the coal 
he had brought from the demon's fire became 
totally extinct, without kindling any of the 
others. He turned about and observed the 
fire still blazing on the hill, although those 
who had been busied around it had disappeared. 
As he conceived the spectre had been jesting 
with him, he gave way to the natural hardihood 
of his temper, and, determining to see the 
adventure to an end, resumed the road to the 
fire, from which, unopposed by the demon, he 
brought off in the same manner a blazing 
piece of charcoal, but still without being able 
to succeed in lighting his fire. Impunity 
having increased his rashness, he resolved upon 
a third experiment, and was as successful as 
before in reaching the fire; but when he had 
again appropriated a piece of burning coal, 
and had turned to depart, he heard the harsh 
and supernatural voice which had before accosted 
him, pronounce these words, "Dare not to re- 
turn hither a fourth time!" 

The attempt to kindle the fire with this last 
coal having proved as ineffectual as on the 

former occasions, Martin relinquished the 
hopeless attempt, and flung himself on his bed 
of leaves, resolving to delay till the next 
morning the communication of his supernatural 
adventure to his brothers. He was awakened 
from a heavy sleep into which he had sunk, 
from fatigue of body and agitation of mind, 
by loud exclamations of surprise and joy. His 
brothers, astonished at finding the fire extin- 
guished when they awoke, had proceeded to 
arrange the fuel in order to renew it, when 
they found in the ashes three huge metallic 
masses, which their skill (for most of the 
peasants in the Harz are practical mineral- 
ogists) immediately ascertained to be pure 

It was some damp upon their joyful congrat- 
ulations when they learned from Martin the 
mode in which he had obtained this treasure, 
to which their own experience of the nocturnal 
vision induced them to give full credit But 
they were unable to resist the temptation of 
sharing in their brother's wealth. Taking 
now upon him as head of the house, Martin 
Waldeck bought lands and forests, built a 
castle, obtained a patent of nobility, and, greatly 
to the indignation of the ancient aristocracy 
of the neighbourhood, was invested with all 
the privileges of a man of family. His courage 
in public war, as well as in private feuds, to- 
gether with the number of retainers whom he 
kept in pay, sustained him for some time 
against the odium which was excited by his 
sudden elevation, and the arrogance of hia 

And now it was seen in the instance of 
Martin Waldeck, as it has been in that of many 
others, how little mortals can foresee the effect 
of sudden prosperity on their own disposition. 
The evil propensities in his nature, which 
poverty had checked and repressed, ripened 
and bore their unhallowed fruit under the in- 
fluence of temptation and the means of indul- 
gence. A s deep calls unto deep, one bad passion 
awakened another: — the fiend of avarice in- 
voked that of pride, and pride was to be sup- 
ported by cruelty and oppression. Waldeck?a 
character, always bold and daring, but rendered . 
harsh and assuming by prosperity, soon made' 
him odious, not to the nobles only, but likewise 
to the lower ranks, who saw, with double dis- 
like, the oppressive rights of the feudal nobility 
of the empire so remorselessly exercised by one 
who had risen from the very dregs of the people. 
His adventure, although carefully concealed, 
began likewise to be whispered abroad, and the 
clergy already stigmatized as a wizard and 
accomplice of fiends the wretch who, having 


Acquired bo huge a treasure in so strange a 
manner, had not sought to sanctify it by dedi- 
cating a considerable portion to the use of the 
church. Surrounded by enemies, public and 
private, tormented by a thousand feuds, and 
threatened by the church with excommunica- 
tion, Martin Waldeck, or, as we must now call 
him, the Baron Yon Waldeck, often regretted 
bitterly the labours and sports of his unenvied 
poverty . But his courage failed him not under 
these difficulties, and seemed rather to augment 
in proportion to the danger which darkened 
around him, until an accident precipitated his 

A proclamation by the reigning Duke of 
Brunswick bad invited to a solemn tournament 
all German nobles of free and honourable de- 
scent, and Martin Waldeck, splendidly armed, 
accompanied by his two brothers and a gallantly- 
equipped retinue, had the arrogance to appear 
among the chivalry of the province, and demand 
permission to enter the lists. This was con- 
sidered as filling up the measure of his pre- 
sumption. A thousand voices exclaimed, ' ' We 
will have no cinder-sifter mingle in our games 
of chivalry." Irritated to frenzy, Martin 
drew his sword and hewed down the herald, 
who, in compliance with the general outcry, 
opposed his entry into the lists, A hundred 
swords were unsheathed, to avenge what was 
in those days regarded as a crime only inferior 
to sacrilege or regicide. Waldeck, after de- 
fending himself like a lion, was seized, tried 
on the spot by the judges of the lists, and 
condemned, as the appropriate punishment for 
breaking the peace of his sovereign, and violat- 
ing the sacred person of a herald-at-arms, to 
have his right hand struck from his body, to 
be ignominiously deprived of the honour of 
nobility, of which he was unworthy, and to be 
expelled from the city. When he had been 
stripped of his arms, and sustained the muti- 
lation imposed by this severe sentence, the 
unhappy victim of ambition was abandoned to 
the rabble, who followed him with threats and 
outcries levelled alternately against the necro- 
mancer and oppressor, which at length ended 
in violence. His brothers (for his retinue were 
fled and dispersed) at length succeeded in 
rescuing him from the hands of the populace, 
when, satiated with cruelty, they had left him 
half dead through loss of blood, and through 
the outrages he had sustained. They were 
not permitted, such was the ingenious cruelty 
of their enemies, to make use of any other 
means of removing him, excepting such a 
collier's cart as they had themselves formerly 
used, in which they deposited their brother on 

a truss of straw, scarcely expecting to reach 
any place of shelter ere death should release 
him from his misery. 

When the Waldecks, journeying in this 
miserable manner, had approached the verge 
of their native country, in a hollow way, be- 
tween two mountains, they perceived a figure 
advanced towards them, which at first sight 
seemed to be an aged man. But as he ap- 
proached his limbs and stature increased, the 
cloak fell from his shoulders, his pilgrim's staff 
was changed into an uprooted pine-tree, and 
the gigantic figure of the Han demon passed 
before them in his terrors. When he came 
opposite to the cart which contained the miser- 
able Waldeck, his huge features dilated into a 
grin of unutterable contempt and malignity, 
as he asked the sufferer, "How like you the 
fire my coals have kindled?" The power of 
motion, which terror suspended in his two 
brothers, seemed to be restored to Martin by 
the energy of his courage. He raised himself 
on the cart, bent his brows, and, clenching his 
fist, shook it at the spectre with a ghastly look 
of hate and defiance. The goblin vanished 
with his usual tremendous and explosive laugh, 
and left Waldeck exhausted with this effort of 
expiring nature. 

The terrified brethren turned their vehicle 
toward the towers of a convent, which arose in 
a wood of pine-trees beside the road. They 
were charitably received by a bare-footed and 
long-bearded capuchin, and Martin survived 
only to complete the first confession he had 
made, since the day of his sudden pro- 
sperity, and to receive absolution from the 
very priest whom precisely on that day 
three years he had assisted to pelt out of the 
hamlet of Morgenbrodt The three years of 
precarious prosperity were supposed to have a 
mysterious correspondence with the number 
of his visits to the spectral fire upon the 

The body of Martin Waldeck was interred 
in the convent where he expired, in which 
his brothers, having assumed the habit of the 
order, lived and died in the performance of 
acts of charity and devotion. His lands, to 
which no one asserted any claim, lay waste 
until they were reassumed by the emperor as 
a lapsed fief, and the ruins of the castle, which 
Waldeck had called by his own name, are still 
shunned by the miner and forester as haunted 
by evil spirits. Thus were the miseries atten- 
dant upon wealth, hastily attained and ill-em- 
ployed, exemplified in the fortunes of Martin 

Sib Walts* Scon. 



The day of Ronoesvalles was a dismal day for yon, 

Ye men of Franoe, for there the lanoe of King Charles wu broke in tw** 

Te well may curse that rueful field, for many a noble peer 

In fray or fight the dust did bite beneath Bernardo's spear. 

Then captured was Guarinos, King Charles* Admiral, 
Seven Moorish kings surrounded him, and seised him for their thrall; 
Seven times, when all the ohase was o'er, for Guarinos lots they oast; 
Seven times Marlotes won the throw, and the knight was his at last. 

Much joy had then Marlotes, and his captive much did prise, 
Above all the wealth of Araby he was precious in his eyes. 
Within his tent at evening he made the best of cheer, 
And thus, the banquet done, he spake unto his prisoner: — 

"Now, for the sake of Allah, Lord Admiral Guarinos, 
Be thou a Moslem, and much love shall ever rest between us. 
Two daughters have I ;— all the day shall one thy haudmaid be— 
The other (and the fairest far) by night shall cherish thee. 

"The one shall be thy waiting-maid thy weary feet to lave, 
To scatter perfumes on thy head, and fetch thee garments brave: 
The other — she the pretty one — shall deck her bridal bower, 
And my field and my city they both shall be her dower. 

"If more thou wishest, more I'll give. Speak boldly what thy thought is.' 
Thus earnestly and kindly to Guarinos said Marlotes : 
But not a minute did he take to ponder or to pause, 
Thus clear and quick the answer of the Christian captain was. 

"Now, God forbid 1 Marlotes, and Mary his dear mother, 
That I should leave the faith of Christ and bind me to another. 
For women— I've one wife in Franoe, and I'll wed no more in Spain, 
I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy or gain." 

Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when thus he heard him say, 
And all for ire commanded he should be led away ; 
Away unto the dungeon -keep, beneath its vaults to lie, 
With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off from sun and sky. 

With iron bands they bound his hands ; that sore unworthy plight 
Might well express his helplessness, doomed never more to fight; 
Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts of iron he bore, 
Which signified the knight should ride on charger never more. 

Three times alone in all the year it is the captive's doom 
To see God's daylight bright and clear, instead of dungeon -gloom; 
Three times alone they bring him out, like Samson long ago, 
Before the Moorish rabble-rout to be a sport and show. 

On these high feasts they bring him forth, a spectacle to be— 

The Feast of Pasque and the great day of the Nativity ; 

And on that morn, more solemn yet, when the maidens strip the bowers, 

And gladden mosque and minaret with the first-fruits of the flowers. 


Days come and go of gloom and show. Seven yean are part and gone* 
And now doth fall the festival of the holy Baptist John; 
Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give it honour doe, 
And rushes on the paths to spread they force the sulky Jew. 

Marlotes in his joy and pride a target high doth rear, 

Below the Moorish knights most ride and pierce it with the spear; 

But 'tis so high up in the sky, albeit much they strain, 

No Moorish lanoe may fly so far, Marlotes' prize to gain. 

Wroth waxed King Marlotes when he beheld them fail, 
The whisker trembled on his lip, and his cheek for ire was pale. 
The heralds proclamation made, with trumpets, through the town, 
"Nor child shall suck, nor man shall eat, till the mark be tumbled down!' 9 

The cry of proclamation and the trumpet's haughty sound 
Did send an echo to the vault where the Admiral was bound. 
"Now help me, Ood ! " the captive cries. " What means this cry so loud? 
O, Queen of Heaven ! be vengeance given on these thy haters proud! 

"Oh ! is it that some Paynim gay doth Marlotes* daughter wed, 
And that they bear my scorned fair in triumph to his bed? 
Or is it that the day is come— one of the hateful three — 
When they, with trumpet, fife, and drum, make heathen game of me?" 

These words the jailer chanoed to hear, and thus to him he said : 
"These tabours, lord, and trumpets clear, conduct no bride to bed; 
Nor has the feast come round again, when he that hath the right 
Commands thee forth, thou foe of Spain, to glad the people's sight. 

"This is the joyful morning of John the Baptist's day, 
When Moor and Christian feasts at home, each in his nation's way; 
But now our king commands that none his banquet shall begin, 
Until some knight, by strength or sleight, the spearman's prise do win. 

Then out and spoke Guarinos : "Oh ! soon each man should feed, 
Were I but mounted once again on my own gallant steed. 
Oh, were I mounted as of old, and harnessed cap-a-pie, 
Full soon Marlotes' prise I'd hold, whatever its price may be. 

"Give me my hone, my old gray horse, so be he is not dead, 
All gallantly caparisoned with plato on breast and head; 
And give me the lance I brought from France, and if I win it not 
My life shall be the forfeiture, I'll yield it on the spot." 

The jailer wondered at his words. Thus to the knight said he : 
"Seven weary years of change and gloom have little humbled thee. 
There's never a man in Spain, I trow, the like so well might bear, 
An' if thou wilt I with thy vow will to the king repair." 

The jailer put his mantle on and came unto the king, 
He found him sitting on the throne within his listed ring; 
Close to his ear he planted him, and the story did begin, 
How bold Guarinos vaunted him the spearman's prise to win* 

That were he mounted but once more on his own gallant gray, 
And armed with the lance he bore on the Bonoesvalles day, 
What never Moorish knight oould pierce, he would pierce it at a blow, 
Or give with joy his life-blood fierce at Marlotes' feet to flow, 


Much marvelling, then said the king : " Bring Sir Guarinos forth, 
And in the grange go seek ye for his gray steed of worth ; 
His arms are rusty on the wall; seven years have gone, I judge, 
Since that strong horse hath bent him to be a oommon drudge. 

"Now this will be a sight indeed to see the enfeebled lord 
Essay to mount that ragged steed, and draw that rusty sword; 
And for the vaunting of his phrase he well deserves to die : 
So, jailor, gird his harness on, and bring your champion nigh." 

They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuisses well they've clasped, 

And they've barred the helm on his visage pale, and his hand the lance hath grasped; 

And they have caught the old gray horse, the horse he loved of yore, 

And he stands pawing at the gate, caparisoned onoe more. 

When the knight came out the Moors did shout, and loudly laughed the King, 

For the horse he pranced and capered and furiously did fling : 

But Guarinos whispered in his ear, and looked into his face, 

Then stood the old charger like a lamb, with calm and gentle grace. 

Oh ! lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree, 
And slowly riding down made halt before Marlotes' knee ; 
Again the heathen laughed aloud. "All hail, Sir Knight!" quoth he, 
"Now do thy best, thou champion proud; thy blood I look to see." 

With that Guarinos, lanoe in rest, against the scoffer rode, 
Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and down his turban trode. 
Now ride, now ride, Guarinos ! nor lance nor rowel spare, 
Slay, slay, and e allop for thy life ! The land of Franoe lies there I 1 

CK&VAXTEM.—Trwulat*t fry /. 67. IsdAort. 


Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; 
Then blooms each thing, then maids danoe in a ring. 
Cold doth not sting;, the pretty birds do sing, 
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo. 

The palm and may make country houses gay, 
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, 
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, 
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo. 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, 
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit, 
In every street these tunes our ears do greet, 
Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo. 
Spring, the sweet Spring. 

Thomas Nash (1600). 

i Don Quixote and Sancho Fans* are supposed to have heard this ballad sung by peasants on their way to 
work at daybreak Ths number of charart,«»ri«Mo «on~n c«itiined in the yreat book of Cervantes are frequently 
overlooked in the delight with which we fuiluw the adventured of the hero. 




Although now consisting of little else than 
barren rocks, mountains covered with snow 
and ice, and valleys covered with glaciers, — 
although its coasts are now lined with floods 
of ice, and chequered with icebergs of immense 
size, Greenland was once easily accessible; its 
soil was fruitful, and well repaid the cultivation 
of the earth. It was discovered by the Scan- 
dinavians, towards the close of the tenth 
century, and a settlement was effected on the 
eastern coast, in the year 982, by a company 
of adventurers from Iceland, under command 
of Eric the Red. Emigrants flocked thither 
from Iceland and Norway, and 'the results of 
European enterprise and civilization appeared 
on different parts of the coast A colony was 
established in Greenland, and it bid fair to go 
on and prosper. 

Voyages of exploration were projected in 
Greenland, and carried into effect by the hardy 
mariners of those days. Papers have been 
published by the Danish Antiquarian Society 
at Copenhagen, which go far to show that those 
bold navigators discovered the coast of Labrador, 
and proceeding to the south, fell in with the 
Island of Newfoundland; continuing their 
course, they beheld the sandy shores of Cape 
Cod, centuries before the American continent 
was discovered by Christopher Columbus! It 
is even believed that these Scandinavian ad- 
venturers effected a settlement on the shores 
of what is now known as Narraganset Bay, in 
Rhode Island, and in consequence of the 
multitude of grapes which abounded in the 
woods, they called the new and fruitful country 
Yinland. But owing to the great number of 
hostile savages who inhabited these regions, 
the colonists, after some sanguinary skirmishes, 
forsook the coast and returned to Greenland. 

The colony, however, continued to flourish, 
and the intercourse between it and the mother 
country was constant and regular. In the 
year 1400 it is said to have numbered one 
hundred and ninety villages, a bishopric, 
twelve parishes, and two monasteries. During 
this period of four hundred years, vessels were 
passing, at regular intervals, between the 
Danish provinces in Europe and Greenland. 
But in the year 1406 this intercourse was in- 
terrupted in a fatal manner. A mighty wall 
arose, as if by magic, along the coast, and the 
navigators who sought those shores could be- 
hold the mountains in the distance, but could 
not effect a landing. During the greater part 

of the fifteenth, the whole of the sixteenth and 
seventeenth centuries, Greenland was inacces- 
sible to European navigators. The whole coast 
was blockaded by large masses and islands of 
ice, which had been drifting from the north 
for years, and which at length chilled the 
waters of the coast, and changed the temper- 
ature of the atmosphere, and presented an 
impassible barrier to the entrance in their ports 
of friend or foe. The sea, at the distance of 
miles from the land, was frozen to a great 
depth, vegetation was destroyed, and the very 
rocks were rent with the cold. And this in- 
tensely rigid weather continued for ages! 

The colony of Greenland, after this unex- 
pected event took place, never had any inter- 
course with their friends in the mother country. 
They were cut off from all the rest of the 
world. And by this sudden and unanticipated 
change of climate they were also doubtless 
deprived of all resources within themselves. 
Their fate, however, is a mystery. History is 
silent on the subject. All which is known of 
this unfortunate people is, that they no longer 
exist. The ruins of their habitations and their 
churches have since been discovered along the 
coast by adventurous men, who have taken 
advantage of an amelioration in the climate 
to explore that sterile country, and establish 
settlements again on various parts of the coast; 
and also by missionaries, who have braved 
hardships and perils to introduce among the 
aboriginal inhabitants the blessings of civiliza- 
tion and Christianity. No other traces of those 
early European settlers have been discovered, 
and we can only speculate upon their fate. 

It would require no vivid fancy to imagine 
the appalling sense of destitution which 
blanched the features and chilled the hearts of 
those unhappy colonists when they began to 
realize their forlorn condition; when the cold 
rapidly increased, and their harbours became 
permanently blocked with enormous icebergs, 
and the genial rays of the sun were obscured 
by fogs; when the winters became for the first 
time intensely rigid, cheerless, and dreary ; when 
the summers were also cold, and the soil un- 
productive; when the mountains, no longer 
crowned with forests, were covered with snow 
and ice throughout the year, and the valleys 
filled with glaciers; when the wonted inhabi- 
tants of the woods and waters were destroyed 
or exiled by the severity of the weather, and 
their places perhaps supplied by monsters of a 
huge and frightful character. 

It were easy to follow this people in fancy 
to their dwellings; to see them sad, spiritless, 
and despairing, while conscious of their im- 



prisoned and cheerless condition, and impend- 
ing fate; to watch them as their numbers 
gradually diminish through the combined in- 
fluence of want and continual suffering; to 
behold them struggling for existence, and 
striving, nobly striving, to adapt their consti- 
tutions, their habits, their feelings, and their 
wants, to their strangely changed circumstances, 
but all in vain; to behold them gazing from 
their icy clifls, with straining eyes, to the 
eastward, towards that quarter of the globe, so 
far distant, where their friends and relations 
reside, in a more genial clime, surrounded 
with all the blessings of life, but compelled to 
rest their eyes on a vast, dreary, and monoton- 
ous sea of ice, a mass of frozen waves, sur- 
rounding myriads of icebergs, extending to 
the utmost limit of their vision. 

Fancy might even go farther than this, and 
portray the last of these unhappy colonists, 
who had lingered on the stage of life until he 
had seen all of his companions, all, of each sex 
and every age, die a miserable death, the prey 
of want and despair. Poets have described, 
in lines of beauty and sublimity, the horrors 
which may be supposed to surround "the last 
man;" but there seems to be a remoteness, 
and indeed an air of improbability about the 
subject, which robs it of half its force and 
majesty. But here is an event which has 
actually occurred, and worthy of being com- 
memorated by the ablest pen in the land. 
Here, indeed, we may imagine, without offend- 
ing probability, the wild horrors, invading the 
very temple of reason, and accumulating, until 
madness takes possession of the mind. Here 
we may look for the reality of the fanciful pic- 
ture, presented with so much terrible distinct- 
ness by the poets. 

John 8. Sleeper. 


You'll come to our ball? — Since we parted, 

I've thought of you more than 111 say ; 
Indeed, I wm half broken-hearted 

For a week when they took you away 
Fond Fancy brought back to my slumbers 

Our walks on the Neas and the Den, 
And echoed the musicul numbers 

Which you used to sing to me then, 
I know the romance since it's over, 

'Twere idle, or worse, to recall : — 
I know you're a terrible rover; 

But, Clarence, — you'll come to our Ball? 

* This is the flrat of the " Lettera from Teignmouth,' 
which are amonpt the beet of FnwxTs Vcn-dt-SocitU. 

It's only a year since, at college, 

You put on your cap and your gown ; 
But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge, 

And changed from the spur to the crown : 
The voice that was best when it faltered 

Is fuller and firmer in tone ; 
And the smile that should never have alterM, — 

Dear Clarence,— it is not your own : 
Your cravat was badly selected, 

Your coat don't become you at all ; 
And why is your hair so neglected? 

Yon must have it curled for our BalL 

I've often been out upon Haldon, 

To look for a covey with Pup; 
I've often been over to Shaldon, 

To see how your boat is laid up : 
In spite of the terrors of Aunty, 

I've ridden the filly you broke; 
And I've studied your sweet little Dante 

In the shade of your favourite oak. 
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, 

I sat in your love of a shawl ; 
And I'll wear what you brought me from 

Perhaps, if you'll come to our BalL 

You'll find us all changed since yon vanished: 

We've set up a National School; 
And waltzing is utterly banished; 

And Ellen has married a fool. 
The Major is going to travel ; 

Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout : 
The walk is laid down with fresh gravel; 

Papa is laid up with the gout : 
And Jane has gone on with her easels, 

And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul ; 
And Fanny is sick of the measles, 

And-I'U tell you the rest at the BalL 

You'll meet all your Beauties ;— the lily, 

And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, 
And Lucy, who made me so silly 

At Dawlish, by taking your arm : 
Miss Manners, who always abused you 

For talking so much about hock; 
And her sister, who often amused you 

By raving of rebels and Bock ; 
And something which surely would answer 

An heiress, quite fresh from Bengal; 
So, though you were seldom a dancer, 

You'll dance, just for once, at our BalL 

But out on the world ! — from the flowers 

It shuts out the sunshine of truth ; 
It blights the green leaves in the bowers, 

It makes an old age of our youth : 
And the flow of our feeling, once in it, 

Like a streamlet beginning to freese, 
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, 

Grows harder by sullen degrees. 



Time treads o'er the grave of affection ; 

Sweet honey it turned into gall : — 
Perhaps you have no recollection 

That ever you danced at our Ball. 

Ton once could be pleased with our ballads — 

To-day you have critical ears : 
You once could be charmed with our salads ; — 

Alas : you've been dining with Peers : 
You trifled and flirted with many ; 

You've forgotten the when and the how; 
There was one you liked better than any;— 

Perhaps you've forgotten her now. 
But of those you remember most newly, 

Of those who delight or enthrall, 
None love you a quarter so truly 

As some you will find at our Ball. 

They tell me you've many who flatter. 

Because of your wit and your song; 
They tell me (and what does it matter?) 

You like to be praised by the throng : 
They tell me you're shadowed with laurel, 

They tell me you're loved by a Blue; 
They tell me you're sadly immoral, — 

Dear Clarence, that cannot be true. 
But to me you are still what I found you 

Before you grew clever and tall, 
And you'll think of the spell that once bound 

And you'll come— won'* you come?— to our 



The Chevalier de Boufflera, whom Delile 
characterized as "the honour of knighthood 
and the flower of Troubadours/' the erotic 
poet, the agreeable novelist, so long the delight 
of the salons of Paris, was by turns an abbot, 
a colonel of hussars, a painter, an academician, 
a legislator, and, under all these characters, 
the most gay, careless, and witty of French 

I was long acquainted with this highly gifted 
man. I saw him in 1780 at the beautiful 
estate of Chanteloup, near Amboise, whither 
the Duke de Choiseul, then an exile from the 
court, attracted many of the most distinguished 
men of France, whether for birth or merit It 
was the focus of the most brilliant wits and 
beauties of the day. The Duchess de Choiseul, 
whose memory is still cherished on the lovely 
banks of the Loire, had a friendship for the 
Chevalier de Boufflera which did her honour: 
he was her companion in her walks, in the 

vol. m. 

chase, and still more frequently in her visit* 
to the cottages of the peasantry, to whom this 
accomplished and excellent woman constantly 
administered comfort and assistance. 

Madame de Choiseul was, in her youth, in- 
timate with Buffon, from whom she had imbibed 
a strong taste for the observation of natural 
objects. Her library contained a complete 
collection of natural historians, ancient and 

This delightful and exhaustion study had 
inspired Madame de Choiseul with a new and 
fanciful idea. Opposite to the windows of her 
own room she had erected a temple of gauze 
of antique form, and sheltered by an ample 
roof; during the summer she amused herself 
with collecting in this airy palace all the most 
beautiful butterflies of the country. 

The Duchess alone had a key of the Temple 
of Butterflies, which was peopled by the assid- 
uity of the village girls of the neighbourhood. 
They strove, by presenting to her continually 
some new species, to obtain the privilege of 
speaking to their beloved patroness, and they 
were sure to receive a reward proportioned to 
the beauty and rarity of their offerings. 

Boufflera was frequently a witness to the 
duchess's assiduous cares about her favourite 
temple. "Chevalier," said she to him, with 
a smile, "I run no risk in introducing you 
among my butterflies; they will take you for 
one of themselves, and will not be frightened." 

On one occasion, when Madame de Choiseul 
was compelled by illness to keep her room for 
some weeks, she gave the key of her temple to 
the chevalier, who found ample compensation 
for the trouble of his charge in the pleasure 
of receiving the country girls who daily came 
to recruit the numerous family of butterflies. 
He encouraged them to talk about their rural 
sports and their lore affairs, so that he was 
soon master of the chronicles of all the sur- 
rounding villages. In this way he frequently 
caught ideas and expressions with which he 
afterwards adorned his poems. 

It was, however, remarked that Boufflera 
almost always preferred the butterflies brought 
by the prettiest girls : his scrutiny turned rather 
upon their features, their natural and simple 
graces, than upon the objects it was his office 
to select. An engaging face, a graceful carriage, 
or a well-turned person, was pretty sure not 
to be rejected. Thus the beautiful temple de- 
clined in splendour, but fewer poor little girls 
went away disappointed; and the duchess's 
bounty, passing through the easy hands of the 
chevalier, was diffused more widely, and glacV 
dened more hearts. 


Among the villagers who came to offer the 
fruits of their chase, he had frequently remarked 
a girl of about fifteen, whose large deep blue 
eyes, jet black eyebrows, and laughing mouth, 
graceful and easy carriage, and sweet, soft 
voice realized the most poetical descriptions of 
rural beauty. To crown her attractions, he 
found that she was the daughter of a forester 
of Amboise, and that her name was Aline. 
This pretty name was the title of a tale of his 
which had been greatly admired. It may be 
imagined that he felt a peculiar interest in 
this young girl, and with what pleasure he re- 
warded her, In the duchess's name, and how 
he took advantage of the pretext afforded by 
the beauty of any of her butterflies to double 
the gift Boufflers soon drew from her the 
secret of her heart; he learned how she loved 
Charles Verner, son of the keeper of the castle, 
but that his father opposed their union on 
account of the disparity of their fortunes. 
Boufflers, who thought love levelled all distinc- 
tions, secretly resolved to serve the young 
A line. He sent for Charles Verner, found 
him worthy to be the possessor of so lovely 
a creature, and spoke in his behalf to the 
duchess, who, wishing to have some fair pre- 
text for contributing towards the marriage 
portion of the chevalier's protege, made it 
known in the neighbourhood that at the end 
of the season she would give a prize of twenty- 
five louis dors to the girl who brought her the 
greatest number of rare and beautiful butter- 
fl ies. The em ulation excited among the young 
villagers may easily be imagined; and whether 
it was that the fresh verdure of Aline's native 
forest of Amboise was propitious to her, or 
whether she was more agile and dexterous than 
the others, it fell out that she often presented 
Madame de Choiseul, through her kind pro- 
tector, with the butterflies upon which Reaumur 
had fixed the highest value. 

One day when the duke and duchess, ac- 
companied by the train of nobles who formed 
the usual society of Chanteloup, were walking 
in that part of the park bordering on the forest, 
Aline, with a gauze net in her hand, and pant- 
ing for breath, came running joyously up to 
Boufflers, and said to him, with that innocent 
familiarity he had encouraged in her, "Look, 
Monsieur le Chevalier, what do you think of 
my butterflies? you are such a fine judge of 
them." This speech was susceptible of an 
application so curiously fitted to the known 
character of Boufflers, that everybody laughed. 
He took the butterflies from Aline's hands, 
and told her they were really of a rare and 
moat valuable kind; one, especially! which, 

with its four azure wings of enormous size, 
studded with flame-coloured eyes, and its long 
black proboscis, supplied the only deficiency 
in the temple, and completed the duchess's 
immense collection. It was instantly decided 
that Aline had won the promised prize; she 
soon afterwards received it from the hands of 
Madame de Choiseul, and Boufflers added a 
golden cross, which Aline promised to wear as 
long as she lived. 

It was now the middle of autumn, and as 
the pleasures of Paris became daily more brilliant 
and inviting, the Chevalier de Boufflers could 
not resist their attractions, though he left the 
delightful abode of Chanteloup with regret. 
Before he went away he saw the maiden who 
had so deeply interested him, and obtained 
from the father of her lover the promise that 
he would consent to their marriage as soon as 
Aline had a sufficient portion. He recommended 
her warmly to the duchess's kindness, and de- 
parted for the capital. 

A short time after, the Duke de Choiseul 
quitted a world in which he had exercised such 
vast power, and so courageously withstood his 
numerous enemies. His widow was compelled 
to sacrifice nearly the whole of her own fortune 
to pay the debts contracted by her husband, 
who had outshone all the nobles of the court 
in magnificence. She sold the estate of Chan- 
teloup to the Duke de Penthievre, and went to 
live at Paris. Aline, 'thus deprived of her 
patroness, lost all hope of being united to her 
lover, whose father remained inflexible; and 
the young man, in a fit of desperation, enlisted 
in a regiment of dragoons. Boufflers heard of 
this. By a fortunate chance the colonel of 
the regiment was his near relative and friend, 
and Charles did so much credit to his recom- 
mendation, that he soon rose to the rank of 
Marechal des Logis. On his first leave of 
absence he hastened to Chanteloup, where he 
found his fair one provided with a sufficient 
portion by the chevalier's generosity; the old 
keeper no longer withheld his consent, and the 
lovers were speedily united. 

Twenty years passed away, and France fell 
into the confusion of political dissensions, and 
at length into all the horrors of the first 
Revolution. Boufflers, though friendly to the 
opinions which were then propagated by the 
true lovers of liberty, was compelled, after the 
deplorable 10th of August, 1792, to quit France 
and take refuge in Berlin. Prince Henry and 
the King of Prussia, after keeping him for some 
time with them, gave him an estate in Poland, 
where, like a true French knight, he founded 
a colony for all the emigrants who were driven 



from their unhappy country. But in spite of 
all the advantages and all the consolations he 
received in foreign lands, he never ceased to 
sigh after Paris. Thither his family, his 
friends, his most cherished habits, all called 
him. The compliments paid him on his poems 
only served to remind him of the lovely and 
captivating women who had inspired them; 
those on his novel, of the delights of Chante- 
loup, of the amiable Duchess de Choiseul (who 
had survived her husband only a few years), 
and of the Temple of Butterflies. 

The storm of the Revolution having subsided, 
many proscribed persons obtained leave to re- 
turn to France; among these was Boufflers, 
who left Poland, travelling homewards through 
Bohemia, Bavaria, and Switzerland. He 
wished to revisit the beautiful shores of the 
Lake of Geneva, where, thirty years before, he 
had passed a time which he never recurred to 
without delight. He therefore stopped at Lau- 
sanne, and fearing lest his name might expose 
him to some disagreeable curiosity or supervi- 
sion, he had furnished himself with a passport 
under the name of Foubera, a French painter. 
In this character, which he had more than 
once assumed before, he presented himself in 
the first houses of Lausanne, where he was re- 
ceived with all the attentions due to genuine 
talent, The rage for M. Foubers, and for Mb 
fine miniature portraits, was universal. As 
he was anxious to obtain beautiful subjects, 
he was constantly told that he ought to paint 
the Countess de Lauterbach; she was described 
to him as a lady of French origin, and the 
widow of a Bavarian general, who at his 
death had left her considerable property, in- 
cluding a magnificent estate, situated on the 
banks of the lake, at a few miles distance from 
Lausanne. At a fete given by one of the 
principal inhabitants of Lausanne the beauti- 
ful Countess of Lauterbach was present, antf 
more than justified all his expectations. 

He was introduced to the countess, who 
appeared struck by the sound of his voice, and 
agitated by some emotion which she strove to 
dissemble. They entered into conversation, 
and Boufflers expressed the most earnest desire 
to paint from so fine a model After a moment's 
reflection the Countess accepted his offer; and, 
as if struck by some sudden thought, fixed a 
day for Foubera to go to her house, at the 
sune time expressing her pleasure at being 
painted by a French artist 

On the day appointed a caleche stopped at 
the door of his lodging, and conveyed him to 
the Chateau de St Sulpice, situated on the 
baoks of the lake, opposite to the superb am- 

phitheatre traced by the Alps on the horizon. 
Boufflers arrived; he crossed an outer court, 
passed through a handsome hall, and entered 
a vast saloon, in which everything announced 
opulence and taste. On one side of the room 
hung a full-length portrait of the late Duchess 
de Choiseul, seated near the Temple of Butter- 
flies, with a volume of Bouffler's works in her 
hand. The chevalier could not control the 
emotions which agitated him and forced tears 
from his eyes. "What recollections!" ex- 
claimed he involuntarily: "this Countess de 
Lauterbach must certainly be of the Choiseul 
family. I shall like her the better." Whilst 
he gave himself up to these reflections, a 
chamberlain came to tell him that his lady 
would be occupied for a short time, that she 
begged M. Foubera to excuse her, and desired 
him to ask whether he would be pleased to walk 
into her plantation a la Francaise. Boufflers 
followed his conductor through a long suite of 
apartments, where he entered an avenue of 
limes, and at the first turning he saw, under 
the shade of some large trees, a temple of gauze 
precisely like the Duchess de Choiseul's. The 
temple was filled with butterflies of every 
species, and over the door was an inscription 
in verse which Boufflers had formerly written 
over the entrance to the temple at Chanteloup, 
and he stood before it agitated, yet motionless 
with astonishment, and thought himself trans- 
ported by magic to the banks of the Loire. 
But his surprise was increased, and his emotion 
heightened, when he saw advancing towards 
him a young girl of fourteen or fifteen, in the 
dress of the villagers of Lorraine, whose features, 
shape, and gait were so precisely those of the 
girl he remembered with so affectionate an in- 
terest, that he thought it was she herself that 
stood before him, and whose deep rich voice 
met his ear. 

"Your servant, Monsieur de Boufflers," 
said she, with a curtsy, and presenting to 
him a little gauze net: ''What do you think 
of my butterflies? you are such a fine judge of 

"What are you — angel — sylph — enchan- 

"What! do you not remember Aline, the 
daughter of the forester of Amboise, who used 
so often to bring you butterflies?" 

"Do I dream!" said Boufflers, rubbing his 
eyes, and, taking the child's hand, he pressed 
it to his lips: "Aline, lovely Aline! — it cannot 
be you?" 

' * How ! it cannot be me? — Who then won the 
prize for the finest butterflies? — Who received 
from the hands of the duchess a prize of 



twenty-five lonis, and from yours this golden 
crow, which I promised to wear as long as I 
live, and which I have never parted with for 
an instant?" 

"I do indeed remember that cross — it is 
the very one! Never was illusion so perfect — 
never was man so bewildered. Your elegance 
betrays you. No, you are not a mere country 
girl. Tell me, then, to whom am I indebted 
for the most delicious emotion I ever felt in 
my life? — Whence do you come? — Who are 

"She is my daughter," cried the Countess 
de Lauterbach, suddenly stepping from the 
concealment of a thicket, and throwing herself 
into the arms of Boufflers. 

"My dear protector — kind author of my 
happiness and of my good fortune — behold the 
true Aline, the wife and widow of Charles 
Verner, whose only daughter stands before 
you. Tour emotion, however strong, cannot 
equal mine." 

"How, madame! are you that simple village 
girl? Good and beautiful as you were, you 
had a right to become what you now are. But 
tell me, how happened it that for once fortune 
was not blind? — have the kindness at once to 
satisfy my curiosity." 

"Listen then," replied the countess with 
confiding delight, "and you shall hear all." 

"Charles, in whom you took so generous an 
interest, having distinguished himself by re- 
peated acts of bravery, obtained a commission 
shortly after on r marriage. The war wh ich broke 
out between France and Germany called him 
to the field, and I followed him. He afterwards 
rose to the rank of colonel of cavalry, when he 
saved the life of the Count de Lauterbach, 
commander of a Bavarian division on the field 
of battle; but in this act he received a mortal 
wound, and with his last breath recommended 
his wife and child, then an infant, to the 
general's care. Count Lauterbach thought 
that in no way could he so effectually prove his 
gratitude to his preserver, as by becoming the 
husband of his widow and the father of his 
child. After a few years of a happy union he 
died, leaving me a large fortune, and a revered 
and cherished memory. At that time," added 
the countess, "I knew that you had been 
compelled to quit France, and to take refuge in 
Prussia; I left no means untried to discover 
the place of your residence; but your change 
of name, your travelling as a French painter, 
as you have so often done, always prevented 
my accomplishing the most ardent wishes of 
my heart. Judge then what was my emotion 
on meeting you the other day at Lausanne. 

I instantly determined to prove to yon, in 
some degree at least, my joy and gratitude; 
and taking advantage of my daughter's age, 
and of her perfect resemblance to that Aline 
who owed to you the hand of Charles Verner, 
and all that she has subsequently possessed or 
enjoyed, I made use of your own colours; I 
copied the most beautiful scene of your elegant 
story which I have read so often — in short, I 
tried to bewitch you with your own enchant- 
ments; have I succeeded?" 

"Ah!" exclaimed Boufflers, pressing the 
mother and daughter to his heart, "never shall 
I forget this ingenious fraud ; it is true that 
the memory of the heart is indestructible in 
women; and I see that the little good one may 
be able to do to the simplest village girl may 
become a capital which gratitude will repay 

with interest" „ _ „ 

Luct H.1 


Oh give me new figures !— I can't go on dancing 

The aame that were taught me ten wanna ago; 
The Schoolmaster orer the land ia advancing — 

Then why is the Matter of Dancing eo alow T 
It ia anon a bore to be always caught tripping 

In dull uniformity year after year ; 
Inrent something new, and you'll set me a-aklpping: 

I want a new figure to danoe with my Dear I 

Oh give me new figures I— la PamtaUm't i 

{If merit is in it)— I never disoerned ; 
Tis old " right and left,** but deducting the spirit ; 

Terpsichore I what a mere dawdle you're turned I 
Oh 1 think of the time when you tript down twelve 

To tunes it was really exciting to hear; 
I fear you're grown old, and your joints are less supple: 

I want a new figure to danoe with my Dear I 

Next L'Ste commences ; and into the middle 

A lady and gentleman slowly advance, 
And practise their steps, while the harp and the 

Play something much more like a song than a 
Bn avant is composed of a walk and a hobble ; 

A shuffle half-sideways achieves en arritrt; 
They cAawet as if they all thought it a trouble : 

I want a new figure to danoe with my Dear I 

Oh give me new figures \—La Petri* my averaion- 

Four ladles and gentlemen all of a row I 
And m> very odd to see Major Macpherson 

And little Miss ThJatlewig danoe do§-a-4m! 
And oh ! what a very strange figure Trtmm ia ! 

In wh»t- a confusion the dancers appear I 
Now tins way. now that way ! I marvel it pleases 

I want a new figure to dance with my Dear I 


la Pastorale next—flee young Smith how he linger*, 

Unwilling to figure m Cavalier tevl; 
Adjusting hie hair, and then twirling his fingers, 

And simpering round him— oh ! to like a fool 1 
And now he starts off with a hop and a wriggle, 

His hands in a fidget betraying his fear ; 
And, see I all the girls are suppressing a giggle! 

/ want a new figure to danoe with my Dear I 

Fmale has merit— lor 'As the conclusion, 

And (Jtai's the sole merit 1 think it oan claim; 
And (save a commencement of greater confusion) 

FinaU and L'BU are one and the same. 
And then, in the pauses they talk of the weather, 

So cold, or so hot, for the time of the year ; 
And they part as if weary of being together ! 

I want a new figure to dance with my Dear I 

I want a new figure !— the Walts**, I note 'em, 

And wonder they're all perpendicular still : 
Were / to attempt to perform a Tetotum, 

A fall would soon prove me deficient in skill. 
I think Lady Waltxers are all spinning Jennies; 

The OentUmen must be as mad as King Lear! 
With heads fall of sense-as the head of apm is I 

I want a new figure to danoe with my Dear I 

I want a new figure I— the figure of France is 

A figure activity cannot but shun ; 
I want a new figure I— the old country dances 

Were really and truly all figure* of fun. 
1 want a new figure !— the minuet paces 

Were slow, but a grace in each step did appear ; 
QuadrUlers hare nothing to do with the Graces : 

I want a new figure to danoe with my Dear ! 

I want a new figure I— ah, yes! I oonfeas it! 

I want one in every sense of the phrase; 
My waist will increase, though I strive to compress it 

By wearing the newest Parisian stays ! 
I want a new figure I -it fills me with terror 

To think of my weight— <I am weighed onoe a year) 
And, oh 1 I can't bear to look into a mirror J— 

I leant a new figure to dance with my Dear ! 

Thomas Hatkes Bayly. 


• T ohn Trott was desired by two witty peers 

To tell them the reason why asses had ears? 

"An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to 

Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; 
Bowe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, 
As I hope to be saved I without thinking on asses." 

Ouvm Goldsmith. 
Kdmburgh, 1768. 


Some yean have elapsed (I am sometimes 
tempted to forget how many) since I endea- 
voured to compensate the deficiencies of a ne- 
glected education on my own side the Tweed 
by voluntary studies at the university of Edin- 
burgh. As a relaxation from severer pursuits, 
and an excuse for rambles in a country whose 
novelty alone was attraction enough to an un- 
travelled Englishman, I occasionally accom- 
panied a young artist of liberal education and 
pleasing manners, with whom I was acquainted, 
in his sketching expeditions in the romantic 
neighbourhood of his native city, the very con- 
tiguity of which to a great town rendered it 
more piquant and striking. 

In one of these excursions, when, by the 
uncommon fineness of the weather and greater 
distance of the style of scenery requisite for 
his purpose, we were tempted to proceed be- 
yond the brief limits of an autumnal day, in- 
stead of returning by the light of a rather 

waning moon to Edinburgh, G proposed 

that wt> should take up our quarters for the 
night at a neat little mountain inn, much 
frequented at various seasons by fishers and 
grouse-shooters, and affording, in consequence, 
accommodations of a description its unpretend- 
ing aspect would scarcely have led one to expect* 
On nearing this rustic hostelry, kept by an 
antique of the true Meg Dods character, we 
were a good deal surprised to hear, issuing 
from its usually quiet haven, sounds of the 
most exuberant and unrestrained mirth, blend- 
ing with, and nearly overpowering, the dis- 
cordant strains of a brace of evidently bel- 
ligerent fiddles. 

"A penny-wedding, by all that's lucky!" 
exclaimed my companion. " At least you, sir, 
as a stranger, will no doubt think one night's 
rest well sacrificed for a peep at these fast- wan- 
ing saturnalia." 

"Pray explain," said I, delighted to wit- 
ness, under any circumstances, so lively a scene 
of national festivity: "what do you mean by a 
' penny- wedding?' " 

"Why, sir, in pastoral and primitive dis- 
tricts — which, strange to say, though within a 
dozen miles of a capital, these hills seem likely 
long to remain — when a couple, of the lowest 
order, of course, are too poor to muster the 
sum requisite for marrying, their neighbours 
and acquaintance good-humouredly set on foot 
a subscription, out of which is first defrayed 
i From The Literary Souvenir, 1888. 



inch a merry-making as you see going on 
yonder, while the surplus generally suffices to 
place the improvident pair beyond immediate 
want It is not, yon will say, a very eligible 
mode of settling in the world, nor is it so con- 
sidered in these days, even among themselves. 
It is generally, indeed, more a frolic of the 
neighbouring young people at the expense of 
some pair of elderly paupers, determined to 
marry for worse instead of better, than, as it 
once was, a creditable scheme of establishment 
for a deserving young couple." 

As he spoke we descended the green shoulder 
of one of the pastoral hills, whose recesses of 
unsuspected beauty we had been all day ex- 
ploring, and came full upon the little inn, its 
front beaming with unwonted illumination, 
and steam — savoury as the cauldron of Meg 
Merrilees, amidst which my English organs 
readily detected the national perfume of " moun- 
tain-dew" — issuing from every open door and 

The fiddles, whose dismal scraping accorded 
ill with the accompaniments, might almost 
have been dispensed with, so completely were 
they drowned by yells and shrieks of frantic 
merriment, and so well was the time of the 
tune marked by the snapping of fingers and 
thumping of heels on the sanded floor of the 
kitchen. I scarcely know which expressed 
most surprise, my face, as I caught, over the 
shoulder of a tall, white-headed old Bluegown 
(the fac-simile of Edie Ochiltree), a glimpse 
of the Bcene within, or that of Luckie Cairns, 
the usually staid and somewhat aristocratical 
hostess, when the nakedness of her, for once, 
disorderly house was discovered to a couple of 
stranger gentlemen. She soon, however, re- 
cognized the old acquaintance, G , and 

addressed to him — though with the tail of her 
eye all the time on the "Englisher" — her 
characteristic apology. 

It began, more Scotico, with a question, and 

with what G called "the first word o' 

fly tin." 

" Lord guide's ! Mr. G , what's brought 

you here the day, wi' your pents and your 
nick-nacks, and a stranger comrade wi' ye, 
that's used to things wiselike, nae doubt, and 
the house a' disjeskit this gait wi' the first and 
last ploy the callants e'er got me to countenance 
within my door? And they hadna hae gotten 
it now, but the silly body, Sanders, took it aye 
up and down wi' the gentle's fish to the carrier's, 
and their letters frae the post, and they per- 
suaded me he was a kind o' serving body o' 
my ain; and traiking Tibbie had sell't my 
butter and eggs may-be thretty years and mair ; 

so what could I do but let my house be i 
a public ae night in the thretty? and gentles 
to light on't for a clean bed and hot supper ! 
It's a judgment on me for being aae simple ! " 

"Keep yourself easy, Luckie!" answered 

G , in her own style. "My friend here 

can get clean beds and hot suppers in Eng- 
land, but penny-weddings are scarce enough, 
even in Scotland." § 

" The scarcer the better," said the hostess, 
drawing herself up with the demure look of one 
scandalized with unwonted revelry. "And 
now, sirs, what can I do for ye? There's no a 
bed in the house up but my ain ; and tho' I 
wad gie ye't, I couldna promise ye peace to lie 
in't, for the fiddles '11 be scraiching, and the 
folk skirling, and the reels daddin, till far i' 
the night ; and the smell o' the punch 'II be 
just poison to the gentleman frae England 
Ye'll no be that ill for supper, for I've a curn 
mutton pies by ordinar' that I seasoned mysel, 
and there's a creel fu' o' trout walloping down 
bye at the burn that wad pleasure a provost 
Come slipping ben to my ain wee room, and 
ye's get a' the comfort I can gie ye, afore the 
folk's sapper comes on ; and for beds, I'll send 
the lass to the minister's, and get ye gude 
quarters for a word." 

" I know the clergyman," said Q , see- 
ing me hesitate. "His sons and I were at 
school together, and my first sunshiny holi- 
days were spent among the hills we traversed 
to-day. I aliouLd like to see the manse once 
more, and a welcome will not be wanting, un- 
less Mr. Maxwell should be strangely altered." 

" He is altered, honest man !" said the land- 
lady, heeding only my comrade's last words. 
" Grief's a great alterer, o' auld folk especially ! 
and it's fifty year come Monday since the min- 
ister was placed in the parish, and thirty come 
the time since he married me and puir John 
Cairns doucely and Christian-like in that very 
Bpence whar thae daft deevils are making a 
mock o' marriage atween twa auld randy ne'er- 
do-weels ! But it's dinn now, and what's the 
use o' reflections? Come your wayB, gentle- 
men, to your Bupper." 

It was with reluctance that I postponed, 
even to so important an affair to a hungry 
prospect-hunter, the gratification of my curi- 
osity. But reconciled to the landlady's fiat by 
the trout and mutton-pies, and the comfort 
and cleanliness which reigned in her sanctum 

sanctorum, G and I did ample justice to 

the savoury repast, and its crowning tumbler, 
whose whisky even I, a novice, could discern 
to be mountain-born, and guiltless of the 



•* I see ye're nae great hand at the whisky, 
air/' said the hostess, in answer to an equivocal 
shake of the head with which an Englishman 
generally salutes the indigenous flavour of 
genuine peat-reek; "but tak my word fort, 
ae devil dings out anither, and if ye're to be 
dancin and damn yonder, and the room reek- 
ing o' punch like a killogie, ye'll ken a' the 
less for being a thought primed yoursel; and 
ye'll dance a* the better for't, I'se warrant" — 

turning with a smile to G , " a spur in the 

head's worth twa in the heeL" 

So saying, the good lady, desirous to profit 
in her domestic affairs by the interval between 
the claims of her very opposite customers, 
snatched up the candle, and marshalled us to 
the scene of a festivity to which, at the dis- 
tance of a mile at least, our ears might have 
proved sufficient guides. 

The hoarse squeak of the wary and muggy 
fiddlen was now well-nigh drowned by the far 
more efficient "lilt" of some stentorian voices, 
on whose organs the "barley bree" had pro- 
duced an exactly opposite effect ; and the figure 
of one round rosy shepherd, who, with bonnet 
"ajee" and picturesquely disposed plaid, sung, 
danced, and snapped his fingers, surrounded 
by a ring of admiring rivals, would have been 
worthy the pencil of a Teniers or a Wilkie. 

His partner in the reel was no less a per- 
sonage than the blushing bride — a weathcr- 
* beaten crone of some sixty winters' bronzing; 
and as, exhilarated by the unwonted stimulant 
of applause, she strove to keep pace with the 
agile movements and giddy whirlings of her 
viaa-vie, peals of unbridled laughter shook the 
quiet hostelry to its very base. 

The bridegroom again, an old Chelsea pen- 
sioner, whose once steady, soldier-like frame 
retained some shadow of military bearing, spite 
of the joint inroads of palsy and potations, was 
doing his best to keep his equilibrium, as, like 
" Panting Time," he toiled after the winged 
heels of a mountain fairy of sixteen, whose shy 
but earnest gaze at the strangers, and bound- 
ing rapidity of motion, reminded me at once 
of the roe on her native hills. 

Moved by compassion for this ill-matched 
couple, and well aware of the popular course 

on such occasions, G dashed at once into 

the old man's place in the dance, and began 
threading its mazes with the blushing, but 
evidently flattered damsel, making me a sign 
to follow his example — a hint which neither 
my proficiency in the national dance, nor the 
charms of the bride, were sufficient to warrant 
my taking. I slid down unobserved beside 
Mme of the few elders present, whose shrewd 

remarks and good-natured participations in 
the "daffin" of the youngsters were not the 
least pleasing part of the motley scene. I had 
never before seen a body of Lowland peasantry 
collected in holiday attire, and certainly their 
general good looks, neat shoes and stockings, 
and above all, the prevalence of decidedly dark 
hair and complexion (among the men espe- 
cially), gave the lie to many a Southern quip, 
at the expense of the bare-footed daughters 
and carroty-headed sons of Scotia. 

The dance by this time — thanks to the punch, , 
which had been freely circulating — was getting, 
as Burns says, "fast and furious." Gleams of 
broad national humour flashed through the 
habitual gravity of the demurest blue-bonneted 
peasant of the group ; and for a while there 
was abundance to excite both the Scottish feel- 
ings and constitutional gaiety of the young 
painter, and the natural curiosity of an Eng- 
lish stranger. But giddy at length with the 
endless reels, deafened with the mirthful ac- 
companying shrieks, half-stifled with heat and 
the fumes of the national beverage, we both felt 
it high time to breathe a purer air, and were in 
the act of quietly withdrawing (after laying on 
the pewter plate appropriated for the offering 
our mite towards the hopeful infant menage), 
when we ran against our hostess, arriving for 
the special purpose — a very unwonted one in 
her vocation — of turning us out of doors. 

"I was just coming, sirs, to gie ye a bit 
word o' counsel. I'm sure ye'll no take it ill 
at my hand ; but it's time the like o' you were 
flitting, for the maut's getting abune the meal 
yonder, and they tine respect whiles, and it's 
no wiselike to be late in a minister's house on 

Saturday night at e'en. Mr. G kens 


" No, indeed — you're quite right," answered 
the painter, "and indeed we were going away 
fully satisfied when we met you." "Aweel, 
gang your ways like gude gentlemen, and 111 
gie yon daft chiels their supper, and hae them 
a' out o' my house by the clap o' eleven. There 
sail naebody say they saw a Sabbath morning 
within' t, tho' I wadna wonder if some o' the 
ill-doers were aff to the hill or some gait out 
o' hearing to make a night o't. There's some 
folk canna hae their sairing either o' daffin 
or drink, the mair's the pity ! Hech ! but ye'll 
be weel aff that's quiet down by !" 

" I'll call and settle the reckoning another 
time, Mrs. Cairns," said my Mend. 

" Ay, ay," answered she, more chary of her 
time than her money, "ony day when ye're 
daunering out amang the hills. Ye're awin 
me a day in hairet, ye ken, for this ! " 



Never was the pure healthful mountain breeze 
more welcome than when it swept across our 
flashed and feverish brows on emerging from 
the steaming cauldron within, or the silence of 
night more grateful than after the din of ple- 
beian revelry in its most discordant form. But 
there reigned within the little parsonage an at- 
mosphere holier and more healthful still. A 
more powerful contrast, a stranger juxtaposi- 
tion of the lights and shadows of Scottish life 
could scarcely be conceived than presented itself 
between the orgies, and sounds and scents, and 
coarsely heaped banquet we had left behind, 
and the hallowed stillness, untainted (nay, 
from the open lattice, perfumed) air of the 
minister's modest apartment, and the inviting 
aspect of the little supper table, on whose snow- 
white linen yet reposed the bibles and psalters 
recently used in the household's evening devo- 
tions. In these we had been (perhaps from 

G 's sense of incongruity in thus intruding) 

too late to partake, but the spirit which had 
animated and hallowed them still lingered on 
the venerable minister's brow, the flush of de- 
votion on whose aged cheek rebuked more 
strongly than a thousand homilies the feverish 
glow of revelry on ours, compared or rsther 
contrasted with the "rable rout" of reeling, 
romping nymphs we had left (the elite, it must 
be remembered, even of peasant maidens, were 
absent, of course, from Buch a scene). The 
slender, retiring figure of the good pastor's 
blooming grand-daughter seemed robed in 
almost angel purity ; and all, in short, derived 
romance, as well as interest, from the utmost 
power of contrast. 

But there was that about our host which 
needed no such heightening. Even amid the 
sacred class of Scottish pastors he rose pre- 
eminent — pre-eminent in trials, and in the 
submission which disarms them. Of a large 
and flourishing family, one daughter alone, 
the mother of the girl before us, survived ; and 
she, separated from her gray-headed father by 
the waters of the great Atlantic, could only 
cherish him by proxy in the person of this in- 
teresting child. 

It was not till after his hospitality had been 

requested for us that G heard from the 

landlady the extent of the pastor's bereave- 
ments, and he would gladly have wished to 
spare the father's feelings by suppressing all 
acknowledgment of former acquaintance. But 
in a parent's memory the playmates of buried 
children have an almost filial hold ; and the 
first words of Mr. Maxwell on receiving us 
were — " You are welcome once more to Boneil, . 
Willie; you've been twenty years a stranger." 

" Not a willing one, sir, I am sure ; but ray 
studies in England and Italy, and professional 
duty, not only occupied me, but kept me igno- 
rant, till now, of the sad blanks it has pleased 
Providence to make on your hospitable board. 
Had I been aware of them I would not have 
intruded now to renew, by my presence, those 
griefs which I could not alleviate." 

"And wherefore no, Willie?" said the old 
man, in a tone that went at once even to a 
stranger's heart; "my brave boys are gone 
before me, it is true, leaving their old father 
to buffet a while with the billows. But praised 
be He who lent them ! they were such as a 
father can speak of with pride ; and to do so 
with one who knew and loved them is a privi- 
lege rarely enjoyed. This gentleman, perhaps," 
turning courteously toward me, "will excuse 
the overflowings of a parent's heart at sight of 
one whose fair delicate brow he has often 
blessed along with the dark curling heads he 
has lived to see laid in the dust. Tall and 
pale, and unlikely to live, ye were then, 
Willie ; but ye have proved the reed that the 
tempest spares when oaks are rended. . . . 
But we'll talk of our Lilly now," said the old 
man, cheerfully, shaking the fair hand of his 
grandchild as she stooped to collect the sacred 
volumes. "I think her mother must have 
been about her age when you knew the manse; 
saw ye ever two creatures liker?" 

The entrance of a worthy old sister of oar 
host's, who, on hospitable thoughts intent, had 
disappeared on our entrance, turned the con- 
versation to more general topics — among other 
to the penny-wedding. 

"I am glad," said Mr. Maxwell, "I was 
spared the degradation of my office by the 
residence of one at least of the hopeful pair in a 
neighbouring parish; and I wish the idle frolic 
which united them had been carried on further 
from my door. I am no enemy to occasional 
rejoicings, and love to see innocent mirth ; but 
the sport these poor wretches have been called 
to make will end, I fear, like that of Samson, 
and bring an old house upon their heads. 

"However, sir," turning tome, "that you 
may not suppose all our junketings are of so 
boisterous and equivocal a character, I hope 
you will stay over Monday, and help me to 
thank my kind people for insisting on keeping 
my fiftieth anniversary among them. I am 
sure, Willie, I may count upon you, for auld- 

" Ay, that you may, sir, come what will of 
palette and pupils," exclaimed the young artist: 
and my acceptance, if less enthusiastic, was 
not the less cordial To see, in the midst of . 



a grateful and affectionate flock, the faithful 
pastor of half a century, is a sight not often to 
be enjoyed, or lightly to be forfeited ; and I 
too would have perilled fame or business, had 
they been mine, on the issue. 

A Scottish Sabbath has been often described, 
but never, methinks, so as fully to convey to a 
stranger its exquisite stillness, and the palpable 
elevation of all in nature above the diurnal 
level of our "working-day world." It is not 
alone the absence of all sounds of labour or 
revelry, the softened tread of the rude hind, 
the subdued laughter of unconscious infancy, 
but the very whisper of the brooks and waving 
of the woods seem attuned to soberer and 
holier harmonies. The busy highway and 
toilsome furrow are alike deserted, while a 
thousand quiet hedge-row paths teem and 
glitter with long files of holiday-suited elders, 
and white-robed youth and childhood. If airs 
of paradise do indeed ever penetrate our world's 
dense atmosphere, and breathe sweet influences 
from on high on privileged mortals, it is surely 
on a summer Sabbath amid the green hills and 
pastoral vales of Scotland. 

The little church of Boneil, primitive as 
though, instead of being near a metropolis, it 
had been perched on some lone isle of the He- 
brides, was filled to excess on the present in- 
teresting occasion with a congregation as per- 
fectly in keeping with the scene and situation 
as it was novel and striking to me. 

There was not a face in the assembly — a 
sprinkling of rustic noblesse in the gallery 
hardly excepted — which could have been as- 
signed by a physiognomist to any vocation 
save a rural one. " In the sweat of thy brow 
thou shalt eat bread" was legible on the toil- 
farrowed cheek of all who had reached ma- 
turity. But it was a graciously mitigated 
sentence, long merged in the cheerfulness of 
man's congenial occupation. "Keepers of 
sheep, descendants in more than their calling 
from righteous Abel," formed the larger part 
of the aged pastor's flock; and their blue 
bonnets, chequered plaids, and above all, in- 
separable comrades, even in church, the collies 
or sheep-dogs, looking almost as sensible as 
their masters, and banishing by their exem- 
plary demeanour all idea of intrusion on the 
sanctity of the place, afforded a picture not 
often exhibited to Southern or even Lowland 
eyes; and which, with scarlet plaids, still 
thinly sprinkled here and here, over locks of 
silvery whiteness, and on one or two fair un- 
bonneted female heads in innocent girlhood, 
their golden tresses confined and set off by a 
simple black velvet ribbon, the modern substi- 

tute for the poetical "snood," wanted only the 
figure of the venerable minister himself, rising 
like some fitly adapted pillar of a time-worn 
edifice to crown and complete its harmony. 

When he did rise, at length, manfully 
struggling for utterance, breaths were held in, 
and the very dogB recalled their dreaming fan- 
cies from the dun hill-side, lest a start or sup- 
pressed bark should disturb the solemn silence. 
The beautiful twenty-third Psalm, always so 
great a favourite in a pastoral assembly, came 
more home to their feelings than ever when 
its "green pastures and still waters" were ap- 
plied, as they evidently were by the venerable 
reader, to his own tranquil sojourn of a lifetime 
in the glen of Boneil. The allusion to a darker 
valley, the inevitable and not very distant 
termination of a lengthened pilgrimage, woke 
a yet tenderer chord; and when these words 
were sung, as the psalmody of Scotland so im- 
pressively is, by young and old, it was not the 
voice of the gray-haired contemporary parish- 
clerk alone that betrayed Bigns of emotion. 

The text was the simple words of the psalm- 
ist — " I have been young, and now am old ; " 
and perhaps its most affecting commentary 
might have been found in the time-worn figure 
in the pulpit, whose manly proportions age 
and grief had sapped without being able to 
obliterate. But when the good man sketched 
with faltering voice an unpremeditated picture 
of that gradual pilgrimage from youth to age, 
every step of which many of his hearers had 
taken side by side with this tried veteran in 
the path of duty and affliction; when the 
young heard him allude with a parent's ten- 
derness to follies they felt years could alone 
teach them entirely to abjure; and the old saw 
his venerable face lighted up with joys he had 
taught many, like himself, to draw from above ; 
tears, fast and frequent, as from dropping 
eaves, attested the sympathy that reigned be- 
tween the good shepherd and his flock. 

"My brethren," said he, in a conclusion 
accelerated evidently by overpowering emotion 
on both sides, "forty years long did the Israel- 
ites in the wilderness tempt and provoke Moses, 
rebelling against his authority, calling in ques- 
tion his kindness, and disobeying, nay, blas- 
pheming his God, yet in his heart he loved 
and prayed for them still, beseeching that, if 
need were, his own name might for their sakes 
be blotted out of the Book of Life. Fifty years 
long have you. amid much human imperfection 
and human infirmity, cherished and borne with 
me — cleaving to my doctrine, following, as 
God gave ye grace, my counsel, and sympa- 
thizing, to the utmost of your ability, in my 


TttB JtJBtLE& 

welfare and my sorrows — judge then if my 
love to a people like this surpass not the love 
of woman — yea, all save that love which shall 
embrace us both in its everlasting arms. May 
we all meet at the judgment-seat above: I, to 
render an account of my ministry — you, to re- 
echo, if it shall please the merciful Judge to 
pronounce it, the lenient sentence — 'Thou 
hast been faithful over a very little, enter 
into the joy of thy Lord. ' " 

The effect of this appeal may be better ima- 
gined than expressed. G and I did not 

breathe freely till, by climbing the highest 
hill within reach, we had attuned our minds 
to an elevation somewhat akin to that of the 
half emancipated pilgrim. The evening calm, 
which succeeded the converse of the pastor 
about bis absent (rather than deceased) chil- 
dren, the family thanksgiving for blessings 
granted and withheld, for comforts to cheer, 
and trials to wean the immortal sojourner from 
hiB exile below, will never, while memory holds 
her seat, pass from her inmost record. 

I awoke on the morrow, fancying all nature 
decked in tenfold beauty for the joyful anniver- 
sary, my own spirits elated with a healthful 
gladness which courtly fetes may take away, 
but could never yet bestow. The privileged 

guests for the day (G and myself included) 

were the elders, most of whose fathers had pre- 
sided at the minister's ordination — the school- 
master, who, in the absence of nearer and 
dearer, had long been to him as a son ; and 
the doctor, who, under a dress and exterior 
rugged as those of his shepherd neighbours, 
veiled a skill beyond their simple wants and 
few -and- far-bet ween ailments. 

But a self-invited member was soon added to 
the group in the person of a young neighbour 
laird, who made sport an excuse (with those 
who required any) for farming his own moderate 
patrimony, and enjoying, unfettered by the 
etiquettes of society, so called, the style of life 
most congenial to his age and disposition. 
At the breakfast-table young Boneil — for so 
from his property he was styled — walked in, 
with his heartfelt congratulations, and a bag 
full of grouse, shot before town dandies had 
well composed themselves to their first sleep. 

" Any other day of the year, Mr. Maxwell," 
said the frank young sportsman, "I would 
have dropped in at dinner, and taken my 
chance of a welcome. But this is a sacred one, 
and I would like to have my intrusion sanc- 
tioned beforehand. If you think me worthy 
(and if you don't, you'll say so, in spite of all 
your hospitality) to rejoice with you on your 
fifty years' retrospect of duties fulfilled and 

good deeda done, remember, you'll find it a hard 
matter ever to shut the door on me or my pre- 
tensions again." 

" God forbid I should, Norman," said the 
old man, shaking his manly visitor by the 
hand; "a kind heart and a leal one are aye 
welcome. Fifty years back your father bore 
both, and his son is no changeling. Stay with 
us now, or return, as it best suits you. 

"Oh! I dare not stay I" cried the young 
man, with a significant smile at Lilly and her 
aunt ; " I should be sadly in the way. Be- 
sides, I spied a roe in the glen this morning, 
and must have another hit at the venison. 
What say you to a pasty, Miss Anne, between 
this and noon yet?" 

" I'll say for her, Norman, that it will be 
like the savoury meat of Esau that old Isaac 
valued for the hunter's sake, if ye get it ; and if 
not, we've the will for the deed, and that's just 
the same. And now off with ye, else your pies 
in the bush will stand in the way of Aunt Anne's 
puddings in hand." 

" There goes as fine a lad as ever lived," said 
the pastor, as he went out. "If he were my 
own son, I could scarce love him better." 

I looked up, and chanced to meet the de- 
lighted glance of the retreating Lilly ; and it 
told me, as plain as a thousand words, that 
the old man might, ere long, take to his heart 
a grandson!" 

Another testimony of grateful affection fol- 
lowed hard on the sportsman's morning tribute. 
A parcel and letter were put into the hands of 
the minister from the worthy nobleman whose 
exemplary tutor he had been at an age when 
few are able to guide themselves. The letter 
overflowed with expressions of still youthful 
kindliness and gratitude. The parcel contained 
a snuff-mull of beautiful workmanship, inlaid 
with all the valuable Scottish stones produced 
on the noble donor's estates. 

" If I have any good in me," said the writer, 
in honest sincerity of acknowledgment, "you 
dug it out from its native bed like these long- 
overlooked gems, which but for the hand which 
set them where they are might have been still 
trodden under foot or slumbering in their dark 
hill-sides for ever. When you look on this box, 
think on your own workmanship, and add one 
more to the thousand pleasing reflections which 
make this day a day of pride to all, save your 
own modest self." 

It was not in man to be unmoved by a tri- 
bute like this, and from the Duke of , the 

very model and pattern of a pious and patriotic 

"Too much, too much!" sighed the meek 



man, as he read, " God made him what he is ; 
education can do little for hearts and heads 
like his." 

The Lilly was called, and her eyes sparkled 
through tears as they glanced on the splendid 
present and ducal epistle; but they did not 
glisten, nor her soft cheek glow, as while con- 
ning every feather on the dark glossy wing of 
young Norman's sylvan tribute. 

Lilly, too, had her present on the way — one 
to whose safety, in her eyes, that of empires 
was as nothing: and never was the delay occa- 
sioned by traiking Tibbie's late tumultuous 
nuptials more acutely felt than when noon ar- 
rived, bringing duly Norman's precarious prize, 
' the roe, but no tidings of the fair fabric of 
Lilly's after-dinner glory — videlicet, a huge 
cake from the city, which was first to grace 
with appropriate devices her grandfather's 
honoured board, and then to gladden, with un- 
dreamed-of sweets, the eyes and palates of the 
whole Sabbath-school. The sight of the groups 
who in holiday attire were already parading in 
joyful anticipation, deepened her anxieties; 
and the joy of eighteen, like the joy of eighty, 
had thus its inevitable drop of alloy. 

The manse, meantime, teemed all the morn- 
ing with unbidden yet privileged guests. 
Neighbouring pastors came to congratulate 
the willing fellow-labourer, under whose fa- 
therly shadow themselves had grown insensibly 
gray — with whom they had "taken sweet 
counsel and walked in the house of God as 
friends" — and with whom they hoped, though 
in all humility, to stand side by side at the 
great account. Couples married by him in the 
earlier periods of his incumbency still lived to 
thank him for half centuries of happiness; 
while children and grandchildren, christened 
by his hand, and made Christian by his pre- 
cept and example, came with them to add their 
grateful acknowledgments. Widows, whose 
hearts had been bound up by one acquainted 
with grief, brought all they had — a prayer and 
a blessing, to swell the general tribute ; while 
the Sabbath-school children tottered under the 
load of a pulpit Bible, purchased out of the 
hoarded halfpence of the good man's own over- 
flowing liberality. 

With this juvenile offering he was fairly up- 
set ; and always easily overcome by aught asso- 
ciated with his own childless hearth and early- 
removed olive-plants, he thanked them with 
tears alone, and deputed the glad Lilly to invite 
(hem all to tea on the green. This she could 
do with an easy mind, for Tibbie had at length 
^arrived ; the enormous weight of the cake bal- 
anced, though imperfectly, in her panniers, by 

two of the hugest ewe-milk cheeses that ever 
owed their existence to mountain gratitude. 

Oar party, swelled by a few guests of the 
better order, at length sat down to dinner; 
and never did feast (for a feast it was, fit for 
the court of aldermen) yield more unmingled 
satisfaction. The old man, exhilarated by the 
spontaneous buret of affection with which his 
anniversary had been hailed, felt a buoyancy 
of spirit to which he had for years been a 

stranger. G and I were excited to the 

utmost by so unwonted a celebration! The 
dominie himself, through the week the "ob- 
served of all observers," looked up in delighted 
admiration to his own exemplary teacher; 
while the rough diamond of a doctor eyed him 
with the exact counterpart of the expression 
with which his dog, of the true shepherd breed, 
fixed his eyes in mute devotion on his master's 
well-known countenance. All felt, that like 
the good centurion in Scripture, he had but to 
say to any of them, " Do this, and he doeth it ; 
come, and he cometh." Their hearts, under 
Providence, were in his hand, and they felt it 
was well it should be so. 

But there was in young Norman's reverential 
gaze something deeper and more filial than any, 
and strange to say, on this day alone, when all 
seemed elated and emboldened, it was tempered 
for the first time with fear. For Norman had 
a suit to prefer before that evening should close, 
on which hung his own and another's happiness; 
and not all the softened feelings of the day of 
jubilee would, he feared, reconcile the old pas- 
tor to the thought of parting with his Lilly., 
How this was to be brought about, or even 
hinted at, was more than even a lover could de- 
vise ; so to Providence he left it, as he had been 
taught by his pastor to leave all besides. 

And strangely was the knot cut, and the 
difficulty removed ere the thought had well 
passed from the young man's troubled mind. 
Among the healths of that eventful evening — 
"absent friends" — the one ever dearest to the 
hearts of Scotsmen, was not forgotten; and 
then for the first time did the pious father allow 
himself to whisper a regret that his daughter, 
the only stay of his old age, should dwell di- 
vided from him by duty in the new world. 
True, she was solacing by her kindness, and 
cheering by her society, the labours in Chris- 
tian usefulness of a worthy countryman whom 
the spiritual necessities of his exiled Scottish 
brethren had induced to forego home and kin- 
dred for their sake*. But they had been long, 
long absent on this labour of love, and a father's 
heart would yearn, on the proudest day of his 
life, for a glimpse of his long-banished only child. 



The vain wish had crossed like a passing 
cloud the rarely-dimmed serenity of his mind, 
and left bat a halo behind, when, as Lilly, 
loaded with the huge remnants of her cake, 
and assisted by Norman, who was leaving the 
house to prepare for her juvenile fete, two 
plainly dressed, but respectable-looking people, 
opened with something of strange familiarity 
the garden gate, and asked if Mr. Maxwell 
was at home. 

" He is," replied Norman, answering for the 
bashful* and surprised girl, "but very particu- 
larly engaged with friends, who would be loath 
to part with him to-night, eren on business " — 

" Lilly, my own Lilly !" sobbed out the fe- 
male traveller, clasping her daughter to her 
heart, and then finding breath to say, "How 
is my dear father?" 

" Oh, well ! well !" cried the delighted girl, 
hanging round her father's neck in frantic joy, 
"come and see him directly ! " 

" Not just directly, my own Lilly," said he, 
composedly ; "seventy-four is no age for sur- 
prises, even joyful ones. Sir " (turning to Nor- 
man, who stood studying, all lovers will guess 
how earnestly, the parents on whose fiat hung 
his life), "my wife had set her heart on reach- 
ing home on her father's day of jubilee. We 
had a quick passage and a safe one, God be 
praised ! to Liverpool, and travelling day and 
night, were set down by coach this morning at 
B How to get on in time was the diffi- 
culty, but the backwoods have made us good 
walkers, and here we are, not too late for a 
grace-cup of thanksgiving to Him who has 
brought us safe to our father's door, and to 
friends who will make us welcome for his sake. 
Please, sir, to pave the way for our meeting." 

Norman hailed the omen, and came as de- 
liberately as joy would let him into the room. 
"There are strangers without, sir, who wish 
to speak with yon ; and as they have tidings 
from New Brunswick, perhaps your friends will 
consent to spare you, though unwillingly." 

"From New Brunswick!" exclaimed the 
old man, hastily rising, then sinking down 
again from the painful agitation; "yew have 
seen and spoken to them, is all well ? Norman, 
my son, tell me truly." 

"All well even as your heart could wish; 
but there are those without who could tell you 
better, far better than any words about those 
you love." 

"Are they still without? Oh bring them 
in, pray ! — our friends will excuse." 

" But will you promise?" — 

The old man cast a bewildered gaze around 
—caught a glimpse of Lilly's beaming face as it 

peeped eagerly in at the half-open door, and 
exclaiming, "My bairn! my bairn!" sank 
back insensible on his chair ! 

We bore him gently out to the open air, 
whose reviving freshness, and still more, the 
voice and aspect of his darling daughter, soon 
restored him to himself. Who could describe 
their meeting half as well as one throb of 
long-severed hearts will bring it home to every 
bosom? Suffice it to say, it was a meet con- 
summation for such an anniversary. 


Twas night— our anchor'd vessel slept 

Out on the glassy sea ; 
And still as heaven the waters kept, 

And golden bright —as he, 
The setting sun, went sinking slow 

Beneath the eternal wave ; 
And the ocean seemed a pall to throw 

Over the monarch's grave. 

There was no motion of the six 

To raise the sleeper's tress, 
And no wave-building winds were there, 

On ocean's loveliness ; 
But ocean mingled with the sky 

With such an equal hue, 
That vainly strove the 'wildered eye 

To part their gold and blue. 

And ne'er a ripple of the sea 

Game on our steady gaze, 
Save when some timorous fish stole out 

To bathe in the woven blase, — 
When, flouting in the light that played 

All over the resting main, 
He would sink beneath the wave, and dart 

To his deep, blue home again. 

Yet, while we gazed, that sunny eve. 

Across the twinkling deep, 
A form came ploughing the golden wave. 

And rending its holy sleep; 
It blushed bright red, while growing on 

Our fixed half -fearful gaze ; 
But it wandered down, with its glow of light, 

And its robe of sunny rays. 

It seemed like molten silver, thrown 

Together in floating flame ; 
And as we look'd, we named it, then, 

The fount whence all colours came : 
There were rainbows furi'd with a careless grace. 

And the brightest red that glows ; 
The purple amethyst there had place, 

And the hues of a full-blown rose. 



And the vivid green, m the sunlit grow 

Where the pleasant rain hath been ; 
And the ideal hues, that, thought-like, peas 

Through the minds of fanciful men ; 
They beamed foil clear— and that form moved on 

like one from a burning grave; 
And we dared not think it a real thing, 

But for the rustling wave. 

The sun just linger'd in our view, 

From the burning edge of ocean, 
When by our bark that bright one pass'd 

With a deep, disturbing motion; 
The far down waters shrank away, 

With a gurgling rush upheaving, 
And the lifted waves grew pale and sad, 

Their mother's bosom leaving. 

Yet, as it passed our bending stern, 

In its throne-like glory going. 
It crush'd on a hidden rock, and turn'd 

Like an empire's overthrowing, 
riie up-torn waves roll'd hoar,— and, huge, 

The far-thrown undulations 
Swell'd out in the sun's last, lingering smile, 

And fell like battling nations. 

J. O. Bookwkll. 


In my younger days bell-ringing was much 

more in fashion among the young men of 

than it is now. Nobody, I believe, practises 
it there at present except the servants of the 
church, and the melody has been much injured 
in consequence. Some fifty years ago about 
twenty of us who dwelt in the vicinity of the 
cathedral formed a club, which used to ring 
every peal that was called for; and from con- 
tinual practice and a rivalry which arose be- 
tween us and a club attached to another steeple, 
and which tended considerably to sharpen our 
zeal, we became very Mozarts on oar favourite 
instruments. But my bell-ringing practice 
was shortened by a singular accident, which 
not only stopped my performance, but made 
even the sound of a bell terrible to my ears. 

One Sunday I went with another into the 
belfry to ring for noon prayers, but the second 
stroke we had pulled showed us that the clapper 
of the bell we were at was muffled. Some one 
had been buried that morning, and it had been 
prepared, of course, to ring a mournful note. 
We did not know of this, but the remedy was 
easy. " Jack," said my companion, "step up 
to the loft, and cut off the hat; " for the way 

we had of muffling was by tying a piece of an 
old hat, or of cloth (the former was preferred), 
to one side of the clapper, which deadened every 
second toll. I complied, and mounting into 
the belfry, crept as usual into the bell, where 
I began to cut away. The hat had been tied 
on in some more complicated manner than 
usual, and I was perhaps three or four minutes 
in getting it off; during which time my com- 
panion below was hastily called away, by a 
message from his sweetheart, I believe, but that 
is not material to my story. The person who 
called him was a brother of the club, who, 
knowing that the time had come for ringing 
for service, and not thinking that any one was 
above, began to pull At this moment I was 
just getting out, when I felt the bell moving; 
I guessed the reason at once — it was a moment 
of terror; but by a hasty, and almost convul- 
sive effort, I succeeded in jumping down, and 
throwing myself on the flat of my back under 
the bell 

The room in which it was was little more 
than sufficient to contain it, the bottom of the 
bell coming within a couple of feet of the floor 
of lath. At that time I certainly was not so 
bulky as I am now, but as I lay it was within 
an inch of my face. I had not laid myself 
down a second when the ringing began. — It 
was a dreadful situation, Over me swung an 
immense mass of metal, one touch of which 
would have crushed me to pieces, the floor 
under me was principally composed of crazy 
laths, and if they gave way, I was precipitated 
to the distance of about fifty feet upon a loft, 
which would, in all probability, have sunk 
under the impulse of my fall, and sent me to 
be dashed to atoms upon the marble floor of 
the chancel, a hundred feet below. I remem- 
bered — for fear is quick in recollection — how 
a common clock-wright, about a month before, 
had fallen, and bunting through the floors of 
the steeple, driven in the ceilings of the porch, 
and even broken into the marble tombstone of 
a bishop who slept beneath This was my fint 
terror, but the ringing had not continued a 
minute before a more awful and immediate 
dread came on me. The deafening sound of 
the bell smote into my ears with a thunder 
which made me fear their drums would crack. 
— There was not a fibre of my body it did not 
thrill through! it entered my very soul; thought 
and reflection were almost utterly banished; I 
only retained the sensation of agonizing terror. 
Every moment I saw the bell sweep within an 
inch of my face; and my eyes — I could not 
close them, though to look at the object was 
bitter as death— followed it instinctively in its 



oscillating progress until it came back again. 
It was in vain I said to myself that it could 
come no nearer at any future swing than it did 
at first; every time it descended I endeavoured 
to shrink into the very floor to avoid being 
buried under the down-sweeping mass; and 
then reflecting on the danger of pressing too 
weightily on my frail support, would cower up 
again as far as I dared. 

At first my fears were mere matter of fact 
I was afraid the pulleys above would give way 
and let the bell plunge on me. At another 
time the possibility of the clapper being shot 
out in some sweep, and dashing through my 
body, as I had seen a ramrod glide through a 
door, flitted across my mind. The dread also, 
as I have already mentioned, of the crazy floor, 
tormented me; but these soon gave way to 
fears not more unfounded, but more visionary, 
and of course more tremendous. The roaring 
of the bell confused my intellect, and my 
fancy soon began to teem with all sorts of 
strange and terrifying ideas. The bell pealing 
above, and opening its jaws with a hideous 
clamour, seemed to me at one time a ravening 
monster, raging to devour me; at another, 
a whirlpool ready to suck me into its bellow- 
ing abyss. As I gazed on it, it assumed all 
shapes ; it was a flying eagle, or rather a roc 
of the Arabian story-tellers, clapping its wings 
and screaming over me. As I looked upwards 
into it, it would appear sometimes to lengthen 
into indefinite extent, or to be twisted at the 
end into the spiral folds of the tail of a flying- 
dragon. Nor was the flaming breath, or fiery 
glance of that fabled animal, wanting to com- 
plete the picture. My eyes, inflamed, blood- 
shot, and glaring, invested the supposed mon- 
ster with a full proportion of unholy light. 

It would be endless were I to merely hint 
at all the fancies that possessed my mind. 
Every object that was hideous and roaring 
presented itself to my imagination. I often 
thought that I was in a hurricane at sea, and 
that the vessel in which I was embarked tossed 
under me with the most furious vehemence. 
The air, set in motion by the swinging of the 
bell, blew over me, nearly with the violence, 
and more than the thunder of a tempest ; and 
the floor seemed to reel under me, as under 
a drunken man. But the most awful of all 
the ideas that seized on me were drawn from 
the supernatural. In the vast cavern of the 
bell hideous faces appeared, and glared down 
on me with terrifying frowns, or with grinning 
mockery, still more appalling. At last the 
devil himself, accoutred, as in the common 
description of the evil spirit, with hoof, horn, 

and tail, and eyes of infernal lustre, made hie 
appearance, and called on me to curse God 
and worship him, who was powerful to save 
me. This dread suggestion he uttered with 
the full-toned clangour of the belL I had 
him within an inch of me, and I thought on 
the fate of the Santon Barsisa. Strenuously 
and desperately I defied him, and bade him 
begone. Reason then, for a moment, re- 
sumed her sway, but it was only to fill me 
with fresh terror, just as the lightning dis- 
pels the gloom that surrounds the benighted 
mariner, but to show him that his vessel is 
driving on a rock, where she must inevitably 
be dashed to pieces. I found I was becoming 
delirious, and trembled lest reason should 
utterly desert me. This is at all times an 
agonizing thought, but it smote me then with 
tenfold agony. I feared lest, when utterly 
deprived of my senses, I should rise, to do 
which I was every moment tempted by that 
strange feeling which calls on a man, whose 
head is dizzy from standing on the battlement 
of a lofty castle, to precipitate himself from it, 
and then death would be instant and tremen- 
dous. When I thought of this I became des- 
perate. I caught the floor with a grasp which 
drove the blood from my nails ; and I yelled 
with the cry of despair. I called for help, I 
prayed, I shouted, but all the efforts of my 
voice were, of course, drowned in the bell. As 
it passed over my mouth it occasionally echoed 
my cries, which mixed not with its own sound, 
but preserved their distinct character. Per- 
haps this was but fancy. To me, I know, 
they then sounded as if they were the shout- 
ing, howling, or laughing of the fiends with 
which my imagination had peopled the gloomy 
cave which swung over me. 

You may accuse me of exaggerating my 
feelings; but I am not Many a scene of 
dread have I since passed through, but they 
are nothing to the self-inflicted terrors of this 
half hour. The ancients have doomed one of 
the damned in their Tartarus to lie under a 
rock, which every moment seems to be descend- 
ing to annihilate him — and an awful punish- 
ment it would be. But if to this you add a 
clamour as loud as if ten thousand furies were 
howling about you — a deafening uproar ban- 
ishing reason, and driving you to madness, 
you must allow that the bitterness of the pang 
was rendered more terrible. There is no man, 
firm as his nerves may be, who could retain 
Mb courage in this situation. 

In twenty minutes the ringing was done. 
Half of that time passed over me without power 
of computation — the other half appeared an 



age. When it ceased, I became gradually more 
quiet, but a new fear retained me. I knew 
that five minutes would elapse without ringing, 
but at the end of that short time the bell 
would be rung a second time, for five minutes 
more. I could not calculate time. A minute 
and an hour were of equal duration. I feared 
to rise, lest the five minutes should have elapsed, 
and the ringing be again commenced, in which 
case I should be crushed, before I could escape, 
against the walls or framework of the belL I 
therefore still continued to lie down, cautiously 
shifting myself, however, with a careful glid- 
ing, so that my eye no longer looked into the 
hollow. This was of itself a considerable relief. 
The cessation of the noise had, in a great 
measure, the effect of stupifying me, for my 
attention, being no longer occupied by the 
chimeras I had conjured up, began to flag. 
All that now distressed me was the constant 
expectation of the second ringing, for which, 
however, I settled myself with a kind of stupid 
resolution. I closed my eyes, and clenched 
my teeth as firmly as if they were screwed in 
a rice. At last the dreaded moment came, 
and the first swing of the bell extorted a groan 
from me, as they say the most resolute victim 
screams at the sight of the rack, to which he is 
for a second time destined. After this, how- 
ever, I lay silent and lethargic, without a 
thought. Wrapped in the defensive armour of 
stupidity, I defied the bell and its intonations. 
When it ceased, I was roused a little by the 
hope of escape. I did not, however, decide on 
this step hastily, but, putting up my hand 
with the utmost caution, I touched the rim. 
Though the ringing had ceased, it still was 
tremulous from the sound, and shook under 
my hand, which instantly recoiled as from an 
electric jar. A quarter of an hour probably 
elapsed before I again dared to make the 
experiment, and then I found it at rest I 
determined to lose no time, fearing that I 
might have delayed already too long, and 
that the bell for evening service would catch 
me. This dread stimulated me, and I slipped 
out with the utmost rapidity and arose. I 
stood, I suppose, for a minute, looking with 
silly wonder on the place of my imprisonment, 
penetrated with joy at escaping, but then 
rushed down the stony and irregular stair with 
the velocity of lightning, and arrived in the 
bell-ringer's room. This was the last act I 
had power to accomplish. I leaned against 
the wall, motionless and deprived of thought, 
in which posture my companions found me, 
▼hen, in the course of a couple of hours, they 
returned to their occupation, 

They were shocked, as well they might, at 
the figure before them. The wind of the bell 
had excoriated my face, and my dim and 
stupified eyes were fixed with a lack-lustre gaze 
in my raw eyelids. My hands were torn and 
bleeding; my hair dishevelled; and my clothes 
tattered. They spoke to me, but I gave no 
answer. They shook me, but I remained in- 
sensible. They then became alarmed, and 
hastened to remove me. He who had first 
gone up with me in the forenoon met them as 
they carried me through the churchyard, and 
through him, who was shocked at having, in 
some measure, occasioned the accident, the 
cause of my misfortune was discovered. I was 
put to bed at home, and remained for three 
days delirious, but gradually recovered my 
senses. You may be sure the bell formed a 
prominent topic of my ravings, and if I heard 
a peal, they were instantly increased to the 
utmost violence. Even when the delirium 
abated, my sleep was continually disturbed by 
imagined ringings, and my dreams were haunted 
by the fancies which almost maddened me 
while in the steeple. My friends removed me 
to a house in the country, which was sufficiently 
distant from" any place of worship to save me 
from the apprehensions of hearing the church- 
going bell; for what Alexander Selkirk, in 
Cowper's poem, complained of as a misfortune, 
was then to me as a blessing. Here I recovered ; 
but, even long after recovery, if a gale wafted 
the notes of a peal towards me, I started with 
nervous apprehension. I felt a. Mahometan 
hatred to all the bell tribe, and envied the 
subjects of the Commander of the Faithful the 
sonorous voice of their Muezzin. Time cured 
this, as it does the most of our follies; but, 
even at the present day, if, by chance, my 
nerves be unstrung, some particular tones of 
the cathedral bell have power to surprise me 
into a momentary start 

Blackwood? t Mag. 


It was a beauty that I saw 

Bo pure, so perfect, as the frame 
Of all the universe was lame. 

To that one figure could I draw, 

Or give least line of it a law ! 

A skein of silk without a knot I 

A fair march made without a halt I 

A carious form without a fault I 
A printed book without a blot ! 
All beauty, and without a spot 

$av JOHS09, 



Father ! why linger on the wares? Our kitchen fire buns bright, 
And shines upon your empty ohair, a- welcoming the night; 
The ran has seen us all day long, listening your step to hear- 
Why oome you not across the sea— our father, ever dear! 

Long time since first you went away ! We counted as it passed; 
And this was to hare been the day you would return at last : 
Oh ! how our hearts beat as it came, with thinking upon you, 
And how we wearied for the dawn— our father, ever true! 

We watch'd, and saw the morning sun far in the east appear: 
"He must be on his way (we said)— he must be very near." 

We watch'd, and saw the evening sun decline far in the west: 
"Hell oome before it's night (we said)— our father, ever best!" 

Night has brought only clouds and storms. We heard the wild sea-mew, 
And in its shrieks we thought it bade us go a-seeking you. 
All day we waited at the door, your smile and kiss to find, 
But now we stand upon the shore— our father, ever kind ! 

And wherefore oome you not? The waves begin to swell and dash, 
And through the black clouds, far away, we see the lightning flash; 
The wind is bursting from the sky, and lashing up the flood — » 
O Heaven protect the ship that holds our father, ever good ! 

No mother now have we to pray for you at night and morn, 
Or dress us in our best array the day you should return ; 
She is not here to kiss your brow, wet with the salt sea-wave, 
If cold and weary-worn wert thou— our father, ever brave! 

But oome — oh, come ! And you will see how bright the fire will blase; 
And we will, as she bade us, be your children good always; 
And though that she is dead and gone, we would not have you pine, 
Or stay away— for are not we— our father— ever thine I 

And when you weary, we will bring, as we did long ago, 

Our chairs about your knees, and sing " The Stormy Winds do Blow; 19 

And we can tell you all again the stories that she told, 

How you fought the French upon the main— our father, ever bold! 

Oh ! ever as the lightning gleams, we think we seo you nigh; 
And ever as the wild wind screams, we think we hear you cry; 
And ever as the towering tide sends up its hissing spray, 
We think upon our mother dead, and father, far away ! 

But she said we would not be alone, and therefore should not weep, 
For He that careo for the shorn -lamb would watch you on the deep, 
And in His own time send to us, across the weary wave, 
Our father, ever dear, and true, and kind, and good, and brave. WmnLtw. 




I was once placed in a situation of peculiar 
embarrassment; the event made a strong im- 
pression on me at the time— an impression, in- 
deed, which has lasted ever since. 

Those who know as welt as I do, and have 
known as long as I have known, that once 
muddy, shabby, dirty fishing-town on the 
Sussex coast, which has grown, under the smiles 
and patronage of our late beloved king, into 
splendour and opulence, called Brighton, will 
be aware that there run to it and from it, 
divers and sundry most admirable public con- 
veyances in the shape of stage-coaches : that the 
rapid improvements in that sort of travelling 
have during late years interfered with and 
greatly injured the trade of posting; and that 
people of the first respectability think it no 
shame to pack themselves up in a Brighton 
coach, and step out of it at Charing Cross 
exactly five hours after they have stepped into 
it in Castle Square. 

The gallant gay Stevenson, with his prancing 
grays under perfect command, used to attract 
a crowd to see him start; and now, although 
he, poor fellow, is gone that journey whence 
no traveller returns, Goodman still survives, 
and the "Times" still flourishes; in that is 
the principal scene of my embarrassment laid ; 
and to that admirable, neat, and expeditious 
equipage must I endeavour to attract your 
attention for some ten minutes. 

It was one day in the autumn of 1829, just 
as the Pavilion clock was striking three, that 
I stepped into Mr. Goodman's coach. In it I 
found already a thin stripling enveloped in a 
far pelisse, the only distinguishing mark of 
whose sex was a tuft of mustachio on his upper 
lip. He wore a travelling cap on his head girt 
with a golden band, and eyed me and his other 
fellow-traveller as though we had been of a 
different race of beings from himself. That 
other fellow-traveller I took to be a small at- 
torney. He was habited in a drab greatcoat, 
which matched his round fat face in colour; 
his hair, too, was drab, and his hat was drab; 
his features were those of a young pig: and his 
recreation through the day was sucking barley- 
■agar, to which he perpetually kept helping 
himself from a neat white paper parcel of the 
luscious commodity, which he had placed in 
the pocket of the ooacn- window. 

There was one other passenger to take up, 
and I began wondering what it would be like, 
and whether it would be male or female, old 

vol. m. 

or yonng, handsome or ugly, when my specu- 
lations were speedily terminated by the arrival 
of an extremely delicate pretty woman, attended 
by her maid. The lady was dressed in the 
extreme of plainness, and yielded the palm of 
gaiety to her goubrette, who mounted by the 
side of Mr. Goodman, at the moment that her 
mistress placed herself next my pig-faced friend 
and opposite to me. 

It does not require half a second of time to, 
see and know and understand what sort of 
woman it is who is thus brought in juxta-, 
position with one. The turn of her mind may 
be ascertained by the way she seats herself in 
her corner; her disposition by the look she 
gives to her companions; and her character — 
but perhaps that may require a minute or two 
more. The lady in question cast a hasty glance 
round her, merely, as it should seem, to ascer- 
tain if she were personally acquainted with 
any of her companions. She evidently was 
not; and her eyes Bank from the inquiring gaze 
round the party upon a black silk bag which 
lay on her lap. She was about four or five- 
and- twenty; her eyes were blue and her hair 
fair; it hung carelessly over her forehead, and 
the whole of her costume gave evidence of a 
want of attention to what is called ' ' setting one's 
self off to the best advantage." She was tall 
— thin — pale ; and there was a sweet expres- 
sion in her countenance which I shall never 
forget; it was mild and gentle, and seemed to 
be formed to its plaintive cast by suffering — 
and yet why should one so lovely be unhappy? 

As the clock struck we started. The sudden 
turn of the team round the corner of North 
Street and Church Street brought a flush of 
colour into her cheeks; she was conscious of 
the glow which I was watching; she seemed 
ashamed of her own timidity. She looked up 
to see if she was observed; she saw she was, and 
looked down again. All this happened in the 
first hundred and seventy yards of a journey of 
fifty-two miles and a halt 

My pig-faced friend, who sucked his barley- 
sugar sonorously, paid little attention to any- 
body, or anything, except himself; and in 
pursuance of that amiable tenderness, pulled 
up the window at his side. The lady, like the 
beau in the fur coat, laid her delicate head 
back in the corner of the coach, and slept, or 
seemed to sleep. The horror I felt lest my 
pig-faced friend should consider it necessary 
to join in any conversation which I might 
venture to originate with my unknown beauty 
opposite, kept me quiet; and I "ever and 
anon" looked anxiously towards his vacant 
features, in hopes to see the two gray unmean- 



ing things which Mired him for eyes, closed 
in a sweet and satisfactory slumber. Bat no; 
although he spoke not, and if one may judge 
by countenances, thought not, still he kept 
awake, and ready, as it should seem, to join 
in a conversation which he had not courage to 

And so we travelled on, and not one syllable 
was exchanged until we reached Crawley. 
There my heart was much relieved. At Hands- 
cross we had dropped the cornet with the tufts; 
hones were ready to convey him to some man's 
house to dinner; and when we were quitting 
Crawley, I saw my excellent demolisher of 
barley-sugar mount a regular Sussex buggy, 
and export himself to some town or village out 
of the line of our road. 

I here made a small effort at ice- breaking 
with my delicate companion, who consorted 
, with her maid at one end of the room, while I 
with one or two more sensualists from the out- 
side was refreshing myself with some cold fowl 
and salad. I ventured to ask her whether she 
would allow me to offer her some wine and 
water. Hang it! thought I, if we stand upon 
gentility in a Btage-coach journey, smart as the 
things are, we shall never part sociably. She 
seemed somewhat of the same opinion, for she 
smiled. I shall never forget it: it seemed on 
her placid countenance like sunshine amidst 
showers — she accepted my proffered draught. 
"I rather think," said I, "we shall travel 
alone for the rest of the journey— our com- 
municative friends have left us." She made 
no answer; but from the sort of expression 
which passed over her features I was very sorry 
I had made the remark. I was in the greatest 
possible alarm lest she should require the 
presence of her maid to play propriety; but no, 
she had no such notion. 

A summons from Mr. Goodman soon put the 
party in motion, and in a few minutes we were 
again on our journey — the dear interesting 
creature and myself titea-tiU. "Have you 
been long at Brighton ? " said I. ' ' Some time, " 
replied the lady — "some months, indeed." 
Here came a pause. "Ton reside in London, 
I presume ! " said I. " In the neighbourhood, " 
replied the lady; at the same time drawing off 
the glove of her left hand (which by the way 
was as white as snow), to smooth one of her 
eyebrows, as it appeared by what she actually 
did with it, bnt, as I thought, to exhibit to my 
sight the golden badge of union which en- 
circled its third finger. "And," said I, "have 
you been living alone at Brighton so long?" 
"Oh, no!" said the stranger; "my husband 
has only left me during the last few weeks, and 

has now summoned me home, being unable to 
rejoin me on the coast." "Happy man!" said 
I, "to expect such a wife." 

Now there did not seem much in this com- 
monplace bit of folly, for I meant it for little 
else than jest, to summon up a thousand feel- 
ings, and excite a thousand passions — to raise 
a storm, and cause a flood of tears. But so it 
was — my companion held down her head to 
conceal her grief, and the big drops fell from 
her beautiful eyes. " Good God! " said I, "hare 
I said anything to induce this emotion? — what 
have I done? — forgive me— believe me, if I 
have erred, it has been unintentionally — I — " 
"Don't speak to me," said the sufferer — "it is 
not your fault — you are forgiven — my heart is 
full, very full — and a word that touches the 
chord which vibrates to its very centre sadly 
affects me — pray — pray, let go my hand — and 
believe me, I am not angry with you — I am 
to blame." "But," said I— not implicitly 
obeying the injunction about letting go her 
hand, — because what harm can holding a hand 
do? — "you must be more explicit before I can 
be satisfied with forgiveness — you have oc- 
casioned an interest which I cannot control, 
you have excited feelings which I cannot sub- 
due — I am sure you are unhappy, and that I 

have referred to something which " " Pray, 

pray, ask me nothing," said my agitated com- 
panion; "I have betrayed myself — but I am 
sure, quite sure," added she — and I do think 
I felt a Bort of gentle pressure of my hand at 
the moment — "that you will not take advan- 
tage of a weakness of which I ought to be 
ashamed." " You may rely upon me," said I, 
"that, so far as you may choose to trust me, 
you are safe; and you may believe, that any 
anxiety I may express to know more of circum- 
stances which (whatever they are) so deeply 
affect you, arises from an interest which you 
had excited even before you spoke." "What 
would you think of a woman," said she, "who 
should open her heart to a stranger? or, what 
sympathy could soitowb excite, which might 
be told by her after an hour's acquaintance? 
No, no; let me remain unknown to you, as I 
am. Let us talk on ordinary topics, and let 
us part friends — but not to meet again." 

Not much in the habit of making conquests, 
and not being of that particular "shape and 
make" to be fallen in love with at first sight, 
I confess this appeal seemed extraordinary. 
It was clear, from whatever cause arising I 
could not pretend to divine, that I had some- 
how prepossessed my companion in my favour; 
and certainly, if anything in the world could 
have induced me to resolve to meet this inter- 



eating creature again and again, it was her 
expressed desire that such a thing should not 
occur. I wonder if she anticipated the effect 
of her prohibition when she announced it! 
"Friends!" said I, "why should we not part 
friends? Why should we not live friends? 
Let me implore you, tell me more of yourself 
—that is all I ask." "Alas!" said she, rais- 
ing her blue eyes towards heaven, "is it pos- 
sible that my pride and spirit should be so 
broken, so worked upon, that I could consent 
to admit of such a conversation with a stranger? 
How strangely do events operate upon the 
human mind!" "Gentle spirits should be 
gently treated," said I. "I fear some rude 
hand has broken in upon the rest that beings 
like you should enjoy?" "Oh," said she, "if 
I could tell you — and I believe I must — to 
justify myself for conduct which must appear 
to you so wild, so extraordinary, so unbecom- 
ing — oh, why did those people leave us to- 

I said nothing to this, because I could not 
exactly guess why they did; but that they had 
done so, I confess I did not so much regret as 
my companion $aid she did. "If my poor 
mother could look from heaven," said she, 
"and see me degraded as I am, what would 
she think of all the love and care expended 
upon me in my infancy and youth?" This 
last touch was rather wounding to my vanity; 
because, although the lady might consider her- 
self somewhat let down in the world by travel- 
ling in a stage-coach, I thought it a little 
uncivil to refer to the circumstance while I 
was her fellow-passenger. "If," said I, "you 
will so far trust me as to confide your sorrows 
to me, I pledge myself to secrecy, and even to 
pursue any course which you may suggest for 
relieving them." "My story is brief," said 
my companion; "promise me not to refer to it 
at any future period during my life — that is, 
if we should ever meet after to-day, and I will 
trust you." Here the pressure of the hand 
was unequivocal; and by a corresponding, yet 
perhaps more fervent token, I sealed the com- 
pact between us. "I am the daughter," said 
she, "of a general officer, who with my exem- 
plary mother resided chiefly in Somersetshire. 
The cares and attention of my parents were 
affectionately devoted to the education and 
improvement of their only child, and I became, 
m they have a thousand times said, the blessing 
of their declining years. I was scarcely seven- 
teen when I lost my father, and his death pro- 
duced not only a change of circumstances in 
our family, but a change of residence. My 
nxahe* and myself removed to Bath. There 

we resided until we were induced to visit the 
Continent, where — I am ashamed to go on — a 
nobleman became my avowed admirer, and 
made me an offer of marriage. His rank was 
exalted, his fortune large, but I could not love 
him: was I wrong in refusing to marry him?" 
"Assuredly not," said I, amazed at the ani- 
mation which sparkled in eyes that lately 
flowed with tears, while she referred to the 
proper feeling and spirit she had exhibited in 
refusing a man she could not love. "That 
refusal," continued the lady, " my poor mother 
could not forgive; she never did forgive it, and 
I believe that her anger is still over me, for 
what I have since suffered seems like a curse. 
My mother's disapprobation of my refusal of 
this desirable match had a complicated origin. 
She believed, and rightly too, that I discarded 
her favourite, not only upon the negative 
feeling of indifference or dislike towards him, 
but because I secretly preferred another. She 

was right " "And you " "Stay," 

interrupted she — "hear me out — as I have 
begun, you shall know all. I did love another, 
a being all candour, openness, honour, and 
principle: talented, accomplished, gay, full of 
feeling, and generous to a fault. His name 
my mother would not hear me mention. She 
expelled him our house, excluded him from 
my society. What then? — trick and evasion 
on my part supplanted obedience and sincerity. 
The house of a friend afforded opportunities 
for our meeting, which my own denied— my 
youthful spirit could not bear restraint — we 
eloped and were married." "And thus you 
secured your happiness," said I. "Happi- 
ness!" said my companion; and never shall I 
forget the expression of bitterness, sorrow, and 
remorse which animated her countenance as 
she pronounced the word. " Misery — misery 
beyond redemption! My mother died two 
years after my ill-fated union with the man of 
my choice; and died without forgiving me my 
sad error. 'No/ said my angry parent; 'she 
has chosen her course and must follow it; and 
when I am in my cold grave she will repent, 
and I hope be forgiven.'" "But how were 
your prospects of happiness blighted?" said I. 
"Ah!" said my companion, "there is the 
point — there is the story which I dare not tell. 
Can I betray my husband? Can I accuse him? 
Can I commit him to a stranger?" "Being 
to a stranger," said I, "and one who, according 
to your own commands, is likely to remain 
a stranger to him always, you surely may." 
"Then hear me," said the ktdy: "we had 
scarcely been married three years, when, by 
some fatality to me wholly unaccountable, he 



became infatuated by a woman — woman I most 
call her — who led him into gaieties without 
his wife; who, fascinated by his agreeable 
qualities, became the monarch of his affections, 
the controller of his actions, and who, not 
satisfied with others attracting him from his 
home and all its ties, excited in his breast the 
fiercest jealousy against me." "Shocking!" 
said I ; and I thought so as I looked at the be- 
witching creature: not but that I must confess 
I did not see the entire impossibility of the 
existence of causes for her husband's apprehen- 
sion, considering the confidential manner in 
which she communicated all her sorrows to 
me. " Treatment the most barbarous followed 
this," said my companion; "a disbelief in my 
assertions, expressed contemptuously, marked 
all his answen to any request I made to him. 
The actions and conduct of my life were ex- 
amined and discussed, until at length he sent 
me to the coast to live under the roof of his 
mother, while he was constantly domesticated 
with the vile partner of his gaieties and dissi- 
pations. Is not this enough to break a heart, 
or is it not enough to drive a woman to the 
commission of the very crimes with which she 
finds herself unjustly charged?" 

Upon this last part of my fair friend's in- 
quiry as to the lex talionis, I could but have 
one opinion to give, and agreed cordially in 
her view of a case to which, as it appeared to 
me, she had devoted some considerable portion 
of her attention. "But," said I, "you are 
now returning home?" "I am," replied the 
lady; "because the rival I am doomed to bear 
with is no longer in London, and because the 
avocations of my husband will not permit him 
to visit Paris, whither she has gone. He 
thinks I am ignorant of all this, and thinks 
that I am a dupe to all his artifices; and why 
should I undeceive him?" "This rival," said 
I, "must be a very potent personage, if you 
are unable to break the charm which fascinates 
your husband, or dispel the influence which 
she has over him. You must have the power, 
if you have the will to do so." "No," said 
she; "my power is gone — his heart is lost to 
me, and is inaccessible by me. Oh! you little 
know the treatment 1 have received from him! 
— from him whose whole soul wax mine, but 
whose mind is steeled and poisoned against 
me! — No human being can tell what I have 
suffered — what I do suffer!" 

It was clear I had now arrived at the con- 
clusion of the story; all that remained was to 
make the application, or deduce the moral; 
and, I honestly confess, it appeared to me, 
that! notwithstanding the object of her journey 

from her mother-in-law's house at Brighton 
was to rejoin her spouse in London, she would 
gladly have availed herself of any seasonable 
opportunity of changing the place of her desti- 
nation. In fact, I had involved myself more 
deeply than I anticipated, for, having become 
a confidante, and having volunteered being a 
cavalier, I apprehended that in a minute or 
two I should be called forth as a champion, 
and, like another knight-errant, have the out- 
raged Damosel placed under my especial care. 

I confess I was now rather anxious to ascer- 
tain who my fair friend was, and what her 
surname — her Christian name I had discovered 
to be Fanny. This discovery I made when she 
was recapitulating, more at length than I have 
thought it necessary to do, the dialogues be- 
tween herself and her late respectable mother, 
in which I observed that, speaking in the 
maternal character, she called herself by that 
pretty and Bimple name, which never was 
better suited to a human being than herself. 
The animation and exertion of talking, and 
the excitement to which part of her narrative 
had given rise, together with the effect of the 
air on a delicate skin, had lighted up her sweet 
countenance, and I was just on the point of 
taking a very decisive step in the affair, when 
the coach suddenly stopped, and the door being 
opened, a portly lady, with a bandbox, and a 
bouquet as big as a gooseberry-bush, picked 
on purpose for her, as she told us, was squeezed 
by the high -pressure power of Mr. Goodman's 
right hand into the coach. She was followed 
by a pale-faced girl of about ten years of age, 
with a smaller-sized bouquet, a basketful of 
sweetheart cakes, and a large phial full of weak 
red wine and water. 

That I was sorry for the interruption, I 
must candidly admit; but if the new-comers 
had been quiescent, it would have been more 
bearable, as I might have had time and leisure 
to consider what I had heard, and resolve in 
my mind not only the sad case of the fascin- 
ating creature before me, but to decide as to 
what step I myself should take, when we came 
to the place of parting. 

It is curious to see how soon a feeling of 
sympathy, or congeniality, or whatever else it 
may be, renders strangers intimate; and when 
that sort of intimacy has begun, how it con- 
tinues and shows itself by comparison with the 
conduct observed to the next strangers who 
appear. I and my fair friend were upon such 
good terms with each other, and so distant to 
the people who had just joined us, that the big 
lady and the little girl no doubt took us, if not 
for man and wife! at least for intimates of 



many years' standing; and then to see, the 
moment they came in, the care with which my 
fellow-traveller put her bonnet straight, and 
pulled her tippet round her, and put her bag 
in order, just as if she were before company! 
The contrast was very flattering to me, and so 
might have been much more of her conversation, 
but that she maintained it in a low tone, so as 
not to be heard by the strangers, forgetting, I 
conclude, that the pitch of voice which rendered 
it inaudible to them, left me equally ill-in- 
formed. " Pray, sir," said the big lady, "when 
does this here coach git to the Olephant and 
Castle?" "At a little past eight," said I. "We 
goes through Kinnington, I believe," said the 
lady. "We do." "If it is quite agreeable, 
sir," continued the awful dame, "to your good 
lady to have that 'ere window up, I should be 
uncommon oblegated, because my little Emily 
Lawinia is jist out of the scarlet-fever, and I 
am afeard of her taking could. " 

The combination of blunders in this little 
speech set the lateweeping Fanny into a laugh; 
for there was in the corner of her eye that 
playful sparkle which no grief can quite Bubdue. 
She was as readily alive to fun as assailable by 
sorrow; and so it is with all people who feel 
strongly; for, as Moore says in one of his 

*' The heart that is soonest awake to the flower*. 
Is always the first to be touoh'd by the thorns." 

The plump lady, however, found that she 
had made some mistake; and not at all taking 
into the account that people in general do not 
very much approve of shutting themselves up 
in a coach, hermetically sealed, with patients 
in the scarlet -fever, set me and my "good 
lady" down as two proud, conceited upstarts, 
and revenged herself, to onr utter dismay, by 
dissipating the sorrows of silence, in enjoying 
the solace of peppermint lozenges, one of which 
she herself took, and administered another to 
her darling pet on the opposite seat; bo that, 
while my companion was gratified by the redo- 
lence of the fragrant herb through the medium 
of the old lady, I was indulged by the more 
active and efficient exertions of the living 
anatomy next her. 

The coach rattled on, and I beheld my oppo- 
site neighbour no longer as a stranger. She 
leaned forward just as we passed Kennington 
turnpike, and asked me whether I went on to 
Charing Cross, or left the coach at the Elephant 
and Castle. I told her that I stuck by the 
ship to the last, and hoped she would permit 
me to assist her in securing her luggage. It 
▼as at this period, in the midst of the jangle 
of the vehicle and the clatter of the macadam- 

ized road, that I endeavoured to induce her to 
tell me her name. This she positively refused. 
Then I looked about for the superscription of 
a letter, which sometimes very inflexible ladies, 
under similar circumstances, will considerately 
let slip — and thus, one gets in a moment acci- 
dentally what worlds would not tempt them 
deliberately to disclose — but no— it was too 
dark to read writing; yet, I was so convinced 
that she actually held a card ready to give me, 
that I endeavoured gently to force her delicate 
right hand open, in order to obtain the desired 
information. But I found I was wrong; she 
seemed determined, either that I should know 
nothing more of her, or, if I did, that I should 
at least have the trouble, or pleasure, as the 
case might be, of hunting after my intelli- 

Failing in the main point of my inquiries, 
I endeavoured to ascertain what part of Lon- 
don she resided in, and tried every street, 
square, row, and corner, from Grove Road, 
Paddington, to Dog Row, Whitechapel, in 
order to excite an affirmative nod, and one of 
those bewitching smiles which I began to love 
— but no. Well, thought I, the time must 
come when you must go, and then I shall fol- 
low; and so, if you choose to be silent and 
uncommunicative, and dignified and disagree- 
able, I can be revenged upon you; not that I 
could believe a woman who would generously 
confide the sorrows of her heart to a man, 
could be ill-natured enough to withhold the 
trifling addition of telling him where that heart 
was doomed to beat 

The moment arrived, and we reached the 
Elephant and Castle. The sudden check of 
Goodman's team took my poor Fanny by sur- 
prise, and threw her forward, so as to bring 
her somewhat in contact with myself; bnt the 
lamps of the coach had been lighted at Smithers 
Bottom, and we were in the dark compared 
with objects without; and never shall I forget 
the hurried scramble into which she " righted 
herself," as her eye glanced on a countenance 
outside the carriage, brightly illuminated by 
the lamp on that side — she seemed thunder- 
struck. " Gracious ! " said she, " here's Charles!" 
"Who the deuce is Charles?" said I. "Hush! 
— my husband," replied the lady; "he's com- 
ing; — I'm so glad these people are in the 
coach." The door opened, and a hand was in- 
troduced. " Fanny ! " said the master of that 
hand, in a soft tone of endearment. " Here I 
am, love," said my companion. "Alone! — 
what— quite full!" said the husband. " Yes, 
dear," said the wife, " and so tired. I never 
was so glad to get out of a coach in my life." 



In a moment I thought I recognized the voice 
of the husband. I coiled myself into the cor- 
ner. She would have got out without my being 
betrayed, if she had not dropped her glove. — 
Why the deuce had she taken it off? — A light 
was sent for, and the moment it came I beheld 
in the object of all my indignation, and the 
cause of all her sorrow — the oldest friend of 
my life— Charles Franklin. "Why," exclaimed 
he, the moment he recognized me, " is that 
you! — fellow-traveller with my wife, and not 
known to each other? — this is curious!" 
" Franklin!" said I, in a sort of tremor. "Do 
you know my husband, «W" said the lady — 
" how very strange!" Yes, thought I, I wish 
it were impossible. " I have not seen you 
these ten years," said Franklin. " Come home 
with us — you must and shall — I " " In- 
deed," said I—" I " " Oh, come, come," 

said Franklin; "you can have no engagement 
— you shall have no engagement to supersede 
this. I rejoice in having found you after so 
long a separation," — and then Mr. Franklin 
introduced me to his wife in due form, much 
to the astonishment of our fellow-travellers at 
the other side of the coach, who concluded by 
what they had seen, as indeed they had shown 
by what they had said, that we were, if actually 
not man and wife, two of the oldest and most 
intimate possible friends. 

I have a melting heart in the way of a pro- 
position from a friend, especially when it is 
made under extraordinary circumstances, like 
those which accompanied and preceded Frank- 
lin's; but altogether I sincerely declare that I 
never was more embarrassed in my existence. 
I still wished to see the adventure through, 
and behold my Niobe in her own domicile. I 
looked to my charming companion for a tele- 
graphic signal. If she had frowned a negative, 
I should have repeated the signal, and strenu- 
ously declined going; but by the glare of the 
lamp at the inn door I thought 1 saw affirma- 
tive in the glance of her eye, which induced 
me to believe that my visit would not annoy 
her; and so, really, rather than doom her to a 
ttiU&tSte with her tyrant — though he was my 
friend — I consented to put myself in a position 
as irksome almost as position oould be. 

We left the coach — my trips from Brighton 
being periodical and frequent, I had no luggage, 
and we proceeded, with the maid and the band- 
boxes, to my friend's house — of course I shall 
be excused mentioning the locality — but it was 
one of the prettiest bijoux I ever saw; good 
taste predominated in every part of its decora- 
tions, and I soon discovered, by certain draw- 
ings which were pendent on the walls, that my 

fair companion was an artist, while the piano- 
forte and harp bespoke her (as she had herself, 
indeed, informed me she was) accomplished in 
other sciences. 

After a suitable delay of preparation, such 
as taking off things, and refreshing, and all 
that, our dinner was served — nothing could 
be nicer or neater. "Fanny, dearest," said 
. Franklin, " let me give you this wing; I know, 
j my life, you like it." "No, Charles, dear, 
not a bit more, thank you," said Fanny. 
" Come, love, a glass of wine with me," said 
Charles ; "'t is an old fashion, but we have 
been apart some weeks, so our friend will ex- 
cuse it. " " To be sure he will," said Fanny, and 
they drank to each other with looks admirably 
suited to the action. "How Btrange it is," 
said Franklin, " that after so long a separation 
we should meet in this extraordinary manner, 
and that Fanny should not have found you 
out, or that you should not have discovered 
her!" "Why, my dear Charles," said Mrs. 
Franklin, " strangers do not talk to each other 
in stage-coaches." "Very true, my angel," 
said Mr. Franklin; "but some accident might 
have brought your name to his ears, or his to 

While all this was going on I sat in a state 
of perfect amazement. Charles Franklin and 
I had been schoolfellows, and continued friends 
to a certain period of life; he was all that his 
wife had described him to be, in the earlier 
part of his life, but I confess I saw none of the 
heartlessness, the suspicion, the neglect, the 
violence, the inattention of which she also 
spoke; nor did I perceive, in the bright ani- 
mated look of pleasure which beamed over her 
intelligent countenance, the slightest remains 
of the grief and sorrow by which she had been 
weighed down on the journey. " Do you feel 
tired, my Fanny?" said Franklin. "No, 
dear," replied the lady, " not very, now; but 
those coaches are so small when there are fonr 
people in them, that one gets cramped." 

Here I felt a sort of tingling sensation be- 
hind my ears, anticipatory of what appeared 
to me to be a very natural question on the part 
of Franklin, as to whether we had been full 
during the whole journey; Mrs. Franklin, 
however, saw in a moment the false move she 
had made, and therefore directed the thoughts 
of her barbarous husband from the subject by 
telling him she had a letter for him from dear 
mamma — meaning his mother, under whose 
surveillance she had been forcibly immured at 

About this period Fanny retired, and pro- 
ceeded to the drawing-room, cautioning us, aa 



she departed, "not to be long." Charles flew 
to the door, and opened it for his departing 
fair — he accompanied her beyond its threshold, 
and I thought 1 heard a sound of something 
rery like a kiss as they parted. 

"How strange it is," said he, resuming his 
seat and pushing the wine towards me, "that 
you should have thus accidentally fallen in 
with Fanny! — she is very pretty; don't you 
think so?" "More than pretty, surely," said 
I; "there is an intelligence, an expression, a 
manner about her, to me quite captivating." 
" If you were present when she is animated," 
said her husband, " you would see that play- 
fulness of countenance, or rather the variety of 
expression to advantage; her mind lights up 
her features wonderfully; there is no want of 
spirit about her, I can assure you." "I was 
quite surprised when I heard of your elope- 
ment," said I. "Her mother," said Charles, 
"an old woman as proud as Lucifer, was mad 
after a title for her, and some old broken-down 
lord had been wheedled, or coaxed, or cajoled, 
or flattered into making her an offer, which 
she would not accept; and then the old lady 
led her such a life, that she made up her mind 
to the step which made her mine." "And 
insured you happiness," said I. "Why, yes," 
said Franklin, "upon my word, taking all 
things into the scale, I see no cause to repent 
the step. Between ourselves — of course I speak 
as an old friend — Fanny has not the very best 
temper in the world, and of late has taken it 
into her head to be jealous. An old acquaint- 
ance of mine, whom I knew long before I was 
married, has been over here from France, and 
I have been a good deal about with her during 
her stay; and as I did not think her quite a 
person to introduce to Fanny, she took huff at 
my frequent absence from home, and began to 
play off a sort of retaliation, as she fancied it, 
with a young lieutenant of lancers of our ac- 
quaintance. I cut that matter very short; I 
proposed an excursion to Brighton to visit my 
mother, to which she acceded, and when I had 
settled her out of reach of her young hero, and 
under the eye of my mamma, I returned to 
fulfil my engagements in London. And now 
that this lair obstacle to her happiness has 
returned to the Continent, I have recalled my 
better half." " You seem, however, to under- 
stand each other pretty well," said I. " To be 
*nre," replied Charles, "the only point is to 
keep her in a good humour, for, enire nous, her 
temper is the very devil — once know how to 
manage tiiat, and all goes well, and I flatter 
myself I have ascertained the mode of doing 

that to a nicety." 

Whether it was that Fanny was apprehensive 
that, under the genial influence of her hus- 
band's wine, or upon the score of old friendship, 
I might let slip some part of the day's adven- 
ture, I know not, but we were very early sum- 
moned to coffee, and I confess I was by no 
means displeased at the termination of a con- 
versation which every moment I expected 
would take some turn that would inevitably 
produce a recurrence to the journey, and per- 
haps eventually tend to betray the confidence 
winch the oppressed wife had reposed in me. 

We repaired to the drawing-room. — Fanny 
was reclining on the sofa, looking as fascinating 
as ever I saw a lady look. "Charles, dearest," 
said she, " I thought you would never come 
up; you and your friend must have had some- 
thing very interesting to talk about to detain 
you so long. " "We didn't think it long; Fan/' 
said Charles, "because we really were talking 
on a very interesting subject — we were discuss- 
ing you. " "Oh, my dear Charles ! " exclaimed 
the lady, "you flatter me; and what did 
he say of me?" said she, addressing me. 
"That," said I, "I cannot tell you: I never 
betray anything that is told me in confidence." 

Her looks explained that she was particu- 
larly glad to hear me say so, and the smile 
which followed was gracious in the extreme. 

" Now," said Charles, "that you have thus 
strangely found your way here, I hope we shall 
see you often." "And I hope so, too," said 
Mrs. Franklin: "I really believe sometimes 
that things which we blind mortals call chance 
are pre-ordained. I was not coming by the 
coach in which I met you, nor should I have 
been in it, if the other coach had not been 

full, and then " " I should have lost the 

pleasure," said I, "of seeing an old friend en- 
joying the delights of domestic happiness." 

Here Fanny gave me a look expressive of the 
perfect misery of her condition; and Charles, 
whose back was turned towards us at the in- 
stant, in coming up the room again, while her 
back was turned to him, made a sort of face, 
something between the sorrowful and the gro- 
tesque, which I shall never forget, but which 
indicated most unequivocally what his feelings 
on the subject were. 

Shortly after this the happy pair began to 
be so excessively kind and tender to each other, 
that I thought it was quite time to beat a re- 
treat, and accordingly took my leave, earnestly 
pressed by both parties to repeat my visit as 
often as I could, and to let them see as mnch of 
me as possible. I returned them my warmest 
thanks for their kindness, but named no day 
for my return, and wished them good -night. 



I hare not been there since. I called, in- 
deed, once, and Charles called on me, bat I 
have been little in London daring the last 
season, and they hare been much in the coun- 
try. I could not have equitably maintained 
an intimacy with them, for I felt neutrality 
would be quite oat of the question: thus, al- 
though the recurrence of my old friendship 
with Charles Franklin has been productive of 
no very satisfactory results as relate to our- 
selves personally, it has given me an additional 

light in my path through the world, and now, 
whenever I see a picture of perfect happiness 
presented to my eyes, affection on one side 
and devotion on the other, assiduity met by 
kindness, and solicitude repaid with smiles, 
instead of feeling my heart, glow with rapture 
at the beautiful scene before me, I instantly 
recollect that I once travelled to London in 
the Brighton coach. 

Thbojdom Hook. 


"My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they've dropt into the well, 

And what to say to Muca, I cannot, cannot telL" 

Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuhares' daughter. 
u The well is deep; far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water. 

To me did Muca give them, when he spake his sad farewell; 

And what to say, when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell. 

" My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they were pearls in silver set, 
That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget; 
That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, 
But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. 
When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the welly 
Oh ! what will Muca think of me, I cannot, cannot tell! 

"My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! hell say they should have been, 
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, 
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, 
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere , 
That changeful mind unchangeful gems are not befitting well, 
Thus will he think:— and what to say, alas! I cannot tell! 

"Hell think, when I to market went, I loitered by the way; 
Hell think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say; 
Hell think some other lover's hand among my tresses noosed 
From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl unloosed. 
Hell think, when I was sporting so beside this marble well, 
My pearls fell in :— and what to say, alas! I cannot tell! 

" He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same; 
Hell say I loved, when he was here, to whisper of his flame; 
But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken, 
And thought no more of Muca, and cared not for his token* 
My ear-rings! my ear-rings ! Oh ! luckless, luckless well! 
For what to say to Muca, alas ! I cannot tell! 

"Ill tell the truth to Muca, and I hope he will believe 
That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve! 
That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, 
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; 
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell, 
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well!" 

J. G. Locxhajt. 




[Juus Michemet, the distinguished French Historian, 
«u Lorn 1798, died 1874 : when forty yean of age he 
vu appointed professor of History in the College of 
France, from which he was displaced by Napoleon III., 
because he refused to take the oath to uphold his gov- 
ernment. Michelet's chief works are: "The Republic," 
u Ul<oT>j of Framce," " The Women of ike RetohUlo»\" 
-Lost," 'The SeaT " Tike /Meet" and " The Bible of Hw 
mma*. » [J. W. Bonton, New fork.] From his last 
M epic tn prose," we make extract] 

Volney and Sacy opened up Syria and 
Arabia. ChampoUion, standing by the 
Sphynx, the mysterious Egypt, construed 
her inscriptions, and showed that she was 
a civilized empire sixty centuries before 
Jesus Christ. Eugene Burnouf established 
the consanguinity of the two ancestors of 
Asia — the two branches of the Aryas, the 
Indo-Persians of Bactriana ; and the Parsee 
Bcholars who had been educated in the 
College of France quoted in the most 
remote regions of Hindostan this Western 
Magician against their Angelican disputant. 

The Mahabharaia, the poetical encyclo- 
pedia of the Brahmins, the expurgated 
translations of the books of Zoroaster, and 
the splendid heroic history of Persia — the 
Shah-Nameh — came next. It was known 
that behind Persia, behind the Brahmanic 
India, there was extant a book of the re- 
motest antiquity, of the first pastoral age — 
an age which preceded the agricultural. 
Thia book, the Rig- Veda, a collection of 
hvmns and prayers, enables us to follow the 
shepherds of that early period in their reli- 
gious aspirations — the first soarings of the 
% Raman mind toward heaven and light In 
1833, Rosen published a specimen of it. It 
can now be read in the Sanscrit, German, 
English, and French. In this very year, 
1863, a profound and able crijtic, who is also 
a Burnouf, has expounded its true meaning, 
and shown its scope. 

In consequence of all this research we 
can now see the perfect agreement between 
Asia and Europe — the most remote age 
and the present era. It has taught us that 
man, in all ages, thought, felt, and loved in 
the same way ; and therefore there is but 
one humanity, a single heart only! A 
great harmony has been established through 
all space and time. Let the silly irony of 
BkeDtics, teachers of doubt, who hold that 
troth varies according to latitude, be for- 

ever silenced. T^he feeble voice of sophists 
expires in the immense concert of human 


Whatever the English may do to make it 
appear that the Indian Bible is more modern 
than the Jewish, it must be admitted that 
primeval India was the original cradle, the 
matrix of the world, the principal and 
dominant source of races, of ideas, and of 
languages for Greece, Rome, and modern 
Europe, and that the Semitic movement — 
the Jewish-Arabian influence — though very 
considerable, is nevertheless secondary. 

But if the English were constrained to 
admit her renowned antiquity, yet they af- 
firmed that India was dead and buried for- 
ever in her elephantine grottoes, her Vedas 
and her Rd may ana, like Egypt in her pyra- 
mids. They regarded the country, as large 
as all Europe, and her population of one 
hundred and eighty millions of souls, as 
insignificant, and even contemptuously de- 
clared that this numerous people were made 
up from the refuse of a worn-out nation. 

Haughty England, who considered India 
as a land fit to be cultivated only for the 
purpose of enriching her rapacious rulers, 
together with the indignities heaped upon 
her people by both protestants and catholics, 
and the indifference of all Europe, made it 
appear that the Indian soul was really dead. 
Was not the very race dried up ? What is 
the feeble Hindoo, with his delicate, feminine 
hand, compared with the blonde European, 
nourished, surfeited with strong meat and 
drink, and doubling his force of race, with 
that half drunken rage which the devour- 
ers of meat and blood always exhibit ? 

The English do not hesitate to boast 
that they have killed India. The wise and 
humane W. H. Russell thought so, said 
so. They have oppressed her with taxes 
and prohibitory tariffs, and discouraged her 
arts as far as it was possible. In the more 
humane markets of Java and Bassora the 
products of Indian art find a ready sale, and 
it is solely because of this high estimate of 
the eastern merchants that her arts exist. 

The specimens of Indian art exhibited in 
England in 1841, surprised and confounded 
the English people ; and when Mr. Royle, a 
conscientious Englishman, explained these 
marvels of enchantment, the jury could not 
award them a prize, because the prizes were 
only to be riven on " the progress of fifteen 
years," while these productions of India 



were the work of an eternal art, alien to 
every fashion, and more ancient than our 
arts, which are old at the beginning. 

In order to secure a fair specimen of In- 
dian art for the Exhibition, a prize of twelve 
and a half dollars was offered, and was car- 
ried off by Hubioula, a common weaver of 
Golconda, who produced a piece of muslin, 
which threw into the shade all English tex- 
tile fabrics, and which was so fine that it 
could be put through a small ring, and so 
light that three hundred yards of it weighed 
less than two pounds. It was a genuine 
gauze, like that with which Bernardin de 
Saint Pierre clothed his Virginia, like those 
in which Aureng Zeb wrapped the corpse of 
his beloved daughter when he laid her in the 
white marble mausoleum of Aurungabad. 
But neither the endeavors of Mr. Royle, nor 
the acknowledgment of the French that they 
were treated better than the Orientals, could 
induce England to give her Indian subjects 
any other reward than these barren words : 
u For the charm and beauty of the invention, 
and • the distinctness, variety, commingling 
and happy blending of colors, there is noth- 
ing to be compared to it. What a lesson 
for European manufactures !" 

Oriental art is by far the most brilliant 
and the least costly. The cheapness of 
labor is excessive ; I had almost said de- 
plorable. The workman lives on a trifle. 
A handful of rice satisfies him for a day. 
And then the mildness of the climate, the 
admirable air and light, the ethereal food 
which is taken through the eyes, and the 
singular beauty and harmony of all nature, 
develop and refine the perceptions and 
make the senses acute. This is noticeable 
even in all the animals, and especially in the 
elephant, who, though huge and shapeless 
in bulk, and rough in exterior, is a volup- 
tuous connoisseur of perfumes, selecting the 
most fragrant herbs, and showing his pre- 
ference for the orange-tree, which he first 
smells, and then eats its flowers, its leaves, 
and its wood. Here man acquires an ex- 
quisite fineness of perception and feeling. 
Nature makes him a colorist, and endows 
him with special privileges as her own child. 
He lives with her, and all that he does is 
charming. .He combines the most diverse 
strains, and commingles the dullest hues in 
such a manner as to produce the sweetest 
and most exquisite effect 

The sky does everything for the Oriental. 
A quarter of an hour before sunrise, and a 
quarter of an hour after sunset, he enjoys 

that supreme privilege, the perfect vision fit 
light, which is then divine with its peculiar 
transfigurations and inward revealings, with 
its tenderness and glory in which his soul is 
swallowed up— lost in the boundless ocean 
of a mysterious Friendship. 

In the raidat of this ineffable mildness the 
humble, feeble, half-nourished, and wretched 
looking being conceives the idea of the 
wonderful Indian shawl. As the profound 
poet Valmiki beheld his great poem, the 
Kamayana, gathered, as it were, in the hol- 
low of his hand, so this poetic weaver per- 
ceives his great artistic work which some- 
times is continued through a century. His 
son or his nephew, with the same soul, 
hereditary and identical, and with the like 
delicate hand, will follow the same line of 
thought and carry it on until completed. 

In the execution of strange and exquisite 
jewelry, and in the fanciful ornamentation 
of furniture and arms, the hand of the 
workman is unique. Some of the latest 
Princes of India sent to the Exhibition re- 
ferred to, arms which had been worn by 
their ancestors, and therefore so peculiarly 
dear to them, as well as of such great value, 
that we can scarcely understand how they 
consented to entrust them to others. An- 
other of those Rajahs sent a bedstead of 
ivory, possibly of his own workmanship, as 
he superscribed his name on it, which was 
sculptured and carved with infinite inge- 
nuity and delicacy — an exquisite, chaste, or 
virgin-like piece of furniture, full of love, it 
seems, and of dreams. Are these objects 
things ? They seem to be almost human, 
and to be possessed with the ancient soul of 
India, as well as with that of the artist who 
made them, and the Prince who used them. 

But these sumptuous productions of rare 
artists do not indicate the genius of the 
race so fully as do the inferior arts, and the 
more simple handiwork. Without expense 
or noise the Hindoos, with apparent ease, 
produce works that appear to us very diffi- 
cult With a little clay for a crucible, and 
for bellows a couple of the strong, elastic 
leaves peculiar to the country, a single man 
in the forest will, in a few hours, turn the 
crude ore into iron, and again, with the ad- 
dition of swallow wort, turn the iron into 
steel, which, when carried by caravans as 
far as the Euphrates, is called Damascus 

It has been observed by many that the 
peculiar chemical insight of this people has 
enabled them not only to extract the most 



mid colore, but also the corresponding 
grade of mordant, which fixes and makes 
these colors eternal. The Indian spinster, 
with her native instinct and no other ma- 
chine than her spindle and her delicate 
hands, will obtain a thread of incredible 
fineness, with which the most intricate and 
beautiful designs are executed. 

Some one has said ; " Instead of sending 
to Cashmere some hideous designs of shawls, 
which would corrupt the Indian taste, let us 
send our pattern-drawers to India to con- 
template its brilliant nature and to imbibe 
its pure light." But it would be necessary 
that these designers should also catch the 
bouI and the profound harmony of India, 
for between the great calmness of the patient 
soul of the Hindoo and the subduing mild- 
ness of the nature that surrounds him, there 
is such a complete agreement that the man 
and the native can scarcely realize that each 
is distinct from the other. Nor is this the 
effect of quietude simply, as some believe, 
bat of that singular faculty, peculiar to the 
race, of seeing life at the bottom of every 
thing, and the soul in every living body. 
The herb is not simply an herb, nor the tree 
only a tree, but both herb and tree are the 
vehicles for the circulation of the divine 
spirit: and the animal is not all animal, but 
a soul that has been or will be a man. 
Without this faith they could never have 
accomplished the first and most necessary 
of all arts in the earliest times, the art of 
taming and humanizing the most important 
and useful servants, without whicn man 
could not have long existed. Without the 
dog and the elephant, man would have been 
at the mercy of the lion and the tiger. The 
books of Persia and India relate in a grati- 
fied manner how the dog was the first pre- 
server of man, and how the men of those 
days formed friendships and entered into 
alliances with the very strong and large 
dogs who could strangle the lion. And in 
the Mahdbharata it is narrated that the hero 
of that poem declined the reward of heaven 
unless he could enter Paradise with his dog. 

In lower India and in hot climates where 
the dog was lacking in strength, or was easily 
alarmed, and fled from the tiger, men in- 
yoked the protection of the elephant ; but 
this was a more difficult alliance, for though 
the elephant becomes gentle in maturity, it 
is brutal, irascible, and capricious in youth, 
and terrible in its gluttony, and in its 
amusements, and therefore was scarcely less 
formidable than the tiger. And when we 

consider that to train a horse, which is so 
small compared to the elephant, a bit and 
spurs of steel, and reins and bridles are 
needed, it must have seemed an almost 
hopeless undertaking to curb and restrain 
by force this living mountain, this mighty 

They succeeded, however, and nothing 
could have been greater or more beautiful. 
It was a moral victory. They treated the 
elephant as if he were a man, a wise man. 
a Brahmin, and he was influenced by it, ana 
behaved accordingly. To-day the treatment 
is similar ; the elephant has two servants to 
look after him, to remind him of his duties, 
and to warn him if he deviates from Brah- 
manical decorum. The comae sits on his 
neck, scratches his ears, guides him and rules 
him by the voice, teaching him how to be- 
have himself: while the other servant walks 
beside him and teaches him the same lesson 
with a firm tone and equal tenderness of 

At present some writers speak very light- 
ly about all that. The elephant has not 
only been disparaged, but has greatly de- 
generated. He has known servitude, and 
has felt the power of man. But in earlier 
times he was fierce and indomitable, and to 
have made him teachable and tractable 
must have required great boldness, calm- 
ness, affection, and sincere faith. Then 
they religiously believed what they said to 
him. They respected the soul of the dead 
in the body of the living ; for according to 
the doctrines of their holy sages, the spirit 
of some departed one lived in die command- 
ingand speechless form. 

When they saw him in the morning, at 
the hour in which the tiger leaves his am- 
bush of night, coming deliberately out of 
the dense jungle and going majestically to 
drink of the waters of the Ganges, empur- 
pled by the dawn, they confidently believed 
that he, too. hailing the open day, became 
impregnated by Vishnu, the AU Pervading, 
the good Sun, and while immersing in this 
great soul, incarnated in himself a divine 



*Twm at the royal feast, for Persia woa, 
By Philip's warlike son ; 
Aloft in awful state 



The god-like hero sate 

On hi* imperial throne t 
His valiant peers were placed around. 
Their brows witn ruses and with myrtle bound t 

(So should desert iu amis be crowned.) 
The lovely Thais by hi* aide 
bate liku » blooming Eastern bride, 
~n flower of youth and beauty'* pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair I 
None but the brave, 
Nuue but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the lair, 
fimothous, placed on high 

Amid the tuneful choir, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre: 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
And heavenly Joys Inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above 
(Such is the power of mighty love !) 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god: 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 

When he to fair Olympia pressed. 
And stamped an Image of himself, a sov'relgn of the 

The listening crowd admire the lofty sound: 
u A present deity I M they shout around ; 
"A present deity I " the vaulted roofs rebound. 
With ravished ears 
The monarch hears. 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod, 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung; 
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young ; 

The Jolly god in triumph comes ; 

Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; 

Flushed with a purple grace, 

He shows his honest face. 
Row give the hautboys breath ; he comes I he comes I 

Bacchus, ever fair and young, 

Drinking Joys did first ordain, 

Bacchus 1 blessings are a treasure, 

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure, 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure, * 

Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

Soothed with the sound the king grew Tain ; 

Fought all his battles o'er again ; 

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the 

Tha master saw the madness rise, 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And while he heaven and earth defied, 
Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 

He chose a mournful Muse, 

Soft pity to infuse ; 
Be sung During great and goM, 

By too severe a fate, 

Fallen, fallen, (alien, alien, 
Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood : 
Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 

With downcast look the Joyless victor km* 
Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of chance below : 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree ; 
Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
Honour but an empty bubble ; 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying: 

If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, think it worth enjoying: 
Lorely Thais site beside thee, 
Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
80 love was crowned, but music won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gaud on the fair, 
Who caused his care, 

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked 
Sighed and looked, and «ghed again : 
At length, with love and wino at once oppressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast 

Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ; 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder 
Hark ! hark I the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head, 
As awaked from the dead, 
And, amaxed, he stares around 
' Revenge ! revenge !' Thnotheus cries : 
'See the furies arise! 
See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! 
Behold a ghastly bnnd, 
Each a torch in his hand I 
These are Grecian ghosts, that In battle were slain, 
And nnburled remain. 
Inglorious on the plain : 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glittering temples of their hostile god*/ 
The princes applaud with a furious Joy ; 


And the king seized a flambeau with seal to destroy : 

Thai* led the way, 

To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 

Thus long ago, 
Ere hearing bellowi learned to blow, 
While organs yet were mate, 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre, 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 

At last diTine Cecilia came, 

Inventress of the rood frame : 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 

And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown befoift 

Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
Or both divide the crown; 

He raised a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down. 

Johx Dbtdkm 


Why do they talk of the Border-Land, the rippling streams and miles of leather, 

To one who, scribbling, pen in hand, can scarce keep body and soul together ? 

My border-land 's 'twixt life and death, and I long for the hum of the Underground 

To take me away from the roar of the street, the Sty's crash, and eternal sound 

That rings in my cars from morn to night, from the dawn to the dews, from the light to the darl . 

Why do they open their ears to sorrow, and close them fast to the Cry of the Clerk ? 

Envious ? No ! Let them visit the sea, neither pain nor pleasure are far to seek, 

But seas and Bummers are not for me with a salary under a pound a week. 

My only change is from desk to home, my only trip on the tramway cars ; 

My baby's face is my only moon ; and the eyes of my wife are my only stars. 

The rocks I climb are the paving-stones, and the Milkman's voice is the morning lark 

That wakes me out of my land of dreams, — where I journey at times, though a penniless Clerk I 

Twenty odd years I have sat at the desk, in the same little den in the same old court, 
Profit and loss I have balanced them up, the firm seemed richer when bread was short. 
Drones and bees in the same glass-hive ; but they looked on as I made the honey, 
But it did seem hard they should waste so much, when I could have cringed for a loan ol 

To save my sick, to bury my dead, to bring to haven the buffeted bark 
That threatened to split on the sands of Time with the life and love of the threadbare Clerk ! 

1 don't growl at the working-man, be his virtue strict or morality lax ; 

He 'd strike if they gave him my weekly wage, and they never ask him for the Income-tax ! 

They take his little ones out to tea in a curtained van when the fields are green, 

But never a flower, or field or fern in their leafy homes have my children seen. 

The case is different, so they say, for I 'm respectable, — save the mark ! 

He works with the sweat of his manly brow, and I with my body and brain — poor Clerk I 

Respectability ! That 's the word that makes such fellows as I grow lean, 

That sends my neighbours to Margate Pier, and sets me longing for Kensal Green T 

What in the world is a slave to do, whose ink-stained pen is his only crutch, 

Who counts the gain that staggers his brain, and fingers the till that he dare not touch I 

Where's the ambition, the hope, the pride of a man like me who has wrecked the Ark 

That holds his holiest gifts, and why? Because he is honest and called a Clerk I 

Why did 1 marry ? In mercy's name, in the form of my brother was I not born f 
Are wife and child to be given to him, and love to be taken from me with scorn ? 
It fa not for them that I plead, for theirs are the only voices that break my sorrow, 
That lighten my pathway, make me pause 'twixt the sad to-day and the grim to-morrow. 
The Sun and the Sea are not given to me, nor joys like yours as you flit together 
Away to the woods and the downs, and over the endless acres of purple heather. 
But I >e love, thank Heaven ! and mercy, too ; 'tis for justice only I bid you hark 
ft the tale of a penniless man like me — to the wounded cry of a London Clerk I 

from l Pimck, n 




[Edward Jbhkins, M. P., born 1838, at Bangalore, 
India, is a son of Rot. Dr. Jenkins of St Paul's Presby- 
terian Church, Montreal, Canada. He wrote "Lord 
Bantam," " The OwJfa," and " Omz* Baby," (from which 
we make extracts.) Mr Jenkins was elected member of 
the British Parliament for Dundee in 1874, and con- 
tinues to represent that constituency, 1881.] 

The man meanwhile had reached the 

"Here he comes! There's the baby! 
He's going to do it, sure enough ! " shrieked 
the women. The children stood agape. 
He stopped to consider. It is very well to 
talk about drowning your baby, but to do 
it you need two things, water and opportu- 
nity. Vauxhall Bridge was the nearest way 
to the former, and towards it Ginx turned. 

" Stop him ! » 


" Take the child from him ! " 

The crowd grew larger, and impeded the 
man's progress. Some of his fellow-work- 
men stood by regarding the fun. 

" Leave us aloan, naabors," shouted Ginx : 
"this is my own baby, and I'll do wot I 
likes with it. I kent keep it; an' if I've 
got anythin' I kent keep, it's best to get rid 
of it, ain't it? This child's goin' over 
Wauxhall Bridge." 

But the women clung to his arms and 

" Hallo ! " What's all this about ? " said 
a sharp, strong man, well-dressed, and in 
good condition, coming up to the crowd ; 
" another foundling ! Confound the place, 
the very stones produce babies. Where was 
it found-? " 

Chorus (recognizing a deputy^relieving 
officer). It warn't found at all ; it's Giux's 

Officer. Ginx's baby ? Who's Ginx ? 

Ginx. I am. 

Officer. Well? 

Gixx. Well ! 

Chorus. He's goin' to drown it. 

Officer. Going to drown it? Non- 

Ginx. I am. 

Officer. But, bless my heart, that's 
murder ! 

Ginx. No 'taint. I've twelve already at 
homa. Starvashon's sure to kill this un. 
Best save it the trouble. 

Chorus. Take it away, Mr. Smug, he'll 
rill it if you don't. 

Officer. Stuff and nonsense ! Quite 

contrary to law ! Why man, you're bound to 
support your child. You can't throw it off 
in that way ; — nor on the parish neither. 
Give me your name. I must get a magis- 
trate's oraer. The act of parliament is as 
clear as daylight I had a man up under it 

1 last week. "Whosoever shall unlawfully 
abandon or expose any child, being under 
the age of two years whereby the life of 
such child shall be endangered or the health 
of such child shall have been been or shall 
be likely to be permanently injured (drown- 

, ing comes under that I think) shall be guilty 

' of a misdemeanor and being convicted 
thereof shall be liable at the discretion of 
the court to be kept in penal servitude for 
the term of three years or to be imprisoned 
for any term not exceeding two years with 

j or without hard labor." 

Mr. Smug, the officer, rolled out this sec- 
tion in a sonorous monotone, without stops, 

' like a clerk of the court. It was his pride 
to know by heart all the acts relating to his 

j department, and to bring them down upon 
any obstinate head that he wished to crush. 

, Ginx's head, however, was impervious to an 

i act of parliament In his then temper, the 
Commination Service or St Ernulphus's 

' curse would have been feathers to him. The 
only feeling aroused in his mind by the 

! words of the legislature was one of resent- 

' ment To him they seemed unjust, because 
they were hard ana fast, and made no al- 
lowance for circumstances. So he said : 

; Ginx. D the act of parliament ! 

What's the use of saying I shan't abandon 
the child, when I can't keep it alive ? 

Officer. But you're bound by law to 
kcop it alive. 

Ginx. Bound to keep it alive? How 
am I to do it ? There's the rest on 'em there 
(n >dding towards his house) little better 
nor alive now. If that's an act of Parley- 
ment, why don't the act of Parleyment 

I provide for 'em ? You know what wages 

, is, and I can't get more than is going. 
Chorus. Yes. Why don't Parleyment 

Srovide for 'em ? You take the chili, Mr. 
j Officer (regardless of grammar). Me 
' take the child ! The parish has enough to 
| do to take care of foundlings and children 
whose parents can't or don't work. You 
don't suppose we will look after the children 
of those who can ? 

Ginx. Just so. You'll bring up bas» 
tards and beggars' pups, but you won't help 
an honest man to keep his head above wa- 



ter. This child's head is going under wa- 
ter anyhow ! " — and he prepared to bolt, 
amid fresh screams from the Chorus. 

Ginx hurried off again, but as the crowd 
opened before him, he was met, and his mad 
career stayed, by a slight figure, feminine, 
draped in black to the feet, wearing a curi- 
ously framed white-winged hood above her 
pale face, and a large cross suspended from 
ner girdle. He could not run her down. 

Nux. Stop, Man 1 Are you mad ? Give 
me the child. 

He placed the little bundle in her arms. 
She uncovered the queer, ruby face, and 
kissed it. Ginx had not looked at the face 
before, but after seeing it, and the act of 
this woman, he could not have touched a 
hair of his child's head. His purpose died 
at that moment, though his perplexity was 
still alive. 

Nu.v. Let me have it I will take it to 
the Sisters' Home, and it shall live there. 
Your wife may come and nurse it. We will 
take charge of it 

Ginx. And you won't send it back again ? 
Toall take it for good and all ? 

Nux. 0, yes. 

Gurx. Good. Give us your hand. 

A little white hand came out from under 
her burthen, and was at once half-crushed 
b Ginx's elephantine grasp. 

Ginx. Done. Thank'ee, missus. Gome, 
mates, Til stand a drink. 

A few minutes after, the woman of the 
cross, who had been up to comfort the poor 
mother, fluttered with her white wings down 
Rosemary Street, carrying in her arms Ginx's 


The Secretary was an old hand at these 
meetings. He planned to import into this 
one a sensation. Ginx's Baby, brought 
from the convent, stripped of his papal 
swathings and envelopea in a handsome 
outfit presented by an amiable Protestant 
Duchess, was placed in a cradle with his 
head resting on a Bible. I am afraid he 
*ag quite as uncomfortable as he had ever 
been at the convent When, at the con- 
clusion of the chairman's speech, in which 
he informed the audience of their triumph, 
this exhibition was deftly introduced upon 
the platform, the huzzas, and clappings, 
and waving of handkerchiefs were such as 
even that place had never seen. The child 
**» astounded into quietness. 
Mr Trumpeter took the c^iair — believed 

by many to be next to the Qaeen, the most 
powerful defender of the faith in the three 
kingdoms. I never could understand why 
the newspapers reported his speeches — I 

When he had done, Lord Evergood, " a 
popular, practical peer, of sound Protestant 
principles," as the Daily Banner nllitcra- 
tively termed him next morning, rose to 
move the first resolution, already cut and 
dried by the committee — 

" That the infant so happily rescued from 
the incubus of a delusive superstition, should 
be remitted to the care of the Church Wi- 
dows' and Orphans' Augmentation Society, 
and should be supported by voluntary con- 

Before Lord Evergood could say a word 
murmurs arose in every part of the hall. 
He was a mild gentlemanly Christian, with- 
out guile, and the opposition both surprised 
and frightened him. He uttered a few sen- 
tences in approval of his proposition and 
sat down. 

An individual in the gallery shouted — 
" Sir ! I rise to move an amendment ! " 

Cheers, ana cries of " Order 1 order ! Sit 
down ! " &c. 

The chairman, with great blandness, said : 
u The gentleman is out of order : the reso- 
lution has not yet been seconded. I call 
upon the Rev. Mr. Valpyto second the reso- 

Mr. Valpy, incumbent of St Swithin's- 
within, insisted on speaking, but what he 
said was known only to himself. When he 
had finished there was an extraordinary 
commotion. On the platform many minis- 
ters and laymen jumped to their feet; 
in the hall at least a hundred aspirants for 
a hearing raised themselves on benches or 
the convenient backs of friends. 

The Chairman shouted, " Order ! order, 
gentlemen 1 This is a great occasion ; let 
us show unanimity I " 

There seemed to be an unanimous desire 
to speak. Amid cheers, cries for order, 
and Kentish fire, you could hear the Rev. 
Mark Slowboy, Independent, the Rev. Hugh 
Quickly, Wesleyan, the Rev. Bereciah Cal- 
vin, Presbyterian, the Rev. Ezekiel Cutwa- 
ter, Baptist, calling to the chair. 

A lull ensued, of which advantage was 
taken by Mr. Stentor, a well-known Hyde 
Park orator, who bellowed from a friend's 
shoulders in the pit, " Mr. Chairman, hear 
me!" an appeal that was followed by roars 
of laughter. 



What was the matter ? Why the proposal | 
to hand over the baby to an Anglican re- ' 
fuge stirred up the blood of every Dissenter 
present It was lifting the infant out of; 
the frying-pan and dexterously dropping 
him into the fire. But the chairman was 
accustomed to these scenes. He stayed the I 
tumult by proposing that a representative 
from each denomination should give his , 
opinion to the audience. " Whom would 1 
they have first ? " ! 

The loudest cries were for Mr. Cutwater^ 
who stood forth — a weak, stooping, half- 
halting, little man, with a limp necktie, and 
trousers puffy at the knees — but with honest 
use of them, let me say. It is quite credi- 
ble that if Dr. Watts's assertion be true 

" Satan tremble* when he mm 
The weakest saint upon his knees,** 

that arch-enemy was unusually perturbed 
when Ezekiel Cutwater was upon hie. On 1 
these he had borne manly contests with 
evil. Two things — yea, three — were rigid 
in Ezekiel's creed ; fire would never have 
burned them out of him : hatred of Popery, 
contempt of Anglican priestcraft and apos- 
tolic succession, and adhesion to the dogma 
of adult baptism and total immersion. Who- 
so should not join with him in these let him 
be Anathema Maranatha. 

His eye kindled as he looked at the seeth- 
ing audience. " Sir," said he, " I beg to 
move an amendment to the motion of the 
noble lord. (Cheers.) That motion pro- 
poses to transfer to the care of the Estab- 
lished Church this tender and unconscious 
infant (bending over Ginx's baby), just 
Snatched from the toils of a kindred super- 
stition. (Oh, oh, hisses and cheers.) I 
withdraw the expression ; I did not mean 
to be offensive. (Hear.) This is a grand 
representative meeting — not of the English 
church, not of the Baptist Church, not of 
the Wesleyan Church — but of Protestantism. 
(Cheers.) In such an assembly is it ri^ht 
to propose any singular disposition of a 
representative infant? This is now the 
adopted child, not of one, but of all denom- 
inations. (Cheers.) Around his, or her — 
I am not sure which— cherubic head circle 
the white-winged angels of various Churches, 
and on her or him, whichever it may be — " 

The chairman said that he might as well 
say that he had authentic information that it 
was him. 

u Him then— concentrate the sympathies 

of every Protestant heart. Let us not do- 
spoil the occasion of its greatness by exhib- 
iting a narrow bigotry in one direction! 
Let us bring into this infantile focus the 
rays of Catholic unity. . (Loud cheering and 
Kentish fire.) To me, for one, it would be 
eminently painful to think — what doubtless 
would occur if the motion is adopted — that 
within a week of his entrance into the asy- 
lum of the society named in it, this diminu- 
tive and unknowing sinner should go 
through the farce of a supposititious admis- 
sion into the Church of Christ (Oh !) Yes I 
I say a farce, whether you regard the age of 
the acolyte or the indifferent proportion of 
water with which it would be performed. 
(Uproar, oh, oh ! and some cheering from 
the Baptist section.) But I will not now 
further enter into these things/' said Mr. 
Cutwater, who knew his cue perfectly well, 
" I can hold these opinions and still love my 
brethren of other denominations. I move 
as an amendment, that a committee, con- 
sisting of one minister and one layman to 
be selected from each of the churches, be 
appointed to take charge of the physical 
well-being and mental and spiritual train- 
ing of the infant" 

By this proposition, which was received 
with enthusiasm, Ginx's Baby was to be in- 
continently pitched into an arena of pole- 
mical warfare. Every one was willing that 
a committee should fight out the question 
vicariously j and, therefore, when Mr. Slow- 
boy seconded the amendment, it was car- 
ried with loud acclamations. 

But they were not yet out of the wood. 
On proceeding to nominate members of the 
committee, the Unitarians and Quakers 
claimed to be represented. The platform 
and the meeting were by the ears again. It 
was fiercely contended that only Evangeli- 
cal Christians could have a place in such a 
work, and many of the nominees declared 
that they would not sit on a committee with 
— well some curious epithets were used. 
The Unitarians and Quakers took their 
stand on the Catholic principles embodied 
in the amendment, and on the fact that 
Ginx's Baby had now "become national 
Protestant property." Mr. Cutwater and a 
few others, moved by the scandal of the dis- 
pute, interfered, and the committee was at 
length constituted to the satisfaction of all 
parties. It was to be called " The Branch 
Committee of the Protestant Detectors! 
Union for promoting the Physical and Spi- 
ritual Well-being of Ginx's Baby.'' 



. A fourth resolution was adopted, " That 
the subject should be treated in the Metro- 
politan pulpits on the next Sabbath, and a 
collection taken up in the various churches 
for the benefit of the infant" This prom- 
ised well for Master Ginx's future. 

The meeting had lasted five hours, and 
while they were discussing him the child 
grew hungry. In the tumult every one had 
forgotten the subject of it, and now it was 
over, they dispersed without a thought of 
him. But he would not allow those near 
him at all events to overlook his presence. 
Some, foreseeing that awkwardness was im- 
pending, slipped away ; while three or four 
stayed to ask what was to be done with him. 

" Hand him over to the custody of the 
Chairman," said a Mr. Dove. 

" I should be most happy, " said he, 
smoothly, " but Mrs. Trumpeter is out of 
town. Could your dear wife take him, Mr. 
Dove ? " 

Mr. Dove's wife was otherwise engaged. 

The Secretary was unmarried— chambers 
at Nincome's inn. 

In the midst of their distress a woman 
who had been hanging about the hall near 
the platform, came forward and offered to 
take charge of him, " for the sake of the 
cause." Every one was relieved. After her 
name and address had been hastily noted, 
the Protestant baby was placed in her arms. 
My Lord Evergooa, the Chairman, the cler- 
gy, the Secretary, and the mob went home 
rejoicing. Some hours after, Ginx's Baby, 
stripped of the duchess's beautiful robes, 
was found by a policeman, lying on a door- 
step in one of the narrow streets, not a hun- 
dred yards behind the Philopragmon. By 
an ironical chance he was wrapped in a 
copy of the largest daily paper in tne world. 


At every breakfast-table in town next 
morning the report of the great Protestant 
meeting was read, and a further report in 
leaded type, of the discovery of Ginx's 
Baby at a later period of the evening by a 
policeman. A pretty comment on the pro- 
ceedings! The Good Samaritan put his 
patient on his ass and carried him to an 
mn; while the priest and the Levite, though 
the latter looked at him, at least let him 
alone. To have called a public meeting to 
discuss his fate before deserting him, would 
har* been a refinement of inhumanity. The 
committee were rather ashamed when they 

met Instant measures were taken to reco- 
ver the child and place him in good hands. 
The duchess again provided baby-clothes. 
The next Sunday eermons were preached 
on his behalf in a score of chapels. The 
collections amounted to £800, a sum in- 
creased by donations and subscriptions to 
the handsome total of £1360 10s. 3jd. 

It will be seen hereafter what the com- 
mittee did with the babv, but I happen to 
have an account of what became of the 
funds. They were spent as follows, accord- 
ing to a balance sheet never submitted to 
the subscribers: — 

£ #. <L 

Committee-rooms, . . 46 

2 Secretaries employed by the 
Committee, . . . . 120 

Agents, canvassing, Ac, 88 6 2 

Printing Notices, Placards, Pam- 
phlets, a "Daily Bulletin of 
Health," " Life of Ginx's Ba- 
by," " Protestant Babyhood, a 
Tale," " The Cradle of an In- 
fant Martyr," "A Snatched 
Brand,** and other Works is- 
sued by the Committee, . . 696 13 5 

Advertising of Meetings, Ser- 
mons, Ac., . . . . 261 1 1 
' Legal Expenses, . . 77 6 8 

Stationery, 35 10 

Postage, Firing, and Sundries, . 27 19 2 


£1261 16 

This left £108 13*. 9Jd. for the baby's 
keep. No child could have been more 
thoroughly discussed, preached and written 
about, advertised, or advised by counsel; 
but his resources dwindled in proportion to 
these advantages. Benevolent subscribers 
too seldom examine the financial items of a 
report: had any who contributed to this 
fund seen the balance sheet they might 
have grudged that so little of their bounty 
went to make flesh, bone, and comfort for 
the object of it. A cynic would tell them 
that to look sharply after the disposal of 
their guerdon was half the gift. Their in- 
difference was akin to that satirized by the 
poet — 

" Prodlgus et stultns dedit qu» spernit et odit." 

In an age of luxury we are grown so lux- 
urious as to be content to pay agents to do 
our good deeds for us ; but they charge us 
three hundred per cent for the privilege. 




While Sir Charles was trying to get the 
Government to " give him a night "to de- 
bate the Ginx's Baby case, and while asso- 
ciations were being formed in the metropolis 
for disposing of him by expatriation or 
otherwise, a busy peer, without notice to 
anybody, suddenly brought the subject be- 
fore the House of Lords. As he had never 
seen the Baby and knew nothing or very 
little about him, I need scarcely report the 
elaborate speech in which he asked for 
aristocratic sympathy on his behalf. He 
proposed to send him to the Antipodes at 
the expense of the nation. 

The minister for the Accidental Accom- 
paniments of the Empire was a clever man 
— keen, genial, subtle, two-edged, a gentle- 
manly and not thorough disciple of Machia- 
vel; able to lead parliamentary forlorn 
hopes and plant flags on breaches, or to 
cover retreats with brilliant skirmishing ; 
deft, but never deep ; much moved too by 
the opinions of his permanent staff. These 
on the night in question had plied him well 
with hackneyed objections ; but to *ee him 
get up and relieve himself of them ; the air 
of originality, the really original air he 
threw around them : the absurd light which 
he turned full on the weaknesses of his no- 
ble friend's propositions, was as beautiful to 
an indifferent critic as it was saddening to 
the man who had at heart the sorrows of his 
kind. If that minister lived long he would 
be forced to adopt and advocate m as pretty 
a manner the policy he was dissecting. 

Lord Munmbagge, a great authority in 
economic matters, said that a weaker case 
had never been presented to Parliament 
To send away Ginx's Baby to a colony at 
imperial expense was at once to rob the 
pockets of the rich and to decrease our la- 
tor-power. There was no necessity for it. 

Ginx's Baby could not starve in a country 
like this. He (Lord Munnibagge) had nev- 
er heard of a case of a baby starving. There 
was no such wide-spread distress as was 
represented by the noble lord. There were 
occasional periods of stagnation in trade, 
and no doubt in these periods the poorer 
classes would suffer ; but trade was elastic : 
and even if it were granted that the present 
was a period when employment had failed, 
the time was not far off when trade would 
recuperate. (Cheers.) Ginx's Baby and 
all other babies would not then wish to go 

away. People were always making exag- 
gerated statements about the condition of 
the poor. He (Lord Munnibagge) did not 
credit them. He believed the country, 
though temporarily depressed by financial 
collapses, to be in a most healthy state. 
(Hear, hear.) It was absurd to say other- 
wise, when it was shown by the Board of 
Trade returns that we were growing rich 
er every day. (Cheers.) Of course Ginx's 
baby must be growing richer with the rest. 

Was not that a complete answer to the 
noble lord's plaintive outcries? (Cheers 
and laughter.) That the population of a 
country was a great fraction of its wealth 
was an elementary principle of political 
economy. He thought, from the high rates 
of wages, that there were not too many but 
too few laborers in the country. He should 
oppose the motion. (Cheers.) 

Two or three noble lords repeated similar 
platitudes, guarding themselves as carefully 
from any reference to facts, or to the ques- 
tion whether high rates of wages might not 
be the concomitants simply of high prices 
of necessaries, or to the yet wider question 
whether colonial development might not 
have something to do with progress at home. 
The noble lord who had rushed unprepared 
into the arena was unequal to the forces 
marshalled against him, and withdrew his 

Thus the great debate collapsed. The 
Lords were relieved that an awkward ques- 
tion had so easily been shifted. The news- 
papers on the ministerial side declared that 
this debate had proved the futility of the 
Ginx's Baby Expatriation question. 

"So able an authority as Lord Munni- 
bagge had established that there was no 
necessity for the interference of Government 
in the case of Ginx's Babv or any other 
babies or persons. The lucid and decisive 
statement of the Secretary for the Acci- 
dental Accompaniments of the Empire had 
shown how impossible it was for the Impe- 
rial Government to take part in a great 
scheme of Expatriation ; how impolitic to 
endeavor to affect the ordinary laws of free 
movement to the Colonies." 

Surely after this the Expatriation people 
hid their lights under a bushel 1 

The government refused to find a night 
for Sir Charles Sterling, and after the Lords* 
Debate he did not see a wav to force a mo- 
tion in the Lower House. Meanwhile Ginx's 
Baby once more decided a turn in his own 
fate. Tired of the slow life of the Club, 



And shivering amid the* chill indifference of 
his patrons, he borrowed without leave some 
clotaes from an inmate's room, with a few 
silver forks and spoons, ana decamped. 
Whether the baronet and the Club were 
bashful of public ridicule or glad to be rid 
of the charge, I know not, but no attempt 
was made to recover him. 


Our hero was nearly fifteen years old 
when he left the Club to plunge into the 
world. He was not long in converting his 
spoils into money, and a very short time in 
spending it Then he had to pit his wits 
against starvation, and some of his throws 
were desperate. Wherever he went the 
world seemed terribly full. If he answered 
an advertisement for an errand-boy, 
there were a score kicking their heels 
at the rendezvous before him. Did he try 
to learn a useful trade, thousands of adepts 
were not only ready to under-bid him, out 
to knock him on the head for an interloper. 

Even the thieves, to whom he gravitated, 
were jealous of his accession, because there 
were too many competitors already in their 
department Through his career of penury, 
of honest and dishonest callings, of 'scapes 
and captures, imprisonments and other pun- 
ishments, a year's reading of Metropolitan 
Police Reports would furnish the exact 

I don't know how many years after his 
flight into Pall Mall, one dim midnight, I, 
returning from Richmond, lounged over 
Vauxhau Bridge, listening to the low lap- 
ping current beneath the arches — looking 
above to the stars and along the dark pol- 
ished surface that reflected a thousand lights 
in its undulations, — feeling the awfulness 
of the dense, suppressed life that was wrapt 
within the gloom and calm of the hour. I 
suddenly saw a shadow, a human shadow, 
that at the sound of my footsteps quickly 
crossed my dreamy vision— quickly, noise- 
lessly came and went before my eyes until 
it stood up high and outlined against the 
strangely-mingled haze. It looked like the 
ghost or a slight-formed man, hatless and 
costless, and for a moment I saw at his up- 
per extremity the dull flash as of a human 
face in the gloom, before the shadow leaped 
out far into the night. Splash ! When my 
startled eyes looked down upon the 
glancing waving ebony, I thought I could 

trace a white coruscation of foam spreading 
out into the darkness, instantly to dissipate 
and be lost for ever. 

I did not then know what form it was that 
swilled down below the glistening current 
Had I known that it was Ginx's Baby I 
should perhaps have thought : " Society, 
which, in the sacred names of Law and 
Charity, forbad the father to throw his child 
over V auxhall Bridge, at a time when he 
was alike unconscious of life and death, has 
at last itself driven him over the parapet in* 
to the greedy waters." 

Philosophers, Philanthropists, Politicians, 
and Protestants, Poor-law Ministers and 
Parish officers — while you have been theo- 
rizing and discussing, debating, wrangling, 
legislating and administering—Good God 1 
gentlemen, between you all, where has 
Ginx's Baby gone to ? 


[Will Carleton, author of Farm RaUad* and other 
collections of poems, was born in Hudson, Michigan, in 
1845. BeceiTing a common school and farm education, 
he taught school, entered Hillsdale College, where he 
graduated in 1866, and became a journalist and Terse- 
writer. His realistic poems, like ** Betsey and I are 
out," and the following specimen, are full of quaint and 
homely expression and deep touches of humor and 

Oxer the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin* my weary 

I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray, — 
I, who am smart an* chipper, for all the years I've told, 
As many another woman that 's only half as old. 

Orer the hill to the poor-house,— I can't quite make it 

clear 1 
Orer the hill to the poor-house,- it seems so horrid 

queer I 
Many a step I *re taken a toilin' to and fro, 
But this is a sort of Journey I never thought to go* 

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? 
Am I laiy or crazy ? am I blind or lame ? 
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; 
But charity ain't no favor, if one can lire without 

I am wlllin' and anxious an 1 ready any day 
To work for a decent lirin 1 , and pay my honest way; 
For I can earn my victuals, an* more too, 1 11 be bonna* 
If anybody only is willln' to have me round. 




Once I was young an' han'some,— I wu, upon my aoul,— 
Once my cheeks were rosea, my eyes aa black aa coal ; 
And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people 

For any kind of a reason, that I waa in their way. 

Taint do nee of boaatln', or talkin' orer free, 
But many a houae an' home waa open then to me, 
Many a hun'aome offer I had from likely men, 
And nobody ever hinted that I waa a burden then. 

And when to John I waa married, aura he waa good nod 

Bat he and all the neighbor! would own I done my part; 
For life waa all before me, an* I waa young an* ftrong, 
And I worked the beat that I could in tryin' to get along. 

And bo we worked together; and life waa hard, but gay, 
With now and then a baby for to cheer na on our way ; 
Till we had half a doten, an' all growed clean an 1 neat, 
An* went to achool like others, an' had enough to eat. 

80 we worked for the chlldr'n, and raised 'em everyone; 
Worked for 'em summer and winter, Juat aa we ought 

to 've done; 
Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks 

But every couple's childr'n's a heap the best to them. 3 

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones I — 
I 'd have died for my daughters, I 'd have died for my 

And God He made that rule of lore ; but when we *re 

old and gray, 
I *re noticed it sometimes somehow mils to work the 

other way. 

Strange, another tiling ; when our boys and girls was 

And when, exceptin' Charley, they M left us there alone ; 
When John he nearer an' nearer come, an* dearer seemed 

to be, 
The Lord of Hosts He come one day an* took him away 

from me. 

StOl I waa bound to struggle, an* never to cringe or 

Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now myall ; 
And Charley waa pretty good to me, with scarce a word 

or frown, 
Tm at last he went a courtin', and brought a wife from 


She was somewhat dressy, an' had n't a pleasant smile,— 
She waa quite concelty, and carried a heap o' style ; 
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know ; 
But she was hard and proud, an' I could n't make it go. 

She had an education, an' that was good for her ; 

But when she twitted me on mine, 't wascarryin' things 

too fur; 
An' I told her once, fore company (an' it almost made 

her sick), 
That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmadc. 

80 twee only a tow days- before the thing waa c 
They waa a family of themselves, and I another one; 
And a very little cottage one family will do, 
But I never have seen a house that waa big enough fat 

An* I never could speak to suit her, never could pleaat 

her eye, 
An* it made me independent, an' then I didnt try ; 
But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow. 
When Charley turned ag'ln me, an' told me I could ga 

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small. 
And she was always a-bin tin' how snug it waa for us all. 
And what with her husband's sisters, and what with 

cbJldr*n three, 
Twee easy to discover that there want room for me. 

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I>e got, 
For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot ; 
But all the chlldr'n was on me— I eouldnt 1 

And Thomas said I neednt think I was eomin' there to 

An' then I wrote to Bebecca, my girl who Uvea out West, 
And to Isaac, not far from her— some twenty miles at 

And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one sa 

And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold. 

80 they hare shirked and slighted me, an* shifted me 

So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart 

But still rre borne up pretty well, an* wasnt muoh put 

Till Charley went to the poor-master, an* put me on the 

Over the hill to the poor-house my chlldr'n dear, good- 
bye f 
Many a night Tve watched you when only God was nigh 
And God'll Judge between us ; but I will always pray 
That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day. 


I, who was always counted, they say, 
Rather a bad stick any way, 
Splintered all over with dodges and tricks, 
Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;" 
I, the truant, saucy and bold, 
The one black sheep in my father's fold, 
" Once on a time," as the stories say, 
Went over the hill on a winter's day— 
Over the hill to the poor-house. 



fan could save what twenty could earn ; 
But giviri was somcthin' he ne' er would learn ; 
Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak — 
Committed a hundred verses a week ; 
Never forgot, an' never slipped ; 
But "Honor thy lather and mother" he 
skipped ; 

So over ike kill to tkepoor-koueeJ 

As for Susan, her heart was kind 

An' good— what there was of it, mind ; 

Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice, 

Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice 

For one she loved ; an' that 'ere one 

Was herself, when all was said an' done ; 

An' Charley an' Becca meant well, no doubt, 

But any one could pull 'em about ; 

An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see, 
Save one poor fellow, and that was me ; 
An' when, one dark an' rainy night 
A neighbor's horse went out o' sight, 
They hitched on me, as the guilty chap 
That carried one end o' the halter-strap. 
An' I think, myself, that view of the case 
Wasn't altogether out o' place ; 
My mother denied it, as mothers do, 
But I am inclined to believe 'twas true. 
Though for me one thing might be said — 
That I, as well as the horse, was led , 
And the worst of whisky spurred me on, 
Or else the deed would have never been done. 
But the keenest grief I ever felt 
Was when my mother beside me knelt, 
An' cried and prayed, till I melted down, 
As I wouldn't for half the horses in town. 
I kissed her fondly, then an' there, 
An' swore henceforth to be honest and square. 

I served my sentence — a bitter pill 

Some fellows should take who never will ; 

And then I decided to go "out West," 

Concludin' twould suit my health the best ; 

Where, how I prospered, I never could tell, 

But Fortune seemed to like me well, 

An' somehow every vein I struck 

Was always bubbling over with luck. 

An', better than that, I was steady an' true. 

An' put my good resolutions through. 

But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said, 

"You'll tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead, 

An' died a Christian ; 'twill please 'em more, 

Than if I had lived the same as before." 

But when this neighbor he wrote to me, 

"Your mother's in the poor-house," says he, 

I had a resurrection straightway, 

An' started for her that very day. 

And when I arrived where I was grown 

I took good care that I shouldn't be known ; 
But I bought the old cottage, through and 

Of some one Charley had sold it to ; 
And held back neither work nor gold, 
To fix it up as it was of old. 
The same big fire-place, wide and high, 
Flung up its cinders toward the sky ; 
The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf— 
I wound it an' set it agoin' myself; 
An' if everything wasn't just the same, 
Neither I nor money was to blame ; 

Then — over tke kill to the poor-house ! 

One bio win', blusterin', winter's day, 
With a team an' cutter I started away ; 
My fiery nags was as black as coal ; 

iThey some' at resembled the horse I stole) ; 
hitched, an' entered the poor-house door — 
A poor eld woman was scrubbin' the floor ; 
She rose to her feet in great surprise, 
And looked, quite startled into my eyes ; 
I saw the whole of her trouble's trace 
In the lines that marred her dear old face ; 
"Mother I" I shouted, " your sorrows is done t 
You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son, 
Come over tke kill from tke poor-home /" 

She didn't faint ; she knelt by my side, 
An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried. 
An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay, 
An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day ; 
An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' 

An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight, 
To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea, 
An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me ; 
An' maybe we didn't live happy for years, 
In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers, 
Who often said, as I have heard, 
That they wouldn't own a prison-bird ; 
(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess, 
For all of 'em owe me more or less) ; 

But I've learned one thing ; an' it cheers a man 
In always a-doin' the best he can ; 
That whether on the big book, a blot 
Get' 8 over a fellow's name or not, 
Whenever he does a deed that's white, 
It's credited to him fair an' right. 
An' when you hear the great bugle's notes, 
An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats ; 
However they may settle my case, 
Wherever they may fix my place, 
My good old Christian mother, you'll see, 
Will be sure to stand right up for me, 
With over ike kill from tke poor-kotue. 

Will CjJtLSKOfc 




[Lucluc (Laolanns or Lydnus, m he sometimes calls 
himself ),wii born about A.D. 120 at Hamosata, on the 
bask of the Euphrates. He is the greatest of the Greek 
satirists. His best known works are : ** TUPaga* Olym- 
f*t, w " Tlu PkBtMopkin? and M DiaLyum of CaaDtod.** 
from the last-named we make an extract] 

Charon, — Now listen to me, good people 
- — I'll tell you how it is. The boat is but 
•mall, as you see, and somewhat rotten and 
leaky withal : and if the weight gets to one 
side, over we go : and here you are crowding 
in all at once, and with lots of luggage, 
every one of you. If you come on board 
here with all that lumber, I suspect you'll 
repent of it afterwards, especially those who 
can't swim. 

Mercury. — What's best for us to do then, 
to get safe across ? 

Cha. — I'll tell you. You must all strip be- 
fore you get in, and leave all those encum- 
brances on shore : and even then the boat 
will scarce hold you all. And you take 
care, Mercury, that no soul is admitted that 
is not in light marching order, and who has 
not left all his encumbrances, as I say, be- 
hind. Just stand at the gangway and over- 
haul them, and don't let them get in till 
they've stripped. 

Merc — Quite right j I'll see to it. Now, 
who comes first here ? 

Menippus. — I — Menippus. Look — I've 
pitched my wallet and staff into the lake ; 
my coat, luckily, I didn't bring with me. 

Merc. — Get in, Menippus — you're a capi- 
tal fellow. Take the best seat there, in the 
stern-sheets, next the steersman, ana watch 
who gets on board. Now, who's this fine 
gentleman ? 

Charmolaus. — I'm Charmolaus of Me- 
gara — a general favorite. Many a lady 
would give fifty guineas for a kiss from me. 

Merc. — You'll have to leave your pretty 
face, and those valuable lips, ana your long 
curls and smooth skin behind you, that's all. 
Ah ! now you'll do, — you're all right and 
tight now : get in. But you, sir, there, in the 
purple and the diadem — who are you ? 

Lampichus. — Lampichus, King of Gelo. 

Merc. — And what d'ye mean by coming 
here with all that trumpery ? 

Lamp. — How ? Would it be seemly for 
a king to come here unrobed ? 

Merc. — Well, for a king, perhaps not — 
but for a dead man, certainly. So put it all 

Lamp. — There — I've thrown my riches 

Merc — Yes — and throw away your pride 
too, and your contempt for other people. 
You'll infallibly swamp the boat if yon bring 
all that in. 

Lamp. — Just let me keep my diadem and 

Merc. — Impossible — off with them too. 

Lamp. — Well, anything more? because 
I've thrown them all off, as you see. 

Merc. — Your cruelty, and your folly, and 
your insolence and bad temper, off with 
them all. 

Lamp. — There, then — Pm stripped en- 

Merc. — Very well — get in. And you &t 
fellow, who are you with all that nesh on 

Damasias. — Damasias, the athlete. 

Merc — Ay, you look like him : I remember 
having seen you in the games. 

Dam. — (smiling). Yes, Mercury, take 
me on board — I'm ready stripped, at any 

Merc. — Stripped ? Nay, my good sir, not 
with all that covering of flesh on you. You 
must get rid of that, or you'll sink the boat 
the moment you set your foot in. And yon 
must take off your garlands and trophies 

Dam. — There — now I'm really stripped, 
and not heavier than these other dead gen- 

Merc — All right — the lighter the better: 
get in. 

[In like manner the patrician has to lav 
aside his noble birth, his public honors, and 
statues, and testimonials ; the very thought 
of them, Mercury declares, is enough to sink 
the boat ; and the general is made to leave 
behind him all his victories and trophies — in 
the realms of the dead there is peace. 
Next comes the philosopher's turn.] 

Merc — Who's this pompous and conceited 
personage, to judge from nis looks — he with 
the knitted eyebrows there, and lost in me- 
ditation — that fellow with tne long beard. 

Men. — One of those philosophers, Mer- 
cury — or rather those cheats and charla- 
tans : make him strip too ; you'll find some 
curious things hid under that cloak of his. 

Merc — Take your habit off, to begin with, 
if you please— and now all that you have 
there, — great Jupiter I what a lot of humbug 
he was bringing with him— and ignorance, 
and disputatiousneas, and vainglory, and 
useless questions, and prickly arguments, 



and involved statements, ay, and wasted 
ingenuity, and solemn trifling, and quips 
and quirks, of all kinds 1 Yes — by Jove ! 
and tnere are gold pieces there, and impru- 
dence and luxury and debauchery — oh I 
I see them all, though you are trying to 
hide them I And your lies, and pomposity, 
and thinking yourself better than everybody 
else — away with all that, I say ! Why if 
you bring all that aboard, a fifty oared gal- 
ley wouldn't hold you I 

Philosopher.— Well, 111 leave it all behind 
then, if I must 

Men. — But make him take his beard off 
too— Master Mercury ; it's heavy and bushy, 
as you see : there's five pound weight of 
hair there, at the very least 

Merc. — You're right Take it off, sir ! 

Phil. — But who is there who can shave me ? 

Merc — Menippus there will chop it off 
with the boat-hatchet — he can have the gun- 
wale for a chopping-block. 

Men. — Nay, Mercury, lend us a saw — it 
will be more fun. 

Merc. — Oh, the hatchet will do ! So — 
that's well ; now you've got rid of your goat- 
ishness, you look something more like a 

Men. — Shall I crop a bit off his eyebrows 
as well ? 

Merc. — By all means : he has stuck them 
up on his forehead, to mate him look grander, 
I suppose. What's the matter now ? You're 
crying, yon rascal, are you — afraid of death ? 
Hake haste on board, will you ? 

Men. — He's got something now under his 

Merc —What is it, Menippus ? 

Men, — Flattery it is, Mercury— and a very 
profitable article he found it while he was 

Phil, (in a fury). — And you, Menippus — 
leave your lawless tongue behind you, and 

Jour cursed independence, and mocking 
lugh 5 you're the only one ot the party who 
dare laugh. 

Merc.--(laughing). — No, no, Menippus — 
they're very light, and take little room ; be- 
sides, they are good things on a voyage. 
But you, Mr. Orator there, throw away your 
rhetorical flourishes, and antitheses, and 
parallelisms, and barbarisms, and all that 
Leavy wordy gear of yours. 

Orator, — Tnere, then — there they jjo ! 

Merc — All right Now then, slip the 
moorings. Haul that plank aboard 1 — up 
aochoi and make sail. Mind your helm, 
master 1 And a good voyage to us I What 

are you howling about, you fools ? You, 
Philosopher, specially? Now that you've 
had tour beard cropped. 

Phil. — Because, dear Mercury, I always 
thought the soul had been immortal. 

Men. — He's lying! It's something else 
that troubles him, most likely. 

Jfcrc— What's that 

Men. — That he shall have no more ex- 
pensive suppers, nor after spending all the, 
night in debauchery, profess to lecture to 
the young men on moral philosophy in the 
morning, and take pay for it That's what 
vexes him. 

Phil. — And you, Menippus — are you not 
sorry to die ? 

Men. — How should I be, when I hastened 
to death without any call to it? But, while 
we are talking, don t you hear a noise as of 
some people shouting on the earth ? 

Merc. — Yes, I do— and from more than 
one quarter. There's a public rejricing 
yonder for the death of Lampichus ; and the 
women have seized his wife, and the boys 
are stoning his children ; and in Sicyon they 
are all praising Diophantus the orator for 
his funeral oration upon Crato here. Yes 
—and there is Damasias' mother wailing for 
him amongst her women. But there's mot 
a soul weeping for you, Menippus — You're 
lying all alone. 

Men. — Not at all — You'll hear the dogs 
howling over me presently, and the ravens 
mournfully flapping their wings, when they 
gather to my funeral. 

Merc. — Stoutly said. But here we are at 
the landing-place. March off, all of you, to 
the judgment seat straight; I and the 
ferryman must go and fetch a fresh batch. 

Men. — A pleasant trip to you, Mercury. 
So we'll be moving on. Come, what are 
you ail dawdling for ? You've got to be 
judged, you know; and the punishments, 
they tell me are frightful — wheels, ana 
stones, and vultures. Every man's life will 
be strictly inquired into, I can tell you. 

[The Cynic Menippus introduced to us in 
this amusing dialogue, — " a dog of the real 
old breed," as Lucian calls him, u always 
ready to bark and bite" — is a great favorite 
with the author, and reappears very fre- 
quently in these imaginary conversations. 
He was a disciple of Diogenes, and had 
been a usurer in earlier life, but having lost 
his wealth by the roguery of others, at last 
committed suicide. The banter with which 
he treats Charon in the little dialogue which 
follows is very humorous.] 




Charon (calling after Menippus, who is 
Walking off). — Pay me jour fare, you rascal 1 

Menippus. — Bawl away, Charon, if it's 
any satisfaction to you. 

Cha. — Pay me, I say, for carrying you 

Men. — You can't get money from a man 
Who hasn't got it 

Cha. — Is there any man who has not got 
an obolus? 

Men. — I know nothing about anybody 
else ; I know I haven't. 

Cha. (catching hold of him). — I'll stran- 

Sle you, you villain ! I will by Pluto ! if you 

Men. — And I'll break your head with my 

Cha. — Do you suppose you are to have 
such a long trip for nothing ? 

Men. — Let Mercury pay for me, then ; it 
was he who put me on board. 

Mercury. — A very profitable iob for me, 
by Jove! if I'm to pay for au the dead 

Cha. (to Men.) — I shan't let you go. 

Men. — You can haul your boat ashore, 
then, for that matter, ana wait as long as 
you please; but I don't see how you can 
take from me what I don't possess. 

Cha. — Didn't you know you had to pay 

Men. — I knew well enough j but I tell you 
I hadn't got it. Is a man not to die because 
he has no money ? 

Cha. — Are you to be the only man, then, 
who can boast that he has crossed the Styz 

Men. — Gratis? Not at all, my good 
friend, — when I baled the boat, and helped 
vou with the oar, and was the only man on 
board who didn't howl. 

Cha. — That has nothing to do with the 
passage-money j you must pay your obolus. 
It's against all our rules to do otherwise. 

Men. — Then take me back to life again. 

Cha. — Yes, a fine proposal — that I may 
get a whipping from M&cua for it 

Men. — Then don't bother. 

Cha. — Show me what you've got in your 
scrip there. 

Men. — Lentils, if you please, and a bit of 
supper for Hecate. 

Cha. (turning to Mercury in despair). — 
Where on earth did you bring this dog of a 
cynic from, Mercury ? — chattering, as he did, 
all the way across, cutting his jokes and 
laughing at the other passengers, and sing- 

ing while they were all bemoaning 

Merc. — Didn't you know, Charon, who 
your passenger was ? A most independent 
fellow, who cares for nobody. That's Me- 

Cha. (shaking his fist at him as hs mow* 
off). — Well, let me only catch you again I 

Men. (looking back and laughina). — Ay, 
if you catch me ; but 'tis hardly likely, my 
good friend, that you'll have me for a pea- 
senger twice. 


Mercury. — Let us have a reckoning, if 
you please, Mr. Ferryman, of how much you 
owe me up to this present date, that we 
mayn't have a squabble hereafter about the 
item 8. 

Charon. — By all means, Mercury — noth- 
ing like being correct in such matters j it 
saves a world of unpleasantness. 

Merc. — I supplied an anchor to your or- 
der — twenty-five drachmae. 

Cha. — That's very dear. 

Merc. — I vow to Pluto I gave five for it. 
And a row-lock thong — two obols. 

Cha. — Well, put down five drachmae, and 
two obols. 

Merc. — And a needle to mend the sail. 
Five obols 1 paid for that 

Cha. — Well, put that much down too. 

Merc. — Then, there's the wax for caulking 
the seams of the boat that were open, ana 
nails, and a rope to make halyards of,— 
two drachmae altogether. 

Cha. — Ay j you bought those worth the 

Merc. — That's all, if I r ve not forgotten 
something in my account And now, when 
do you propose to pay me ? 

Cha. — It's out of my power, Mercury, at 
this moment ; but if a pestilence or a war 
should send people down here in considera- 
ble numbers, you can make a good thing of 
it then by a little cheating in the passage* 

Merc. — So I may go to sleep at present, 
and put up prayers for all kinds of horrible 
things to happen, that I may get my dues 
thereby ? 

Cha. — I've no other way of paying you, 
Mercury, indeed. At present, as you see, 
very few come our way. It's a time of peace, 
you know. 

Merc. — Well, so much the better, even if 
I have to wait for my money a while. Hut 
those men in the good old times- —ah ! you 



Bunember, Charon, what fine fellows used to 
come here, — good warriors all, covered with 
blood and wounds, most of them ! Now. 
'tis either somebody who has been poisoned 
by his son or his wife, or with his limbs and 
carcass bloated by gluttony, pale spirit- 
less wretches all of them, not a whit like 
the others. Most of them come here ow- 
ing to their attempts to overreach each 
other in money matters, it seems to me. 

CAa. — Why, money is certainly a very 
desirable thing. 

Mere. — Then don't think me unreason- 
able, if you please, if I look sharp after your 
little debt to me. 


Eb, the Pamphylian, a brave man. was 
slain in battle, and ten days afterwards his 
body, which, unlike all the other dead, was 
still uncorrupted, was brought home to be 
buried *, but on the funeral pyre he returned 
to life, and told all he had seen in the other 
world. When his soul left his body (he 
said) he journeyed, in company with many 
other spirits until he came to a certain place 
where there were two openings in the earth 
and two in the heaven, and between judges 
were seated, 

" Who bade the just, after they had judged 
them, ascend by the heavenly way on the 
right hand, having the signs of the judg- 
ment bound on their foreheads j and in like 
manner the unjust were commanded by them 
to descend by the lower way on the left 
hand ; these also had the symbols of their 
deeds fastened on their backs. He drew 
near, and they told him that he was to be 
the messenger of the other world to men, 
and they bade him hear and see all that was 
to be heard and seen in that place. Then 
he beheld and saw on one side the souls de- 
parting at either chasm of heaven and earth 
when sentence had been given on them ; and 
at the two other openings other souls, some 
ascending out of the earth dusty and worn 
with travel, some descending out of heaven 
clean and bright, and always on their arrival, 
they seemed as if they had come from a long 
journey, and they went out into the meadow 
with joy, and there encamped as at a festival, 
and those who knew one another embraced 
and conversed, the souls which came from 
earth curiously inquiring about the things 
tf heaven, and the souls which came from 

heaven of the things of earth. And they told 
one another of what had happened by the 
way, some weeping and sorrowing at the re- 
membrance of the things which they had 
endured and seen in their journey beneath 
the earth (now the journey lasted a thousand 

J rears), while others were describing heaven- 
y blessings and visions of inconceivable 
beauty."— J. 

And for all evil deeds each soul suffered 
a ten-fold punishment, and for its good deeds 
it received a ten-fold reward. And Er heard 
one of the spirits ask another, where Ar- 
diseus the Great was ? (He had been a ty- 
rant of some city in Pamphylia a thousand 
years before Er lived, and had murdered his 
aged father and brother, and committed 
many other crimes.) 

" The answer was : ' He comes not hither, 
and will never come!' 'And indeed,' he 
said, 'this was one of the terrible sights 
which was witnessed by us. For we were 
approaching the mouth of the cave, and hav- 
ing seen all, were about to reascend, when of 
a sudden Ardiaeus appeared and several 
others, most of whom were tyrants : and there 
were also besides the tyrants, private indi- 
viduals who had been great criminals ; they 
were just at the mouth, being, as they fan* 
cied, about to return to the upper world, but 
the opening, instead of receiving them, gave 
a roar, as was the case when any incurable 
or unpunished sinner tried to ascend ; and 
then wild men of fiery aspect, who knew the 
meaning of the sound, came up and seized 
and carried off several of them, and Ardiaeus 
and others they bound head and foot and 
hand, and threw them down and flayed them 
with scourges, and dragged them along the 
road at the siae, carding them on thorns like 
wool, and declaring to the pilgrims as they 
passed what were their crimes, and that they 
were being taken away to be cast into hell. 
And of all the terrors of the place, there was 
no terror like this of hearing the voice ; and 
when there was silence, they ascended with 
joy.' These were the penalties and retribu- 
tions, and there were blessings as great" 

Er and his spirit companions tarried seven 
days in this meadow, and then set out again 
on their journey ; and on the fourth day they 
came to a place where a pillar of light like 
a rainbow, but far brighter, stretched across 
heaven and earth, and in another day's jour 
ney they reached it, and found that this light 
bound together the circle of the heavens, as 
a chain undergirds a ship j and to either end 



of this pillar was fastened the distaff of Ne- 
cessity, having a shaft of adamant and a 
wheel with eight vast circles of divers colors, 
fitted into one another, and narrowing toward 
the centre. And in these circles eight stars 
were fixed : and as theBpindle moved round, 
they moved with it— each slowly or swiftly 
according to its proper motion. And on 
each circle a siren stood, singing in one note, 
and thus from the eight stars arose one great 
harmony of sound. And round about these 
circles at equal distances were three thrones, 
and on these thrones were seated the three 
daughters of Necessity, clothed in white 
robes, with garlands on their heads. And 
they also sang as they turned the circles of 
the spindle. Lachesis singing of past time, 
Clotho of the present, and Atropos of time 
that shall be. The spirits, as they arrived, 
were led to Lachesis m order by a Prophet, 
who took from her knees lots and samples of 
lives, and mounting a rostrum, spoke as fol- 
lows: "Thus saith Lachesis, daughter of 
Necessity. Mortal souls, behold a new cycle 
of mortal life ! Your genius will not choose 

f'ou, but you will choose your genius ; and 
et him who draws the first lot have the first 

choice of life, which shall be his destiny. 
Virtue is free, and according as a man honors 
or dishonors her he will enjoy her more or 
less ; the chooser is responsible, heaven is 
justified." When he had thus spoken he 
cast the lots among them, and each took up 
the lot which fell near him, all but Er him- 
self, who was not allowed. 

And these lives were of every kind^ both 
of men and animals, and were variously 
composed — beauty, and wealth, and poverty, 
and strength, ana nobility all mingled to- 
gether. But no definite character was yet 
attached to any ; for the future nature of each 
soul depended on the life it might choose. 
And on the choice (so said the Prophet who 
had arranged the lots) each man's happiness 
depended, and to choose aright he should 
know all that follows from the possession of 
power and talent; and should choose the 
mean, and avoid both extremes so far as he 
may, not in this life only but in that which 
is to come. " Even the last comer, if he 
choose discreetly and will live carefully, 
shall find there is reserved for him a life 
neither unhappy nor undesirable. Let not 
the first be careless in his choice, neither 
let the last despair." 

It was a sad yet laughable sight (said Er) 
to see the manner in which the souls made 
their choice For the first chose the great- 

est despotism he could find, not observing 
that it was ordained in his lot that he should 
devour his own children j and when he found 
this out, he lamented and beat his breast, 
accusing the gods, and chance, and every- 
thing rather than himself. And their former 
experience of life influenced many in their 
choice : thus the soul of Orpheus chose the 
life of a swan, because he hated to be born 
again of woman (for women had before torn 
him in pieces) ; and Ajax chose the life of a 
lion, and Agamemnon that of an eagle, be- 
cause men had done them wrong ; and Ther- 
sites, the buffoon of the Iliad, took the ap- 
propriate form of an ape. Last of all came 
Ulysses, weary of his former toils and wan- 
derings; and, after searching about for a 
while, he chose a quiet and obscure life, that 
was lying neglected in a corner, for all the 
others had passed it by. 

"Now when all the souls had chosen, 
their lives in the order of the lots, they ad- 
vanced in their turn to Lachesis, who dis- 
patched with each of them the Destiny he 
had selected, to guard his life and satisfy his 
choice. This Destiny first led the soul to 
Clotho in such a way as to pass beneath her 
hand and the whirling motion of the distaff, 
and thus ratified the fate which each haa 
chosen in the order of precedence. After 
touching her, the same Destiny led the soul 
next to the spinning of Atropos, and thus 
rendered the doom of Clotho irreversible. 
From thence the souls passed straight for- 
ward under the throne of Necessity. When 
the rest had passed through it, Er himself 
also passed through ; and they all travelled 
into the plane of Forgetfulness, through 
dreadful suffocating heat, the ground being 
destitute of trees and of all vegetation. As 
the evening came on, they took up their 
quarters by the bank of the river of Indiffe- 
rence, whose water cannot be held in any 
vessel. All persons are compelled to drint 
a certain quantity of the water : but those 
who are not preserved by prudence drink 
more than the quantity : and each, as he 
drinks, forgets everything. When they had 
gone to rest, and it was now midnight, there 
was a clap of thunder and an earthquake ; 
and in a moment the souls were carried up 
to their birth, this way and that like shooting 
stars. Er himself was prevented from drink- 
ing any of the water ; but how, and by what 
road he reached his body, he knew not : only 
he knew that he suddenly opened his eyea 
at dawn, and found himself laid out upon the 
funeral pyre. 




Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We burled him darkly, at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning ; 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread 
o'er his head, 
And we far away on the billow I 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a 
8 tone — 
But we left him alone with his glory. 



Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 

Rise of moon or set of sun, 

Hand of man or kiss of woman ? 

Lay him low, lay him low, 

In the clover or the snow ! 

What cares he ? he cannot know ; 

Lay him low I 

Fold him in his country's stars, 

Roll the drum and fire the volley I 
What to him are all our wars ? — 
What but death-bemocking folly ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow I 

Leave him to God's watching eye ; 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by ; 

God alone has power to aid him. 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow I 
What cares he ? he cannot know ; 
Lay him low 1 

Gsosas H. Bokxb. 


O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, 

That creepeth o'er ruins old! 
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed 

To pleasure his dainty whim ; , 
And the mouldering dust that years have made 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 

Fast he stealeth on though he wears no wings, 

And a staunch old heart has he ! 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 

To his friend, the huge oak-tree ! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground. 

And his leaves he gently waves, 
And he joyously twines and hugs around 

The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 

And nations have scattered been ; 
But the stout old ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant in its lonely days 

Shall fatten upon the past ; 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the ivy' 8 food at last. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 

Chablu Diokws. 




I hear no more the locust beat 

His shrill loud drum through all the day ; 

I miss the mingled odors sweet 

Of clover and of scented hay. 

No more I hear the smothered song 
From hedges guarded thick with thorn : 
The days grow brief, the nights are long, 
The light comes like a ghost at morn. 

I sit before my fire alone, 
And idly dream of all the past: 
I think of moments that are flown— 
Alas ! they were too sweet to last. 

The warmth that filled the languid; noons— 
The purple wares of trembling base— 
The liquid light of silver moons — 
The summer sunset's golden blase. 

I feel the soft .winds fan my cheek, 
I hear them murmur through the rye, 
I see the milky clouds that seek 
borne nameless harbor in the sky. 

The stile beside the spreading pine, 
The pleasant fields beyond the grove, 
The lawn where, underneath the tine, 
She sang the song I used to love. 

The path along the windy beach, 
That leaves the shadowy linden tree, 
And goes by sandy capes that reach 
Their shining arms to clasp the sea. 

1 view them all, I tread once more 
In meadow-grasses cool and deep ; 
I walk beside the sounding shore, 
I climb again the wooded steep. 

Oh, happy hours of pure delight ! 
Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss I 
Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright — 
Each morn and evening seemed to kiss I 

And that whereon I saw her first, 
While angling in the noisy brook, 
When through the tangled wood she burst; 
In one small hand a glove and book, 

As with the other, dimpled, white, 
She held the slender bough aside, 
While through the leaves the yellow light 
Like golden water seemed to glide, 

And broke in ripples on her neok, 
And played like fire around her hat, 

And slid adown her form to fleok 
The moss-grown rock on which I set. 

She standing rapt in sweet surprise, 
And seeming doubtful if to turn; 
Her novel, as I raised my eyes, 
Dropped down amid the tall green fern 

This day and that— the one so bright, 
The other like a thing forlorn ; 
To-morrow, and the early light 
Will shine upon her marriage morn. 

For when the mellow autumn flushed 
The thickets where the chestnut fell, 
And in the vales the maple blushed, 
Another came who knew her well, 

Who sat with her below the pine, 
And with her through the meadow moved. 
And underneath the purpling vine 
She sang to him the song I loved. 

Nathajul G. I 


Oh faint, delicious, spring-time violet, 

Thine odour, like a key, 
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 

A thought of sorrow free. 

The breath of distant fields upon my brow 
Blows through that open door, 

The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet 
and low 
And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar, from that beloved place, 

And that beloved hour, 
When life hung ripening in love's golden 

lake grapes above a bower. 

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass, 

A lark sings o'er my head, 
Drowned in the sky — O pass, ye visions, pass, 

I would that I were dead !— 

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door 

From which I ever flee ? 
vanished Joy ! Love that art no more, 

Let my vexed spirit be ! 

violet I thy odour through my brain 
Hath searched, and stung to grief 
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 
The velvet leaf. 

William W. 0to*t. 





Ih as few words as possible I wish to lay 
before the nation what share, howsoever 
small, I have had in this matter, — this mat- 
ter which has so exercised the public mind, 
engendered so much ill-feeling, and so filled 
the newspapers of both continents with dis- 
torted statements and extravagant com- 

The origin of this distressful thing was 
this, — and I assert here that every fact in 
the following resunti can be amply proved 
by the official records of the General Gov- 

John Wilson Mackenzie, of Rotterdam, 
Chemung County. New Jersey, deceased, 
contracted with the General Government, 
on or about the 10th day of October, 1861, 
to furnish to General Sherman the sum 
total of thirty barrels of beef. Very well. 
He started after Sherman with the beef, but 
when he got to Washington, Sherman had 
gone to Manassas j so he took the beef and 
followed him there, but arrived too late ; he 
followed him to Nashville, and from Nash- 
ville to Chattanooga, and from Chattanooga 
to Atlanta, — but he never could overtake 
him. At Atlanta he took a fresh start and 
followed him clear through his march to the 
sea. He arrived too late again by a few 
days, but, hearing that Sherman was going 
out in the Quaker City excursion to the 
Holy Land, he took shipping for Beirut, cal- 
culating to head off the other vessel. When 
he arrived in Jerusalem with his beef, he 
learned that Sherman had not sailed in the 
Quaker City, but had gone to the Plains to 
fight the Indians. He returned to America 
and started for the Rocky Mountains. After 
eighteen days of arduous travel on the 
Plains, and when he had got within four 
miles of Sherman's headquarters, he was 
tomahawked and scalped, and the Indians 
ffot the beef. They got all of it but one 
barrel. Sherman's army captured that, and 
ao, even in death, the bold navigator partly 
fulfilled his contract. In his will, which he 
had kept like a journal, he bequeathed the 
contract to his son Bartholomew W. Bar- 
tholomew W. made out the following bill 
•nd then died : 
turn thura Statu, 

ft 9ooL wiOk Johw Wilson Haounsxs, of New 
Jeney , deemed, Dr. 

Jottrlybimb of beof for Gen. Sherman,® flOO. $3,000 

To travelling expenses and transportation, ... 

Total,. . — 

Bec'd Payt, 

He died then ; but he left the contract to 
Wm. J. Martin, who tried to collect it, but 
died before he got through. He left it to 
Barker J. Allen, and he tried to collect it 
also. He did not survive. Barker J. Allen 
left it to Anson G. Rogers, who attempted 
to collect it, and got along as far as the 
Ninth Auditor's office, when Death, the 
great Leveller, came all unsummoned, and 
foreclosed on him also. He left the bill to 
a relative of his in Connecticut, Vengeance 
Hopkins, by name, who lasted four weeks 
ana two days, and made the best time on 
record, coming within one of reaching the 
Twelfth Auditor. In his will he gave the 
contract bill to his uncle, by the name of 
O-be-joyful Johnson. It was too undermin- 
ing for Joyful. His last words were : " Weep 
not for me, — /am willing to go." And so 
he was, poor soul ! Seven people inherited 
the contract after that But they all died. 
So it came into my hands at last It fell to 
me through a relative by the name of Hub* 
bard, — Bethlehem Hubbard, of Indiana. 
He had had a grudge against me for a long 
time : but in his last moments he sent for 
me, and forgave me every thing, and, weep- 
ing, gave me the beef contract 

This ends the history of it up to the time 
that I succeeded to the property. I will 
now endeavor to set myself straight before 
the nation in everything that concerns my 
share in the matter. I took this beef-con- 
tract, and the bill for mileage and transpor- 
tation, to the President of the United States. 
He said,—- 

" Well, sir, what can I do for you?" I 
said, — 

"Sire: "On or about the 10th day of 
October, 1861, John Wilson Mackenzie, of 
Rotterdam, Chemung County, New Jersey, 
deceased, contracted with the General Gov- 
ernment to furnish to General Sherman the 
sum total of thirty barrels of beef — " 

He stopped me there, and dismissed me 
from his presence, kindly, but firmly. The 
next day I called on the Secretary of State. 
He said, — 

"Well, sir?" 

" I said, " Your Royal Highness : On of 
about the 10th day of October, 1861, John 
Wilson Mackenzie, of Rotterdam, Chemung 
County, New Jersey, deceased, contracted 
with the General Government to furnish to 



General Sherman the sum total of thirty 
barrels of beef — " 

" That will do, sir,— that will do : this 
office has nothing to do with contracts for 

I was bowed out I thought the matter 
all over, and finally, the following day, I 
visited the Secretary of the Navy, who said, 
" Speak quickly, sir j do not keep me wait- 
ing." I said, — 

" Your Royal Highness: On or about the 
10th day of October, 1861, John Wilson 
Mackenzie, of Rotterdam, Chemung County, 
New Jersey, deceased, contracted with the 
General Government to furnish to General 
Sherman the sum total of thirty barrels of 

Well, it was as far as I could get He 
had nothing to do with beef-contracts for 
General Sherman either. I began to think 
it was a curious kind of a Government. It 
looked Bomewhat as if they wanted to get 
out of paying for that beef. The following 
day I went to the Secretary of the Interior. 
I said, — 

" Your Imperial Highness : On or about 
the 10th day of October—" 

' u That is sufficient, sir, — I have heard of 
you before. Go. — take your infamous beef- 
contract out of this establishment The In- 
terior Department has nothing whatever to 
do with subsistence for the army." 

I went away. But I was exasperated 
now. I said I would haunt them ; I would 
infest every department of this iniquitous 
government till that contract business was 
settled ; I would collect that bill, or fall, as 
fell my predecessors, trying. I assailed the 
Postmaster-General : I besieged the Agri- 
cultural Department ; I waylaid the Speaker 
of the House of Representatives. They had 
nothing to do with army contracts for beef. 
I moved upon the Commissioner of the 
Patent-Office. I said,— 

"Your august Excellency : On or about — " 

II Perdition ! have you got here with vour 
incendiary beef-contract, at last? We nave 
nothing to do with beef-contracts for the 
army, my dear sir." 

" Oh, that is all very well, — but somebody 
has got to pay for that beef! It has got to 
be paid now, too, or I'll confiscate this old 
Patent-Office and every thing in it" 

" But, my dear sir — " 

u It don't make any difference, sir. The 
Patent-Office is liable for that beef, I reckon ; 
and, liable or not liable, the Patent-Office 
has got to pay for it" 

Never mind the details. It ended in a 
fight The Patent-Office won. But I found 
out something to my advantage. I was told 
that the Treasury Department was the pro- 
per place 4 for me to go to. I went there. I 
waited two hours and a half, and then I was 
admitted to the First Lord of the Treasury. 
I said, — 

'* Most noble, grave, and reverend Signor: 
On or about the 10th day of October, 1861, 
John Wilson Macken — " 

" That is sufficient, sir. I have heard of 
you. Go to the First Auditor of the Trea- 

I did so. He sent me to the Second 
Auditor. The Second Auditor sent me to 
the Third, and the Third sent me to the 
First Comptroller of the Corn-Beef Division. 
This began to look like business. He ex- 
amined his books and all his loose papers, 
but found no minute of the beef-contract 
I went to the Second Comptroller of the 
Corn-Beef Division. He examined his books 
and his loose papers, but with no success. 
I was encouraged. During that week I got 
as far as the Sixth Comptroller in that divi- 
sion : the next week I got through the Claims 
Department : the third week 1 began and 
completed the Mislaid Contracts Depart- 
ment, and got a foot-hold in the Dead 
Reckoning Department I finished that in 
three days. There was only one place left 
for it now. I laid siege to the Commissioner 
of Odds and Ends ; to his clerk, rather, — he 
was not there himself. There were sixteen 
beautiful young ladies in the room, writing 
in books, and there were seven well-favored 
young clerks showing them how. The 
young women smiled up over their shoul- 
ders, and the clerks smiled back at them, 
and all went merry as a marriage bell. Two 
or three clerks that were reading the news- 
papers looked at me rather hard, but went 
on reading, and nobody said anything. 
However, I had been used to this kind of 
alacrity from Fourth-Assistant-Junior Clerks 
all through my eventful career, from the 
very day I entered the first office of the 
Corn-Beef Bureau clear till I passed out of 
the last one in the Dead Reckoning Divi- 
sion. I had got so accomplished by this 
time that I could stand on one foot from the 
moment I entered an office till a clerk spoke 
to me without changing more than two, or 
maybe three times. 

So I stood there till I had changed four 
different times. Then I said to one of the 
clerks who was reading, — 



u Illustrious Vagrant, where is the Grand 

" What do you mean, Bir ? whom do you 
mean ? If you mean the Chief of the Bu- 
reau, he is out" 

" Will he visit the harem to-day?" 
The young man glared upon me awhile, and 
then went on reading his paper. But I knew 
the ways of those clerks. I knew I was safe, if 
he got through before another New York mail 
arrived. He only had two more papers left 
After a while he finished them, and then 
he yawned, and asked me what I wanted. 

"Renowned and honored Imbecile : On 
or about—" 

" You are the beef-contract man. Give 
meyour papers." , 

He took them, and for a long time he ran- 
sacked his odds and ends. Finally he 
found the Northwest Passage, as / regarded 
it,— he found the long-lost record of that 
beef-contract, — he found the rock upon 
which so many of my ancestors had split 
before they ever got to it. I was deeply 
moved. And yet I rejoiced, — for I had 
survived. I said with emotion, " Give it 
me. The government will settle now." He 
waved me back, and said there was some- 
thing yet to be done first 

"Where is this John Wilson Mackenzie?" 
laid he. 


"When did he die?" " 

" He didn't die at all,— he was killed." 



" Who tomahawked him ? " 

•'Why, an Indian, of course. You didn't 
snppose it was a superintendent of a Sun- 
day school, did you ? " 

No. An Indian, was it ? " 

"The same." 

"Name of the Indian?" 

" His name ! / don't know his name." 

"Must have his name. Who saw .the 
tomahawking done ? " 

"I don't know." 

" You were not present yourself then ? " 

" Which you can see by my hair. I was 

" Then how do you know that Mackenzie 
is dead?" 

"Because he certainly died at that time, 
*nd I have every reason to believe that he 
has been dead ever since. I know he has, 

"We must have proofs. Have you got 
ike Indian?" 

" Of course not" 

" Well, you must get him. Have you got 
the tomahawk?" 

" I never thought of such a thing." 

" You must get the tomahawk. Yon 
must produce the Indian and the tomahawk. 
If Mackenzie's death can be proven by 
these, you can then go before the commis 
sion appointed to audit claims, with some 
show of getting your bill under such head- 
way that your children may possibly live to 
receive the money and enjoy it But that 
man's death must be proven. However, I 
may as well tell you that the government 
will never pay that transportation and those 
travelling expenses of the lamented Mac- 
kenzie. It may possibly pay for the barrel 
of beef that Sherman's soldiers captured, if 
you can get a relief bill through Congress 
making an appropriation for that purpose ; 
but it will not pay for the twenty-nine bar- 
rels the Indians ate." 

"Then there is only a hundred dollars 
due me, and that isn't certain ! After all 
Mackenzie's travels in Europe, Asia, and 
America with that beef; after all his trials 
and tribulations and transportation; after 
the slaughter of all those innocents that 
tried to collect that bill ! Young man, why 
didn't the First Comptroller of the Corn- 
Beef Division tell me this ? " 

11 He didn't know anything about the 
genuineness of your claim." 

"Why didn't the Second tell me? why 
didn't the Third? Why didn't all those 
divisions and departments tell me ? " 

" None of them knew. We do things by 
routine here. You have followed the routine 
and found out what you wanted to know. 
That is the best way. It is the only way. It 
is very regular, and very slow, but it is very 

" Yes, certain death. It has been, to the 
most of our tribe. I begin to feel that I % 
too, am called. Young man, you love the 
bright creature yonder with the gentle-blue 
eyes and the steel pens behind her ears, — I 
see it in your soft glances j you wish to 
marry her, — but you are poor. Here, hold 
out your hand, — here is the beef-contract j 
go, take her and be happy ! Heaven bless 
you, my children ! " 

This is all that I know about the great 
beef-contract, that has created so much talk 
in the community. The clerk to whom I 
bequeathed it died. I know nothing further 
about the contract or any one connected 
with it I only know that if a man Uvea 



long enough, he can trace a thing through 
the Circumlocution Office of Washington, 
and find out, after much labor and trouble 
and delay, that which he could have found 
out on the first day if the business of the 
Circumlocution Office were as ingeniously 
systematized as it would be if it were a 
great private mercantile institution. 



In autumn, 1854, hundreds had wended 
their way from pilgrimages ; — from Rome 
and its treasures of dead art, and its glory 
of living nature 5 from the sides of the Swit- 
zer's mountains, and from the capitals of 
various nations, — all of them saying in their 
hearts, we will wait for the September gales 
to have done with their equinoctial fury, and 
then we will embark ; we will slide across the 
appeased ocean, and in the gorgeous month 
of October we will greet our longed-for na- 
tive land, and our heart-loved homes. 

And so the throng streamed along from 
Berlin, from Paris, and from the Orient, 
converging upon London, still hastening 
toward the welcome ship, and narrowing 
every day the circle of engagements and pre- 
parations. They crowded aboard. Never 
tad the Arctic borne such a host of passen- 
gers, nor passengers so nearly related to so 
many of us. The hour was come. The sig- 
nal-ball fell at Greenwich. It was noon also 
at Liverpool. The anchors were weighed ; 
the great hull swayed to the current ; the 
national colors streamed abroad, as if them- 
selves instinct with life and national sym- 
pathy. The bell strikes ; the wheels revolve ; 
the signal-gun beats its echoes in upon every 
structure along the shore, and the Arctic 
glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and 
turns her prow to the winding channel, and 
begins her homeward run. The pilot stood 
at the wheel, and men saw him. Death sat 
upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. 
Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage, 
Death was the pilot that steered the craft, 
and none knew it. He neither revealed his 
presence nor whispered his errand. 

And so hope was effulgent, and lithe gay 
ety disported itself, and joy was with every 
guest. Amid all the inconveniences of the 
voyage, there was still that which hushed 
every murmur, — " Home is not far away." 

And every morning it was still one night 
nearer home 1 Eight days had passed. They 
beheld that distant bank of mist that forever 
haunts the vast shadows of Newfoundland. 
Boldly they made it ; and plunging in, its 
pliant wreaths wrapped them about. They 
shall never emerge. The last sunlight has 
flashed from that deck. The last voyage is 
done to shin and passengers. At noon there 
came noiselessly stealing from the north that 
fated instrument of destruction. In that 
mysterious shroud, that vast atmosphere of 
mist, both steamers were holding their way 
with rushing prow and roaring wheels, but 

I At a league's distance, unconscious ; and 
at nearer approach, unwarned ; within hail, 
and Waring right toward each other, unseen, 
unfelt, till in a moment more, emerging from 
the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt 
her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death* 
blow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. 
She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither 
commander nor officers deemed that they 
had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, 
the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken 
with admiration and respect) ordered away 
his boat with the first officer to inquire if the 
stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley 
; went over the ship's side, oh, that some good 
, angel had called to the brave commander in 
the words of Paul on a like occasion, " Ex- 
cept these abide in the ship, ye cannot be 

They departed, and with them the hope of 

the ship, for now the waters gaining upon 

the hold, and rising upon the fires, revealed 

the mortal blow. Oh, had now that stern, 

brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom 

the sailors were wont to mind, — had he stood 

to execute sufficiently the commander's 

will, — we may believe that we should not 

J have had to blush for the cowardice and re- 

! creancy of the crew, nor weep for the un- 

I timely dead. But, apparently, each subor- 

1 dinate officer lost all presence of mind, then 

courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, 

that ignoble mob of firemen, engineers, 

waiters, and crew, rushed for the boats, and 

abandoned the helpless women, children, and 

men, to the mercy of the deep I Four hours 

there were from the catastrophe of collision 

to the catastrophe of sinking 1 

Oh, what a burial was here ! Not as when 
one is borne from his home, among weeping 
throngs, and gently carried to tie green 
fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf 
and flowers. No priest stood to pronounca 



a burial-service. It was an ocean grave. 
The mists alone shrouded the burial-place. 
No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton 
filled up the hallowed earth. Down, down 
they sank, and the quick returning waters 
smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea 
M if it had not been. 

Hum Wasl Booker. 


"God Mess the mki who first invented sleep !* 
80 Sancho Panza aaid, and bo say I ; 

And bless him, also, that he didn't keep 
His great discovery to himself nor try 

lb make it— as the lucky fellow might— 

A close monopoly by patent-right 1 

Yes,— bless the man who first invented sleep, 
(I really cant avoid the iteration ;) 

But blast the man with curses loud and deep, 
Whate'er the rascal's name or age or station, 

Who first invented, and went round advising. 

That artificial cut-off,— Early Rising I 

* Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," 
Observes some solemn, sentimental owl ; 

Maxims like these are very cheaply said I 
Bat, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, 

Pray Just inquire about his rise and fall, 

And whether larks have any beds at all I 

" The time for honest folks to be abed 
Is in the morning, if I reason right; 

And he who cannot keep his precious heed 
Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, 

And so enjoy his forty morning winks, 

Is up to knavery, or else— he drinks I 

Thomson, who sung about the " Seasons," said 
It was a glorious thing to rue in season ; 

Bat then he said it— lying— in his bed, 
At ten o'clock a, m.,— the very reason 

He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, 

His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice. 

*b, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,— 

Awake to duty, and awake to truth,— 
But when, alas 1 a nice review we take 
Of our best deeds and days, we find, In sooth, 
The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep 
Are those we passed in childhood, or asleep I 

TIs beautiful to leave the world awhile 
For the sweet visions of the gentle night ; 

And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, 
To live as only in the angels' sight, 

In stop's sweet realm so cosily shut in, 

Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin! 

80 let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. 

I like the lad who, when his father thought 
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase 

Of vagrant worm by early songster caught. 
Cried, M Served him right I -it's not at all surprising | 
The worm was punished, six, for early rising 1 " 

John G. Sax*. 





Oh I wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from th* 

With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all 

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a Joyous 

shout ? 
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye 


Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod 1 

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the 

Who sate In the high places, and slew the saints of God 

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 

That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses 

And the Man of Blood was there, with his long ee- 

senced hair, 
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Bupert of the 


Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and hk 

The General rode along ns to form us to the fight, 
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into 

a shout, 
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right 

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, 
Tho cry of battle rises along their charging line I 
For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! 
For Charles King of England, and Bupert of the Bhine 1 

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his 

His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall : 
Thoy are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your ] 

close your ranks; 
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to ft 



They are here! They rash oat We are broken! We 

•re gone I 
Our left U borne before them like stubble on the blast, 
Lord, put forth thy might 1 Lord, defend the 

right I 
Stand beck to beck, la God's name, and Ight it to the 

•tont Sdppon hath a wound; the centre hath gtvaa 

Bark I hark I -What meant the trampling of horeemen 

on our rear f 
Whose banner do I see, boys? Tfs he, thank God, tk 

he, boys. 
Bear np another minute : brave Oliver It here. 

Their heads all stooping low, their points all In a row 
like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the 

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 
And as a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 

last, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide 
Their ooward headt, predestined to rot on Temple Bar x 
And he— he turns, he flies ;— -shame on those cruel eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. 

Ho 1 comrades, scour the plain ; and, ere ye strip the 

First give another stab to make your search secure. 
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces 

and lockets, 
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. 

Tools I your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts 
were gay and bold, 

When you kissed your lily hands to your lemana to- 

And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the 

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. 

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and 

hell and fate. 
And the fingers that once were so busy with your 

Tour perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your 

Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and 

your spades ? 

Down, down, for ever down with the Mitre and the 

With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the 

There is woe in Oxford Halls ; there is wail in Dur- 
ham's Stalls : 

The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his 

And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children* 

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of rugland'e 

And the kings of earth in fear shell shudder when they 

What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses 

tad the Word. 

Loan Maoabxat. 




[Jomr Adams (1736-1826), second President of the 
United 8tates, was educated at Harvard College and ad- 
mitted to the bar in 1768. Endowed with an acute 
mind, a clear and powerful voice, and ready eloquence, 
he became one of the most conspicuous and influential 
advocates of colonial independence. In the Continental 
Congress, he served from 1774 to 1778, when he was ap- 
pointed commissioner to France, and afterward to Great 
Britain, where he negotiated the treaty of peace of 17UL 
His voluminous writings, now little read, were mainly 
on jurisprudence and the science of government. His 
private letters (from one of which we quote) are the 
most readable and interesting of his writings, and his 
correspondence with his wife, who was a woman of 
superior intelligence, has been recently reprinted.] 

We are now explicitly agreed upon one 
important point, viz., that there is a natu- 
ral aristocracy among men, the grounds of 
which are virtue and talents. You very 
justly indulge a little merriment upon this 
solemn subject of aristocracy. I often 
laugh at it too, for there is nothing in tnis 
laughable world more ridiculous than the 
management of it by all the nations of tne 
earth ; but while we smile, mankind have 
reason to say to us, as the frogs said to the 
boys, what is sport to you is wounds and 
death to us. When I consider the weakness, 
the folly, the pride, the vanity, the selfish- 
ness, the artifice, the low craft and mean 
cunning, the want of principle, the avarice, 
the unbounded ambition, the unfeeling era- 
elty of a majority of those (in all nations,) 
who are allowed an aristocratical influence, 
and on the other hand, the stupidity with 
which the more numerous multitude not only 
become their dupes, but even love to be ta- 
ken in by their tricks, I feel a stronger dis- 
position to weep at their destiny than to 
laugh at their folly. But though we have 



agreed in one point, in words, it is not jet 
certain that we are perfectly agreed in sense. 
Fashion has introduced an indeterminate use 
of the word talents. Education, wealth, 
strength, beauty, stature, birth, marriage, 
graceful attitudes and motions, gait, air, 
complexion, physiognomy are talents, as 
well as genius, science and learning. Any 
one of these talents that in fact commands 
or influences two votes in society, gives to 
the man who posesses it the character of an 
aristocrat, in any sense of the word. Pick 
up the first hundred men you meet, ana 
make a republic. Every man will have an 
equal vote ; but when deliberations and dis- 
cussions are opened, it will be found that 
twenty-five, by their talents, virtue being 
equal, will be able to carry fifty votes. 
Every one of these twenty-five is an aristo- 
crat, in my sense of the word, whether he 
obtains his one vote in addition to his own, 
by his birth, fortune, figure, eloquence, 
science, learning, craft, cunning, or even 
his character for good fellowship, and a 
bon vivant. 

What gave Sir William Wallace his 
amazing aristocratical superiority? His 
strength. What gave Mrs. Clark her aris- 
tocratical influence to create generals, admi- 
rals and bishops? Her beauty. What 
gave Pompadour and Du Barry the power 
of making cardinals and popes? And I 
have lived for years in the hotel de Valen- 
tois with Franklin, who had as many 
virtues as any of them. In the investigation 
of the meaning of the word " talents, 11 I 
could write 630 pages, as pertinent as John 
Taylor's of Hazlewood, but I will select a 
single example, for female aristocrats are 
nearly as formidable as males. A daughter 
of a men grocer walks the streets in Lon- 
don daily, with a basket of cabbage sprouts, 
dandelions, and spinage on her head. She 
is observed by the painters to have a beau- 
tiful (ace. an elegant figure, a graceful step, 
and a debonair. They hire her to sit. She 
complies, and is painted by forty artists in 
a circle round her. The scientific Dr. Wil- 
liam Hamilton outbids the painters, sends 
her to school for a genteel education, and 
marries her. This lady not only causes the 
triumphs of the Nile, Copenhagen and Tra- 
falgar, but separates Naples from France, 
and finally banishes the king and queen 
from Sicily. Such is the aristocracy of the 
natural talent of beauty. Millions of ex- 
nmples might be quoted from history, sacred 
tad profane, from Eve, Hannah, Deborah, 

Susanna, Abigail, Judith, Ruth, down to 
Helen, Mrs. de Maintenon and Mrs. Fitx- 
herbert For mercy's sake do not compel 
me to look to our chaste states and territo- 
ries to find women, one of whom let go, 
would in the words of Holophernes' guards, 
deceive the whole earth. 

The proverbs of Theognis, like those of 
Solomon, are observations on human nature, 
ordinary life, and civil society, with morale 
reflections on the facts. I quote him as a' 
witness of the fact, that there was as 
much difference in the races of men as 
in the breeds of sheep, and as a sharp re- 
prover and censurer of the sordid, merce- 
nary practice of disgracing birth by prefer- 
ring gold to it Surely no authority can be 
more expressly in point to prove the exis- 
tence of inequalities, not of rights, but of 
moral, intellectual and physical inequalities 
in families, descents, and generations. If a 
descent from pious, virtuous, wealthy, litera- 
ry or scientific ancestors, is a letter of recom- 
mendation or introduction in a man's favor, 
and enables him to influence only one vote 
in addition to his own, he is an aristocrat j 
for a democrat can have but one vote. 
Aaron Burr has 100,000 votes from the sin* 
gle circumstance of his descent from Presi- 
dent Burr and President Edwards. 
* * * Take away appetite, and the present 
generation would not live a month, and no 
future generation would ever exist ; and thus 
the exalted dignity of human nature would 
be annihilated ana lost, and in my opinion 
the whole loss would be of no more import- 
ance than putting out a candle, quenching a 
torch, or crushing a fire-fly, if in this world 
only we have hope. Your distinction between 
natural and artificial aristocracy, does not 
appear to me founded. Birth and wealth 
are conferred upon some men as imperiously 
by nature as genius, strength, or beauty. The 
heir to honors, riches, and power, has often 
no more merit in procuring these advantages, 
than he has in obtaining a handsome face, 
or an elegant figure. When aristocracies are 
established by human laws, and honor, 
wealth and power are made hereditary by 
municipal laws and political institutions, 
then I acknowledge artificial aristocracy to 
commence ; but this never commences, till 
corruption in elections becomes dominant 
and uncontrollable. But this artificial aris- 
tocracy can never last The everlasting en* 
vies, jealousies, rivalries and quarrels among 
them; their cruel rapacity upon the poor 
ignorant people, their followers, compel them 



to set up Caesar, a demagogue, to be a mon- 
arch, a master j pour tnettre chacun a »a 
place. Here you have the origin of all arti- 
ficial aristocracy, which is the origin of all 
monarchies. And both artificial aristocracy 
and monarchy, and civil, military, political, 
and hierarchical despotisms, have all grown 
out of the natural aristocracy of virtues and 
talents. We. to be sure, are far remote from 
this. Many hundred years must roll away, 
before we shall be corrupted. Our pure, 
virtuous, public-spirited, federative republic 
will last forever, govern the globe, and intro- 
duce the perfection of man ; his perfectibil- 
ity being already proved by Price, Priestley, 
Condorcet, Rousseau, Diderot, and Godwin. 
Mischief has been done by the Senate of the 
United States. I have known and felt more 
of this mischief, than Washington^ Jefferson, 
and Madison, all together. But this has been 
all caused by the constitutional power of the 
Senate, in executive business, which ought 
to be immediately, totally and essentially 
abolished. Your distinction between the 
Apt frof and irevdo apicroi will not help the mat- 
ter. I would trust one as well as the other 
with unlimited power. The law wisely refu- 
ses an oath as a witness in his own case, to 
the saint as well as the sinner. 

No romance would be more amusing than 
the history of your Virginian and our New 
England aristocratical families. Yet even 
in Rhode Island there has been no clergy, 
no church, and I had almost said no State, 
and some people say no religion. There has 
been a constant respect for certain old fami- 
lies. Fifty-seven or fifty-eight years ago, in 
company with Colonel, Counsellor, Judge 
John Chandler, whom I have quoted before, 
a newspaper was brought in. The old sage 
asked me to look for the news from Rhode 
Island, and see how the elections had gone 
there. I read the list of Waubuns, Watrous, 
Greens, Whipples, Malbones, &c. "I ex- 
pected as much," said the aged gentleman 
" for I have always been of the opinion that 
in the most popular governments, the elec- 
tions will generally go in favor or the most 
ancient families." To this day, when any 
one of these tribes — and we may add Ellerys, 
Channings, Champlins, &c, — are pleased to 
fall in with the popular current, they are sure 
to carry all before them. 

You suppose a difference of opinion be- 
tween you and me on the subject of aristo- 
cracy. I can find none. I dislike and detest 
hereditary honors, offices, emoluments, esta- 
blished by law. So do you. I am for ex- 

cluding legal, hereditary distinctions from 
the United States as long as possible. So 
are you. I only say that mankind have not 
vet discovered any remedy against irresisti- 
ble corruption in elections to offices of great 
power and profit, bnt making them here, 

But will you say our elections are pare ? 

Be it so, upon the whole ; but do you recol* 
lect in history a more corrupt election than 
that of Aaron Burr to be President, or that 
of De Witt Clinton last year? By corruption 
here, I mean a sacrifice of every national in- 
terest and honor to private and party objects. 
I see the same spirit in Virginia that you and 
I see in Rhode Island, and the rest of New 
England. In New York it is a struggle of 
family feuds — a feudal aristocracy. Penn- 
sylvania is a contest between German, Irish, 
and old England families. When Germans 
and Irish unite they give 30,000 majorities. 

There is virtually a white rose and a red 
rose, a Caesar and a Pompey, in every State 
in this Union, and contests and dissensions 
will be as lasting. The rivalry of Bourbons 
and Noailleses produced the French revolu- 
tion, and a similar competition for conside- 
ration and influence exists and prevails in 
every village in the world. Where will ter- 
minate the rabies apri t The continent will 
be scattered over with manors much larger 
than Livingston's, Van Rensselaer's, or Phil- 
ips's ; even our Deacon Strong will have a 
principality among you Southern folk. What 
inequality of talents will be produced by these 
land jobbers. Where tends the mania of 
banks ? At my table in Philadelphia I once 
proposed to you to unite in endeavors to ob- 
tain an amendment of the constitution pro- 
hibiting to the separate States the power of 
creating banks 5 but giving Congress au- 
thority to establish one bank with a branch in 
each State, the whole limited to ten millions 
of dollars. Whether this project is wise or 
unwise, I know not, for I had deliberated 
little on it then and have never thought it 
worth thinking of since. But you spurned 
the proposition from you with disdain. This 
system of banks begotten, brooded and 
hatched by Duer, Robert and Gouverneui 
Morris, Hamilton and Washington, I have 
always considered as a system of national 
injustice. A sacrifice of public and nrivate 
interest to a few aristocratical friends and 
favorites. My scheme could have had no 
such effect Verres plundered temples and 
robbed a few rich men, but he never made 
such ravages among private property in gen- 



•nl, nor swindled so much out of the pockets 
of the poor, and middle class of people, as 
these banks have done. No people but this 
would have borne the imposition so long. 
The people of Ireland would not bear Wood s 
half-pence. What inequalities of talent have 
been introduced into this country by these 
aristocratical banks. Our Winthrops, Win- 
slows, Bradfords, Saltonstalls, Quincys, 
Chandlers, Leonards, Hutchinsons, Olivers, 
Sewalls, Ac, are precisely in the situation 
of your Randolphs, Garters, and Burwells, 
and Harrisons. Some of them unpopular 
from the part they took in the late revolution, 
but all respected for their names and con- 
nections ; and whenever they fell in with the 
popular sentiments are preferred, ceteris pa- 
ribus, to all others. Wnen I was young the 
iummum bonum in Massachusetts was to be 
worth £10,000 sterling, ride in a chariot, be 
Colonel of a regiment of militia, and hold a 
seat in his Majesty's council. No man's 
imagination aspired to anything higher be- 
neath the skies. But these plumes, chariots, 
eolonelshins, and counsellorships, are re- 
corded and will never be forgotten. No great 
accumulations of land were made by our 
early settlers. Mr. Baudoin, a French refu- 
gee, made the first great purchases, and your 
General Dearborn, born under a fortunate 
star, is now enjoying a large portion of the 
aristocratic sweets of them. 


[Thomas L. Pxaoock, an English novelist and poet 
(1788-1886) held office in the India House, and occupied 
Us houn of leisure in producing various entertaining 
•ad satirical works, full of classical allusion, redundant 
bncy, and keen observation. Peacock was an old- 
fcfbloned thinker, wedded to the gentilities and spirit 
of the eighteenth century, and devoted much space in 
Us novels to ridiculing the progressive, scientific and 
reformatory tendencies of the nineteenth century. He 
wrote "Headlong HaU n (1815), "Mdinoourt" (1817), 
•Mghtman, Abbef (1818), "Maid Marian 
* Ontdut Guile" (1831 X and " <**« Gnmgf (I860).] 

The baron, with some of his retainers, 
and all the fo^sters, halted at daybreak in 
Sherwood Forest The foresters quickly 
erected tents, and prepared an abundant 
breakfast of venison ana ale. 

" Now, Lord Fitzwater," said the chief 
forester, "recognize your son-in-law that 

was to have been, in the outlaw Robin 

" Ay, ay," said the baron, " I have recog- 
nized you long ago." 

" And recognize your young friend Gam* 
well," said the second, "in the outlaw Scar- 

" And Little John, the page," said the 
third, " in Little John the outlaw." 

" And Father Michael of Rubygill Ab» 
bey," said the friar, "in Friar luck of 
Sherwood Forest. Truly I have a chapel 
here hard by in the shape of a hollow tree, 
where I put up my prayers for travellers, 
and Little John holds the plate at the door, 
for good praying deserves good paying." 

"I am in fine company," said the baron. 
"In the very best ot company," said the 
friar j "in the high court of Nature, and in 
the midst of her own nobility. Is it not so? 
This goodly grove is our palace ; the oak and 
the beech are its colonnade and its canopy ; 
the sun, and the moon, and the stars, are 
its everlasting lamps ; the grass and the daisy 
and the primrose, and the violet, are its many- 
coloured floor of green, white, yellow and 
blue ; the Mayflower, and the woodbine, and 
the eglantine, and the ivy, are its decora- 
tions, its curtains, and its tapestry ; the lark 
and the thrush, and the linnet, and the 
nightingale, are its unhired minstrels and 
musicians. Robin Hood is king of the 
forest both by dignity of birth and by virtue 
of his standing army, to say nothing of the 
free choice of bis people, which he has in- 
deed ; but I pass it by as an illegitimate 
basis of power. He holds his dominion 
over the forest, and its horned multitude of 
citizen-deer and its swinish multitude of 
peasantry of wild boars, by right of con- 
quest and force of arms. lie levies contri- 
butions among them by the free consent of 
his archers, their virtual representatives. If 
they should find a voice to complain that 
we are ' tyrants and usurpers, to kill and 
cook them up in their assigned and native 
dwelling-place, 1 we should most convino* 
ingly admonish them, with point of arrow, 
that they have nothing to do with our laws 
but to obev them. Is it not written that the 
fat ribs of the herd shall be fed upon by the 
mighty in the land ? And have not they f 
witnal, my blessing ? — my orthodox, canoni- 
cal, and archiepiscopal blessing ? Do I not 
give thanks for them when they are wel) 
roasted and smoking under my nose ? What 
title had William of Normandy to England 
that Robin of Locksley has not to merry 



Sherwood ? William fought for his claim. 
So does Robin. With whom both? With 
any that would or will dispute it William 
raised contributions. So does Robin. From 
whom both ? From all that they could or can 
make pay them. Why did any pay them to 
William ? Why do any pay them to Robin ? 
For the same reason to both — because they 
could not or cannot help it They differ, in- 
deed, in this, that William took from the 
poor and gave to the rich, and Robin takes 
from the nch and gives to the poor ; and 
therein is Robin illegitimate, though in all 
else he is true prince. Scarlet and John, are 
they not peers of the forest ? — lords temporal 
of Sherwood ? And am not I lord spiritual ? 
Am I not archbishop ? Am I not Pope ? 
Do I not consecrate their banner and absolve 
their sins ? Are not they State, and am not 
I Church ? Are not they State monarchical, 
and am not I Church militant ? Do I not 
excommunicate our victims from venison 
and brawn, and, by'r Lady ! when need calls, 
beat them down under my feet ? The State 
levies tax, and the Church levies tithe. 
Even so do we. Massl — we take all at 
once. What then? Is not tax by redemption 
and tithe by commutation ? i our William 
and Richard can cut and come again, but our 
Robin deals with slippery subjects that 
come not twice to his exchequer. What 
need we, then, to constitute a court, except 
a fool and a laureate? For the fool, his 
only use is to make false knaves merry by 
art, and we are true men, and are merry by 
nature. For the laureate, his only office is 
to find virtues in those who have none, and 
to drink sack for his pains. We have quite 
virtue enough to need him not, and can 
drink our sack for ourselves." 

u Well preached, friar," said-Robin Hood ; 
"yet there is one thing wanting to consti- 
tute a court, and that is a queen. — And now, 
lovely Matilda, look round upon these sylvan 
shades, where we so often have roused the 
stag from his ferny covert The rising sun 
smiles upon us through the stems of that 
beechen knoll. Shall I take your hand, 
Hatilda, in the presence of this my court ? 
Shall I crown you with our wildwood coro- 
nal, and hail you Queen of the Forest ? Will 
you be the Queen Matilda of your own true 
fang Robin ? " 

Matilda smiled assent 

" Not Matilda," said the friar: " the rules 
of our holy alliance require new birth. We 
have excepted in favour of Little John, be- 
cause he is Great John, and his name is a 

misnomer. I sprinkle not thy forehead 
with water, but thy lips with wine, and bap- 
thee M Am aw ."—. 

From" Maid Mmia*." 

tise thee '. 



Miss Ilex. Few may perceive an inaccu- 
racy, but to those who do, it causes a great 
diminution, if not a total destruction, of 
pleasure in perusal. Shakspeare never 
makes a flower blossom out of season 1 
Wordsworth, Coleridge, aud Southey are 
I true to nature in this and in all other re- 
spects, even in their wildest imaginings. 

The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Yet there it 
a combination, by one of our greatest poets, 
of flowers that never blossom in the i 

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 

The tufted crow-toe and pale Jessamine, 

The white-pink, and the pansy freaked with Jut, 

The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensire head, 

And every flower that sad embroidery wean: 

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 

And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 

To deck the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 

[MiltohI IfeUae.] 

And at the same time he plucks the berriet 
of the myrtle and the ivy. 

Miss Ilex. Very beautiful, if not true to 
English seasons; but Milton might have 
thought himself justified in making this 
combination in Arcadia. Generally, he is 
strictly accurate, to a degree that is in itself 
a beauty. For instance, in his address to 
the nightingale : 

Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among, 

I woo, to hear thy even song, 

And missing thee, I walk unseen 

On the dry smooth-shaven green. 

The song of the nightingale ceases about the 
time that the grass is mown. 

The Reo. Dr. Opimian. The old Greek 
poetry is always true to nature, and will 
Dear any degree of critical analysis. I must 
say I take no pleasure in poetry that will 

Mr. Mac-BorroipdaU. No poet is truer 
to nature than Burns, and no one less 00 



than Moore. His imagery is almost always 
false. Here is a highly applauded stanza, 
and very taking at first sight: 

The night-dew of heaven, though in silence it weeps, 
Shall brighten with verdure the sod where he sleeps ; 
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 

But it will not bear analysis. The dew is 
the cause of the verdure, but the tear is not 
the cause of the memory : the memory is the 
cause of the tear. 

The Rev. Dr. Opimian. There are inac- 
curacies more offensive to me than even 
false imagery. Here is one in a song which 
I have often heard with displeasure. A 
young man goes up a mountain, and as he 
goes higher and higher, he repeats Excel- 
sior ! but excelsior is only taller in the com- 
parison of things on a common basis, not 
higher as a detached object in the air. Jack's 
bean-stalk was excelsior the higher it grew, 
but Jack himself was no more ctlsus at the 
top than he had been at the bottom. 

Mr. Mac-Borrowdale. I am afraid; doctor, 
if you look for profound knowledge m popu- 
lar poetry, you will often be disappointed. 

The Rev. Dr. Opimian. I do not look for 
profound knowledge ; but I do expect that 
poets should understand what they talk of. 
Burns was not a scholar, but he was always 
master of his subject. All the scholarship 
of the world would not have produced Tarn 
d Shanter, but in the whole of that poem 
there is not a false image nor a misused 
word. What do you suppose these lines re- 
present ? 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, 
One sitting on a crimson scarf unrolled — 

A queen with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

Tuinysox's Dream of Fair Women. 

Mr. Mac-Borrowdale. I should take it to 
be a description of the Queen of Bambo. 

The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Yet thus one of 
our most popular poets describes Cleopatra, 
and one of our most popular artists has il- 
lustrated the description by a portrait of a 
hideous grinning Ethiop! Moore led the 
way to this perversion by demonstrating 
that the Egyptian women must have been 
beautiful because they were " the country- 
women of Cleopatra/' Here we have a sort 
of counter-demonstration that Cleopatra 
must have been a fright because she was 
the countrywoman of the Egyptians. But 
Cleopatra was a Greek, the daughter of 
Ptolemy Auletes and a lady of Pontus. The 

Ptolemies were Greeks, and whoever will 
look at their genealogy, their coins, and their 
medals, will see how carefully they kept 
their pure blood uncontaminated by African 
intermixture. Think of this description and 
this picture applied to one who, Dio says — 
and all antiquity confirms him — was " the 
most superlatively beautiful of women, splen- 
did to see, and delightful to hear." For she 
was eminently accomplished; she spoke 
many languages with grace and facility. 
Her mind was as wonderful as her personal 


[WnixiX Thom, the "Inverary poet," (1789-1848), 
wrote some sweet, fanciful, and pathetic strains. He 
worked for several years as a weaver, and traversed the 
country as a pedlar, accompanied by his wife and child- 
ren. This unsettled life induced careless habits, and 
every effort to place him in a situation of permanent 
comfort failed. His first poem that attracted notice, 
44 The Wmd Bop'e iV-anfo," appeared in the Aberdeen Her- 
aid. In 1844 he published a volume of u W$ytnm and Re- 
coOectioueof a Hand-loom Weaver." He visited London 
and was warmly patronized ; but returning to Scotland, 
he died at Dundee in great penury. About £300 was 
collected for his widow and family.] 

When a* ither bairnies are hushed to their home 
By auntie, or cousin, or frecky* grand-dame, 
Wha stands last an' lanely, an* naobody carin'T 
'Tis the puir doited loonier— the mitherloas bairn. 

The mitherless bairn gangB to his lane bed, 
Kane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head ; 
His wee hack it heelies are hard as the airm, 
An' lltheless the lair of the mitherless bairn. 

Aneath his cauld brow slccan dreams hover there, 
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; 
But morning brings clutcher, a 1 reckless and stern. 
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn. 

Ton sister, that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed, 
Now rests in the mools where her mamma is laid; 
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, 
An* kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. 

Her spirit that passed in yon hour o' his birth, 
Still watches his wearisomo wanderings on earth; 
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn 
Wha couthille deal wi' the mitherless bairn. 

Oh speak na him harshly—- he trembles the while, 
He bends to your bidding, an* Messes your smile ; 
In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall 
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn ! 

• This word not found in Burns, is the same as frock) 
active, vigorous; 




Mia Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square, 

Has made three separate Journeys to Paris ; 
And bar father assures me, each time she was there, 

That she and her friend, Mrs. Harris, 
Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping, 
In one continuous round of shopping ; 
Shopping alone and shopping together, 
At ail hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather. 
For all manner of things that a woman can put 
On the crown of her head, or the sole of her foot, 
Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, 
Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, 
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, 
In front or behind, above or below ; 
Dresses for home, and the street, and the hall, 
D rosse s for winter, spring, summer, and fail;— 
And yet, though scarce three months have passed since 

the day 
AH this merchandise went in twelve carts up Broadway, 
This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square, 
When asked to a ball, was in utter despair, 
Because she had nothing whatever to wear! 
But the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising; 

I find there exists the greatest distress 
In our female community, solely arising 

From this unsupplled destitution of dress; 
Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air 
With the pitiful wail of " Nothing to wear I" 

Oh, ladles, dear ladies, the next sunny day 
Please trundle your hoops Just out of Broadway, 
To the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt 
Their children have gathered, their hovels have built; 
Where hunger and vice, like twin beasts of prey, 

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; 
Baise the rich, dainty drees, and the fine broidered skirt, 
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt; 

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair 
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, 
Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold; 
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet, 
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street, 
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare,— 
Spoiled children of fashion,— you've nothing to wear I 

And, oh, if perchance there should be a sphere, 
Where all is made right which so puzzles ub here; 
Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of time 
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime; 
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, 
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence, 
Must be clothed for the life and the service above, 
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love ; 
Oh, daughters of earth ! foolish virgins, beware ! 
Lest, In that upper realm,— you have nothing to wear ! 

Wm. Allen Butlxb. 


On Alpine heights the love of God It shed; 

He paints the morning red, 

The flowerets white and blue, 

And feeds them with his dew. 
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 

On Alpine heights, o'er many a fragant heath. 

The loveliest breezes breathe ; 

So free and pure the air, 

Hit breath seems floating there. 
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 

On Alpine heights, beneath his mild blue eye\ 

8tiU vales and meadows lie ; 

The soaring glacier's ice 
Gleams like a paradise. 
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells, 

Down Alpine heights the silvery streamlets flowj 

There the bold chamois go ; 

On giddy crags they stand, 

And drink from his own hand. 
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells, 

On Alpine heights, in troops all white as snot* 

The sheep and wild goats go ; 

There, in the solitude, 

He fills their hearts with food. 
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 

On Alpine heights the herdsman tends bis herd; 
Hit Shepherd is the Lord ; 
For he who feeds the sheep 
Will sure his offspring keep. 
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 

From the German of Krummacher, 
ST Cmablss T. Baoonfc 


A song to the oak, the brave old oak, 

Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; 
Here's health and renown to his broad green crown. 

And his fifty arms so strong. 
There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, 

And the fire in the west fades out ; 
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, 

When the storms through his branches shout. 

Then hero 's to the oak, the brave old oak, 

Who stands in his pride alone; 
And still flourish he, a hale green tree, 

When a hundred years are gone I 

In the days of old, when the spring with cold 

Had brightened his branches gray, 
Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweat, 

To gather the dew of May- 


and on that day to the rebeck gay 

They frolicked with loreeome swains ; 
They are gone, they are dead, In the church-yard laid, 

Bat the tree it still remains. 
Then here's, etc 

He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes 

Were a merry sound to hear, 
When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small 

Were filled with good English cheer. 
Now gold hath the sway we all obey, 

And a ruthless king is he ; 
But he never shall send our ancient friend 

To be tossed on the stormy sea. 
Then here's, etc 

Henry F. Choklbt. 


[Samuel Smilss, born at Haddington, Scotland, 1818, a 
writer of great power and brilliancy, was educated for 
the medical profession, but turned his attention to litera- 
ture. He has written on "Phyncal Educatton," u Working- 
■•«•« Boning*," "Strike* and Wagu t n " Setf-Help," " Ltvee 
of The Engineer* witX an account of their Work*," Indue- 
bvd Biography," M George Moore," M Merchant and Phi- 
lanthropitt," « Ufe of Robert Dfafc, Geologiet and Bota, 
eaVand "TheLtfe of George Stepheneon, Engineer:" 
from the latter we make an extract.] 

The completion of the work was justly 
regarded as a great national event, and was 
celebrated accordingly. The Duke of Wel- 
lington, then prime minister. Sir Robert 
Peel, secretary of state, Mr. Huskisson, one 
of the members for Liverpool, and an earnest 
supporter of the project from its commence- 
ment, were present, together with a large 
number of distinguished personages. The 
u Northumbrian" engine took the lead of the 

5>rocession, and wc\c. followed by the other 
ocomotiyes and their trains, which accom- 
modated about six hundred persons. Many 
thousands of spectators cheered them on 
their way — through the deep ravine of Olive 
Mount; up the Sutton incline ; over the San- 
key viaduct, beneath which a multitude of 
persons had assembled — carriages filling the 
narrow lanes, and barges crowding the river. 
The people gazed with wonder and admira- 
tion at the trains which sped along the line, 
far above their heads, at the rate of twenty- 
four miles an hour. At Parkside, seventeen 
miles from Liverpool, the engines stopped to 
take in water. Here a deplorable accident 

occurred to one of the most distinguished of 
the illustrious visitors present, which threw 
a deep shadow over the subsequent proceed- 
ings of the day. The " Northumbrian" en- 
gine, with the carriage containing the Duke 
of Wellington, was drawn up on one line, in 
order that the whole of the trains might pass 
in review before him and his party on the 
other. Mr. Huskisson had, unhappily, 
alighted from the carriage, and was standing 
on the opposite road, along which the '* Rock- 
et " engine was observed rapidly coming up. 
At this moment the Duke of Wellington, 
between whom and Mr. Huskisson some 
coolness had existed, made a sign of recog- 
nition, and held out his hand. A hurried 
but friendly grasp was given j and before it 
was loosened, there was a general cry from 
the by-standers of " Get in, get in I" Flur- 
ried and confused, Mr. Huskisson endeav- 
ored to get round the open door of the car- 
riage which projected over the opposite rail, 
but in so doing he was struck down by the 
" Rocket," and falling with his leg doubled 
across the rail, the limb was instantly 
crushed. His first words, on being raised, 
were, "I have met my death," which unhap- 
pily proved too true, for he expired that 
same evening in the neighboring parsonage 
of Eccles. It was cited at the time, as a re- 
markable fact, that the " Northumbrian" en* 
gine conveyed the wounded body of the un- 
fortunate gentleman a distance of about 
fifteen miles in twenty-five minutes, or at the 
rate of thirty-six miles an hour. This in- 
credible speed burst upon the world with all 
the effect of a new and unlooked-for pheno- 

The fortune of George Stephenson was 
now made. He became a great man. He 
was offered, but refused a knighthood, and 
his latter days were spent as those of a coun- 
try gentleman. He died in 1848, at the age 
of sixty-seven. 


Though mainly an engineer, he was also 
a daring thinker on many scientific ques- 
tions ; and there was scarcely a subject of 
speculation, or a department of recondite 
science, on which he had not employed his 
faculties in such a way as to have formed 
large and original views. At Drayton the 
conversation often turned upon such topics, 
and Mr. Stephenson freely joined in it. On 
one occasion, an animated discussion, took 



place between himself and Dr. Buckland on 
one of his favorite theories as to the forma- 
tion of coal. But the result was, that Dr. 
Buckland, a much greater master of tongue- 
fence than Stephenson, completely silenced 
him. Next morning before breakfast, when 
he was walking in the grounds deeply pon- 
dering, Sir William Follett came up and 
asked what he was thinking about ? "Why, 
Sir William, I am thinking over that argu- 
ment I had with Buckland last night I 
know I am right, and that if I had only the 
command of words which he has, I'd have 
beaten him." " Let me know all about it," 
said Sir William, "and I'll see what I can 
do for you.' 1 The two sat down in an arbor, 
where the astute lawyer made himself thor- 
oughly acquainted with the points of .the 
case ; entering into it with all the zeal of an 
advocate about to plead the dearest interests 
of his client. After he had mastered the 
subject, Sir William rose up, rubbing his 
hands with glee, and said : " Now I am ready 
for him." Sir Robert Peel was made ac- 
quainted with the plot, and adroitly intro- 
duced the subject of the controversy after 
dinner. The result was, that in the argument 
which followed, the man of science was over- 
come by the man of law ; and Sir William 
Follett had at all points the mastery over 
Dr. Buckland. "What do you say, Mr. 
Stephenson? asked Sir Robert, laughing. 
" Why " said he, " I will only say this, that 
of all the powers above and under the earth, 
there seems to me to be no power so great 
as the gift of the gab." . . . One Sundav, 
when the party had j ust returned from church, 
they were standing together on the terrace 
near the hall, and observed in the distance a 
railway train flashing along, throwing behind 
it a long line of white steam. " Now, Buck- 
land," said Mr. Stephenson, " I have a poser 
for you. Can you tell me what is the power 
that is driving that train ?" " Well/' said 
the other. " I suppose it is one of your big 
engines." " But what drives the engine ?" 
u Oh, very likely a canny Newcastle driver." 
"What do you say to the light of the sun?" 
* Hew can that be ?" asked the doctor. " It 
is nothing else," said the engineer ; " it is 
light bottled up in the earth for tens of thou- 
sands of years — light absorbed by plants and 
vegetables, being necessary for the conden- 
sation of carbon during the process of their 
growth, if it be not carbon in another form 
— and now, after being buried in the earth 
for long ages in fields of coal, that latent 
light is again brought forth and liberated, 

made to work, as in that locomotive foi 
great human purposes." The idea was cer- 
tainly a most striking and original one j like 
a flash of light, it illuminated in an instant 
an entire field of science. 


[Thomas Jdyumn (1743-1828), third President of the 
United States was one of the most accomplished scholia 
and original minds In the early history of the United 
States. He wrote the Declaration of Independence of 
the United Colonies, adopted July 4, 1T76. His Notes on 
Virginia (1783), reprinted in more than twelre editions, 
are full of acute obserration, careful and scientific state- 
ment and copious suggestions for improrement Jeffer- 
son's early studies into the sources of law and political 
institutions gare him great prominence as a leader In 
the straggle for independence. He was the author of 
the Virginia statute of entire religious freedom, the 
founder of the Unirereity of Virginia, and a lesions ad- 
vocate of common schools and the abolition of slavery. 
Governor of Virginia, Minister to France, the first 
Secretary of State in Washington's Cabinet, Vfce-Preei. 
dent of the United States, and President for eight years 
(1801-1809), he retired to his plantation, the most popu- 
lar of American citisens next to Washington, spending 
a serene old age at Monticello in study, corresp o ndence 
and agricultural pursuits, and in watching over the 
university which he founded.] 

At the time we were funding oar national 
debt, we heard much about "a public debt 
being a public blessing ; " that the stock re- 
presenting it was a creation of active capita! 
for the aliment of commerce, manufactures 
and agriculture. This paradox was well 
adapted to the minds of believers in dreams, 
and the gulls of that size entered bond fide 
into it But the art and mystery of banks is 
a wonderful improvement on that It is 
established on the principle that "private 
debts are a public blessing." That the evi- 
dences of those private debts, called bank 
notes, become active capital, and aliment 
the whole commerce, manufactures and 
agriculture of the United States. Here are 
a set of people, for instance, who have be- 
stowed on us the great blessing of running 
in our debt about two hundred millions of 
dollars, without our knowing who they are, 
where they are, or what property they have 
to pay this debt when called on ; nav, who 
have made us so sensible of the blessings of 
letting them run in our debt, that we have) 



exempted them by law from the repayment 
of these debts beyond a given proportion, 
(generally estimated at one-third). And to 
fill np the measure of blessing, instead of 
paying, they receive an interest on what 
they owe from those to whom they owe ; for 
all the notes, or evidences of what they owe, 
which we see in circulation, have been lent 
to somebody on an interest which is levied 
again on us through the medium of com- 
merce. And they are so' ready still to deal 
out their liberalities to us, that they are now 
willing to let them run in our debt ninety 
millions more, on our paying them the same 
premium of six or eight per cent interest, 
and on the same legal exemption from the 
repayment of more than thirty millions of the 
debt, when it shall be called for. But let us 
look at this principle in its original form, 
and its copy will then be equally understood. 
" A public debt is a public blessing." That 
our debt was juggled from forty-three up to 
eighty millions, and funded at that amount, 
according to this opinion was a great pub- 
lie blessing, because the evidences of it 
could be vested in commerce, and thus con- 
verted into active capital, ana then the more 
the debt was made to be, the more active 
capital was created. That is to say, the 
creditors could now employ in commerce 
the money due them from the public, and 
make from it an annual profit of five per 
cent, or four millions of dollars. But ob- 
serve, that the public were at the same time 
paying on it an interest of exactly the same 
amount of four millions of dollars. Where 
then is the gain to either party, which makes 
it a public blessing ? There is no change 
in the state of things, but of persons only. 
A has a debt due to him from the public, of 
which he holds their certificate as evidence, 
and on which he is receiving an annual in- 
terest He wishes, however, to have the 
money itself, and to go into business with it 
B. has an equal sum of money in business, 
but wishes now to retire, and live on the in- 
terest He therefore gives it to A. in ex- 
change for A.'s certificates of public stock. 
Now, then, A. has the money in business, 
vhich B. so employed before. B. has the 
money on interest to live on, which A. lived 
on before ; .and the public pays the interest 
to B. which they paid to A. before. Here 
is no new creation of capital, no additional 
money employed, nor even a change in the 
employment of a single dollar. The only 
change is of place between A. and B. in 
which we discover no creation of capital; 

nor public blessing. Suppose, again, the 
public to owe nothing. Then A. not having 
lent his money to the public, would be in 
possession of it himself, and would go into 
business without the previous operation of 
selling stock. Here again, the same quantity 
of capital is employed as in the former case, 
though no public debt exists. In neither 
case is there any creation of active capital, 
nor other difference than that there is a 
public debt in the first case, and none in 
the last j and we may safely ask which of 
the two situations is most truly a publio 
blessing? If, then, a public debt be no 
public Messing, we may pronounce d for- 
tiori, that a private one cannot be so. If 
the debt which the banking companies owe 
be a blessing to any body, it is to themselves 
alone, who are realizing a solid interest of 
eight or ten per cent on it As to the pub* 
lie, these companies have banished all onr 
gold and silver medium, which, before their 
institution, we had without interest, which 
never could have perished in our hands, and 
would have been our salvation now in the 
hour of war ; instead of which they have 
given us two hundred million of froth and 
bubble, on which we are to pay them heavy 
interest, until it shall vanish into air, as 
Morris's notes did. We are warranted, then, 
in affirming that this parody on the princi- 
ple of " a public debt being a public bless- 
ing," and its mutation into the blessing of 
private instead of public debts, is as ridicu- 
lous as the original principle itself. In both 
cases, the truth is, that capital may be pro- 
duced by industry, and accumulated by eco- 
nomy; but jugglers only will propose to 
create it by legerdemain tricks with paper* 


[Yxboil (Ptjblius Virgflius) a famous and popular 
Roman poet, born near Mantua, Oct. 16, 70 B. C. He 
lived in the time of Augustus, the first Emperor of 
Borne, and was much helped by his chief adviser Mae- 
cenas. The poet was of delicate health, and so retiring 
in manners that he could hardly have pushed his way 
without Maecenas. His principal writings are the " Bu- 
coUcs," also called H Eclogue*," the M Georgit*," and the 
".AMioV* In the " GeorY/ics " we learn all that the 
Romans knew of farming and such matters. Virgil 
died in Brundusium, on his way home from Greece, 
when fifty -one years old (Sept. 22, 19 B. C). His grave 
fa near Naples. We giro from the Rev. W. Loom Cor 



lias' M Andml Gfaaifcs" the following extract from H Tk$ 
JEnefd." JSneas, on his flight from Troy, ha* reached 
Carthage and relates his adventure*.] 

" So King jEneas told his tale 
While all beside were still — 

Rehearsed the fortunes of his sail, 
And Fate's mysterious will, 

Then to its close his legend brought, 

And gladly took the rest he sought." 

The Carthaginian queen has been an ea- 
ger listener to iEneas s story. She is love- 
stricken — suddenly, and irremediably. But 
she is terribly ashamed of her own feelings. 
She finds relief in disclosing them to a very 
natural confidant — her sister Anna. She 
confesses her weakness, but avows at the 
same time a determination not to yield to 
it. The stranger has interested her deeply, 
after a fashion which has not touched ner 
since the death of her husband Sichaeus. 

" Were not my purpose fixed as fate 
With none in wedlock's band to mate, — 

Were bed and bridal aught but pain, — 
Perchance I had been weak again." 

But her sister — suiting her counsels, as all 
confidants are apt to do, to the secret wishes 
rather than to the professions of Dido—en- 
courages the passion. Perpetual widowhood 
has a romantic sound, but it is not, in 
Anna's opinion, a desirable estate. Besides, 
in this newly-planted colony ? surrounded as 
they are by fierce African tribes, an alliance 
with these Trojan strangers will be a tower 
of strength. The stout arm of such a hus- 
band as ^Eneas is much needed by a wi- 
dowed queen. His visit — so Anna thinks 
— is nothing less than providential— 

"'Twas Heaven and Juno's grace that bore, 
I ween, these Trojans to our shore." 

By all means let them detain their illus- 
trious visitor with them as long as possible 
■ — his ships require refitting and his crews 
refreshment — and the result will not be 

The advice suits with the queen's new 
mood too well to be rejected. Together the 
sisters offer pious sacrifices to the gods — to 
Juno especially, as the goddess of marriage 
— to give their sanction to the hoDed-for 
alliance. The restless feelings of the en- 
amoured woman are described in one of the 
finest and most admired passages of the 

Fen as a deer whom from afar 
A swain, in desultory war, 

Where Cretan woods are thick, 
Has pierced, as 'mid the trees she lies, 
And, all unknowing of his prise, 

Has left the dart to stick : 
She wanders lawn and forest o'er, 
While the fell shaft still drinks her j 
Now through the city of her pride 
She walks, JBneas at her side, 
Displays the stores of Sidon's trade, 
And stately homes already made : 
Begins, but stops she knows not why, 
And lets the imperfect utterance die. 
Now, as the sunlight wears away, 
She seeks the feast of yesterday, 
Inquires once more of Troy's eclipse, 
And hangs once more upon his lips ; 
Then, when the guests have gone their waya, 
And the dim moon withdraws her rays, 
And setting stars to slumber call, 
Alone she mourns in that lone hall, 
Clasps the dear couch where late he lay, 
Beholds him, hears him far away ; 
Or keeps Ascanius on her knees, 
And in the son the father sees, 
Might she but steal one peaceful hour 
From love's ungovernable power. 
No more the growing towers arise, 
No more in martial exercise 
The youth engage, make strong the fort. 
Or shape the basin in a port." 

The powers of Olympus here come again 
upon the scene. Juno sees, not without a 
secret satisfaction, the prospect of an en- 
tanglement between ^Eneas and Dido, which 
may detain these hated Trojans in Africa, 
ana so prevent their settlement and domin- 
ion in Italy. So Carthage, and not the 
Rome of the future, may yet be the mistress 
of the world. She addresses herself at once 
to the goddess of love— not without a sneer 
at the success of her snares in poor Dido's 
case ; a sorry triumph it is indeed — two di- 
vinities pitted against a weak woman ! Bat 
come — suppose in this matter they agree to 
act in concert ; let there be a union between 
the two nations, and let Carthage be the 
seat of their joint power; its citizen shall 
pay equal honours to the queen of heaven 
and the queen of love. Venus understands 
perfectly well that Juno's motive is at any 
cost to prevent the foundation of Rome ; 
but having a clearer vision (we must pre- 
sume) than her great rival of the probable 
results, she agrees to the terms. There 
is to be a hunting-party on the morrow 
and Juno will take care that opportunity 



shall be given for the furtherance of Dido's 
passion. The royal hunt is again a striking 
picture, almost mediaeval in its rich colour- 

" The morn meantime from ocean rose : 
Forth from the gates with daybreak goes 

The silvan regiment : 
Thin nets are there, and spears of steel, 
And there Massylian riders wheel, 

And dogs of keenest scent. 
Before the chamber of her state 
Long time the Punic nobles wait 

The appearing of the queen : 
With gold and purple housings fit 
Stands her proud steed, and champs the bit 

His foaming jaws between. 
At length with long attendant train 
She comes : her scarf of Tynan grain,* 

With broidered border decked : 
Of gold her quiver : knots of gold 
Confine her hair : her vesture s fold 

By golden clasp is checked. 
The Trojans and lulus gay 
In glad procession take their way. 
JEneas, comeliest of the throng, 
Joins their proud ranks, and steps along, 
As when from Lycia's wintry airs 
To Delos' isle Apollo fares ; 
The Agathyrsian, Dryop, Crete, 
In dances round his altar meet : 
He on the heights of Cynthus moves, 

And binds his hair's loose flow 
With cincture of the leaf he loves. 

Behind him sounds his bow ; — 
80 firm iEneas' graceful tread, 
80 bright the glories round his head. 

But young Ascanius on his steed 

With boyish ardeur glows, 
And now in ecstacy of speed 

He passes these, now those ; 
For him too peaceful and too tame 
The pleasure of the hunted game : 
He longs to see the foaming boar, 
Or hear the tawny lion's roar. 

Meantime, loud thunder-peals resound, 
And hail and rain the sky confound : 
And Tyrian chiefs and sons of Troy, 
And Venus' care, the princely boy, 
Seek each his shelter, winged with dread, 
While torrents from the hills run red. 
Driven haply to the same retreat, 
The Dardan chief and Dido meet. 

• Thfa was the dye procured from the shell-flah called 
— rax e sp ec ially eoetly, became each fish contained 
ket a single drop of the precious tincture. 

Then Earth, the venerable dame, 

And Juno, give the sign ; 
Heaven lightens with attesting flame, 

And bids its torches shine, 
And from the summit of the peak 
The nymphs shrill out the nuptial shriek 

That day she first began to die ; 
That day first taught her to defy 
The publio tongue, the public eye. 
No secret love is Dido's aim : 
She calls it marriage now ; such name 
She chooses to conceal her shame.' 

A rejected suitor of the Carthaginian 
queen, — Iarbas, king of GsBtulia, — hears the 
news amongst the rest He is a reputed son 
of Jupiter: and now, furious at seeing this 
wanderer from Troy — "this second Paris," 
as he calls him — preferred to himself, he 
appeals for vengeance to his Olympian 
parent The appeal is heard, and Mercury- 
is despatched to remind ^Eneas of his high 
destinies, which he is forgetting in this dal- 
liance at Carthage. If he has lost all ambi- 
tion for himself, let him at least remember 
the rights of his son Ascanius, which he is 
thus sacrificing to the indulgence of his own 
wayward passions. The immortal messenger 
finds the Trojan chief busied in planning the 
extension of the walls and streets of the new 
city which he has already adopted as his 
home. He delivers his message briefly and 
emphatically, and vanishes. Thus recalled 
to a full sense of his false position, jEneas 
is at first horror-struck and confounded. 
How to disobey the direct commands of 
Heaven, and run counter to the oracles of 
fate ; how, on the other hand, to break his 
faith with Dido, and ungratefully betray the 
too confiding love of his hostess and bene- 
factress ; how even to venture to hint to her 
a word of parting, and how to escape the 
probable vengeance of the Carthaginian 
people: — all these considerations crowd 
into his mind, and perplex him terribly. 
On the main point, however, his resolution 
is soon taken. He will obey the mandate 
of the gods, at any cost He summons the 
most trusted of his comrades, and bids them 
make secret preparations to set sail once 
more in quest of their home in Italy. He 
promises himself that he will either find or 
make some opportunity of breaking the 
news of his departure to Dido. 

This is the turning-point of the poem ; 
and here it is that the interest to a modern 
reader, so far as the mere plot of the story 
is concerned, is sadly marred by the way is 



which the hero thus cuts himself off from 
all our sympathies. His most ingenious 
apologists — and he has found many — ap- 
peal to us in vain. Upon the audience 
or the readers of his own time, no doubt, 
the effect might have been different To 
the critics of Augustus's court, love— or 
what they understood by it— was a mere 
weakness in the hero. The call which 
Heaven had conveyed to him was to found 
the great empire of the future ; and because 
he obeys the call at the expense of his ten- 
derest feelings, the poet gives him always 
his distinctive epithet — the " pious " iEneas. 
The word " pious/ 1 it must be remembered, 
implies in the Latin the recognition of all 
duties to one's country and one's parents, as 
well as to the gods. And in all these senses 
JEness would deserve it But to an English 
mind, the " piety " which pleads the will of 
Heaven as an excuse for treachery to a 
woman, only adds a deeper hue of infamy 
to the transaction. It 

" Doth make the fault the wore© by the excuse." 

But our story must not wait for us to dis- 
cuss too curiously the morals of the hero. 
iEneas has thought to make his prepara- 
tions without the knowledge of the queen- 
while she 

"Still dreamt her happy dream, nor think* 
That aught can break thoee golden links.** 

But as the poet goes on to say, "Who can 
cheat the eyes of love ? " Dido soon learns 
his change of purpose, and taxes him openly 
with his baseness and ingratitude. The 
whole of this fourth book of the ^Eneid 
— " The Passion of Dido," as it has been 
called — is of a very high order of tragic 
pathos. The queen is by turns furious and 
pathetic ; now she hurls menaces and curses 
against her false lover, now she conde- 
scends to pitiable entreaty. The Trojan 
chief's defence, such as it is, is that he had 
never meant to stay. He is bound, the 
pilgrim of Heaven, for Latium. His father 
Anchises is warning him continually in the 
visions of the night not to linger here : and 
now the messenger of the gods in person 
has come to chide this fond delay. 

The grand storm of wrath in which the 
injured queen bursts upon him in reply has 
severely taxed the powers of all Virgil's 
English translators. They seem to have 
felt themselves no more of a match for " the 
fury of a woman scorned " than jEneas was. 
Certainly they all fail, more or less, to give 

the fire and bitterness of the original. The 
heroics of Dryden suit it better, perhaps, 
than any other measure 8— 

** False as thou art, and more than false, forsworn I 

Mot sprang from noble blood, nor goddess-born. 

But hewn from hardened entrails of a rock. 

And rough Hyrcanian tigers gsre thee suck) 

Why should I fawn? what have I worse to mar 

Did hs once look, or lend a listening ear, 

Sigh when I sobbed, or shed one kindly tear? 

All symptoms of a base ungrateful mind— * 

80 foul, that, which is worse, tis hard to find. 

Of man's injustice why should I complain ? 

The gods, and Jots himself, behold in vain 

Triumphant treason, yet no thunder flies; 

Nor Juno view* my wrongs with equal eyes : 

Faithless is earth, and faithless are the skies I 

Justice is fled, and truth is now no more. 

I saved the shipwrecked exile on my shore: 

With needful food his hungry Trojans fed: 

I took the traitor to my throne and bed : 

Fool that I was I— 'tis little to repeat 

The rest-— I stored and rigged his ruined fleet. 

I rave, I rave! A god's command he pleads I 

And makes heaven accessory to his deeds. 

How Lydan lots ; and now the Delian god ; 

Now Hermes is employed from Jove's abode, 

To warn him hence ; as If the peaceful state 

Of heavenly powers were touched with human fate! 

But go: thy flight no longer I detain — 

Go seek thy promised kingdom through the maial 

Yet, if the heavens will hear my pious vow, 

The faithless waves, not half so false as thou, 

Or secret sands, shall sepulchres afford 

To thy proud vessels and their perjured lord. 

Then shaft thou call on injured Dido's name: 

Dido shall come, in a black sulph'ry name, 

When death has once dissolved her mortal frame, 

Shall smile to see the traitor vainly weep; 

Her angry ghost, arising from the deep, 

Shall haunt thee waking, and disturb thy sleeft 

At least my shade thy punishment shall know : 

And fame shall spread the pleasing news below." 

" Her speech half done she breaks away, 
And sickening shuns the light of day, 

And tears her from his gaze ; 
While he, with thousand things to say, 

Still falters and delays: 
Her servants lift the sinking fair, 
And to her marble chamber bear." 

The Trojan 8 prepare to depart; but the 
enamored queen makes one more despair- 
ing effort to detain her faithless guest. 
She sends her sister to ask at least for some 
short space of delay — until she shall have 
schooled herself to bear his loss. ^Eneas 
is obdurate in his " piety." Then her last 
resolve is taken. She cheats her sister into 



the belief that she has found some spells 
potent enough to restrain the truant lover. 
Part of the charm is that his armour, and 
all that had belonged to him while in her 
company, must be consumed by fire. So a 
lofty pile is built in the palace-court ; but it is 
to be the funeral pile of Dido. As she looks 
forth from the turret of her palace at day- 
break, she sees the ships of JSneas already 
far in the offing ; for, warned again by Mer- 
cury, that there will be risk of his departure 
being prevented by force if he delays, he 
has already set sail under cover of the 
night For a moment the queen thinks of 
ordering her seamen to give chase j but it is 
a mere passing phase of her despair. She 
contents herself with imprecating an eter- 
nal enmity between his race and hers — ful- 
filled, as the poet means us to bear in mind, 
in the long and bloody wars betwen Rome 
and Carthage. 

" And, Tyrians, you through time to come 

His seed with deathless hatred chase: 
Be that your gift to Dido's tomb ; 

No love, no league 'twist race and race, 
Rise from my ashes scourge of crime, 

Born to pursue the Dardan horde 
To-day, to-morrow, through all time, 

Oft as our hands can wield the sword: 
Fight shore with shore, fight sea with sea, 
Fight all that are or e'er shall be I " 

With a master's hand the poet enhances the 
glories of his country by this prophetic in- 
troduction of the terrible Hannibal. The 
peaceful empire of the Caesar, before whom 
East and West bow, is thrown into the 
broadest light by reference to those early 
days when Rome lay almost at the mercy 
of her implacable enemy. 

"Then, maddening over crime, the queen 
With bloodshot eyes, and sanguine streaks 
Fresh painted on her quivering cheeks, 

And wanning o'er with death foreseen, 

Through inner portals widely fares, 
Scales the high pile with swift ascent, 

lakes up the Dardan sword and bears- 
Sad gift, for different uses meant. 

She eyed the robes with wistful look, 
And pausing, thought awhile and wept: 

Then pressed her to the couch and spoke 
Her last good-night or ere she slept. 

' Sweet relics of a time of love, 
When fate and heaven were kind, 

Receive my life-blood, and remove 
These torments of the mind. 

My life is lived, and I have played 
The part that Fortune gave, 

And now I pass, a queenly shade, 

Majestic to the grave. 
A glorious city I have built, 

Have seen my walls ascend ; 
Chastised for blood of husband spilt, 

A brother yet no friend : 
Blest lot ; yet lacked one blessing more, 
That Troy had never touched my shore 1 ' " 

So she mounts the funeral pile, and stabt 
herself with the Trojan's sword, her sister 
Anna coming upon the scene only in time 
to receive the parting breath. 


[Duoald Stewart, a Scottish metaphysician of great 
eminence, was professor of moral philosophy in the 
College of Edinburgh, where he was born in 1763, and 
died 1828. His "PMfewopAf of the Human Mi*d» (1792,) 
u Moral PftOMopAft" (1793,) "Progremqf PkOoeopkt,* 
(1816,) and "PkQoeopky of the Active omd Moral Power* 
o/Jfoa," (1828,) are his principal works.] 

It is generally supposed, that of all our fac- 
ulties, memory is that which nature has be- 
stowed in the most unequal degrees on dif- 
ferent individuals ; and it is far from being 
impossible that this opinion may be well 
founded. If, however, we consider that 
there is scarcely any man who has not 
memory sufficient to learn the use of lan- 
guage, and learn to recognize, at the first 
glance, the appearances of an infinite num- 
ber of familiar objects ; besides acquiring 
such an acquaintance with the laws of 
nature, and the ordinary course of human 
affairs, as is necessary for directing his con- 
duct in life, we shall be satisfied that the 
original disparities among men, in this re- 
spect, are by no means so immense as they 
seem to be at first view ; and that much is 
to be ascribed to different habits of atten- 
1 tion, and to a difference of election among 
the various events presented to the curiosity. 

It is worthy of remark, also, that those 
individuals who possess unusual powers of 
memory with respect to any one class of 
objects, are commonly as remarkably defi- 
cient in some of the other applications of 
that faculty. I knew a person who, though 
completely ignorant of Latin, was able to 
repeat over thirty or forty lines of Virgil, 
after having heard them once read to him 
— not with perfect exactness, but with such 
a degree of resemblance as (all circum- 
stances considered) was truly astonishing \ 



yet this person (who was in the condition 
of a servant) was singularly deficient in 
memory in all cases in which that faculty is 
of real practical utility. He was noted in 
every family in which he had been employed 
for habits of forgetfulness, and could scarce- 
ly deliver an ordinary message without 
committing some blunder. 

A similar observation, I can almost ven- 
ture to say, will be found to apply to by the far 
greater number of those in wnom this facul- 
ty seems to exhibit a preternatural or ano- 
malous degree of force. The varieties of 
memory are indeed wonderful, but they 
ought not to be confounded with inequalities 
of memory. One man is distinguished by 
a power of recollecting names, and dates, 
and genealogies ; a second, by the multi- 
plicity of speculations and of general con- 
clusions treasured up in his intellect; a 
third, by the facility with which words and 
combinations of words (the very words of a 
speaker or of an author) seem to lay hold 
of his mind; a fourth, by the quickness 
with which he seizes and appropriates the 
sense and meaning of an author, while the 
phraseology and style seem altogether to 
escape his notice; a fifth, by his memory 
for poetry ; a sixth, by his memory for mu- 
sic ; a seventh, by his memory for archi- 
tecture, statuary, and painting, and all 
the other objects of taste which are ad- 
dressed to the eye. All these different 
powers seem miraculous to those who do 
not possess them ; and as they are apt to 
be supposed by superficial observers to be 
commonly united in the same individuals, 
they contribute much to encourage those 
exaggerated estimates concerning tne origi- 
nal inequalities among men in respect to 
this faculty which I am now endeavouring to 
reduce to their first standard. 

As the great purpose to which this fac- 
ulty is subservient is to enable us to collect 
and to retain, for the future regulation of 
our conduct, the results of our past expe- 
rience, it is evident that the degree of per- 
fection which it attains in the case of dif- 
ferent persons must vary ; first, with the fa- 
cility of making the original acquisition ; 
secondly, with the permanence of the ac- 
quisition ; and thirdly, with the quickness 
or readiness with which the individual is 
able, on particular occasions, to apply it to 
use. The qualities, therefore, of a good me- 
mory are, in the first place, to be susceptible ; 
secondly, to be retentive; and thirdly, to be 

It is but rarely that these three quali- 
ties are united in the same person. We 
often, indeed, meet with a memory which is 
at once susceptible and ready ; but I doubt 
much if such memories be commonly very 
retentive ; for the same set of habits which 
are favourable to the first two qualities are 
adverse to the third. Those individuals, for 
example, who, with a view to conversation, 
make a constant business of informing 
themselves with respect to the popular top- 
ics of the day, or of turning over the ephe- 
meral publications subservient to the amuse- 
ment or to the politics of the times, are 
naturally led to cultivate a susceptibility 
and readiness of memory, but have no in- 
ducement to aim at that permanent reten- 
tion of selected ideas which enables the 
scientific student to combine the most re- 
mote materials, and to concentrate at wilL 
on a particular object, all the scattered 
lights of his experience and of his reflections. 
Such men (as far as my observation has 
reached) seldom possess a familiar or cor- 
rect acquaintance even with those classical 
remains of our own earlier writers which 
have ceased to furnish topics of discourse to 
the circles of fashion. A stream of novel- 
ties is perpetually passing through their 
minds, and the faint impressions which it 
leaves soon vanish to make way for others, 
like the traces which the ebbing tide leaves 
upon the sand. Nor is this all. In pro- 
portion as the associating principles which 
lay the foundation of susceptibility and 
readiness predominate in the memory, those 
which form the basis of our more solid and 
lasting acquisitions may be expected to be 
weakened, as a natural consequence of the 
general laws of our intellectual frame. 


From the Lovrn of the PlanU. 

[Br. Ebasxus Darwin, an English nataraltet and 
didactic poet, born 1731, died 1802, wrote a widely d» 
culated poem entitled "The Botanic Garde*" (1791), ex- 
plaining the economy of vegetation and the lovet of 
plants. Abo," Zoonomia " (1794), "PhyUdogia " (1799), and 
' The Temple of Nature " (1803)*] 

Now itood Elba on the wood-crowned height, 
'er Minden'i plain, spectatreei of the fight; 



Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife 
Her dearer self, the partner of her life ; 
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued, 
And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. 
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread, 
fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ; 
And one lair girl amid the loud alarm 
Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm; 
While round her brows bright beams of Honour dart, 
And Love's warm eddies circle round her heart. 
Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed, 
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest; 
8aw on his helm, her virgin hands inwove, 
Bright stars of gold, and mystic knots of love ; 
Heard the exulting shout, " They run I they run ! " 
* Oreat God I " she cried, M he 's safe I the battle's won P 
A ball now hisses through the airy tides- 
Some fury winged it, and some demon guides I— 
Farts the fine locks her graceful head that deck, 
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck ; 
The red stream, issuing from her azure veins, 
Dtm her white veil, her ivory bosom stains. 
" Ah me!" she cried, and sinking on the ground, 
Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound ; 
"0 cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn! 
Wait, gushing life, wait my love's return I' 1 
Bouse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far I 
The angel Pity shuns the walks of war t 
" spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age ; 
On me, on me," she cried, " exhaust your rage t " 
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caressed, 
And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest 

from tent to tent the impatient warrior flies, 
Feer in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes ; 
Oka's name along the camp he calls, 
*Bisa" echoes through the canvas walls ; 
Qafck through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread, 
Cot groaning heaps, the dying and the dead, 
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood, 
b>! dead KUxa weltering in her blood ! 
•*» hears his listening son the welcome sounds, 
w ith open arms and sparkling eye he bounds : 
*8peak low," he cries, and gives his little hand, 
•Mamma's asleep upon the dew-cold sand ;" 
*w weeping babe, with bloody fingers pressed, 
And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast s 
• Alas ! we both with cold and hunger quake— 
]*■ J do you weep ?— Mamma will soon awake.'** 
^SasTl wake no more!** the hapless mourner cried, 
^^ his eyea, and olasped his hands and sighed ; 
«*ched on the ground, a while entranced he lay, 
Aad pieaed warm kisses on the lifeless clay ; 
*** then upsprung with wild convulsive start, 
And all the father kindled in his heart: 
"Ohei^ensr he cried, "my first rash vow forgive; 
"J* *hid to earth, for these I pray to live I" 
««od his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest, 
*» *»T*d them sobbing to his aching breast. 

yolih. r 


From the Lovea of the Pfcmts. 

Born in yon blaze of orient sky, 
Sweet May ! thy radiant form unfold; 

Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye, 
And wave thy shadowy locks of gold. 

For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow, 
For thee descends the sunny shower ; 

The rills in softer murmurs flow, 
And brighter blossoms gem the bower. 

Light graces decked in flowery wreaths 
And tiptoe joys their hands combine; 

And Love his sweet contagion breathes, 
And, laughing, dances round thy shrine) 

Warm with new life, the glittering throng 
On quivering fin and rustling wing, 

Delighted join their votive song, 
And hail thee Goddess of the spring 1 


There was a little woman on board with 
a little baby ; and both little woman and 
little child were cheerful, good-looking, 
bright-eye<L and fair to see. The little 
woman had been passing a long time with 
her sick mother in New York, and had left 
her home in St Louis in that condition in 
which ladies who truly love their lords de- 
sire to be. The baby was born in her 
mother's house, and she had not seen her 
husband (to whom she was now returning) 
for twelve months, having left him a month 
or two after their marriage. Well, to be 
sure, there never was a little woman so full 
of hope, and tenderness, and love, and anxi- 
ety, as this little woman was : and all day 
long she wondered whether " he" would be 
at the wharf; and whether "he" had got 
her letter; and whether, if she sent the 
baby ashore by somebody else, "he" would 
know it, meeting it in the street; which, see- 
in J> *k** ne nfM * never set eyes upon it in his 
life, was not very likely in the abstract, but 
was probable enough to the young mother. 
She was such an artless little creature, and 
was in such a sunny, beaming, hopeful state, 
and let out all this matter clinging close 
about her heart so freely, that all the other 
lady-passengers entered into the spirit of it 
as mucfi as she j and the captain (who heard 



all about it from his wife) was wondrous sly, 
I promise you, inquiring every time we met 
at table, as if in forgetmlness, whether she 
expected anybody to meet her at St Louis, 
and whether she would want to go ashore 
the night we reached it (but he supposed 
she wouldn't), and cutting many other dry 
jokes of that nature. There was one little 
weazen-dried, apple-faced old woman, who 
took occasion to doubt the constancy of 
husbands in such circumstances of bereave- 
ment; and there was another lady (with a 
lapdog), old enough to moralize on the 
lightness of human affections, and yet not so 
old that she could help nursing the baby 
now and then, or laughing with the rest 
when the little woman called it by its father's 
name, and asked it all manner of fantastic 
questions concerning him, in the ioy of her 
heart It was something of a blow to the 
little woman, that when we were within 
twenty miles of our destination, it became 
clearly necessary to put this baby to bed. 
But she got over it with the same rood- 
humour, tied a handkerchief round her head, 
and came out into the little gallery with the 
rest. Then, such an oracle as she became 
in reference to the localities 1 and such face- 
tiousness as was displayed by the married 
. ladies, and such sympathy as was shewn by 
the single ones, and such peals of laughter 
as the little woman herself (who would just 
as soon have cried) greeted every jest with I 
At last there were the lights or St. Louis, 
and here was the wharf, and those were the 
steps j and the little woman, covering her 
face with her hands, and laughing (or seem- 
ing to laugh) more than ever, ran into her 
own cabin and shut herself up. I have no 
doubt that in the charming inconsistency of 
such excitement she stopped her ears, lest 
she should hear " him" asking for her — but 
I did not see her do it Then a great crowd 
of people rushed on board, though the boat 
was not yet made fast, but was wandering 
about among the other boats to find a land- 
ing-place j and everybody looked for the 
husband, and nobody saw him, when, in the 
midst of us all — Heaven knows how she 
ever got there I— there was the little woman 
clinging with both arms tight round the 
neck of a fine, good-looking, sturdy young 
fellow ; and in a moment afterwards there 
she was again, actually clapping her little 
hands for ioy, as she dragged him through 
the small door of her small cabin to look 
ftt the baby as he lay asleep 1 

JPfclwM' America* fM*. 



[Bn Bobebt Ksb Pomes, 1776-1S42, an English trav- 
eller and author, lived many yean in Russia, and pub- 
lished several widely-read volumes of travels in Boa- 
sin, Sweden, Portugal, Spain and the east] 

The wives of the higher classes in Bag- 
dad are usually selected from the most 
beautiful girls that can be obtained from 
Georgia and Gircassia ; and, to their natu- 
ral charms, in like manner with their cap- 
tive sisters all over the East, they add the 
fancied embellishments of painted complex- 
ions, hands and feet dyed with henna, and 
their hair and eyebrows stained with the 
rang, or prepared indigo leaf. Chains 
of gold, and collars of pearls, with various 
ornaments of precious stones, decorate the 
upper part of their persons, while solid brace- 
lets of sold, in shapes resembling serpents, 
clasp weir wrists and ankles. Silver and 
golden tissued muslins not only form their 
turbans, but frequently their under-gar- 
ments. In summer the ample pelisse is 
made'of the most costly shawl, and in cold 
weather lined and bordered with the choi- 
cest furs. The dress is altogether very be- 
coming; by its easy folds and glittering 
transparency, shewing a fine shape to ad- 
vantage, without the immodest exposure of 
the open vest of the Persian ladies. The 
humbler females generally move abroad 
with faces totally unveiled, having a hand- 
kerchief rolled round their heads, from be- 
neath which their hair hangs down over 
their shoulders, while another piece of linen 
passes under their chin, in the fashion of 
the Georgians. Their garment is a gown 
of a shin form, reaching to their ankles, 
open before, and of a gray colour. Their 
feet are completely naked. Many of the 
very inferior classes stain their bosoms with 
the figures of circles, half-moons, stare, &c 
in a bluish stamp. In this barbaric embel- 
lishment the poor damsel of Irak-Arabi has 
one point of vanity resembling that of the 
ladies of Irak-Ajemi. The former frequently 
adds this frightful cadaverous hue to her 
lips; and to complete her savage appear- 
ance, thrusts a ring through the right nos- 
tril, pendent with a flat button-like orna- 
ment set round with blue or red stones. 

But to return to the ladies of the higher 
circles, whom we left in some gay saloon of 
Bagdad. When all are assembled, the 
evening meal or dinner is soon served. The 
party, seated in rows, then prepare them* 



serves for the entrance of the show, which, 
consisting of music and dancing, continues 
in noisy exhibition through the whole night 
At twelve o'clock, supper is produced, when 
pilaus, kabobs, preserves, fruits, dried sweet- 
meats, and sherbets of every fabric and fla- 
vour, engage the fair convives for some time. 
Between the second banquet and the pre- 
ceding, the perfumed narquilly is never 
absent from their rosy lips, excepting when 
they sip coffee, or indulge in a general 
shout of approbation, or a hearty peal of 
laughter at the freaks of the dancers or the 
subject of the singers' madrigals. But no 
respite is given to the entertainers: and, 
dorin? so ion? a stretch of merriment, 
should any of the happy guests feel a sud- 
den desire for temporary repose, without the 
least apology she lies down to sleep on the 
luxurious carpet that is her seat ; and thus 
she remains, sunk in as deep an oblivion 
as if the nummud were spread in her own 
chamber. Others speedily follow her ex- 
ample, sleeping as sound ; notwithstanding 
the bawling of the singers, the horrid jang- 
ling of the guitars, the thumping on the 
jarlike double-drum, the ringing and loud 
clangour of the metal bells and castanets 
of the dancers, with an eternal talking in 
all keys, abrupt laughter, and vociferous 
expressions of gratification, making in all 
a mil concert of distracting sounds, suffi- 
cient, one might suppose, to awaken the 
dead. But the merry tumult and joyful 
strains of this conviviality gradually become 
fainter and fainter; first one and then 
another of the visitors — while even the per- 
formers are not spared by the soporific god 
—sink down under the drowsy influence, 
till at length the whole carpet is covered 
with the sleeping beauties, mixed indiscri- 
minately with hand-maids, dancers, and 
musicians, as fast asleep as themselves. 
The business, however, is not thus quietly 
ended. " As soon as the sun begins to call 
forth the blushes of the morn, by lifting the 
veil that shades her slumbering eyelids," 
the faithful slaves rub their own clear of 
any lurking drowsiness, and then tug their 
respective mistresses by the toe or the shoul- 
der, to rouse them up to perform the devo- 
tional ablutions usual at the dawn of day. 
All start mechanically, as if touched by a 
spell; and then commences the splashing 
of water and the mutterings of prayers, pre- 
senting a singular contrast to the vivacious 
scene of a few hours before. This duty 
over, the lair devotees shake their feathers 

like birds from a refreshing shower, and 
tripping lightly forward with garments, and 
perhaps looks, a little the worse for the wear 
of the preceding evening, plunge at once 
again into all the depths of its amusements. 
Coffee, sweetmeats, kaliouns, as before, ac- 
company every obstreperous repetition of 
the midnight song and dance ; and all being 
followed up by a plentiful breakfast of rice, 
meats, fruits, &c, toward noon the party 
separate, after having spent between fifteen 
and sixteen hours in this riotous festivity. 


[David Ykddkb, bora 1790, died 1854, a British wri- 
ter of graceful rhymes, whose best known work \a u Or- 
cadian Sketches" (1832), published a volume of collected 
poems in 1842.] 

Talk not of temples — there is one 

Built without hands, to mankind given ; 
Its lamps are the meridian sun, 

And all the stars of heaven ; 
Its walls are the cerulean sky ; 

Its floor the earth so green and fair ; 
The dome is vast immensity — 

All Nature worships there ! 

The Alps arrayed in stainless snow, 
The Andean ranges yet untrod, 

At sunrise and at sunset glow 
Like altar-fires to God. 

A thousand tierce volcanoes blase, 
As if with hallowed victims rare ; 

And thunder lifts its voice in praise- 
All Nature worships there ! 

The Ocean heaves resistlessly, 

And pours its glittering treasure forth ; 
His waves — the priesthood of the sea — 

Kneel on the shell-gemmed earth, 
And there emit a hollow sound, 

As if they murmured praise and prayer* 
On every side 'tis holy ground — 

All Nature worships there ! 

The oedar and the mountain pine, 
The willow on the fountain's brim. 

The tulip and the eglantine, 
In reverence bend to Him ; 

The song-birds pour their sweetest lays. 
From tower and tree and middle air ( 

The rushing river murmurs praise- 
All Nature worships there 1 




pbi Thbam la author of an Interesting little moral 
poem, the " Three Warning*," which la so aaperior to her 
other compositions* that it was supposed to have been 
partly written, or at least corrected by Johnson. It 
first appeared in a volume of u Mi*ceOmie* t n published by 
Mis. Anna Williams (the blind inmate of Johnson's 
*ouse) in 1766. Hester Lynch Salisbury (afterwards 
Mrs. Thrale) was a native of Bodvel, Carnarvonshire, 
• born in 1739. In 1763 she was married to Mr. Henry 
Thrale, an eminent brewer, who had taste enough to 
nppVeciate the rich and varied conversation of Johnson, 
and whose hospitality and wealth afforded the great 
moralist an asylum in his house. After the death of 
this excellent man in 1781, his widow in 1784 married 
Signior Piossi, an Italian musk-master, a step which 
Johnson «ever could forgive. The lively lady proceeded 
with her husband on a continental tour, and they took 
up their abode for some time on the banks of the Arno. 
In 1786, she published a volume of miscellaneous pieces, 
entitled" IV Florentine MitceUany? and afforded a subject 
for the satire of Gffford, whose "Baviad and Mmvtad n was 
written to lash the Delia Cruscan songsters with whom 
Mrs. Ptotxi was associated. Beturnlng to England she 
became a rather voluminous writer. In 1786 she Issued 
u Anecdote* of Dr. Johnmn ; " In 1788, u Letter* to and from 
Dr. Johmou ; " in 1789, "A Journey through France, Italy, 
and Germany ; n in 1794, " British Synonymy, or an Attempt 
at regulating the Choice of Word* in familiar Conversation ;" 
In 1801, "Retrospection, or a Review of the mott striking and 
important Event*, etc^ which the late 1800 yean home pre- 
sealed to the view of Mankind, ete. n In her 80th year Mrs. 
Piossi had a flirtation with a young actor, William 
Augustus Conway, aged 87. A collection of her u love- 
letters " wss surreptitiously published in 1843. She died 
at Clifton, May 2, 1821. Mrs. Floral's eldest daughter, 
Viscountess Keith (Johnson's "Queeny n ), lived to the 
age of 95, and one of her sisters to the age of 9a] 

The tree of deepest root is found 
Least willing still to quit the ground ; 
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, 

That love of life increased with years 
So miioh, that in our later stages, 
When pains grow sharp and siokness rages, 

The greatest lore of life appears. 
This great affection to believe, 
Which all confess, but few perceive, 
If old assertions can't prevail, 
Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 

When sports went round, and all were gay, 
On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, 
Death called aside the jocund groom 
With him into another room, 
And looking grave—" You must," says he, 
" Quit your sweet bride and come with me." 
" With you ! and quit my Susan's side? 
With you ! " the hapless husband cried ; 

"Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard ! 
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared : 
My thoughts on other matters go ; 
This is my wedding-day, you know." 

What more he urged I have not heard, 

His reasons could not well be stronger § 
So Death the poor delinquent spared, 

And left to live a little longer. 
Yet calling up a serious look, 
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke— 
"Neighbour," he said, " farewell ! no moie 
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour ; 
And further, to avoid all blame 
Of cruelty upon my name, 
To give you time for preparation, 
And fit you for your future station. 
Three several warnings you shall have, 
Before you're summoned to the grave; 
Willing for once I'll quit my prey, 

And grant a kind reprieve ; 
In hopes you'll have no more to say ; 
But, when I call again this way, 

Well pleased the world will leave." 
To these conditions both consented, 
And parted perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befell, 
How long he lived, how wise, how well, 
How roundly he pursued his course, 
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his hon* 

The willing muse shall tell : 
He chaffered, then he bought and sold, 
Nor once perceived his growing 016% 

Nor thought of Death so near : 

His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
Many his gains, his children few, 

He passed his hours in peace. 
But while he viewed his wealth increase, 
While thus along life's dusty road, 
The beaten track content he trod, 
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, 
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, 

Brought on his eightieth year. 
And now, one night, in musing mood, 

As all alone he sate, 
The unwelcome messenger of Fate 

Once more before him stood 

Half-killed with anger and surprise, 
" So soon returned ! " old Dodson cries. 
"So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies i 
"Surely, my friend, you're but in jest I 

Sinoe I was here before 
'Kb six-and-thirty years at least, 

And you are now fourscore." 

" So much the worse," the clown rejoiaedr 
" To spare the aged would be kind : 
However, see your search be legal ; 



And your authority— is* t regal ? 

JBbe you come on a fool's errand, 

With but a secretary's warrant. 

Beside, you promised me Three Warnings, 

Which I have looked for nights and mornings ; 

But for that loss of time and ease, 

lean recover damages." 

" I know," cries Death, " that at the best, 
I seldom, am a welcome guest ; 
But don't be captious, friend, at least ; 
I little thought you'd still be able 
To stump about your farm and stable : 
Tour years have run to a great length ; 
I wish you joy, though, of your strength ! M 

" Hold 1" says the farmer, " not so fast 1 

I have been lame these four years past." 

" And no great wonder,*' Death replies ; 

II However, you still keep your eyes ; 
And sure to see one's loves and friends, 
For legs and arms would make amends." 

" Perhaps," says Dodson, " so it might, 
But latterly I've lost my sight." 

" This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; 
But still there's comfort left for you : 
Bach strives your sadness to amuse ; 
I warrant you hear all the news." 

" There's none," cries he ; "and if there were, 
I'm grown so deaf I could not hear." 

" Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, 
"These are unjustifiable yearnings : 
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, 

You've had your Three sufficient Warnings ; 
So come along ; no more we'll part ; " 
He said, and touched him with his dart 
And now old Dodson, turning pale, 
Yields to his fate — so ends my tale. 


[Ajmnr* Pkwbhtk Stanley, D. D. Dean of Weet- 
nlaiter, bora 1816, vu a pupil of Dr. Thomas Arnold 
(vhose life he afterward wrote) at Rugby School, gra- 
duated at Oxford, 1838, where he became tutor and pro. 
tmor of ecclesiastical history, taking orders in the 
Church of England, of which he became noted as one of 
the most liberal and scholarly members. His chief 
"ortu are u Sinai and Prietttw" (1856), "«*»* of the 
&*mC*w*"(18ei), "Hutorpo/OuJewUhClmrch" 
0862-76), "Historical Memorial* of Wedmkuhr Abbey" 
(1867), and many Tolumes of sermons, essays, etc He 
fed in 1881.] 

We make the following extracts as exam- 
ples of his clear scholarly style: 


Rising wild amidst garden shrubs is the 
solitary obelisk which stood in front of the 
temple, then in company with another, 
whose base alone now remains. This is the 
first obelisk I have seen standing in its pro- 
per place, and there it has stood for nearly 
four thousand years. It is the oldest known 
in Egypt, and therefore in the world — the 
father of all that have arisen since. It was 
raised about a century before the coming of 
Joseph ; it has looked down on his marriage 
with Asenath; it has seen the growth of 
Moses; it is mentioned by Herodotus; 
Plato sat under its shadow : of all the obe- 
lisks which sprang up around it, it alone 
has kept its first position. One by one, it 
has seen its sons and brothers depart to 
great destinies elsewhere. From these gar- 
dens came the obelisks of the Lateran, of the 
Vatican, and of the Porta del Popolo ; and 
this venerable pillar (for so it looks from a 
distance) is now almost the only landmark 
of the great Beat of the wisdom of Egypt. 


The relation of the Desert to its modern 
inhabitants is still illustrative of its ancient 
history. The general name by which the 
Hebrews called " the wilderness," including 
always that of Sinai, was "the pasture. 
Bare as the surface of the Desert is, yet the 
thin clothing of vegetation, which is seldom 
entirely withdrawn, especially the aromatic 
shrubs on the high hillsides, furnish sufficient 
sustenance for the herds of the six thousand 
Bedouins who constitute the present popu- 
lation of the peninsula. 

Along the mountain ledges green. 
The scattered sheep at will may glean 
The Desert's spicy stores. 

So were they seen following the daughters 
or the shepherd-slaves of Jethro. So may 
they be seen climbing the rocks, or gathered 
round the pools and springs of the valleys, 
under the charge of the black-veiled Bedouin 
women of the present day. And in the 
Tiyaha, Towara, or Alouin tribes, with their 
chiefs and followers, their dress, and man- 
ners, and habitations, we probably see the 
likeness of the Midianites, the Amalekites, 
and the Israelites themselves in this their 
earliest stage of existence. The long straight 
lines of black tents which cluster round the 
Desert springs, present to us, on a small 
scale, the image of the vast encampment 
gathered round the one sacred tent which, 



with its coverings of dyed skins, stood con- 
spicuous in the midst, and which recalled 
the period of their nomadic life long after 
their settlement in Palestine. The deserted 
villages, marked by rude inclosures of stone, 
are doubtless such as those to which the 
Hebrew wanderers gave the name of u Ha- 
eeroth," and which afterwards furnished the 
type of the primitive sanctuary at Shiloh. 
The rude burial-grounds, with the many 
nameless headstones, far away from human 
habitation, are such as the host of Israel 
must have left behind them at the different 
stages of their progress — at Massah, at Sinai, 
at Itibroth-hattaavah, " the graves of desire." 
The salutations of the chiefs, in their bright 
scarlet robes, the one " going out to meet the 
other," the " obeisance, the " kiss " on each 
side the head, the silent entrance into the 
tent for consultations, are all graphically 
described in the encounter between Moses 
and Jethro. The constitution of the tribes, 
with the subordinate degrees of sheiks, re- 
commended by Jethro to Moses, is the very 
same which still exists amongst those who 
are possibly his lineal descendants — the 
gentle race of the Towara. 


Augustine's youth had been one of reck- 
less self-indulgence. He had plunged into 
the worst sins of the heathen world in which 
he lived ; he had adopted wild opinions to 
justify those sins; and thus, though his 
parents were Christians, he himself remained 
a heathen in his manner of life, though not 
without some struggles of his better self and 
of God's grace against these evil habits. 
Often he struggled and often he fell ;' but he 
had two advantages which again and again 
have saved souls from ruin — advantages 
which no one who enjoys them (and how 
many of us do enjoy them !) can prize too 
highly — he had a good mother ana he had 
good friends. He had a good mother, who 
wept for him, and prayed for him, and warned 
him, and gave him that advice which only a 
mother can give, forgotten for the moment, 
but remembered afterwards. And he had 
good friends, who watched every opportunity 
to encourage better thoughts, ana to bring 
him to his better self. In this state of 
struggle and failure he came to the city of 
Milan, where the Christian community was 
ruled by a man of fame almost equal to that 
which he himself afterwards won, the cele- 
brated Ambrose. And now the crisis of his 
life was come, and it shall be described in 

his own words. He was sitting with haB 
friend, his whole soul was shaken with the 
violence of his inward conflict — the conflict 
of breaking away from his evil habits, from 
his evil associates, to a life which seemed to 
him poor, and profitless, and burdensome. 
Silently the two friends sat together, and at 
last, says AuguBtine : " When deep reflection 
had brought together and heaped all my 
misery in the sight of my heart, there arose 
a mighty storm of grief, bringing a mighty 
shower of tears." He left his friend, that he 
might weep in solitude; he threw himself 
down under a fig-tree in the garden (the 
spot is still pointed out in Milan), and he 
cried in the bitterness of his spirit: "How 
long? how long? — to-morrow? to-morrow? 
Why not now — why is there not this hour 
an end to m\ uncleanness ? " "So was I 
speaking and weeping in the contrition of 
my heart," he says, " when, lol I heard from 
a neighbouring house a voice as of a child, 
chanting and oft repeating, " Take up ana 
read, take up and read. Instantly my 
countenance altered ; I began to think 
whether children were wont in play to sing 
such words, nor could I remember ever to 
have heard the like. So, checking my tears, 
I rose, taking it to be a command from (rod 
to open the book and read the first chapter 
I should find." . . • There lay the volume 
of St Paul's Epistles, which he had just 
begun to study. " I seized it," he says, u I 
opened it, and in silence I read that passage 
on which my eyes first fell. ' Not in rioting 
and drunkenness, not in chambering and 
wantonness, not in strife and envying* But 
put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make 
not provision for the flesh, to fulfil the lust 
thereof' _ No further could I read, nor 
needed " 
soul, all 

We need not follow the story further. 
We know how he broke off all his evil 
courses; how his mother's heart was re- 
joiced ; how he was baptized by the great 
Ambrose; how the old tradition describes 
their Binging together, as he came up from the 
baptismal waters, the alternate verses of the 
hymn called from its opening words Te Deum 
Laudamus. We know how the profligate 
African youth was thus transformed into the 
most illustrious saint of the Western Church, 
how he lived long as the light of his own 
generation, and how his works have been 
cherished and read by good men, perhaps 



more extensively than those of any Christian 
teacher since the Apostles. It is a story in- 
structive in many ways. It is an example, 
like the conversion of St. Paul, of the tact 
that from time to time God calls His ser- 
vants not by gradual, but by sudden changes. 


[Pubutts Ovnuus Nam, the great Soman poet, was 
born at Snlmo, about 90 miles from Borne, March 20th, 
B. GL, 43, died in exile, A. D., 18. Ho came of a noble 
family, and was educated in the best accomplishments 
St the times. After travelling through Sicily, Greece, 
and Asia, he settled In Borne, forming one of that gal- 
axy of talent which distinguished the Augustan era. 
When 50 yean old he was banished to Torni, on the 
Snxine, which event he immortalizes in his " TrUtia." 
His works are, M Tk* Amores," the picture of a dissolute 
age, M The Bomam Fasti," and " The Metamorphotm," of 
which we present the Bev. Alfred Church's abridge- 
ment from u The Ancient Classics."] 

Ovid tells us that before he was banished 
he had written, but not corrected, the fifteen 
books of the "Metamorphoses," and had 
also composed twelve books (only six have 
been preserved) of the "Fasti" or Roman 
Calendar. These are his chief surviving 

In the "Metamorphoses" we have the 
largest and most important of Ovid's works ; 
and, if we view it as a whole, the greatest 
monument of his poetical genius. The plan 
of the book is to collect together, out of the 
vast mass of Greek mythology and legend, 
the various stories which turn on the change 
of men and women from the human form 
into animals, plants, or inanimate objects. 
Nor are the tales merely collected. Such a 
collection would have been inevitably mo- 
notonous and tiresome. With consummate 
skill the poet arranges and connects them 
together. The thread of connection is often 
slight ; sometimei it is broken altogether. 
But it is sufficiently continuous to keep alive 
the reader's interest ; which is, indeed, often 
excited by the remarkable ingenuity of the 
transition from one tale to another. But it 
did not escape the author's perception, that 
to repeat over and over again the story of a 
marvel which must have been as incredible 
to his own contemporaries as it is to us, 
would have been to insure failure. Hence 

the metamorphoses themselves occupy but 
a sm all part of the book, which finds its 
real charm and beauty in the brilliant epi- 
sodes, for the introduction of which they 
the occasion. 

ow far the idea was Ovid's own it is im- 
possible to say. Two Greek poets are know* 
to have written on the same subject. One 
of them was Nicander, of Colophon, in Asia 
Minor, an author of the second century B. c, 
attached, it would seem, to the court of 
Pergamus, which, under the dynasty of the 
Attali, was a famous centre of literary activ- 
ity. Of his work, the u Changes" (for so 
we may translate its Greek title), only a few 
fragments are preserved, quite insufficient 
to give us any idea of its merits or methods. 
Parthenius, a native of the Bithynian 
Nicsea, so famous in ecclesiastical history, 
may be credited with having given some 
hints to the Roman poet — to whom, indeed, 
as a contemporary,* and connected with the 
great literary circle of Rome, he was proba- 
bly known. Parthenius, we know on good 
authority, taught the Greek language to 
Virgil, who condescended to borrow at least 
one line from his preceptor. His " Meta- 
morphoses " have entirely perished. We 
have only the probability of the case to 
warrant us in supposing that Ovid was under 
obligations to him. Of these obligations, 
indeed, no ancient authority speaks ; and it 
is safe, probably, to conjecture that they 
were inconsiderable — nothing, certainly, 
like what Virgil owed to Homer, Hesiod, 
and Theocritus. 

It would weary the reader, not to mention 
the space which the execution of such a task 
would require, to conduct him along the 
whole course of the metamorphoses— -from 
the description of Chaos, with which the poet 
begins, to the transformation of the murdered 
Caesar into a comet, with which, not follow- 
ing the customary adulation to the successor 
of the great Dictator, he concludes. Speci- 
mens must suffice; and the book is one 
which, better than any other great poem that 
can be mentioned, specimens may adequate- 
ly represent. 

The first book begins, as has been said, 
with a description of Chaos. " Nothing," 
says Bayle, in his satirical fashion, " could 
be clearer and more intelligible than this 
description, if we consider only the poetical 
phrases ; but if we examine its philosophy, 

• Parthenius died at an advanced age, about tha bh 
fanning of the reign of Tlberioa 



we find it confused and contradictory—* 
chaos, in fact, more hideous than that which 
he has described." Bayle, however, looked 
for what the poet never pretended to five. 
His cosmogony is, at least, as intelligible as 
any other ; and it is expressed with marvel- 
lous force of language, culminating in one 
of the noblest of the poet's efforts, the de- 
scription of the creation of man, the crown 
and masterpiece of the newly-made world. 

"Something yet lacked — some holier being 

— dowered 
With lofty soul, and capable of rule 
And governance o'er all besides, — and Man 
At last had birth :— whether from seed 

Of Him, the artificer of things, and cause 
Of the amended world, — or whether Earth 
Yet new, and late from <£ther separate, still 
Retained some lingering germs of kindred 

Which wise Prometheus, with the plastic aid 
Of water borrowed from the neighbouring 

Formed in the likeness of the all-ordering 

And, while all other creatures sought the 

With downward aspect grovelling, gave to 

His port sublime, and bade him scan, erect, 
The heavens, and front with upward gaze 

the stars. 
And thus earth's substance, rude and shape- 
less erst, 
Transmuted took the novel form of Man."* 

The four ages of the world thus created 
are described j and to the horrors of the last 
of these, the Age of Iron, succeeds the tale 
of its crowning wickedness — the attempt of 
the giants to scale the heights of heaven. 
Jupiter smites down the assailants, and the 
earth brings forth from their blood 

" A race of Gods 
Contemptuous, prone to violence and lust 
Of strife, and bloody-minded, born from 

Jupiter calls his fellow-gods to council, and 
they pass to his hall along the way — 

" Sublime of milky whiteness, whence its 

• Two lines of Dryden'e version are here worth 

" Man look* aloft, and with erected eye* 
Beholds kin own hereditary skies." 

He inveighs against the enormities of w 

recounting what he had himself witnessed 
when he had— 

"Putting off the God, 
Disguised in human semblance walked Hm 

Many shameful sights he had witnessed, baft 
the worst horror had met him in the hall of 
Lycaon, the Arcadian king, who, after at- 
tempting to murder his guest, had served 
up to him a feast of human flesh. Lycaon, 
indeed, had paid the penalty of his crime :— 

" Terror-struck he fled, 
And through the silence of the distant plains 
Wild howling, vainly strove for human voice. 
His maddened soul his form infects : — his arms 
To legs are changed, his robes to shaggy 

hide ; — 
Glutting on helpless flocks his ancient lust 
Of blood, a wolf he prowls, — retaining still 
Some traces of his earlier self,— the same 
Grey fell of hair— the red fierce glare of eye 
And savage mouth, — alike in beast and man 1" 

But a wider vengeance was needed. The 
whole race of man must be swept away. 
Thus we come to a description of the deluge. 
Of all mankind, two only are left, — Deu- 
calion, son of Prometheus, and Pyrrha, 
daughter of the brother Titan Epime- 
theus — 

" Than he no better, juster man had lived ; 
Than she no woman holier." 

Seeking to know how the earth may be 
replenished with the race of man, they re- 
ceive this mysterious command — 

" Behind you fling your mighty Mother's 

Deucalion, as becomes the son of so saga- 
cious a father, discovers its meaning. T3ie 
"mighty mother" is earth, the stones her 

" They descend 
The mount, and, with veiled head and vest 

Behind them, as commanded, fling the stones. 
And lo !— a tale past credence, did not all 
Antiquity attest it true,— the stones 
Their natural rigour lose, by slow degrees 
Softening and softening into form ; and grow, 
And swell with milder nature, and assume 
Eude semblance of a human shape, not yet 



Distinct, bat like some statue new-conceived 
And half expressed in marble. What they had 
Of moist or earthy in their substance, turns 
To flesh : — what solid and inflexible 
Forms into bones ; — their veins as veins re- 
TQ1, in brief time, and by the Immortals' 

The man-tossed pebbles live and stand up men, 
And women from the woman's oast revive. 
So sprang our hard enduring race, which 
Its origin— fit fruit of such a stock." 

Bat while man was thus created— 

"All other life in various shapes the Earth 
Spontaneous bare, soon as the Sun had kissed 
Her bosom yet undried, and mud and marsh 
8tirred with ferment." 

Among these creatures, equivalents of the 
monstrous saurians of modern geological 
science, springs 

"Huge Python, serpent-prodigy, the dread 
Of the new world, o'er half the mountain's 

Enormous coiled. But him the Archer-God, 
With all his quiver's store of shafts, untried 
Till now on aught save deer or nimble goat, 
Smote to the death, and from a thousand 

Drained the black torrent of his poisonous 

And, that the memory of the deed might live 
Through after-time, his famous festival 
And Pythian contest, from the monster's name 
80 called, ordained." 

Flushed with his victory over the monster, 
Apollo meets Cupid, and asks him what 
right he has to such a manly weapon as the 
how. Cupid retaliates by a shaft which 
sets the Sun-God's heart on fire with a pas- 
sion for Daphne, daughter of Peneus, fairest 
and chastest of nympns. She flies from his 
pursuit, and, when flight is ineffectual, is 
changed at her own prayer into a laureL 
The god makes the best of his defeat :— 

" *And if,' he cries, 
; Thou canst not now my consort be, at least 
My tree thou shall bet Still thy leaves shall 

My locks, my lyre, my quiver. Thine the brows 
Of Latium's lords to wreathe, what time the 

Of Rome salutes the triumph, and the pomp 
Of long procession scales the Capitol. 

Before the gates Augustan shalt thou stand 
Their hallowed guardian, high amid thy 

Bearing the crown to civic merit due : — 
And, as my front with locks that know no steel 
Is ever youthful, ever be thine own 
Thus verdant, with the changing year un- 
changed 1'" 

The news of the strange event spreads far 
and wide, and to Peneus 

The brother-Powers of all the neighbour-floods, 
Doubtful or to congratulate or condole 
The parent's hap." 

One only was absent, Inachus, 

"Whom grief 
Held absent, in his cave's recess, with tears 
His flood augmenting." 

(One of the frigid conceits with which Ovid 
often betrays a faulty taste.) His grief was 
for his daughter Io, whom he has lost, 
changed by Juno into a heifer. The feelings 
of the transformed maiden are told with 
some pathos. 

" By the loved banks she strays 
Of Inachus, her childhood's happy haunt, 
And in the stream strange horns reflected 

Back-shuddering at the sight. The Naiads see 
And know her not : — nor Inachus himself 
Can recognise his child, — though close her sire 
She follows— close her sister-band, — and 

Their praise, and joys to feel their fondling 

Some gathered herbs her father proffers- 
She licks and wets with tears his honoured 

And longs for words to ask his aid, and tell 
Her name, her sorrows." 

She contrives to tell her tale in letters 
scraped by her hoof. Then Argus, the 
hunared-eyed herdsman, to whom Juno has 
committed her, drives her to other pastures. 
Then Mercury finds him, charms him to 
slumber with the song of Syrinx, transformed 
into a reed to escape the love of Pan, and 
slays him. 

"So waned at once 
The light which filled so many eyes ; one night 
Closed all the hundred. But Saturnia's care 



Later renewed their fires, and bade them shine, 
Gem-like, amid the peacock's radiant plumes.' ' 

In Egypt, Io gives birth to her son Epaphus, 
and Epaphus, growing up, has among his 
companions one Phaeton, — 

" Apollo's child, whom once, with boastful 

Vaunting his birth divine, and claiming rank 
Superior, the Inachian checked" 

with the taunt that his divine parentage was 
all a fable. The furious youth seeks his 
mother, and demands whether the story is 
true. It is, she says ; and she bids him 
seek the Sun-God himself, and hear the 
truth from his lips. The famous description 
of the Sun-God's palace follows : — 

" Sublime on lofty columns, bright with gold 
And fiery carbuncle, its roof inlaid 
With ivory, rose the Palace of the Sun, 
Approached by folding gates with silver sheen 
Radiant ; material priceless, — yet less prized 
For its own worth than what the cunning head 
Of Mulciber thereon had wrought, — the globe 
Of Earth, — the Seas that wash it round, — the 

That overhang it. 'Mid the waters played 
Their Gods cerulean. Triton with his horn 
Was there, and Proteus of the shifting shape, 
And old JEgeon, curbing with firm hand 
The monsters of the deep. Her Nereids there 
Round Doris sported, seeming, some to swim, 
Some on the rooks their dresses green to dry, 
Some dolphin-borne to ride ; nor all in face 
The same, nor different ; — so should Asters be. 
Earth showed her men, and towns, and woods, 

and beasts, 
And streams, and nymphs, and rural deities : 
And over all the mimic Heaven was bright 
With the twelve Zodiac signs, oa either valve 
Of the great portal figured,— she on each." 

Pha6ton begs his father to confirm his 
word by granting any boon that he may ask j 
and, the god consenting, asks that he may 
drive his chariot for a day. Phaeton is the 
stock example of " fiery ambition o'ervault- 
ing itself j" and the story of his fall may be 
passed over, though it abounds with pas- 
sages of splendid description. Eridanus or 
Po receives the fallen charioteer. His 
weeping sisters are transformed into poplars 
on its banks. 

" But yet they weep : — and, in the Sun, their 

To amber harden, by the clear stream caught 

And borne, the gaud and grace of 

We have reached the middle of the second 
out of fifteen books. We will try their qua- 
lity at another place. 

jPerseus, son of Jupiter, is on his travels, 
mounted on the winged steed Pegasus, and 
armed with the head of the Gorgon Medusa. 
He comes to the house of Atlas, " hugest of 
the human race fl — 

" To whom the bounds 
Of Earth and Sea were subject, where the Sun 
Downward to Ocean guides his panting steeds 
And in the waves his glowing axle cools." 

He asks shelter and hospitality ; but the Ti- 
tan, mindful of how Theseus had told him 
how a son of Jupiter should one day rob him 
of his orchard's golden fruit, refuses the 
boon. The indignant hero cries — 

'"Then take 
From me this gift at parting ! ' and his look 
Askance he turned, and from his left arm 

Full upon Atlas' face the Gorgon-Head, 
With all its horrors : — and the Giant-King 
A Giant mountain stood ! His beard, his hair 
Were forests : — into crags his shoulders spread 
And arms : — his head the crowning summit 

towered :— 
His bones were granite. So the Fates fulfilled 
Their heat; — and all his huge proportions 

To vaster bulk, and ample to support 
The incumbent weight of Heaven and all its 


Perseus pursues his journey, and reaches 
the Lybian shore, where the beautiful An- 
dromeda is chained to a rock, to expiate by 
becoming the sea-monster's prey her mo- 
ther's foolish boast of beauty. 

"Bound by her white arms to the rugged rocks 
The Maid he saw :— and were't not for the 

That gave her tresses motion, and the tears 
That trickled down her pallid cheeks, — had 

Some marble statue deemed." 

The reader may like to see how a modern 
poet has treated the same subject. It is 
Perseus who speaks : 



" Prom afar, unknowing, I marked thee, 
Shining, a snow-white cross on the dark-green 

walls of the sea-cliff ; 
Carren in marble I deemed thee, a perfect 

work of the craftsman, 
Likeness of Amphitrite, or far-famed Queen 

Carious I came, till I saw how thy tresses 

streamed in the sea-wind, 
jSEstening, black as the night, and thy lips 

moved slow in thy wailing." 

Mr. Kingsley's hero delivers the maiden, 
trusting to her for his reward. Ovid's Per- 
seus, less chivalrous, perhaps, but more in 
accordance with ancient modes of thought, 
bargains with her father and mother that he 
shall have her for his wife, before he begins 
the conflict with the destroyer: On the 
other hand, it may be placed to his credit 
that he slays the beast with his falchion, 
without recourse to the terrible power of the 
Gorgon head. Ovid's taste seems a little in 
fault in the next passage. Perseus wraps 
up his dangerous weapon in sea-weed, which 
freezes, and stiffens at its touch into stony 
leaf and stalk. The sea-nymphs, in delight, 
repeat the experiment, sow "the novel 
seeds " about their realm, and so produce the 
coral. To us it seems a puerile conceit, 
diminishing the beauty of a noble legend. 
Ovid, probably, thought only of completing 
Ms work, by introducing every fable of 
transformation he could find. 

After victory comes due sacrifice to the 
gods, and then Cepheus makes the marriage- 
feast for his daughter. To the assembled 
guests Perseus tells the story of how he had 
won the Gorgon's head, in the midst of 
their talk comes a sudden interruption of 
no friendly kind. Phineus, brother of Ce- 
pheus, bursts with an armed throng into the 
hall, and demands Andromeda, who had been 
promised to him in marriage. A fierce bat- 
tle ensues ; and Ovid, in describing it, seems 
to challenge comparison with the great 
masters of epic. The young hero, true to 
his principles, defends himself with mortal 
weapons, and works prodigies of valour. It 
is only when he finds his friends crushed by 
overpowering numbers that he bares the 
dreadful Head, and turns it on the assailants ; 
—first as they press forward, one by one, 
then on the crowd, and last on the leader 

" He flashed 
Full on the cowering wretch the Gorgon-Head. 
Vainly he strove to shun it ! Into stone 

The writhing neck was stiffened : — white the 

Froze in their sockets : — and the statue still, 
With hands beseeching spread, and guilty fear 
Writ in its face, for mercy seemed to pray." 

Perseus then bore his bride to Argos, where 
the Head recovers from the usurping Proetus 
his grandfather's kingdom, and turns to stone 
the incredulous Polydectes, tyrant of Seri- 

Here we leave Perseus ; and Pallas, who 
has been his helper throughout his toils, 
goes to Helicon, there to inquire of the 
Muses about the strange fountain which 
she hears has sprung from the hoof-dint of 
the winged Pegasus. Urania, speaking for 
the sisterhood, tells her that the tale is true f 
and when the goddess speaks of the beauty 
and peace of their retreat, narrates the story 
of how they escaped from the tyrant Pyreneus 
by help of their wings, and how he, seeking 
to follow them, had been dashed in pieces. 
As she speaks, a 

" Whirr of wings 
Came rustling overhead, and from the boughs 
Voices that bade him ' Hail I' — so human-clear 
That upward Pallas turned her wondering gaze 
To see who spoke. She saw but Birds : — a 

Thrice three, of Pies, at imitative sounds 
Deftest of winged things, that, on a branch 
Perched clamorous, seemed as though some 

woful fate 
They wailed and strove to tell." 

Urania explains the marvel. They had been 
nine sisters, daughters of Pierus, " Lord of 
Pella's field," and proud of their skill in 
music and song ; and, deeming that there 
lay some magic in their mystic number they 
challenged the sister Muses to contend. 
The challenge had been accepted, and the 
Nymphs swore by all their river-gods to 
judge fairly between the two. One of the 
daughters of Pierus had sung, and her song 
had been treason to the gods, for it told how, 
in fear of the Titan onset of the sons of earth, 
the lords of heaven had fled, disguised in all 
strange shapes. Then the Muses had re- 
plied ; but Pallas thinks Urania will not care 
to hear their song. Not so, replies the god- 
dess ; so the tale is told. Calliope had been 
their chosen champion, and her theme had 
been how Pluto had carried off Proserpina, 
daughter of Ceres, to share his gloomy throne 
in Hades, and how the mourning mother 
sought her child in every region of the earth, 



A touch of the ludicrous comes in, the fate 
of the mocking Stellio :— «- 

" Weary and travel-worn, — her lips unwei 
With water, — at a straw-thatched cottage 

The Wanderer knocked. An ancient crone 

came forth 
And saw her need, and hospitable brought 
Her bowl of barley-broth, and bade her 

Thankful she raised it: — but a graceless boy 
And impudent stood by, and, ere the half 
Was drained, 'Hal ha! see how the glut- 
ton swills !' 
With fnsolent jeer he cried. The Goddess' 

Was roused, and as he spoke, what liquor yet 
The bowl retained full in his face she dashed. 
His cheeks broke out in blotches : — what were 

Turned legs, and from the shortened trunk a 

Tapered behind. Small mischief evermore 
Might that small body work : — the lisard's 

Was larger now than he. With terror shrieked 
The crone, and weeping stooped her altered 

To raise ; — the little monster fled her grasp 
And wriggled into hiding. Still his name 
His nature tells, and, from the star-like spots 
That mark him, known as Stellio crawls the 


At last, after a fruitless quest, she wanders 
back to Sicily, the land where the lost one 
had last been seen. And then the secret is 
half-revealed. Gyane, chief of Sicilian 
nymphs, had fried to bar the passage of 
Pluto as he was descending with his captive, 
and had been dissolved into water by the 
wrath of the god. But she tells what she 
can, and shows, floating on her waves, the 
zone which Proserpina had dropped. Then 
the mother knew her loss, and in her wrath 
banned with barrenness the ungrateful earth. 
But who was the robber? That she finds 
another nymph to tell her. Arethusa had 
seen her : — 

" All the depths 
Of earth I traverse : — where her caverns lie 
Darkest and nethermost I pass, and here 
Uprising, look once more upon the Stars. 
And in my course I saw her ! yea, these eyes, 
As past the Stygian realm my waters rolled, 
Proserpina beheld 1 Still sad she seemed, 
And still her cheek some trace of terror wore, 
But all a Queen, and, in that dismal world, 
Greatest in place and majesty, — the wife 
Of that tremendous God who rules in Hell." 

The wretched mother flies to the throne of 
Jupiter. She must have back her child. 
She does not take account of the great throne 
which she shares. And Jove grants the re- 
quest, but only — for so the Fates have willed 
it— on this condition, that no food should 
have passed her lips in the realms below. 
Alas ! the condition cannot be fulfilled. She 
had plucked a pomegranate in the garden 
of the Shades, and had eaten seven of its 
grains. Ascalaphus, son of the gloomy dei- 
ties Woe and Darkness, had seen her, and 
he told the tale. The mother takes her re- 
venge : — 

" With water snatched from Phlegethon 
His brow she sprinkled. Instant, beak and 

And larger eyes were his, and tawny wings 
His altered form uplifted, and his head 
Swelled disproportioned to his size : his nail* 
Curved crooked into claws, — and heavily 
His pinions beat the air. A bird accursed. 
Augur of coming sorrow, still to Man 
Ill-ominous and hateful flits the Owl." 

But Jove reconciles her to her grim son* 
in-law. Proserpina was to spend six months 
in hell and six on earth, and the satisfied 
mother has leisure to seek Arethusa, and find 
how she had learned the secret She hears 
in reply how she had fled from the pursuit 
of Alpheus from her native home in Achaia, 
and had passed through all the depths of 
earth till she rose again to the light in Sicily, 
The story told, Ceres hastens to Athens, 
and there teaches the youth Triptolemus the 
secrets of husbandry, and bids him journey 
in her dragon-car over the world to spread 
the new knowledge. At the court of the 
Scythian Lyncus he is treacherously assailed 
by his host, but Ceres stays the murderer's 
hand, and changes him into a lynx. Here, 
after digressions which strongly remind us 
of the "Arabian Nights," we come to the 
end of Calliope's song. Then Urania tells 
how the Nymphs, with one voice, accorded 
victory to the Muses ; and how tne Pierian 
sisters — whose name, by the way, their suc- 
cessful rivals seem to have appropriated— 
rebelled against the judgment, and found the 
penalty in transformation into Pies. The 
story then passes on to the revenge which 
Pallas herself has had on a mortal rival. 
The poet — with true tact,— does not make 
her tell the tale herself, for she seems to have 
conquered bj power, not by skilL Arachne, 
a Lydian maid, brought all the world to look 
at her wondrous spinning. They swear that 



Pallas herself had taught her, bat she dis- 
dains such praise ; — her art was all her own. 
Let Pallas come to compare her skill. And 
Pallas came, bat at first in shape of an an- 
cient dame, who counsels the bold maiden 
to be content with victory over mortal com- 
petitors, but to avoid dangerous challenge to 
the gods. The advice is given in vain. 
Aracnne rushes upon her fate. The goddess 
reveals herself, and the contest was begun. 
An admirable piece of word-painting fol- 
lows: — 

" The looms -were set,— the webs 
Were hung : beneath their fingers nimbly plied 
The subtle fabrics grew, and warp and woof, 
Transverse, with shuttle and with slay compact 
Were pressed in order fair. And either girt 
Her mantle close, and eager wrought ; the toil 
Itself was pleasure to the skilful hands 
That knew so well their task. With Tyrian 

Of purple blushed the texture, and all shades 
Of colour, blending imperceptibly 
Each into each. So, when the wondrous bow 
What time some passing shower hath dashed 

the sun 
Spans with its mighty arch the vault of Heaven, 
A thousand colours deck it, different all, 
Yet all so subtly interfused that each 
Seems one with that which joins it, and the eye 
Bat by the contrast of the extremes perceives 
The intermediate change. And last, with 

Of gold embroidery pictured, on the web 
Lifelike expressed, some antique fable 


Pallas pictures the Hill of Mars at Athens, 
where the gods had sat in judgment in the 
strife between herself and Neptune as to who 
should be the patron deity or that fair city. 

"There stood the God 
Of Seas, and with his trident seemed to smite 
The rugged rook, and from the cleft out-sprang 
The Steed that for its author claimed the town. 
Herself, with shield and spear of keenest barb 
And helm, she painted ; on her bosom 

The JEgis : with her lance's point she struck 
The earth, and from its breast the Olive 
► bloomed, 

Pale, with its berried fruit : — and all the gods 
Admiring gaxed, adjudging in that strife 
The victory hers." 

Arachne, disloyal, as the daughters of 
Pierus had been, to the Lords of Heaven, 
pictures them in the base disguises to 1 

which love for mortal women had driven 
them. But her work is so perfect that — 

" Not Pallas, nay, not Envy's self, could fault 
In all the work detect." 

The furious goddess smites her rival twelve 
times on the forehead : — 

" The high-souled Maid 
Suoh insult not endured, and round her neck 
Indignant twined the suicidal noose, 
And so had died. But as she hung, some ruth 
Stirred in Minerva's breast:— the pendent 

She raised, and ' Live ! ' she said — * but hang 

thou still 
For ever, wretch ! and through all future time 
Even to thy latest race bequeath thy doom I ' 
And as she parted, sprinkled her with juioe 
Of aconite. With venom of that drug 
Infected dropped her tresses, nose and ear 
Were lost ; her form to smallest bulk com* 

A head minutest crowned ; — to slenderest legs 
Jointed on either side her fingers changed : 
Her body but a bag, whence still she draws 
Her filmy threads, and, with her ancient art, 
Weaves the fine meshes of her Spider's web." 

Leaving the goddess in the enjoyment of 
this doubtful victory, the story passes on to 
the tale of Niobe. What has been given 
occupies in the original a space about equi- 
valent to a book and a half. 

Sometimes Ovid gives us an opportu- 
nity of comparing him with a great mas- 
ter of his own art. A notable instance of 
the kind is the story of how Orpheus went 
down to the lower world in search of his 
lost Eurydice; how he won her by the 
charms of his song from the unpitying Gods 
of death, and lost her again on the very 
borders of life. 

" So sang he, and according to his plaint, 
As wailed the strings, the bloodless Ghosts 

were moved 
To weeping. By the lips of Tantalus 
Unheeded slipped the wave ; — Ixion's wheel 
Forgot to whirl; the Vulture's bloody feast 
Was stayed ; awhile the Belides forbore 
Their leaky urns to dip ; — and Sisyphus 
Sate listening on his stone. Then first, they 

say, — 
The iron cheeks of the Eumenides 
Were wet with pity. Of the nether realm 
Nor king nor Queen had heart to say him nay. 
Forth from a host of new-descended Shades 
Eurydice was called ; and, halting yet 



Slow with her recent wound she came— alive, 
On one condition to her spouse restored, 
That, till Avernus' yale is passed and earth 
Regained, he look not backward, or the boon 
Is null and forfeit. Through the silent realm 
Upward against the steep and fronting hill 
Dark with obscurest gloom, the way he led : 
And now the upper air was all but won, 
When, fearful lest the toil o'er-task her 

And yearning to behold the form he loved, 
An instant back he looked, — and back the 

That instant fled ! The arms that wildly strove 
To clasp and stay her clasped but yielding air I 
No word of plaint even in that second Death 
Against her Lord she uttered, — how could 

Too anxious be upbraided ? — but one last 
And sad ' Farewell l' scarce audible, she 

And vanished to the Ghosts that late she left." 

Here is Virgil, though he has not the 
advantage of being presented by so skilful 
a translator as Mr. King : — 

14 Stirred by his song, from lowest depths of 

Game the thin spectres of the sightless dead, 
Crowding as crowd the birds among the leaves 
Whom darkness or a storm of wintry rain 
Drives from the mountains. Mothers came, 

and sires, 
Great-hearted heroes, who had lived their lives, 
And boys, and maidens never wed, and men 
Whom in their prime, before their parents' 

The funeral flames had eaten. All around 
With border of black mud and hideous reed, 
Cocytus, pool unlovely, hems them in, 
And Styx imprisons with his nine-fold stream. 
Nay, and his song the very home of death 
Entranced and nethermost abyss of hell, 
And those Dread Three whose tresses are en- 
With livid snakes ; while Cerberus stood agape, 
Nor moved the triple horror of his jaw ; 
And in charmed air Ixion's wheel was stayed. 
And now with step retreating he had shunned 
All peril ; and the lost one, given back, 
Was nearing the sweet breath of upper air, 
Following behind — such terms the gods im- 
posed — 
When some wild frenzy seized the lover's heart 
Unheeding, well, were pardon known in hell, 
Well to be pardoned. Still he stood, and saw, 
Ah me ! forgetful, mastered all by love, " 
Saw, at the very border of the day, 

His own Eurydice. wasted toll! 

broken compact of the ruthless god I 

Then through Avernus rolled the crash of 


And she — ' What miserable madness this. 
Ah ! wretched that I am '. which ruins me) 
And thee, my Orpheus ? Lo 1 the cruel Fater 
Call me again ; sleep seals my swimming eyes ; 
Farewell 1 for boundless darkness wraps ma 

Amd carries me away, still stretching forth 
Dark hands to thee, who am no longer thine.* " 

No reader will doubt with which poet 
the {general superiority lies; yet it must 
be allowed that Ovid is strong in -what 
may be called his own peculiar line. There 
is a noble tenderness and a genuine pa- 
thos in the parting of the two lovers, 
which is characteristic of the poet's 

One of the longest as well as the most 
striking episodes in the whole book is the 
contest between Ajax and Ulysses for the 
arms of the dead Achilles ; and it has the 
additional interest of recalling the decla- 
matory studies of the poet's youth. It is 
throughout a magnificent piece of rheto- 
ric. The blunt energy of Ajax, and the 
craft and persuasiveness of Ulysses, are 
admirably given. The elder Seneca, in 
the passage already quoted, mentions that 
the poet was indebted for some of his ma- 
terials and language to his teacher, Por- 
cius Latro, one of whose declamations on 
"The Contest for the Arras " Seneca had 
either heard or read. One phrase is spe- 
cified as having been borrowed from this 
source. It is the fiery challenge with which 
Ajax clenches his argument : — 

"Enough of idle words! let hands, not 

Show what we are 1 Fling 'mid yon hostile 

Our hero' t armour : bid us fetch it thence ? 
And be it hie who first shall bring it back /' * 

The piece is too long to be given (it fills 
more^ than half of the thirteenth book), 
and its effect would be lost in extracts. 
A few lines, however, from the beginning 
may be quoted ; and indeed nothing 
throughout is more finely put It may be 
as well to mention that the ships spoken of 
had been in imminent danger of destruction 



at the hand of Hector, and that Ajax had 
at least some claim to be called their pre- 
server: — 

"On high the chieftains sat: the common 

Stood in dense ring around ; then Ajax rose, 
Lord of the seven-fold shield ; and backward 

Scowling, for anger mastered all his soul, 
Whereon Sigamm's shore the fleet was ranged, 
And with stretched hand : * Before the ships 

we plead 
Our cause, great heaven ! and Ulysses dares 
Before the ships to match himself with me !' " 

It may be noticed, as a proof that Ovid 
went out of his way, in introducing this 
episode, to make use of material to which 
he attached a special value, that the narra- 
tive is not really connected with any trans- 
formation. Ajaz, defeated by the act which 
gives the arms to his rival, falls upon his 
■word $ and the turf, wet with his blood, 

" Blossomed with the self-same flower 
That erst had birth from Hyacinthus' wound, 
And in its graven cup memorial bears 
Of either fate, — the characters that shape 
Apollo's wailing cry, and Ajax' name." 

What these characters were we learn from 
the end of the story here alluded to, of how 
the beautiful Hyacinthus was killed by a 
quoit from the hand of Apollo, and how 

" The blood 
That with its dripping crimson dyed the turf 
Was blood no more : and sudden sprang to life 
A flower that wore the lily's shape, but not 
The lily's silver livery, purple-hued 
And brighter than all tinot of Tyrian shells : 
s*or with that boon of beauty satisfied, 
Upon the petals of its cup the God 
Stamped legible his sorrow's wailing cry, 
And ■ Ai ! Ai P ever seems the flower to say." 

Two more specimens must conclude this 
chapter. Pygmalion's statue changing into 
flesh and blood at the sculptor's passionate 
prayer is a subject after Ovid's own heart, 
and he treats it with consummate delicacy 
and skill : 

" The Sculptor sought 
His home, and, bending o'er the couch that 

His Maiden's lifelike image, to her lips 
fond pressed his own, and lo 1 her lipe 

teemed warm, 

And warmer, kissed again : and now his 

Her bosom seeks, and dimpling to his touch 
The ivory seems to yield, — as in the Sun 
The waxen labour of Hymettus' bees, 
By plastic fingers wrought, to various, shape 
And use by use is fashioned. Wonder-spelled, 
Scarce daring to believe his bliss, in dread 
Lest sense deluded mock him, on the form 
He loves, again and yet again his hand 
Lays trembling touch, and to his touch a puis* 
Within throbs answering palpable: — 'twas 

'Twas very Life 1 — Then forth in eloquent flood 
His grateful heart its thanks to Venus poured 1 
The lips he kissed were living lips that felt 
His passionate pressure ;— o'er the virgin 

Stole deepening crimson ; — and the unclosing 

At once on Heaven and on their Lover 

looked 1" 

The fifteenth or last book of the " Meta- 
morphoses " contains an eloquent exposition 
of the Pythagorean philosophy. Pythagoras, 
a Greek by birth, had made Italy, the 
southern coasts of which were indeed thickly 
studded with the colonies of his nation, the 
land of his adoption, and the traditions of 
his teaching and of nis life had a special in- 
terest for the people to which had descended 
the greatness of ail the races — Oscan, Etrus- 
can, Greek — which had inhabited the beauti- 
ful peninsula. A legend, careless, as such 
legends commonly are, of chronology, made 
him the preceptor of Numa, the wise king 
to whom Rome owed so much of its worship 
and its law. The doctrine most commonly 
connected with his name was that of the me- 
tempsychosis, or transmigration of souls 
from one body to another, whether of man 
or of the lower animals, though it probably 
did not occupy a very prominent part in his 
philosophy. It was an old belief of the 
Aryan race, and it had a practical aspect 
which commended it to the Roman mind, 
always more inclined to ethical than to me- 
taphysical speculations. Virgil, in that vision 
of the lower world which occupies the sixth 
book of his great epic, employs it — partly, 
indeed, as a poetical artifice for introducing 
his magnificent roll of Roman worthies, but 
also in a more serious aspect, as suggesting 
the method of those purifying influences 
which were to educate the human soul for 
higher destinies. Ovid sees in it the philo- 
sophical explanation of the marvels which 
he has been relating, and, as it were, their 



▼indication from the possible charge of being 
childish fables, vacant of any real meaning, 
and unworthy of a serious pen. The passage 
which follows refers to a practical rule in 
which we may see a natural inference from 
the philosophical dogma. If man is so 
closely allied to the lower animals — if their 
forms are made, equally with his, the re- 
ceptacles of the one divine animating spirit 
—then there is a certain impiety in his 
slaughtering them to satisfy his wants. 
Strangely enough, the progress or revolution 
of human thought has brought science again 
to the doctrine of man's kindred with the 
animals, though it seems altogether averse 
to the merciful conclusion which Pythagoras 
drew from it. 

" What had ye done, ye flocks, ye peaceful 

Created for Man's blessing, that provide 
To slake his thirst your udder* s nectarous 

That with your fleece wrap warm his shiver- 
ing limbs, 
And serve him better with your life than 

What fault was in the Ox, a creature mild 
And harmless, docile, born with patient toil 
To lighten half the labour of the fields ? — 
Ungrateful he, and little worth to reap 
Ihe crop he sowed, that, from the crooked 

ITntraced, his ploughman slew, and to the axe 
Condemned the neck that, worn beneath his 

For many a spring his furrows traced, and 

With many a harvest dragged his Autumn- 
wain I 
Nor this is all : — but Man must of his guilt 
Make Heaven itself accomplice, and believe 
The Gods with slaughter of their creatures 

pleased ! 
Lo ! at the altar, fairest of his kind, — 
And by that very fairness marked for doom, — 
The guiltless victim stands, — bedecked for 

With wreath and garland I Ignorant he hears 
The muttering Priest,— feels ignorant his 

White with the sprinkling of the salted meal 
To his own labour owed, — and ignorant 
Wonders, perchance, to see the lustral urn 
Flash back the glimmer of the lifted knife 
Too soon to dim its brightness with his blood ! 
And Priests are found to teach, and men to 

That in the entrails, from the tortured frame 

Tet reeking torn, they read the hest of 

Heaven ! — 
race of mortal men ! what lust, what vice 
Of appetite unhallowed, makes ye bold 
To gorge your greed on Being like your own T 
Be wiselier warned : — forbear the barbarous 

Nor in each bloody morsel that you chew 
The willing labourer of your fields devour f 

# » » ♦ * 

All changes : nothing perishes ! Now hen, 
Now there, the vagrant spirit roves at will, 
The shifting tenant of a thousand homes : — 
Now, elevate, ascends from beast to man, — 
Now, retrograde, descends from man to 

But never dies I — Upon the tablet's page 
Erased, and written fresh, the characters 
Take various shape,— the wax remains the 

So is it with the Soul that, migrating 
Through all the forms of breathing life, 

Unchanged its essence. Oh, be wise, and hear 
Heaven's warning from my prophet-lipe, nor 

With impious slaughter, for your glutton- 
The kindly bond of Nature violate, 
Nor from its home expel the Soul, perchance 
Akin to yours, to nourish blood with blood 1" 

It has been handed down to us on good 
authority that Virgil, in his last illness, de- 
sired his friends to commit his " jEneid" to 
the flames. It had 'not received his final 
corrections, and he was unwilling that it 
should go aown to posterity less perfect than 
he could have made it. Evidences of this 
incompleteness are to be found, especially in 
the occasional inconsistencies of the narra- 
tive. Critics have busied themselves in disco- 
vering or imagining other faults which might 
have been corrected in revision. The desire, 
though it doubtless came from a mind en- 
feebled by morbid conditions of the body, 
was probably sincere. We can hardly be- 
lieve as much of what Ovid tells us of his 
own intentions about the " Metamorphoses : " 
11 As for the verses which told of the changed 
forms — an unlucky work, which its author's 
banishment interrupted — these in the hour 
of my departure I put, sorrowing, as I put 
many other of my good things, into the flames 
with my own hands." Doubtless he did so ; 
nothing could have more naturally displaced 
his vexation. But he could hardly have been 
ignorant that in destroying his manuscript 
he was not destroying his work. " As they 



did not perish altogether," he adds, " but still 
exist, I suppose that there were several copies 
of them." But it is scarcely conceivable that 
a poem containing as nearly as possible 
twelve thousand lines should have existed 
in several copies by chance, or without the 
knowledge of the author. When he says 
that the work never received his final cor- 
rections! we may believe him, though we do 
not perceive any signs of imperfection. It 
is even possible that he employed some of 
his time during his banishment in giving 
some last touches to his verse. 

However this may be, the work has been 
accepted by posterity as second in rank — 
second only to Virgil's epic — among the 
great monuments of Roman genius. It has 
been translated into every language of 
modern Europe that possesses a literature. 
Its astonishing ingenuity, the unfailing va- 
riety of its colours, the flexibility with 
which its style deals alike with the sublime 
and the familiar, and with equal facility is 
gay and pathetic, tender and terrible, have 
well entitled it to the honour, and justify 
the boast with which the poet concludes : — 

11 So crown I here a work that dares defy 
The wrath of Jove, the fire, the sword, the 

Of all-devouring Time ! — Come when it will 
The day that ends my life's uncertain term, — 
That on this corporal frame alone hath power 
To work extinction, — high above the Stars 
My nobler part shall soar, — my Name remain 
Immortal, — wheresoe'er the might of Rome 
(Kerawes the subject Earth my Verse survive 
Familiar in the mouths of men ! — and, if 
A Bard may prophesy, while Time shall last 
Endure, and die but with the dying World 1" 


The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 

Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 
t The hills and waters o'er, 

When a band of exiles moored their bark 
On the wild New England shore. 

Vot at the conqueror comes, 

They, the true hearted, came; 
Hot with the roll of the stirring drums, 
•ad the trumpet that sings of suae t 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; — 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 
And the stars heard, and the sea ; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woode rang 
To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared^— 

This was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band : 
Why bad they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhoods land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?— 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground. 

The soil where first they trod; 
They have left unstained what there they 

Freedom to worship God. 

Felicia Hsmajo. 


[Johaito Paul Fmsdrich Biobtbr, (better known in 
literature as Jban Paul) born 1763, died 1826 ; one of 
the most imaginative of German writers. In early 
life he was a teacher in private families, but became a 
copious writer of books, producing sixty-fire volumes in 
about twenty-fire years. Of these there hare been 
translated into English " Lewma, or Edmcation," " Flower, 
RruO,mid Thorn «scm, h " Hetpenu," and "Titan" both 
norels, and u The Comparer Thai" and other writings. 
Jean Paul's works are full of conspicuous merits, wit, 
sublimity and high moral purpose: they an alse 
marred by characteristic defects, the style being often 
intricate, rambling and diffuse.] 

Once on a summer evening I lay upon a 
mountain in the sunshine, and fell asleep \ 
and I dreamt that I awoke in the church- 
yard, having been roused by the rattling 
wheels of tie tower clock, which struck 
eleven. I looked for the sun in the void 




night-heaven ; for I thought that it was 
eclipsed by the moon. All the graves were 
unclosed, and the iron doors of the charnel 
house were opened and shut by invisible 
hands. Shadows cast by no one flitted along 
the walls, and other shadows stalked erect 
in the free air. No one slept any longer in 
the open coffins but the children. A pray 
sultry fog hung suspended in heavy folds in 
the heavens, and a gigantic shadow drew it 
in like a net, ever nearer, and closer, and 
hotter. Above me I heard the distant fall 
of avalanches : beneath me, the first step of 
an immeasurable earthquake. The church 
was heaved up and down by two incessant 
discords, which struggled with one another, 
and in vain sought to unite in harmony. 
Sometimes a gray glimmer flared up on the 
windows, and, molten by the glimmer, the 
iron and lead ran down in streams. The net 
of fog and the reeling earth drove me into 
the temple, at the door of which brooded two 
basilisks with twinkling eyes in two poison- 
ous nests. I passed through unknown 
shadows, on whom were impressed all the 
centuries of years. The shadows stood con- 
gregated round the altar: and in all, the 
breast throbbed and trembled in the place 
of a heart. One corpse alone which had 
just been buried in the church, lay still upon 
tts pillow, and its breast heaved not, wnile 
upon its smiling countenance lay a happy 
dream : but on the entrance of one of the 
living he awoke, and smiled no more. He 
opened his closed eyelids with a painful ef- 
fort, but within there was no eye ; and in the 
sleeping bosom, instead of a heart, there was 
a wound. He lifted up his hands and folded 
them in prayer; but the arms lengthened 
out and detached themselves from the body, 
and the folded hands fell down apart Aloft, 
on the church-dome, stood the dial-plate of 
Eternity; but there was no figure visible 
upon it, and it was its own index : only a 
black finger pointed to it, and the deaa wished 
to read the time upon it 

A lofty noble form, having the expression 
of a never-ending sorrow, now sank down 
from above upon the altar, and all the dead 
exclaimed — " Christ! is there no God?" 
And he answered — " There is none !" The 
whole shadow of each dead one, and not the 
breast alone, now trembled, and one after 
another was severed by the trembling. 

Christ continued : — " I traversed the 
worlds. I ascended into the suns, and flew 
with the milky-ways through the wildernesses 
of the heavens j but there is no God 1 X de- 

scended as far as Being throws its shadow, 
and gazed down into the abyss, and cried 
aloud—* Father, where art Thou V but I 
heard nothing but the eternal storm which 
no one rules ; and the beaming rainbow in 
the west hung , without a creating sun, above 
the abyss, and fell down in drops ; and when 
I looked up to the immeasurable world for 
the Divine Eye, it glared upon me from aa 
empty, bottomless socket, and Eternity lay 
brooding upon Chaos, and gnawed it, and 
ruminated it Cry on, ye discords ! cleave 
the shadows with your cries j for he is not 1" 

The shadows grew pale and melted, as the 
white vapour formed by the frost melts and 
becomes a warm breath, and all was void. 
Then there arose and came into the temple 
— a terrible sight for the heart — the dead 
children who had awakened in the church- 
yard, and they cast themselves before the 
lofty form upon the altar, and said " Jesus, 
have we no Father ?" and he answered with 
streaming eyes, " We are orphans, I and 
you : we are without a Father." 

Thereupon the discords shrieked more 
harshly ; the trembling walls of the temple 
split asunder, and the temple and the child- 
ren sunk down, and the earth and the sun 
followed, and the whole immeasurable uni- 
verse fell rushing past us ; and aloft upon 
the summit of infinite Nature stood Christ, 
and gazed down into the universe, chequered 
with thousands of suns, as into a mine dug 
out of the Eternal Night, wherein the suns 
are the miners' lamps, and the milky-ways 
the veins of silver. 

And when Christ beheld the grinding con- 
course of worlds, the torch dances of the 
heavenly ignes jatui, and the coral banks 
of beating hearts j and when he beheld how 
one sphere after another poured out its 

f learning souls into the sea of death, as a 
rop of water strews gleaming lights upon 
the waves, sublime, as the loftiest finite being, . 
he lifted up his eyes to the Nothingness, and 
to the empty Immensity, and said : " Frozen, 
dumb Nothingness ! cold, eternal Necessity! 
insane Chance! know ye what is beneath 
you ? When will ye destroy the building 
and me ? Chance ! knowest thou thyself when 
with hurricanes thou wilt march through 
the snow-storm of stars and extinguish one 
sun after the other, and when the sparkling 
dew of the constellations shall cease to glis- 
ten as thou passest by? How lonely is 
every one in the wide charnel of the uni- 
verse ! I alone am in company with myselC 
Father ! Father! where is thine infinite 



bosom, that I may be at rest? Alas! if 
every being is its own father and creator, 
why cannot it also be its own destroying 
angel ? ... Is that a man near me ? 
Thou poor one ! Thy little life is the sigh 
of Nature, or only its echo. A concave mir- 
ror throws its beams upon the dust-clouds 
composed of the ashes of the dead upon your 
earth, and thus ye exist, cloudy, tottering 
images! Look down into the abyss over 
which clouds of ashes are floating by. Fogs 
full of worlds arise out of the sea of death. 
The future is a rising vapour, the present a 
falling one. Knowest thou thy earth ?" 
Here Christ looked down, and his eyes filled 
with tears, and he said, " Alas ! I too was 
once like you — then I was happy, for I had 
still ray infinite Father, and still gazed joy- 
rally from the mountains into the infinite 
expanse of heaven ; and I pressed my wound- 
ed heart on his soothing image, and said, 
even in the bitterness of death : ' Father, take 
thy Son out of his bleeding shell, and lift 
him up to thy heart.' Ah, ye too, too happy 
dwellers of earth, ye still believe in him. 
Perhaps at this moment your sun is setting, 
and ye fall amid blossoms, radiance, and 
tears, upon your knees, and lift up your 
blessed hands, and call out to the open 
heaven, amid a thousand tears of joy, "Thou 
knowest me too, thou infinite One, and all 
my wounds, and Thou wilt welcome me after 
death, and wilt close them all.' Ye wretched 
ones ! after death they will not be closed. 

When the Man of Sorrows 

stretches his sore wounded back upon the 
earth to slumber towards a lovelier morning, 
fall of truth, full of virtue and of joy, behold, 
he awakes in the tempestuous chaos, in the 
everlasting midnight, and no morning 
cometh, and no healing hand, and no infinite 
Father 1 Mortal who art near me, if thou 
still livest, worship him, or thou hast lost 
him forever V 1 

And as I fell down and gazed into the 
gleaming fabric of worlds, I beheld the raised 
rings of the giant serpent of eternity, which 
haa couched itself round the universe of 
worlds, and the rings fell, and she enfolded 
the universe doubly. Then she wound her- 
self in a thousand folds round Naturd, and 
crushed the worlds together, and grinding 
them, she squeezed the infinite temple into 
one churchyard church — and all became nar- 
row, dark, and fearful, and a bell-hammer 
stretched out to infinity was about to strike 
the last hour of time, and split the universe 
wunder— when I awoke. 

My soul wept for joy, that it could again 
worsnip God ; and the joy, and the tears, 
and the belief in him, were the prayer. And 
when I arose the sun gleamed deeply behind 
the full purple ears of corn, and peacefully 
threw the reflection of its evening blushes on 
the little moon, which was rising in the east 
without an aurora. And between the heaven 
and the earth a glad fleeting world stretched 
out its short wings and lived like myself in 
the presence of the infinite Father, and from 
all nature around me flowed sweet peaceful 
tones, as from evening bells. 


[Jeak Baptist! Poquklix MoliIrk, the greatest 
comic dramatist of France, born in Purls, 1622, died 
1673. Studying law in early life, Moliere was admit- 
ted an advocate in 1645, but an early passion for the 
stage led him to found a troupe of amateur comedians, 
with whom he travelled in the provinces for twelve 
years. He began to compose imitations of Italian 
farces, and brought out bis first regular comedy, 
" VELourdi," at Lyons, in 1653. Returning to Paris in 
1658, he produced in fifteen years, more than thirty 
plays, many of them masterpieces, wblch have kept the 
stage in France for two centuries, and by translation 
and countless adaptations have adorned the dramatio 
literature of other countries. 

The most noted of Mollere's comedies are " LMwre," 
satirizing the vices of avarice ; " Let Prieiemet Ridicules," 
aimed at the affectations of the coteries in French lite- 
rature and society, (which had a run of four months) ; 
"VEcole des Maris," and u VEooU dee Fenmee," "Le 
Misanthrope," perhaps the finest example of his style; 
" Le Mldld* Malgri Lmi," a livoly farce, " Le Bourgeois 
GentUhomme," "LeMalade Imaginaire," ridiculing the 
pretended maladies of hypochondriacs, and " Tartuff^or 
the Hypocrite," which has been pronounced by some, 
the greatest effort of his genius. The latter play, how- 
ever, was for years prohibited, and the archbishop of 
Paris threatened excommunication to all who should 
act, read or listen to it. Moliere was a great and suc- 
cessful actor, excelling in the most difficult parts. In 
his private character he was full of nobleness and gene- 
rosity. Tho French Academy, which would not admit 
him to membership in its sacred circle while he lived, 
because he would not abandon his profession as a come, 
dian, has ever since conspired to do honor to the memo* 
ry of the illustrious dramatist 

We here give in full a translation of Moliere's " Le 
Mortage Fore A,' "hec&uso it Is ono of the shortest, as well 
as one of the best of his comedies.] 

(Le Mariage Force.) 

" Le Manage Forc£," of which the idea 
is taken from Rabelais, is a comedy-ballet. 



It was first produced in three acts at the 
Louvre, on the 29th of January, 1664 
Louis AlV., then twenty-six years old, ap- 
peared in the ballet as one of the gypsies, 
and the play was therefore called the Ballet 
du Roi. It was acted on the 15th of Feb- 
ruary, in one act, at the Palais Royal. Mo- 
liere acted the part of Sganarelle. 

M. Taschereau says of the " Manage 
Force " : " This comedy contains two 
scenes, those of Sganarelle and the philoso- 
phers Pancrace and Marphurius, which may 
be considered by many readers as paltry 
farces ; but whoever will go back to those 
days of fanatic Aristotelism, will understand 
that there is deeper meaning in them than 
the wish to make people laugh. Moliere 
had a more important aim in view, and he 
succeeded in it The University of Paris 
was on the eve of obtaining the confirma- 
tion of a sentence of the Parliament of Paris, 
dated September 4, 1624, which condemned 
to death all those who would dare to attack 
the Aristotelian doctrines. The ridicule 
thrown on these principles in the ' Manage 
Forc£,' compelled, no ctoubt, the University 
to suspend its attacks." 



Alcantor, father to Dorimene. 
Alcidas, brother to Dorimene. 
Lycaste, in love with Dorimene. 
Pancrace, an Aristotelian philosopher. 
Marphurius, a Pyrrhonian philosopher. 
Dorimene, a young coquette, promised 

to Sganarelle. 
Two Gipsies. 

The scene is in a public place. 

Scene I. — Sganarelle. 

Sgan. {speaking to the people in his 
house). I am coming back directly. Take 
great care of the house, and see that every- 
thing goes on all right. If anyone comes to 
bring me some money, send directly for me, 
at Mr. Geronimo's ; if, on the contrary, it is 
to ask for some, say that I am out for the 

Scene II. — Sganarelle, Gironimo. 

Ger. (having heard the last words of 
Sganarelle). A very prudent order. 

Sgan. Ah ! Mr. Geronimo. I am pleased 
(0 see you ; I was just going to your house> 

Ger. And why, pray ? 

Sgan. To consult you about something 
I have in my head. 

Ger. At your service. I am glad that 
we have met, and we can talk together here 
in all security. 

Sgan. Put your hat on, I beg of you. 
It is about a thing of great importance 
which has been proposed to me, and it is 
always well to do nothing without first ask- 
ing the advice of one's friends. 

Ger. I am much obliged to you for hav- 
ing chosen me. Let me hear wbat it is. 

Sgan. Before I tell you, I must have a 
promise that you will not flatter me in any 
way, but will tell me your opinion frankly. 

Ger. I will do so, since you wish it. 

Sgan. I think that nothing can be worse 
than a friend who doesn't speak frankly. 

Ger. You are quite right 

Sgan. Sincere friends are rare in our 

Ger. Very true. 

Sgan. You promise me, then, Mr. Gero- 
nimo, to speak to me freely and openly? 

Ger. Yes, I promise you. 

Sgan. Swear it 

Ger. Well, upon the word of a friend. 
Only tell me what the business is, 

Sgan. I want to know from you whether 
I should do well to marry. 

Ger. Who? You! 

Sgan. Yes; I, myself. What is your 
advice on the subject? 

Ger. I want you first to tell me one 

Sgan. What is it? 

Ger. How old may you be ? 

Sgan. I? 

Ger. Yes. 

Sgan. Upon my word, I hardly know j 
but I am in very good health. 

Ger. What I you don't know your own 
age within a few years or so? 

Sgan. No. indeed, I don't Who ever 
thinks about his age ? 

Ger. Humph ! Just tell me, pray, how 
old you were when we first became ac- 

Sgan. Oh ! I was only twentv then. 

Ger. How long did we stop m Rome to- 
gether ? 

Sgan. Eight years. 

Ger. How long were you in England ? 

Sgan. Seven years. 

Ger. And in Holland, where you went 
afterwards ? 

Sgan. Five years and a halt 



Ger. How long is it since you re- 

Sgan. I came back in '52. 

Ger. If we take fifty-two from sixty- 
four, we get twelve ; five years you spent in 
Holland, seventeen; seven years spent in 
England, twenty-four ; eight years in Rome, 
thirty-two ; and if to thirty-two we add your 
age when we first became acquainted, we 
have exactly fifty-two. So that, Mr. Sgana- 
relle, according to your own confession, you 
are between fifty-two and fifty-three years of 

Sgan. Who, I? It isn't possible ! 

Ger. Hang it 1 the calculation is exact 
enough. Now, I will tell you frankly, as a 
friena — according to the promise you made 
me give you — that marriage would suit you 
but little. Marriage is a thing about which 
youn* people ought to think long and se- 
riously before they risk themselves, but of 
which people of your age ought not to 
think at all ; and if, as some say, the great- 
est folly a man can commit is to marry, I 
know nothing more preposterous than to 
commit such a folly at a time of life when 
we should be most prudent. In short, to 
speak to you plainly, I advise you not to 
marry ; and I should think you very ridicu- 
lous if, after having remained free up to 
your time of life, you were now to burden 
yourself with the heaviest of all chains. 

Soak. And, for my part, I tell you that 
I am determined to marry, and that I shall 
not be ridiculous in marrying the girl I am 
engaged to. 

Ger. Ah! that's quite another thing. 
You didn't tell me that 

Sgan. She pleases me j in fact, I love 
her with all my neart. 

Ger. You love her with all your heart ? 

Sgan. Most certainly ; and I have asked 
her fathers consent. 

Ger. You have asked her father's con- 

Soan. Yes. The marriage is to take 
place this evening j I have given my word. 

Ger. Oh 1 by all means marry, then j I 
haven't another word to say. 

Sgan. Why should I give up the idea ? 
Do you imagine, then, Mr. Geronimo, that 
I am no longer fit to think of a wife? 
Don't let us speak of what my age may be, 
bat consider things as they are. Is there a 
oan of thirty years of age more fresh and 
hearty than I am ? Have I not as free a 
we of my limbs as ever ? Do I look as if 
I needed a carriage or a chair to get about 

in ? Are not all my teeth perfect ? (show- 
ing his teeth,) Do I not eat heartily my 
four meals a day, and can you find a man 
with a stronger chest than mine ? (cough- 
ing). Hem 1 hem I hem 1 Well, what do 
you say ? 

Ger. You are quite right ; I was wrong. 
You will do well to marry. 

Soan. I was formerly very much against 
marriage, but now I have strong reasons for; 
it. Besides the pleasure I shall have in 
possessing a pretty wife who will fondle and 
coddle me, and pet me when I am tired— 
besides this pleasure, I consider that, by re- 
maining as I am, I am allowing the line of 
the Sganarelles to become extinct ; whilst 
by marrying, I shall see myself reproduced, 
and have the joy of beholding young crea- 
tures who have sprung from me — little be- 
ings who will be as like me as two peas ; 
who will always be playing about the douse 
and calling me their papa ; who, when I 
come back from town, will prattle their 
little nonsense to me in the pleasantest 
manner possible. Upon my word, I can 
almost fancy that the thing is done, and 
that I see half-a-dozen of them round me. 

Ger. Nothing can be more charming 
than all that, and I advise you to marry as 
quickly as possible. 

Sgan. Seriously, you advise me to do 

Ger. To be sure ; you could not do bet* 

Soan. Really, I am delighted that you 
should, as a true friend, give me this ad- 

Ger. Well, and who is the person yon 
are going to marry ? 

Sgan. Dorimene. 

Ger. Young Dorimene, so gay and so 
well dressed ? 

Soan. Yes. 

Ger. Alcantor's daughter ? 

Sgan. The very same. 

Ger. And sister to a certain Alcidas, 
who takes upon himself to wear a sword ? 

Sgan. Just so. 

Ger. Mercy on me ! 

Sgan. What do you say to it ? 

Ger. A good match I Marry, marry at 

Sgan. I have chosen well. Have I 

Ger. Decidedly, you could not hav# 
done better. Hurry the marriage on. 

Sgan. You overwhelm me with joy by 
saying so. I thank you very much for your 



Dor. (speaking to her page). Con 
boy, hold up my train carefully ; and let i 

advice, and I beg you to come to-night to 
our wedding. 

Ger. I will not fail ; and the better to do 
honour to the occasion I will come masked. 

Sgan. Good-bye. 

Ger. (aside). Young Dorimene, Aican- 
tor'8 daughter, to Sganarelle, who is only 
fifty-three years old ! A splendid match 1 
(This he repeats several times as he goes 

Scene III. — Sganarelle (alone.) 

This marriage must be a happy one, for it 
pleases everybody, and everybody laughs to 
whom I mention it. I really am now the 
happiest of men. 

Scene IV. — Dorimene (page holding her 
train) t Sganarelle. 


i me 

have none of your tricks. 

Sgan. (aside, looking at Dorimene). 
Here is my lady-love coming. How pretty 
she is 1 What an air, and what a figure she 
has ! Is there a man who on seeing her 
would not wish to be married ? (to Dori- 
mene). Where are you going, my sweet dar- 
ling, dear future wife of your future hus- 

Dor. I am going to do a little shopping. 

Sgan. Well, my pretty one, we are now 
both going to be happy, x ou will no longer 
have a right to refuse me anything, and I 
shall do whatever I please with you, without 
anybody being scandalized at it You will 
belong to me from head to foot, and I shall 
be master of the whole of you : of your little 
twinkling eyes, of your little roguish nose, 
your tempting lips ? your lovely ears, your 
pretty little chin. ... In short, all your 
person will be mine, and I shall be at liberty 
to kiss you as much as I please. Are you 
not very glad of this marriage, pretty one ? 

Dor. Delighted, I assure you ! For the 
truth is, that my father has kept me hitherto 
in the most grievous bondage. I have now 
for a long time rebelled against being so shut 
np, and have looked forward a hundred times 
to a marriage that would take me away from 
his authority, and would leave me at liberty 
to do all I liked. Thank Heaven ! you have 
come to relieve me ; and now I am preparing 
myself for a life of pleasure and enjoyment 
to make amends for lost time. As you are 
a very worthy man, and know the world, I 

think we shall together lead the happiest 
possible life, and that you will not be one of 
those uncomfortable husbands who want 
their wives to live like owls. I assure you 
that I should not like that at all ; such soli- 
tude drives me almost crazy. I like play, 
visits, parties, picnics, walks, and drives — in 
a word, all kinds of pleasures. You must 
be very glad to have such a wife. We shall 
never quarrel. I shall never interfere with 
what you do, and I hope you will never in- 
terfere with me ; for I am of opinion that we 
ought to be mutually complaisant, and not 
marry to plague each other. In short, we 
shall live, when married, like two people who 
understand the world. No jealous suspicions 
will trouble our peace of mind ; and it is 
quite enough that you should be assured of 
my fidelity, as I shall be persuaded of yours. 
But what is the matter with you ? your face 
is strangely altered. 

Sgan. The vapours have got into my 

Dor. It's an illness of which many peo- 
ple complain now-a-days ; but Our marriage 
will cure all that Good-bye. I long to have 
a proper dress, and to throw off these old 
tatters. I am going to buy everything I 
want, and I'll send the tradespeople to settle 
with you. 

Scene V. — Geronimo, Sganarelle. 

Ger. Ah, Sganarelle 1 I am glad to find 
you still here. I have met with the jeweller, 
who, having heard that you were looking 
for a diamond ring to give to your bride, 
has earnestly desired me to say a word for 
him. He has a most beautiful one to sell. 

Sgan. Oh ! there is no hurry. 

Ger. How! What does that mean? 
Wha,t has become of the eagerness you 
showed just now? 

Sgan. Certain little scruples have just 
come into ray head on the question of mar- 
riage ; and, before I quite decide, I would 
fain sift the matter thoroughly, and get 
somebody to interpret a dream I had last 
night, and which I have just now recol- 
lected. You know that dreams are like 
mirrors, where we sometimes discover all 
that is to take place. I dreamt that I was 
in a ship on a very boisterous sea, and 
that .... 

Ger. Mr. Sganarelle, I have just now a 
little business on hand, which prevents me 
from hearing what you have to say. Be- 
sides, I understand nothing about dreams; 



and as for arguments for and against mar- 
riage, you have for neighbours two learned 
men — two philosophers — who will tell you 
all that can be said on the subject. As 
they are of different sects, you can compare 
their opinions of the matter. For my own 
part, I have already told you what I think, 
and I remain your most obedient. (Exit.) 
Soak. He is right. I must, in my un- 
certainty, go and consult those men. 

Scene VI. — Pancrace, Soanarelle. 

Panc. (turning towards the side by 
which he entered, and without seeing Soan- 
arelle. ) Go, my friend ! You are an 
impertinent fellow ; a man ignorant of all 
wholesome knowledge, and deserving of 
banishment from the republic of letters. 

8gan. Good! Here is one of them 
coming at the very nick of time. 

Panc. {going on without seeing Soana- 
relle.) Yes, I will demonstrate to you, 
by strong arguments — I will prove to you 
by Aristotle, the philosopher of philosophers 
—that you are ignorans, ignorantissimus, 
ignorantificans, ignorantificatus f through 
all imaginable moods and cases. 

Sgan. (aside). He must have fallen out 
with somebody, (to Pancrace) Sir ! . . . 

Panc. (still not noticing Soanarelle.) 
You take upon yourself to argue, and you 
do not even understand the very elements 
of reason ! 

Soan. (aside). His anger prevents him 
from seeing me. (to Pancrace) Sir! . . . 

Panc. (still not noticing Sganarelle). 
A proposition to be condemned in all the re- 
gions of philosophy ! 

Soan. (aside). Somebody must have 
jreatly provoked him. (to Pancrace) 

Panc. (still not noticing Soanarelle). 
Toto ccelo, tota via aberras. 

Sgan. My humble respects, Doctor, 

Panc. At your service. 

Soan. May I . . . . 

Panc. (turning aaain towards the door 
by which he entered). Do you even know 
what you have done ? A syllogism in Ba- 

8oan. I beg of you ... . 

Panc. The major is foolish, the minor 
trivial, and the conclusion ridiculous. 

Soan. I . . . . 

Panc. I had rather die than admit what 
you say, and I'll uphold my opinion with 
the last drop of my ink. 

Sgan. May I .... ? 

Panc. Yes, 111 defend this proposition, 
pugnis et calcibus, unguibus et rostro. 

Sgan. Mr. Aristotle, may I know what 
cause you have for being in such a pas- 
sion ? 

Panc. The best possible cause. 

Sgan. What is it, pray ? 

Panc. An ignoramus has dared to 
maintain to me a proposition which is false ; 
a hideous, frightful, exeorable proposition. 

Sgan. May I ask what it is ? 

Panc. Ah! Mr. Sganarelle, everything 
is turned upside down in our days, and the 
world is fallen into general corruption. A 
horrible license prevails everywhere ; and 
the magistrates who are appointed to main- 
tain order in this kingdom ought to die of 
shame, for allowing such an intolerable 
scandal as this that I am going to tell 

Sgan. What can it be? 

Panc. Is it not a horrible thing, a thimg 
that cries to Heaven for vengeance, to suf- 
fer any one publicly to say the form of * 

Sgan. Eh? What? 

Panc. I maintain that we should say 
the figure of a hat, and not the form. For- 
asmuch as there is this difference between 
the form and figure, that the form is the ex- 
ternal disposition of animate bodies, and 
figure the disposition of inanimate bodies ; 
and, since the hat is a body without life, we 
must Bay the figure of a hat, and not the 
form (turning again towards the door by 
which he entered). Yea. ignoramus that 
you are, it is thus you snould speak, and 
these are the very terms of Aristotle him- 
self in his chapter on Qualities. 

Sgan. (aside). I thought that all was 
lost (to Pancrace) Mr. Doctor, pray think 
no more of this, I . . . 

Panc. I am beside myself with rage. I 
don't know what I am doing. 

Sgan. Leave the form and hat in peace. 
I have something to communicate to 70m 

Panc. Impudent scoundrel ! 
Sgan. Calm yourself, I beg of yon. 
Panc. Ignorant ass ! 
Sgan. For mercy's sake, I . • • 
Panc. To try and force such a proposi- 
tion upon me I 

Sgan. He certainly is wrong. I • • • 

• A hit at the Unlreraity of Paris. 


tHfi Forced Marriage. 

Panc. A proposition condemned by Aris- 

Sgan. True. I . . . 

Panc. In express terms ! 

Soan. You are quite right (turning 
towards the door by which Pancrace came 
in). Yes, you are a fool and an impudent fel- 
low to pretend to argue with a doctor who 
can read and write, [to Pancrace) Now, 
there is an end of the matter, and I pray you, 
hear me. I come to consult you upon an 
affair which perplexes me greatly. I intend 
to take a wife to keep me company at home. 
The person I have chosen is handsome, well 
made, she pleases me greatly, and is delighted 
to marry me. Her father has granted her to 
me ; but I am a little fearful of you know 
what — that disgrace for which, a man obtains 
no pity — and Ientreat you, as a philosopher, 
to tell me what you think on the subject 
Now, what is your opinion ? 

Panc. Rather than admit that we ought 
to say the /otto of a hat, I would admit that 
datur vacuum in rerum natura 1 and that I 
am an ass. 

Soan. (aside). Plague take the man. (to 
Pancrace) I say, Mr. Doctor, do listen a 
little to what I have to say to you. I have 
been talking to you for the last hour, and not 
a word of what I want can I get out of you. 

Panc. I beg your pardon ; a righteous 
indignation has taken possession of my bouI. 

Soan. Well, have done with all that, and 
take the trouble to listen to me. 

Panc. Let it be so, then. What have you 
to say to me ? 

Sgan. I want to talk to you of a certain 

Panc. And what tongue do yon wish to 
make usa of? 

Soan. What tongue? 

Panc. Yes. 

Soan. Why? the tongue I have in my 
mouth, t" be sure. I am not likely to go ana 
borrow my neighbor's. 

Panc. I mean what idiom, what language ? 

Soan. Oh ! that's a different thing. 


Do you wi 





Spanish ? 













Panc. Greek ? 

Soan. No. 

Panc. Hebrew? 

Soan. No. 

Panc. Syriac ? 

Soan. No. 

Panc. Turkish? 

Soan. No. 

Panc. Arabic ? 

Soan. No, no : French, French, French, 

Panc. Oh ! French. 

Sgan. Yes, French. 

Panc. Pass to the other side, then ; this 
ear is for all scientific and foreign languages, 
and the other is for the vulgar and mother 

Sgan. (aside). What ceremonies these 
people exact 1 

Panc. What do you want ? 

Soan. To consult you about a little dif- 

Panc. Ah ! oh ! about a little difficulty 
in philosophy, no doubt? 

Soan. I beg your pardon, I . . . . 

Panc. Perhaps you wish to know if sub- 
stance and accident are synonymous terms 
or equivocal with regard to entity? 

Soan. No, I do not indeed. 

Panc. If logic is an art or a science ? 

Soan. Nothing of the kind. I . . . . 

Panc. If it has for its object the three 
operations of the mind, or the third only ? 

Soan. No. I . . . . 

Panc. If there are ten categories, or 
only one? 

Soan. No, no. 

Panc. If the conclusion is the essence 
of a syllogism ? 

Sgan. I tell you, no. I . . . . 

Panc. Whether the essence of good is 
placed in appetibility or in congruity? 

Sgan. No. I . . . . 

Panc. Whether good reciprocates with 
the end ? 

Soan. Eh! No. I . . . . 

Panc. Whether the end can affect us by 
its real or by its intentional being? 

Soan. No, no, no, no, no, by all the 
devils, no. 

Panc. Then you should explain your 
meaning, for I cannot guess it 

Soan. I want to explain it to you, but 
you must listen to me. The business I 
want to consult you upon is this : I wish to 
marry a beautiful young girl. I love her 
dearly. I have asked her of her father; 
but as I dread .... 

Panc. (speaking at the same time with 



out listening to Sganarelle). Speech was 
given to man to express his thoughts, and 
just as thoughts are the representatives of 
things, even so are our words representa- 
tives of our thoughts (Sganarelle, out of 
patience, stops the Doctor's mouth with his 
hand several times. The Doctor goes on 
speaking each time that Sganarelle with- 
draws his hand) ; but these representatives 
are different from other representatives, 
forasmuch as the other representatives are 
distinguished everywhere by their originals ; 
while speech includes its original in itself, 
since it is nothing else than the thought ex- 
pressed by an external sign. Whence it 
follows that those who think well are like- 
wise those who speak the best. Therefore, 
explain your thoughts to me ,bv speech, 
which is the most intelligible of all signs. 

So an. (pushing the Doctor into his house, 
and pulling the door to prevent his coming 
out). Plague take the man ! 

Panc. (within the house). Yes, speech 
is animi index, et speculum. It is tne in- 
terpreter of the heart. It is the image of 
the soul. (He gets up to the window and 
goes on :) It is a mirror which reproduces 
plainly the innermost secrets of our individ- 
uality. Since, then, you have the faculty of 
reasoning, and also of speaking^ what can 
prevent you from making use of speech to 
make nte understand your thoughts ? 

Sgan. That is what I want to do, but 
you won't listen to me. 

Panc. I am listening ; speak. 

Sgan. I say, then, Doctor . . • • 

Panc. But, above all things, be brief 

Sgan. Certainly. 

Panc. Avoid prolixity. 

Sgan. I say, sir ... . 

Panc. Cut your discourse short with a 
laconic apophthegm. 

Sgan. I . . . . 

Panc. No ambages, no circumlocution. 
(Sganarelle, enraged at being unable to 
speak, picks up stones to throw at the Doc- 
ttjr's head.) What ! you fly into a passion 
instead of explaining yourself? Get along, 
you are more impertinent than the fellow 
who maintained that we ought to say the 
form of a hat ; and I will prove to you at 
any time, by the help of demonstrative and 
convincing reasons, and by arguments in 
Barbara, that you are and never will be 
anything but a simpleton, and that I am 
and ever shall be, in utroquejure, the Doc- 
tor Pancrace. ( Exit.) 

Sgan. What an eternal jabberer 1 

Panc. (coming back), A man of letters-, 
a man of erudition. 

Sgan. What ! more still ? 

Panc. A man of sufficiency, a man of 
capacity (aoing away). A man finished in 
all the sciences, natural, moral, and politi- 
cal, (coming back). A savant, savantis- 
sime, per omnes modos et casus, (going 
away). A man who has a knowledge super- 
lative of fables, mythologies, and histories j 
(coming back) grammar, poetry, rhetoric- 
dialectics, and sophistry; (going away) 
mathematics, arithmetic, optics, oneiro- 
critics, physics, and metaphysics ; (coming 
back) cosmometry, geometry^ architecture, 
speculary and speculatory sciences ; going 
away) medicine, astronomy, astrology, 
physiognomy, metoposcopy, chiromancy) 

Scene VII. — Sganarelle {alone). 

Devil take these scholars! They will 
never listen to anybody. I see that it was 
the truth I was told, and that this Master 
Aristotle was a talker, and nothing else. I 
must go to the other : perhaps he will be 
more composed ana more reasonable. 
Soho, there 1 

Scene VIII. — Marphurius, Sganarelle. 

Mar. What do you want with me, Mr. 
Sganarelle ? 

Sgan. Doctor, I have need of your ad- 
vice upon a little affair which touches me 
closely, and I came here for that purpose. 
(aside) Come, it's all right in that quarter j 
this one listens to what people say. 

Mar. Mr. Sganarelle, please to alter 
your way of expressing yourself. Our 
philosophy commands us not to enunciate ' 
any positive proposition, but always to 
speak of everything with uncertainty, and 
always to suspend Our judgment. There* 
fore, you should not say, " I am come," but 
" it seems to me that I am come." 

Sgan. Seems? 

Mar. Yes. 

Sgan. Upon my word, it must needs 
seem, when it is so. 

Mar. The deduction is weak; it may 
seem so, without the thing being really so. 

Sgan. What ! It is not true that I am 

Mar. It is questionable, and we should 
doubt everything. 



Sgan. What! Am I not here, and are 
you not speaking to me ? 

Mar. It appears to me that you are 
here, and it seems to me that I am speaking 
to you, but it is not certain that it is so. 

Sgan. Ah ! now, come ! Deuce take 
it! you are laughing at me. Here am I, 
and there you are, very plainly to be seen, 
and there is no seem in the matter. Pray 
let us drop all these subtleties, and let us 
talk of my business. I am come to tell 
you that I intend to marry. 

Mar. I know nothing of the matter. 

Sgan. But I tell you so. 

Mar. It may happen. 

Sgan. The girl I want to marry is very 
young and beautiful. 

Mar. It' 8 not impossible. 

Sgan. Shall I do right or wrong to 
marry her ? 

Mar. Either the one or the other. 

Sgan. (aside). Hey-day! This is an- 
other tune, (to Marphurius) I ask you 
whether I shall do well to marry the girl I 
tell you of? 

Mar. That depends. 

Sgan. Shall I do wrong? 

Mar. Perhaps. 

Sgan. Pray answer me in a proper 

Mar. That is my intention. 

Sgan. I have a great liking for the girl. 

Mar. That may be. 

Sgan. The father has given her to me. 

Mar. He may have done so. 

Sgan. But by marrying her I fear to be 
deceived by her. 

Mar. The thing might come to pass. 

Sgan. What is your opinion about it? 

Mar. I see no impossibility in it. 

Sgan. But what would you do if you 
were in my place ? 

Mar. I aon't know. 

Sgan. What do you advise me to do ? 

Mar. Whatever may. please you. 

Sgan. I shall go mad. 

Mar. I wash my hands of it. 

Sgan. Deuce take the old dotard ! 

Mar. Whatever is to be, may be. 

Sgan. Plague take the tormentor ! Pll 
make you change your tune, you mad hound 
of a philosopher ! ( Beats Marphurius. ) 

Mar. Oh! oh! oh! 

Sgan. There is payment for your rub- 
bishy nonsense. I am satisfied now. 

Mar. How! What impudence! How 
dare you insult me in this fashion ! To have 
the audacity to beat a philosopher like me ! 

Sgan. Correct, if you please, this way of 
expressing yourself. We snould doubt every- 
thing ; and you ought not to say that I have 
beaten you, but that it seems that I have 
beaten you. 

Mar. I shall go and complain to the com- 

Sgan. I wash my hands of it 

Mar. I have the marks on my body. 

Sgan. It may be so. 

Mar. It is you who treated me thus. 

Sgan. It is not possible. 

Mar. I shall get a warrant against you. 

Sgan. I know nothing of the matter. 

Mar. And you will be condemned. 

Sgan. Whatever is to be, may be. 

Mar. You shall see. 

Scene IX. — Sganarelle (alone). 

Did you ever see the like ! I can't force 
one word from that cur, and I am as wise at 
the end of his talk as at the beginning. What 
ought I to do in this uncertainty about the 
consequences of my marriage ? Never was 
a man more perplexed than I am. — Hallo ! 
here are some gipsies j I must ask them to 
tell me my fortune. 

Scene X. — Two Gipsies, Sganarelle. 

(Enter the tvoo Gipsies with their tabors, 
singing and dancing.) 

Sgan. They look jolly ! I say, you there, 
can you tell me my fortune ? 

1st Gip. Ay, ay, my good gentleman, we 
two here will tell it you. 

2nd Gip. You have only to give us your 
hand and a cross inside, and we will tell 
you something which will be of service to 

Sgan. There, you have both my hands 
with what you want. 

1st Gip. You have a good face, my good 
gentleman ; a good face. 

2nd Gip. Yes, a good face. The face 
of a man who will be something some day. 

1st Gip. You will be married soon, my 
good gentleman ; you will be married soon. 

2nd Gip. You will marry a pretty wife, 
a pretty wife. 

1st Gip. Yes, a wife who will be ad- 
mired and loved by everybody. 

2nd Gip. A wife who will bring you many 
friends, my good gentleman j who will bring 
you many friends. 



1st Gip. A wife who will bring plenty 
into jour house. 

2nd Gip. A wife who will get 70a a great 

1st Gip. Through her you will enjoy 
great consideration, my good gentleman j 
great consideration. 

Soak. All this is very well ; but tell me, 
is there any chance of my being deceived by 

2nd Gip. Deceived? 

Scan. Yes. 

1ST Gip. Deceived? 

Soak. Yes. Is there any chance of my 
being deceived by her? 
(The two Gipsies go off singing and dan- 

Soak. But this is not the way to answer 
people. Come, come; I ask you both 
whether I shall be deceived. 

2kd Gip. Deceived ? You ? 

Soak. Yes, yes ! 

1st Gip. x ou deceived ? 

Soak. Yes, yes I Tell me, yes or no ? 
(The two Gipsies go off singing and danc- 

8CEKE XI. — SOAKARELLE (alont). 

Plague the two baggages for leaving me 
in this state of doubt 1 But I must abso- 
lutely know what my marriage will bring 
me ; and I shall, therefore, go and see that 
famous magician of whom everybody talks 
so much, and who, by his wonderful art, 
can show us everything we want to see. 
Heyday ! I think, after all, I shall have no 
need of the magician, for here is something 
which will veil me all I wish to know. 



Ltc. What ! fair Dorimene, are yon in 

Dor. Yes, in earnest. 

Ltc. You really mean to marry ? 

Dor. Really. 

Ltc. And your wedding takes place to- 

Dor. To-night 

Ltc. And can you, cruel girl that you 
are, thus forget the love I have for you, and 
all the kind promises you have made me ? 

Dor. I ? Not in the least. I have just 
the same feelings for you I have always 

had, and you need not be distressed by my 
marriage. I don't marry the man out of 
love, but simply because of his wealth. I 
have no fortune, neither have you : and you 
know that without money life is dull enough. 
In order to get some at any cost, I seized 
this opportunity of improving my position ; 
and I have done it in the hope of soon be- 
ing rid of the old dotard. He will soon die : 
—he has scarcely six months in him. I 
will warrant him dead within the time I tell 
you; and I shall not have long to pray 
Heaven for the happy state of widowhood. 
(She sees Sgakarelle.) Ah, we were speak- 
ing about vou, and were saving the most 
pleasant things imaginable about you. 

Ltc. Is this the gentleman .... 

Dor. Yes, this is the gentleman who 
takes me for his wife. 

Lyo. Pray, sir, accept my most sincere 
congratulations on your marriage, and be- 
lieve me to be your most humble servant 
You are about to marry a most honourable 
lady, I assure you. I also congratulate you, 
madam, on the happy choice you have made. 
You could not do better, for the gentleman 
has all the appearance of making an excel- 
lent husband. Yes, sir, I hope you will 
reckon me among your friends, and allow 
me sometimes to come and visit you. 

Dor. You do us both too much honour. 
But come along, I am in a hurry now, and we 
shall have many opportunities of talking 
with him by and by. 

(Exeunt Dorimene and Lycaste.) 

Sceke XIII.— Sgakarelle. 

^ I am now quite disgusted with my mar- 
riage, and I think I shall do wisely to go 
and break off my engagement It has 
cost me some money, to be sure ; but bet- 
ter lose that, than to be exposed to some- 
thing worse. I must try to get out of this 
business skilfully. Hallo ! 

(Knocks at Alcaktor's door.) 

Sceke XIV. — Alcaktor, Sgakarelle. 

Alc. Ah I welcome, my son-in-law. 

Soak. Your most obedient 

Alc. You come to conclude the mar- 

Soak. Pardon me. 

Alc. I assure you that I long for it as 
much as you do. 

Soak. I come here on a different er- 



Alc. I have given all necessary orders 
for the fete. 

So an. That isn't what I came for. 

Alc. The musicians are engaged, the 
dinner is ordered, and my daughter is quite 
ready dressed to receive you. 

Soak. It isn't that which brings me here. 

Alc. In short, everything has been ar- 
ranged to your full satisfaction j nothing can 
delay your happiness. 

So an. It is another thin?. I tell you 
that I have come upon other business. 

Alc. Come in, son-in-law. 

Sgan. I have a word or two to say. 

Alc. Ah ! I beg of you, don't let us stand 
upon ceremony. Come in, I entreat. 

Scan. No, no, I tell you ; I want to speak 
to you first. 

Alc. You have something to tell me ? 

Sgan. Yes. 

Alc. What is it? 

Sgan. It is true, sir, that I have asked 
your daughter in marriage, and that you 
nave agreed to give her to me , but I think 
myself a little too old for her, and I consider 
that I am not at all the kind of husband she 
ought to have. 

Alc. Excuse me. My daughter is per- 
fectly satisfied with you, and I am certain 
that she will live very happily with you. 

Scan. Oh dear, no. I have sometimes 
terrible whims, and she would have to suffer 
greatly from my bad temper. 

Alc. My daughter is of a sweet and 
yielding disposition, and you will see that 
she will get on beautifully with you. 

Soak. I have some bodily infirmities 
which might disgust her. 

Alc. That is of no consequence ; a vir- 
tuous woman is never disgusted with her 

So an. In short, shall I tell you what ? 
I do not advise you to give her to me. 

Alc. Are you joking? I had rather 
die than break my word. 

Sgan. On my conscience, I free you 
from your promise. 

Alc. Certainly not. I have promised 
her to you, and yon shall have her in spite 
of all the offers I receive from other quarters. 

Sgan. [aside). The devil I shall! 

Alc. I assure you I hold you in such 
great esteem, and have such real friendship 
for you, that I would refuse my daughter to 
a prince in order to give her to you. 

Sgan. Sir, I am deeply indebted to you 
for the honour you do me ; but I must tell 
you plainly that I will not marry. 

Alc. Not marry, yon say ? 

Soan. Yes. 

Alc. And why ? 

Sgan. The reason is that I find myself 
unfit for marriage, and that I wish to do like 
my father and all the rest of the Sganarelies, 
wno never would marry. 

Alc. Very well. Will is free ; and I am 
not the man to force anybody. You were 
engaged to marry my daughter, and every- 
thing is ready for the wedding ; but since 
you wish to withdraw, I will see what can 
be done. You shall soon hear from me. 

Scene XY. — Sganarelle (alone). 

After all, he is more reasonable than I ex- 
pected, and I thought I should find it much 
more difficult to Break off the marriage. 
Upon my word, when I think of it, I feel 
that I have done very wisely to get out of 
this business, and I was on the point of taking 
a step which, I fear, I should have repented 
at leisure. But here is the son coming to 
bring me an answer. 

Scene XVI. — Alcidas, Sganarelle. 

Alc. (speaking all the while in a soft, 
affected tone). Sir, I am your most obedient 

Sgan. Sir. I am yours with all my heart. 

Alc. My lather has told me, sir, that you 
have come to withdraw your promise to marry 
my sister. 

Sgan. Yes sir j it is with regret, but . . 

Alc. Oh, there is no harm in it, sir. 

Sgan. I assure you that I am very sorry 
about it, and I wish .... 

Alc. It is of no consequence at all, I tell 
yon. (Alcidas presents two swords to Sga- 
narelle.) Sir, will you kindly say which 
of these two swords you will have ? 

Sgan. Which of these two swords I will 

Alc. Ifyou please. 

Sgan. What's the object of doing that ? 

Alc. As you refuse, sir, to marry my 
sister after having given your word, you 
will not, I believe, take amiss the compli- 
ment I have come to pay you ? 

Sgan. What do you mean ? 

Alc. There are some people who would 
make a great ado, and would get in a pas- 
sion with you j but we prefer doing things 
in a more quiet way, and I have come to 
tell yon very politely that we must, with 
your permission, cut each other's throat 

Sgan. A very ill-turned compliment this. 



Alc. Now, sir, choose if you please. 

Sgan. I am your servant : my throat is 
lot one to be cut (aside) What an ugly 
ray of speaking ! 

Alc. But, by your leave, sir, the thing 
mist be so. 

Sgan. Oh! sir, a truce to these compli- 
nents, I beseech you. 

Alc. Let us be quick, sir, I have some 
Ittle business awaiting me. 

Sgan. I will have nothing to do with 
this, I tell you. 

Alc. You will not fight ? 

Sgan. No, upon my soul, I will not 

Alc. Do you mean it? 

Sgan. Yes, I mean it 

Alc. (after beating him with his stick). 
At least, sir, you have no reason to com- 
plain j you see that I do things in the pro- 
per way. You break your word, and I wish 
to fight you; you refuse to fight, and I 
thrash you. All this is according to rule, 
and you are too much of a gentleman to 
disapprove of my behaviour. 

Sgan. (aside). What a devil of a man ! 

Alc. (presenting him the swords again) 
Come, sir, do the thing properly, and with a 
good grace. 

Sgan. What! again? 

Alc. Sir, I do not force anybody, but 
either you will marry my sister or you will 

Sgan. Sir, I assure you that I can do 
neither the one nor the other. 

Alc. Positively ? 

Sgan. Positively. 

Alc. With your permission, then. 
(Beats him again.) 

Sgan. Ohl oh! oh! 

Alc. Sir, I am exceedingly sorry to be 
obliged to treat you in this manner ; but I 
shall not leave off until you promise me, if 
you please, either to fight me or to marry 
my sister (raises his stick). 

Sgan. I'll marry, I'll marry. 

Alc. Ah, sir, I rejoice to see you re- 
stored to reason, and that it is all settled 
quietly ; for, in snort, sir, I assure you that 
you are the man I esteem the most in the 
wor1d,.and that I should have been in des- 
pair if you had compelled me to ill-use you. 
Now, I will call my father and tell him that 
it is all right 

8cenk XVIL— Alcantor, Dorimeni, 

Alcidas, Sganarelle. 
Alci. Father, the gentleman is now 
faite reasonable, and most willing to do 

things with a good grace j you can give my 
sister to him. 

Alc. Sir, here is her hand ; you need 
only give her yours. Heaven be praised ! I 
have got rid of her, and upon you hence- 
forth Ees all the responsibility of her conduct 
Let us all go ana rejoice over this happy 



[William Morris, an English poet, bora in 1834, hat 
published " Th» IAfe and death of Jatm" (I860,) " Th* 
Earthly Paradi*" (1868,) "Lot* i» enough' 1 (1872.) a 
translation of VtrgK* " JBneid," and several other vol- 
umes. His poems are marked by freshness, strength 
and classic diction. It may be said of him that he hat 
derated his pen to the celebration of the beautiful. ] 

Fair was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent 
Floated across the fresh grass, and the bees 
With low rexed song from rose to lily went, 
A gentle wind was in the heavy trees, 
And thine eyes shone with Joyous memorial; 
Fair was the earthly morn, and fair wert thoo, 
And I was happy. — Ah, be happy now I 

Peace and content without us, lore within, 
That hour there was ; now thunder and wild rain, 
Have wrapped the cowering world, and foolish sin, 
And nameless pride, have made us wise in Tain ; 
Ah, lore ! although the morn shall come again, 
And on new rose-buds the new sun shall smile, 
Can we regain what we hare lost meanwhile ? 

Fen now the west grows clear of storm and threat, 

But 'midst the lightning did the fair sun die— 

Ah, he shall rise again for ages yet, 

He cannot waste his life— but thou and I— 

Who knows if next morn this felicity 

My lips may feel, or if thou still shalt live, 

This seal ofloTe renewed onee more to give? 



O dwellers on the lovely earth, 
Why will ye break your rest and mirth 
To weary us with fruitless prayer? 
Why will ye toil and take such care 
For children's children yet unborn, 
And garner store of strife and scorn 
To gain a scarce-remembered name, 
Canberfd vfth lies and soiled with shame* 



And if the gods care not for you, 

What is this folly ye must do 

To win aome mortal's feeble heart? 

fools ! when each man plays bis part, 

And heeds bia fellow little more 

Than those bine waves that kiss the shore. 

Take heed of how the daisies grow,. 

fools ! and if ye could but know 

How fair a world to you is given, 

O brooder on the hills of heaven, 
When for my sins thou drav'st me forth, 
Hadat thou forgot what this was worth, 
Thine own hand made ? The tears of men, 
The death of threescore years and ten, 
The trembling of the timorous race- 
Had these things so bedimmed the place 
Thine own hand made, thou couldst not know 
To what a heaven the earth might grow, 
If fear beneath the earth were laid, 
If hope failed not, nor love decayed. 

William Mobju 


[Sir Jamb Mackintosh, (1766— 1832) distinguished ss 
a statesman, historian, and political and philosophical 
writer, was a powerful advocate of liberal principles. 
His chief works are " Ymdicue GoBicm," a defence of the 
French Revolution against tbo accusations of Edmund 
Burke (1791), M A Duterlatkm on Ethical pRtlosopty," 
(1830), "A Uistotp of England, and of the Revolution of 
1688," and numerous essays in the Edinburgh Review.] 

The three Aristocracies — Military, Sacer- 
dotal, and Judicial — may be considered as 
having formed the French Government. 
They have appeared, so far as we have con- 
sidered them, incorrigible. All attempts to 
improve them would nave been little better 
than (to use the words of Mr. Burke) " mean 
reparations on mighty ruins." They were 
not perverted by the accidental depravity of 
their numbers ; they were not infected by 
any transient passion, which new circum- 
stances would extirpate ; the fault was in 
the essence of the institutions themselves, 
which were irreconcileable with a free gov- 

But, it is objected, these institutions 
might have been gradually reformed ; 
the spirit of freedom would have silently 
entered ; the progressive wisdom of an en- 
lightened nation would have remedied in 
process of time, their defects, without con- 
vulsions. To this argument I confidently 
answer that these institutions would have de- 
stroyed Liberty, before Liberty had corrected 

their spirit. Power vegetates with more 
vigor after these gentle prunings. A slender 
reform amuses and lull? the people: the 
popular enthusiasm subsides j and the mo- 
ment of effectual reform is irretrievably lost. 
No important political improvement was 
ever obtained in a period of tranquillity 
The corrupt interest of the governors is so 
strong, and the cry of the people so feeble, 
that it were vain to expect it. If the effer- 
vescence of the popular mind is suffered to 
pass away without effect, it would be absurd 
to expect from languor what enthusiasm had 
not obtained. If radical reform is not, at 
such a moment, procured, all partial changes 
are evaded and defeated in the tranquillity 
which succeeds. The gradual reform that 
arises from the presiding principle exhibited 
in the specious theory of Mr. Burke, is belied 
by the experience of all ages. Whatever 
excellence, whatever freedom ia discoverable 
in governments, has been infused into them 
by the shock of a revolution j and their sub- 
sequent progress has been only the accu- 
mulation of abuse. It is hence that the 
most enlightened politicians have recognized 
the necessity of frequently recalling their 
first principles ;— a truth equally suggested 
to the penetrating intellect of Machiavel, by 
his experience of the Florentine democracy, 
and by his research into the history of an- 
cient commonwealths. Whatever is good 
ought to be ipuraued at the moment it is at- 
tainable. The public voice, irresistible in 
a period of convulsion, is contemned with 
impunity, when spoken during the lethargy 
into which nations are lulled by the tranquil 
course of their ordinary affairs. The ardour 
of reform languishes in unsupported tedious- 
ness: it perishes in an impotent struggle 
with adversaries, who receive new strength 
with the progress of the day. No hope of 
{peat political improvement— let us repeat 
it —-is to be entertained from tranquillity : 
for its natural operation is to strengthen all 
those who are interested in perpetuating 
abuse. The National Assembly seized the 
moment of eradicating the corruptions and 
abuses which afflicted their country. Their 
reform was total, that it might be commen- 
surate with the evil : and no part of it was 
delayed, because to spare an abuse at such 
a period was to consecrate it : and as the 
enthusiasm which carries nations to such 
enterprizes is short-lived, so the opportunity 
of reform, if once neglected, might be irre 
vocably fled. 
Bat let us ascend to more general \ nnci 



"Die*, and hazard bolder opinions. Let us 

§rant that the state of France was not so 
esperately incorrigible. Let us suppose 
that changes far more gentle — innovations 
far less extensive, — would have remedied 
the grosser evils of her government, and 
placed it almost on a level with free and 
celebrated constitutions. These conces- 
sions, though too large for truth, will not 
convict the Assembly. By what principle 
'. of reason or of justice, were they precluded 
from aspiring to give France a government 
less imperfect than accident had formed in 
other states ? Who will be hardy enough 
to assert, that a better constitution is not 
attainable than any which has hitherto ap- 
peared ? Is the limit of human wisdom to 
be estimated in the science of politics 
alone, by the extent of its present attain- 
ments ? Is the most sublime and difficult 
of all arts, — the improvement of the social 
order, — the alleviation of the miseries of 
the civil condition of man, — to be alone 
stationary, amid the rapid progress of every 
other — liberal and vulgar — to perfection? 
Where would be the atrocious guilt of a 
grand experiment, to ascertain the portion 
of freedom and happiness that can ue cre- 
ated by political institutions ? 

That guilt (if it be guilt) is imputable to 
the National Assembly. They are accused 
of having rejected the guidance of expe- 
rience,— of having abandoned themselves 
to the illusion of theory,— and of having 
sacrificed great and attainable good to the 
magnificent chimeras of ideal excellence. 
If this accnsation be just, — if they have 
indeed abandoned experience, the basis of 
human knowledge, as well as the guide of 
human action, — their conduct deserves no 
longer any serious argument : but if (as Mr. 
Burke more than once insinuates) their con- 
tempt of it is avowed and ostentatious, it 
was surely unworthy of him to have ex- 
pended so much genius against so prepos- 
terous an insanity. But the explanation of 
terms will diminish our wonder. Expe- 
rience may, both in the arts and in the 
conduct of human life be regarded in a 
double view, either as furnishing models or 
principles. An artist who frames his ma- 
chine in exact imitation of his predecessor 
is in the first sense said to be guided by ex 
perienc?. In this sense all improvements 
of human life have been deviations from 
experience. The first visionary innovator 
▼as the savage who built a cabin, or cov- 
eted himself with a rug. If this be expe- 

rience, man is degraded to the unimprovea- 
ble level of the instinctive animals. But 
in the second acceptation, an artist is said 
to be guided by experience, when the in- 
spection of a machine discovers to him 
principles which teach him to improve it; 
or when the comparison of many, both with 
respect to their excellences and defect*, 
enables him to frame one different from 
any he had examined, and still more per* 
feet. In this latter sense the National Aa» 
sembly have perpetually availed themselves 
of experience. History is an immense col- 
lection of experiments on the nature and 
effect of the various parts of various gov- 
ernments. Some institutions are experi- 
mentally ascertained to be beneficial ; some 
to be most indubitably destructive ; a third 
class, which produces partial good, ob- 
viously possesses the capacity of improve- 
ment What, on such a survey, was the 
dictate of enlightened experience? Not 
surely to follow any model in which these 
institutions lay indiscriminately mingled: 
but, like the mechanic, to compare and 
generalize, and guided equally by expe- 
rience, to imitate and reject The process 
is in both cases the same ; the rights and 
the nature of man are to the legislator what 
the general properties of matter are to the 
mechanic, — the first guide, — because they 
are founaed on the widest experience. In 
the second class are to be ranked observa- 
tions on the excellences and defects of all 
governments which have already existed, 
that the construction of a more perfect ma- 
chine may result But experience is the 
basis of all : — not the puny and trammelled 
experience of a statesman by trade, who 
trembles at any change in the tricks which 
he has been taught, or the routine in which 
he has been accustomed to move ; but an 
experience liberal and enlightened, which 
hears the testimony of ages and nations, 
and collects from it the general principles 
which regulate the mechanism of society. 
* * We are boldly challenged to pro 
dnce our proofs ; our complaints are as- 
serted to be chimerical ; and the excellence 
of our government is inferred from its 
beneficial effects. Most unfortunately foi 
us, most unfortunately for our country, 
these proofs are too ready and too numer- 
ous. We find them in that " monumental 
debt," the bequest of wasteful and profli- 
gate wars, which already wrings from the 
peasant something of his hard-earned pit- 
tance! — which already has punished the ip 



dustry of the useful and upright manufac- 
turer, bj robbing him of the asylum of his 
house, and the judgment of his peers, — to 
which the madness of political Quixotism 
adds a million for every farthing that the 
pomp of ministerial empiricism pays, — and 
which menaces our children with convul- 
sions and calamities, of which no age has 
seen the parallel. We find them in the 
black and bloody roll of persecuting stat- 
utes that are still suffered to stain our 
code ; — a list so execrable, that were no 
monument to be preserved of what England 
was in the eighteenth century but her 
Statute Book, she might be deemed to have 
been then still plunged in the deepest gloom 
of superstitious barbarism. We find them 
in the ignominious exclusion of great bodies 
of our fellow-citizens from political trusts, 
by tests which reward falsehood and punish 
probity, — which profane the rights of the 
religion they pretend to guard, and usurp 
the dominion of the God they profess to 
revere. We find them in the growing cor- 
ruption of those who administer the gov- 
ernment, — in the venality of a House of 
Commons, which has become only a cum- 
brous and expensive chamber for register- 
ing ministerial edicts, — in the increase of a 
nobility degraded by the profusion and 
prostitution of honours, which the zealous 
partisans of democracy would have spared 
them. We find them, above all, in the 
rapid progress which has been made in si- 
lencing the great organ of public opinion, — 
that Press which is the true control over the 
Ministers and Parliaments, who might else, 
with impunity, trample on the impotent 
formalities that form the pretended bulwark 
of our freedom. The mutual control, the 
well-poised balance of the several members 
of our Legislature, are the visions of theo- 
retical, or the pretext of practical politi- 
cians. It is a government, not of check, 
but of conspiracy, — a conspiracy which can 
only be repressed by the energy of popular 

These are no visionary ills, — no chimeri- 
cal apprehensions : they are the sad and sober 
reflections of as honest and enlightened men 
as any in the kingdom. Nor are they alle- 
viated: by the torpid and listless security into 
which the people seem to be lulled. " Sum- 
mum otium forensenon quiescentis sed sene- 
gcentis civitatis." It is in this fatal temper 
that men become sufficiently debased and 
embruted to sink into placid and polluted 
servitude. It is then that it may most truly 

be said, that the mind of a country is 
slain. The admirers of Revolution principles 
naturally call on every aggrieved and en- 
lightened citizen to consider the source of 
his oppression. If penal statutes hang over 
our Catholic brethren,— if Test Acts outrage 
our Protestant fellow-citizens, — if the re- 
mains of feudal tyranny are still suffered tc 
exist in Scotland, — if the press is fettered,— 
if our right to trial by jury is abridged, — 
if our manufactures are proscribed and 
hunted down by excise, — the reason of all 
these oppressions is the same : — no branch 
of the Legislature represents the people. 
Men are oppressed because they have no 
share in their own government. Let all 
these classes of oppressed citizens melt 
their local and partial grievances into one 
great mass. Let them cease to be suppliants 
for their rights, or to sue for them like men- 
dicants, as a precarious boon from the arro- 
gant pity of usurpers. Until the Legislature 
speaks their voice it will oppress them. Let 
them unite to procure such a Reform in the 
representation of the people as will make 
the House of Commons their representative. 
If dismissing all petty views of obtaining 
their own particular ends, they unite for this 
great object, they must succeed. The co- 
operating efforts of so many bodies of citizens 
must awaken the nation ; and its voice will 
be spoken in a tone that virtuous governors 
will obey, and tyrannical ones must dread. 

This tranquil and legal Reform is the 
ultimate object of those whom Mr. Burke 
has so foully branded. In effect this would be 
amply sufficient The powers of the King 
and the Lords have never been formidable 
in England, but from discords between the 
House of Commons and its pretended con- 
stituents. Were that house really to become 
the vehicle of the popular voice, the privi- 
leges of other bodies, in opposition to the 
sense of the people and their representatives 
would be but as dust in the balance. From 
this radical improvement all subaltern re- 
form would naturally and peaceably arise. 
We dream of no more, and in claiming this, 
instead of meriting the imputation of being 
apostles of sedition, we conceive ourselves 
entitled to be considered as the most sincere 
friends of tranquil and stable government. 
We desire to avert revolution by reforms- 
subversion by correction. We admonish 
our governors to reform, while they re- 
tain the force to reform with dignity and 
security ; and we conjure them not to wait 
the moment, which will infallibly arrive, 



when they shall be obliged to supplicate 
that people, whom they oppress and despise, 
for the slenderest pittance of their present 

The grievances of England do not now, 
we confess, justify a change by violence : 
but they are in a rapid progress to that 
fatal state, in which they will both justify 
and produce it It is because we sincerely 
love tranquil freedom, that we earnestly 
deprecate the arrival of the moment when 
nature and honour shall compel us to seek 
her with our swords. Are not they the 
true friends to authority who desire, that 
whatever is granted by it " should issue as 
a gift of her bounty and beneficence, rather 
than as claims recovered against a strug- 
gling litigant? Or, at least, that if her 
beneficence obtained no credit in her con- 
cessions, they should appear the salutary 
provisions of wisdom and foresight, not as 
things wrung with blood by the cruel gripe 
of a rigid necessity." We desire that the 
political tight which is to break in on Eng- 
land should be " through well-contrived and 
well-disposed windows, not through flaws 
and breaches, — through the yawning chasms 
of our ruin." 

8a James Mackintosh. 


[Ptoeo Caldebon dk la Babca, a great Spanish dra- 
matist, bora in Madrid in 1000, died in 1081. Educated 
by the College of Jesuits, he became a soldier, but hav- 
ing evinced a high literary faculty, he was appointed 
to superintend the royal theatres in 1635, on tho death 
of Lope de Vega. His voluminous writings comprise 
no less than eighty-five sacred dramas, besides over one 
hundred secular plays, Including tragedies, comedies, 
and melodramas. There is much lyrical Are and plenty 
of extravagance in these admired productions, in many 
of which the passions form the groundwork of the plot. 
By tome critics Calderon is placed in a very high niche 
ntxt to Shakespeare as a dramatic poet] 


If I but knew, 
Ah I my Zelmia, how I feel, 
That certain knowledge soon would steal 
Half of the grief that pains me through : — 
I do not know Hs nature wholly, 
Although it robs my heart of gladness * 
For now it seemeth tearful sadness,— 
And now 'tis pensive melancholy : — 
I only know, I know I feel- 
But what I feel I do not know,— 
The sweet illusions mock me so. 


Since these gardens cannot steal 
Away your oft returning woes— 
Though to beauteous spring, they 
Snow white jasmine temples filled 
With radiant statues of the rose, 
Come unto the sea and make 
Thy bark the chariot of the sun.— 


And when the golden splendours run 
Athwart the waves, along thy wake— 
The garden to the sea will say 
(By melancholy fears deprest), 
The sun already gilds the west, 
How very short has been this day I — 

Ah I no more can gladden me 
Sunny shores, or dark projections 
Where in emulous reflections 
Blend the rival land and sea ; 
When, alike in charms and powers. 
Where the woods and waves are meeting- 
Flowers with foam are seen competing— 
Sparkling foam with snow-white flowers; 
Tor the garden, envious grown 
Of the curling waves of ocean. 
Loves to imitate their motion ; 
And the amorous zephyr, blown 
Out to sea from fragrant bowers, 
In the shining waters laving 
Back returns, and makes the waving 
Leaves an ocean of bright flowers : 
When the sea too, sad to view 
Its barren waste of waves forlorn, 
Striveth swiftly to adorn 
All its realm, and to subdue 
The pride of its majestic mien, 
To second laws it doth subject 
Its nature, and with sweet effect 
Blends fields of blue with waves of green. 
Coloured now like heaven's blue dome 
Now plumed as if from verdant bowers, 
The garden seems a sea of flowers, 
The sea a garden of bright foam : 
How deep my pain must be Is plain, 
Since naught delights my heart or eye, 
Nor earth, nor air, nor sea, nor sky. 



Let me go, my lord, since thou 
Knowest how my heart doth leap and bound 
When I hear a trumpet's sound, 
And a flush comes deepening o'er my brow, 



And my whole frame doth rejoice, 

As at a siren*! voice ; 

Since inclined to anna and warlike deeds. 

Music's martial clangour itira my soul, 

80 that I cannot control 

My emotion : may the fame 

Soon be mine, that ever valour breeds 

When my wafted name shall run 

To the ever-glorious sun, 

Sailing on a thousand waves of flame ; 

Or, on swift wings o'er the arare air, 

Bivslllng the goddess Pallas then !— 

*Twas but to know, I this excuse contrived [Asid* 

If this is Philip's ship that has arrived. [Exit. 


Come, my lord, descend with me 
To the white fringe of the rolling sea, 
Which doth humbly bow its curled head 
To this mountain lone and dread ; 
Which, because it proudly braves 
The sea and storm must ever dwell 
In a lone and sandy cell, 
Guarded round by crystal waves. 

dome, and all your cares forget, 
At this snowy monster's sight- 
Like a sapphire mirror set 
In a rich frame, silver white. 

Nothing now can bring relief; 
Nothing now can wean me from my grief; 
Or expel that ever-torturing guest, 
From out the burning Btna of my breast. 

Is there any earthly sight more fair- 
Can the world this miracle surpass 
Than to see a vessel softly gliding, 
Like a plough the azure field dividing, 
Or go breaking through the crystal glass, 
With the light breeze for its willing slave, 
Like a bird upon the rippling wave, 
Or a fish within the yielding air? 
Favourite of sea and sky, 
It through the winds doth swim, and o'er the waves 

doth fly ; 
But that sight were dreadful now, 
Full of terror and affright, 
For the sea is altered quite ; 
And the mountain billows roar, 
And the ocean's lordly brow. 
Is all deeply wrinkled o'er !— 
Neptune from his rest awaking. 
And his dreadful trident shaking, 
And his angry visage baring, 
Trieth now the sailors' daring. 
Now the storm begins to rise, 
Howling round the starry dome ; 

All is altered in a Moe, 
Pyramids of shining ice, 
Snowy palaces of foam, 
All are dashed against the skies. 

JWonfa, enleriaf. 

Alas I Alas I 



This fickle Babylon that trial 
In its thirsty rage to seek 
Even the dark and distant skies. 
Hides in its remorseless womb 
Myriads who forever rest, 
Bach within his coral tomb, 
Beep below the troubled wave, 
In a shining silver cave : 
Now the God by rage possessM 
Has loosed the winds and let them fly, 
Baging over sea and sky ; 
Bushing o'er the waters dark, 
They have struck the wretched nark- 
She whose trumpet late did sound 
Like a swan's funereal note— 
I, who then a pathway found 
Up that steep stupendous cliff, 
Which upon the shore remote, 
First receives the orient ray. 
There I saw a mighty ship 
Tossing like a summer skiff 
On the waters cast away, 
As the masts did rise and dip. 
Saw I Philip's banners wave 
O'er the sinking vessel's grave ; 
Then I added more and more, 
To the waves and tempest's roar, 
By the gushing tears and sighs 
Bursting from my lips and eyes I— 


Immortal rulers of the sky 
Why so much my patience try 
With such threatened ills as these? 
Do you wish that I should seize 
On the sceptre and the crown 
Of thy conquered kingdom ? Lo 1 
Thither shall I surely rise, 
And with vengeful hand tear down 
The azure palace of the skies I 
Being a second Nimrod. So 
That the world by me, perchance, 
May escape its threatened doom. 
Vainly may the billows roll. 
Vainly may the thunders boom, 
Vainly may the lightnings glance* 
They shall never shake my soul I 




From Abistotlk's Tbsatiss oh Ethic*. 

[Abistotle, the most distinguished of Grecian phi- 
losophers, born in Stagira, 384 B. C, died 322 B. C. He 
went to Athens when seventeen jreaw old to pursue his 
■Codies under Plato, and resided there twenty years, be- 
coming the teacher of Alexander the Great, whom he 
accompanied in several of his expeditions. Aristotle 
established a new school of philosophy, known as the 
Peripatetic, because he taught while walking up and 
down. Many of the numerous writings of Aristotle 
are lost, but enough remain to attest his great powers 
as a thinker and writer. He was the first to divide the 
animal kingdom into classes, and to discriminate be- 
tween the several faculties and powers of the mind and 
body of man. He is called the creator of logic, which 
made no progress since Aristotle, the principles which he 
laid down for it not having been superseded. His leading 
works are u Rhetoric," "JWies," " Bhic*," "Politic*," 
- Orgamon or Logic," u HUtorg of Animal*," "Phyic*," 
and " Metaphysics" which have been translated into all 
modern languages.] 

Every art and every scientific system, and 
in like manner every cause of action and 
deliberate preference, seems to aim at some 
good j and consequently "the Good 11 has 
been well defined as " that which all things 
aim at." 

But there appears to be a kind of differ- 
ence in ends ; for some are energies ; others 
again beyond these, certain works ; but 
wherever there are certain ends besides the 
actions, there the works are naturally better 
than the energies. 

Now since there are many actions, arts, 
and sciences, it follows that there are many 
ends ; for of medicine the end is health j of 
ship-building, a ship ; of generalship, vic- 
tory ; of economy, wealth. But whatever 
of such arts are contained under any w one 
faculty, (as for instance, under horseman- 
ship is contained the art of making bridles, 
ana all other horse furniture ; and this and 
the whole art of war is contained under 
generalship ; and in the same manner other 
arts are contained under different faculties ;) 
in all these the ends of the chief arts are 
more eligible than the ends of the subordi- 
nate ones 5 because for the sake of the 
former, the latter are pursued. It makes, 
however, no difference whether the energies 
themselves, or something else besides these, 
are the ends of actions, just as it would 
make no difference in the sciences above 
HJ therefor*, there is some end of all that 

count, and if we wish for all other things 
on account of this, and do not choose every- 
thing for the sake of something else (for 
thus we should go on to infinity, so that de- 
sire would be empty and vain), it is evident 
that this must be " the good," and the great- 
est good. Has not, then, the knowledge 
of this end a great influence on the conduct 
of life? and, like archers, snail we not be 
more likely to attain that which is right, if 
we have a mark ? If so, we ought to en 
deavour to give an outline at least of its 
nature, and to determine to which of the 
sciences or faculties it belongs. 

Now it would appear to be the end of 
that which is especially the chief and mas- 
ter science, and this seems to be the politi- 
cal science, for it directs what sciences 
states ought to cultivate, what individuals 
should learn, and how far they should pur* 
sue them. We see, too, that the most val- 
ued faculties are comprehended under 
it, as for example, generalship, economy, 
rhetoric. Since, then, this science makes 
use of the practical sciences, and legislates 
respecting what ought to be done, and what 
abstained from, its end must include those 
of the others ; so that this end must be the 
good of man. For although the good of an 
individual and a state be the same, still that 
of a state appears more important and 
more perfect both to obtain ana to preserve. 
To discover the good of an individual is 
satisfactory, but to discover that of a state 
or a nation is more noble and divine. This, 
then, is the object .of my treatise, which is 
of a political kind. * * * * 

Since all knowledge and every act of de- 
liberate preference aims at some good, let 
us show what that is, which we say that the 
political science aims at, and what is the 
highest good of all things which are done. 
As to its name, indeed, -almost all men are 
agreed ; for both the vulgar and the edu- 
cated call it happiness : but they suppose 
that to live well and do well are synonyms 
with being happy. But concerning the 
nature of happiness they are at variance, 
and the vulgar do not give the same defini- 
tion of it as the educated ; for some im- 
agine it to be an obvious and well-known 
object — such as pleasure, or wealth, or hon- 
our ; but different men think differently of 
it; and frequently even the same person 
entertains different opinions respecting it at 
different times ; for, when diseased, he be- 
lieves it to be health ; when poor, wealth ; 

wo do, which we wish for on its own ac- 1 but, conscious of their own ignorance, they 



admire those who Bay that it is something 
great and beyond them. Some, again, have 
supposed that besides these numerous 
goods, there is another sell-existent good, 
which is to all these the cause of their being 
goods. Now, to examine all the opinions 
would perhaps be rather unprofitable ; but 
it will be sufficient to examine those which 
lie most upon the surface, or seem to be 
most reasonable. 

Let it not, however, escape our notice, 
that arguments from principles differ from 
arguments to principles, for well did Plato 
also propose doubts on this point, and in- 
quire whether the right way is from princi- 
ples or to principles ; just as in the course 
from the starting-post to the goal, or the 
contrary. For we must begin from those 
things that are known; and things are 
known in two ways ; for some are Known 
to ourselves, others are generally known ; 
perhaps, therefore, we should begin from 
the things known to ourselves. 

Whoever, therefore, is to study with ad- 
vantage the things which are honourable 
and just, and in a word the subjects of po- 
litical science, must have been well and 
morally educated : for the point from 
whence we must begin is the fact, and if 
this is satisfactorily proved, it will be un- 
necessary to add the reason. Such a stu- 
dent possesses, or would easily acquire, the 
principles. But let him who possesses 
neither of these qualifications, hear the sen- 
timents of Hesiod : — 

M Far does the man all other men excel, 
Who, from hie wisdom, think* in all things well, 
Wisely considering, to himself a friend, 
All for the present best, and for the end. 
Nor is the man without his share of nralse, 
Who well the dictales of the wise obeys : 
Bat he that is not wise himself, nor can 
Hearken to wisdom, is a useless man.* 1 


[Mr*. Cathebihz Cbowk, born in 1800, a oopious wri- 
ter of English prose, has written M Tk* Adv^nturm of 
6hmm Hoplev" (1841). and other stories. Her best known 
work is u The Night Side of Nature ; or, OkotU and 
Gho* Seem " (1848), a collection of remarkable stories 
founded largely on supernatural events. It is a curious 

sight, ghosts, ete^ well adapted to fascinate lovers of the 
marvellous. He died In 1876.] 

It is in the annals of the doings and suf- 
ferings of the good and brave spirits of the 
earth that we should learn our lessons. It 
is by these that our hearts are mellowed, 
our minds exalted, and our souls nerved to 
go and do likewise. But there are occa- 
sionally circumstances connected with the 
history of great crimes that render them the 
most impressive of homilies ; fitting them 
to be set aloft as beacons to warn away the 
frail mortal, tossed on the tempest of his 
passions, from the destruction that awaits 
him if he pursues his course ; and such in- 
struction we hold may be best derived from 
those cases in which the subsequent feel- 
ings of a criminal are disclosed to us ; those 
cases, in short, in which the chastisement 
proceeds from within instead of from with- 
out; that chastisement that no cunning 
concealment, no legal subtlety, no eloquent 
counsel, no indulgent judge can avert . . . 

One of the features of our time — as of all 
times, each of which is new in its genera- 
tion — is the character of its crimes. Every 
phasis of human affairs, every advance in 
civilization, every shade of improvement in 
our material comforts and conveniences, 
gives rise to new modes and forms — nay, to 
actual new births— of crime, the germs of 
which were onlv waiting for a congenial 
soil to spring in ; whilst others are but 
modifications of the old inventions accom- 
modated to new circumstances. 

There are thus stages in the history of 
crime indicative of ages. First, we have 
the heroic At a very early period of a na- 
tion's annals, crime is bloody, bold, and 
resolute. Ambitious princes "make quick 
conveyance" with those who stand in the 
way of their advancement; and fierce 
barons slake their enmity and revenge in 
the blood of their foes, with little attempt 
at concealment, and no appearance of re- 
morse. Next comes the age of strange 
murders, mysterious poisonings, and life- 
long incarcerations ; when the passions, yet 
rife, unsubdued by education and the prac- 
tical influence of religion, and rebellious to 
the new restraints of law, seek their gratifi- 
cation bv hidden and tortuous methods. 
This is the romantic era of crime. But as 
civilization advances, it descends to a lower 
sphere, sheltering itself chiefly in the 
squalid districts of poverty and wretched- 
ness; the last halo of the romantic and 



heroic fades from it ; and except where it 
b the result of brutal ignorance, its chief 
characteristic becomes astuteness. 

But we are often struck by the strange 
tinge of romance which still colours the 
pages of continental criminal records, caus- 
ing them to read like the annals of a pre- 
vious century. We think we perceive also 
a state of morals somewhat in arrear of the 
3ta?e we have reached, and, certainly, some 
curious and very defective forms of law j 
and these two causes combined, seem to 
gi?e rise to criminal enterprises which, in 
this country, could scarcely have been un- 
dertaken, or, if they were, must have been 
met with immediate detection and punish- 

There is also frequently a singular com- 
plication or imbroglio in the details, such 
as would be impossible in this island of 
daylight — for, enveloped in fog as we are 
physically, there is a greater glare thrown 
upon our actions here than among any 
other nation of the world perhaps — an im- 
broglio that appears to fling the narrative 
back into the romantic era, and to indicate 
that it belongs to a stage of civilization we 
have already passed. 


A baby wa* sleeping, its mother was weeping, 

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; 
And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman's 
And she cried • u Dermot, darling, oh I come back to 

Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slum- 
And smiled in her face while she bended her knee. 
" Oh ! blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorn- 
Tor I know that the angels are whispering with 

' And while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy 
Oh ! pray to them softly, my baby, with me ; 
And say thou wouldst rather they'd watch o'er thy 
For 1 know that the angels are whispering with 

Ike dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning, 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see. 

And closely caressing her child with a blessing, 
8ald : " I knew that the angels were whispering with 

Samuxl Loyzb. 


There are some fields near Manchester, 
well known to the inhabitants as " Green 
Heys Fields," through which runs a public 
footpath to a little village about two miles 
distant In spite of these fields being flat 
and low — nay, in spite of the want of wood 
(the great and usual recommendation of 
level tracts of land), there is a charm about 
them which strikes even the inhabitant of a 
mountainous district, who sees and feels the 
effect of contrast in these commonplace but 
thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bus- 
tling manufacturing town he left but half an 
hour ago. Here and there an old black and 
white farm-house, with its rambling out- 
buildings, speaks of other times and other 
occupations than those which now absorb 
the population of the neighbourhood. Here 
in their seasons may be seen the country 
business of haymaking, ploughing, Ac, 
which are such pleasant mysteries for towns- 
people to watch ; and here the artisan, deaf- 
ened with noise of tongues and engines, 
may come to listen awhile to the delicious 
sounds of rural life — the lowing of cattle, 
the milkmaids' call, the clatter and cackle 
of poultry in the old farm-yards. You can- 
not wonder, then, that these fields are pop- 
ular places of resort at every holiday-time j 
and you would not wonder, if you could see, 
or I properly describe, the charm of one 
particular stile, that it should be, on such 
occasions, a crowded halting place. Close 
by it is a deep, clear pond, reflecting in its 
dark-green depths the shadowy trees that 
bend over it to exclude the sun. The 
only place where its banks are shelving 
is on the side next to a rambling farm-yard, 
belonging to one of those old-world, gabled, 
black and white houses I named above, 
overlooking the field through which the 
public footpath leads. The porch of this 
farm-house is covered by a rose-tree*, and 
the little garden surrounding it is crowded 
with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and 
flowers, planted long ago, when the garden 
was the only druggist's shop within reach, 
and allowed to grow in scrambling and wild 



ever, held themselves aloof, not in a shy, 
but rather in an independent way, assuming 
an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or 
obstreperous compliments of the lads. Here 
and garden are within a hundred yards of and there came a sober, quiet couple, either 
the stile of which I spoke, leading from the < whispering lovers, or husband and wife, as 
large pasture-field into a smaller one, divi- , the case might be ; and if the latter, they 

luxuriance — roses, lavender, sage, balm (for 
tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, 
onions and jessamine, in most republican 
and indiscriminate order. This farm-house 

ded by a hedge of hawthorn and black- 
thorn; and near this stile, on the further 
side, there runs a tale that primroses may 
often be found, and occasionally the blue 
dweet violet on the grassy hedge-bank. 

I do not know whether it was on a holi- 
day granted by the masters, or a holiday 
seized in right of nature and her beautiful 
spring-time by the workmen ; but one after- 
noon — now ten or a dozen years ago — these 
fields were much thronged. It was an early 
May evening — the April of the poets ; for 
heavy showers had fallen all the morning, 
and the round, soft white clouds which were 
blown by a west wind over the dark-blue 

were seldom unencumbered by an infant, 
carried for the most part by the father, 
while occasionally even three or four little 
toddlers had been carried or draped thus 
far in order that the whole family might 
enjoy the delicious May afternoon together* 


USE OF ms- 

[Hekbt 8t. John, Viscount Bolingbroke (1678-1781,) 

sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker j an English author and statesman, was noted for the ln- 
and more threatening. The softness of the | genuity and pleasing flow of his literary compositiosa 
day tempted forth the young green leaves. ! and exerted considerable influence in the first half or 
which almost visibly 'fluttered into life *, ana the eighteenth century, although his writings are now 
the willows, which that morning had had 
only a brown reflection in the water below, 
were now of that tender gray-green which 
blends so delicately with the spring harmo- 
ny of colours. 

Groups of merry, and somewhat loud- 
talking girls, whose ages might range from 
twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant 
step. They were most of them factory girls, 

but little read.] 

The love of history seems inseparable from 
human nature, because it seems inseparable 
from self-love. The same principle in this 
instance carries us forward and backward, 
to future and to past ages. We imagine 
that the things which affect us, must affect 
posterity : this sentiment runs through man- 

ana wore the usual out-of-doors dress of that ! kind from Caesar down to the parish-clerk in 
particular class of maidens — namely, a ! Pope's Miscellany. We are fond of pre- 

shawl, which at mid-day, or in fine weath- 
er, was allowed to be merely a shawl, but 
towards evening, or if the day were chilly, 
became a sort of Spanish mantilla or Scotch 
plaid, and was brought over the head and 
hung loosely down, or was pinned under the 
chin in no unpicturesque fashion. Their 
faces were not remarkable for beauty ; in- 
deed, they were below the average, with 
one or two exceptions j they had dark 
hair, neatly and classically arranged ; dark 
eyes, but sallow complexions and irregular 
features. The only thing to strike a passer- 

by was an acuteness and intelligence of | sung at all their festivals. There is no need 
countenance which has often been noticed ! of saying how this passion grows, among 
in a manufacturing population. ! civilized nations, in proportion to the means 

There were also numbers of boys, or rath of gratifying it: but let us observe that the 
9T young men, rambling among these fields, same principle of nature directs us as strong- 
ready to bandy jokes with any one, ly, ana more generally as well as more early, 
and particularly ready to enter into . to indulge our own curiosity, instead of pre- 
oonversation with the girls, who, how- 1 paring to gratify that of others. The ctiW 

serving, as far as it is in our frail power, the 
memory of our own adventures, of those of 
our own time, and of those that preceded it. 
Rude heaps of stones have been raised, and 
ruder hymns have been composed, for this 
purpose, by nations who had not yet the use 
of arts and letters. To go no farther back, 
the triumphs of Odin were celebrated in 
Runic songs, and the feats of our British 
ancestors were recorded in those of their 
bards. The savages of America have the 
same custom at this day : and long historical 
ballads of their huntings and their wars are 



hearkens with delight to the tales of his 
nurse : he learns to read, and he devours 
with eagerness fabulous legends and novels : 
in riper years he applies himself to history, 
or to that which he takes for history, to au- 
thorized romance: and, even in age, the 
desire of knowing what has happened to 
other men yields to the desire alone of re- 
lating what has happened to ourselves, 
i Thus history, true or false, speaks to our 
passions always. What pity it is, my lord, 
that even the best should speak to our un- 
derstandings so seldom ? That it does so, 
we have none to blame but ourselves. Na- 
ture has done her part She has opened 
this study to every man who can read and 
think : and what she has made the most 
agreeable, reason can make the most useful, 
application of our minds. But if we consult 
our reason, we shall be far from following 
the examples of our fellow-creatures, in this 
as in most other cases, who are so proud of 
being rational. We shall neither read to 
soothe our indolence, nor to gratify our 
vanity : as little shall we content ourselves 
to drudge like grammarians and critics, 
that others may be able to study with greater 
ease and profit, like philosophers and states- 
men; as little shall we affect the slender 
merit of becoming great scholars at the ex- 
pense of groping all our lives in the dark 
mazes of antiquity. All these mistake the 
true drift of study and the true use of history. 
Nature gave us curiosity to excite the in- 
dustry of our minds : but she never intended 
it should be made the principal, much less 
the sole object of their application. The 
true and proper object of this application is 
a constant improvement in private and in 
public virtue. An application to any study 
that tends neither directly nor indirectly to 
make us better men and better citizens, is 
at best but a specious and ingenious sort of 
idleness, to use an expression of Tillotson : 
and the knowledge we acquire by it is a 
creditable kind of ignorance, nothing more. 
This creditable kind of ignorance, is, in my 
opinion, the whole benefit which the gene- 
rality of men, even of the most learned, reap 
from the study of history : and yet the study 
of history seems to me, of all other, the most 
proper to train us up to private and public 

Your lordship may very well be ready by 
this time, and after so much bold censure on 
my part, to ask me what then is the true use 
or history ? in what it may serve to make 
us better and wiser ? and what method is to 

be pursued in the study of it for attaining 
these great ends ? I will answer you by 
quoting what I have read somewhere or 
other, in Dionysius Halicarnassensis, I think, 
that nistory is philosophy teaching by ex- 
amples. We need but to cast our eyes on 
the world, and we shall see the daily force 
of example : we need but to turn them in- 
ward, ana we shall soon discover why exam* 
pie has this force. " Pauci prudential says 
Tacitus, "honesta ab deterioribus, utilia ab 
noxiis discernunt : plures aliorum eventu 
docentur" Such is the imperfection of 
human understanding, such the frail temper 
of our minds, that abstract or general prop- 
ositions, though ever so true, appear obscure 
or doubtful to us very often, till they are ex- 
plained by examples ; and that the wisest 
lessons in favour of virtue go but a little way 
to convince the judgment and determine the 
will, unless they are enforced by the same 
means ; and we are obliged to apply to our- 
selves what we see may happen to other men. 
Instructions by precept have the further dis- 
advantage of coming on the authority of 
others, and frequently. require a long deduc- 
tion ot reasoning. " Homines amplius oculis 
quam oribus credunt : longum iter est per 
prcecepta, breve et effkax per exempla" The 
reason of this judgment, which I quote from 
one of Seneca s epistles in confirmation of 
my own opinion, rests, I think, on this ; that 
when examples are pointed out to us, there 
is a kind of appeal, with which we are flat- 
tered, made to our senses, as well as our 
understandings. The instruction comes then 
upon our own authority : we frame the pre- 
cept after our own experience, and yield to 
fact when we resist speculation. But this is 
not the only advantage of instruction by ex- 
ample ; for example appeals not to our un- 
derstanding alone, but to our passions like- 
wise. Example assuages these or animates 
them ; sets passion on the side ©f judgment, 
and makes the whole man of a piece ; which 
is more than the strongest reasoning and the 
clearest demonstration can do ; and thus 
forming habits by repetition, example secures 
the observance of those precepts which ex- 
ample insinuated. Is it not Pliny, my lord, 
who says that the gentlest, he should have 
added the most effectual way of command- 
ing, is by example? "Mitius jubetur exem- 
plo." The harshest orders are softened by 
example, and tyranny itself becomes persua- 
sive. What pity it is, that so few princes 
have learned this way of commanding. But 
again : the force of example is not confined 



to those aione, who pass immediately under 
our sight : the examples that memory sug- 
gests, have the same effect in their degree, 
and a habit of recalling them will soon pro- 
duce the habit of imitating them. In the 
same epistle, from whence I cited a passage 
just now, Seneca says that Cleanthes had 
never become so perfect a copy of Zeno, if 
he had not passed his life with him ; that 
Plato, Aristotle, and the other philosophers 
3f that school, profited more by the example, 
than by the discourse of Socrates. (But 
here, by the way, Seneca mistook ; for Soc- 
rates died two years according to some, and 
four years according to others, before the 
birth of Aristotle: and his mistake might 
come from the inaccuracy of those who col- 
lected for him, as Erasmus observes, after 
Quintilian, in his judgment on Seneca.) 
But be this, which was scarcely worth a pa- 
renthesis, as it will : he adds that Metrodorus, 
Hermachus, and Pol v sen us, men of great 
note, were formed by living under the same 
roof with Epicurus, not by frequenting his 
school. These are instances of the force of 
immediate example. But your lordship 
knows that the citizens of Rome placed the 
images of their ancestors in the vestibules 
of their houses : so that, whenever they went 
in or out, these venerable bustoes met their 
eyes, and recalled the glorious actions of the 
deaa to fire the living, to excite them to imi- 
tate and even to emulate their great fore- 
fathers. The success answered the design. 
The virtue of one generation was transfused, 
by the magic of example into several : and 
a spirit of heroism was maintained through 
many ages of the commonwealth. Now 
these are so many instances of the force of 
remote example; and from all these in- 
stances we may conclude, that examples of 
both kinds are necessary. 

The school of example, my lord, is the 
world : and the masters of this school are 
history and experience. I am far from con- 
tending that tne former is preferable to the 
latter. I think upon the whole otherwise : 
but this I say, that the former is absolutely 
necessary to prepare us for the latter, and 
to accompany us while we are under the dis- 
cipline of the latter, that is through the whole 
course of our lives. No doubt some few men 
may be quoted, to whom Nature gave what 
art and industry can give to no man. But 
such examples will prove nothing against 
me, because I admit that the study of his- 
tory, without experience, is insufficient ; but 
assert, that experience itself is so without 

genius. Genius is preferable to the other 
two ; but I will wish to find the three to- 
gether : for how great soever a genius may 
be, and how much soever he may acquire 
new light and heat, as he proceeds in his 
rapid course, certain it is that he will never 
shine with the full lustre, nor shed the mil 
influence he is capable of, unlets to his own 
experience he adds the experience of other 
men and other ages. 

Genius, without the improvement, at least 
of experience, is what comets once were 
thought to be, a blazing meteor irregular in 
his course, and dangerous in his approach ; 
of no use to any system, and able to destroy 
any. Mere sons of earth, if they have ex- 
perience without any knowledge of the his- 
tory of the world, are but half scholars in the 
science of mankind. And if they are con- 
versant in history without experience, they 
are worse than ignorant ; they are pedants, 
always incapable, sometimes meddling ana 
presuming. The man who has all three, is 
an honour to his country and a public 

Loan BoL»«nou» 


[In poetry, m in prom fiction, ladies crowd the a 
and contend for the highest prises. Among* other fair 
competitors ia Miss Eliza Cook, (born in Southwark, 
London, about 1818) published a Yolume of miscella- 
neous poems, entitled " McUtia, and other Amir*" A 
great number of small pieces have also been contribu- 
ted by Miss Cook to periodical works ; and in 1849 «hs 
established a weekly periodical, "Elba OooVt Jour- 
nal," which enjoyed considerable popularity from 1849 
until 1854, when ill health compelled Miss Cook tt 
give it up. In 1864 she published a second volume of 
poems, "Ntw Echoea, de. ; ** and the same year a pen 
■ion was settled on the authoress. She died in 1889.] 

Old songs t old songs !— what heaps I knew. 

From " Chevy Chase ** to " Black-eyed Sue ; " 

From " Flow, thou regal purple stream,** 

To Rousseau ** melancholy " Dream I " 

I loved the pensive u Cabin-boy,** 

With earnest truth and real joy; 

My warmest feelings wander back 

To greet M Tom Bowling** and " Poor Jack ; * 

And oh, " W1U Watch, the smuggler bold," 

My plighted troth thoult ever hold. 

I doted on the " Auld Scots' Sonnet,** 

As though I'd worn the plaid and bonnet; 

I went abroad with " Sandy's Ghost,*' 

I stood with Baunockburn*8 brave host, 



And proudly tossed my curly head 
With " Soots wha hae wi' Wallace hied I* 
I shouted " Ooming through the rye n 
With restless step and sparkling eye, 
And chased away the passing frown, 
With M Bonny ran the tmrnie down." 

Old songs ! old songs 1— my brain has lost 
Much that it gained with pain and cost. 
I hare forgotten all the rules 
Of Murray's books and Trimmer's schools; 
Detested figures— how I hate 
The mere remembrance of a slate! 
How have 1 cast from woman's thought 
Much goodly lore the girl was taught ; 
But not a word has passed away 
Of u Best thee, babe," or tt Bobin Gray." 

The ballad still is breathing round, 
Bat other roices yield the sound ; 
Strangers possess the household room ; 
The mother lieth in the tomb; 
And the blithe boy that praised her song 
Sleeping as soundly and as long. 

Old songs I old songs J— I should not sigh ; 
Joys of the earth on earth must die ; 
But spectral forms will sometimes start 
Within the caverns of the heart, 
Haunting the lone and darkened cell 
Where, warm in life, they used to dwell. 
Hope, youth, lore, home— each human tie 
That binds we know not how or why- 
All, all that to the soul belongs 
Is closely mingled with u Old Songs." 


I lore it, I lore it! and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving that old arm chair? 
rve treasured it long as a sainted prise, 
rve bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with 
TJd bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start ; 
Would you know the spell ?— a mother sat there 1 
and a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 

The hallowed seat with listening ear; 

And gentle words that mother would give 

To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 

She told me that shame would never betide, 

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide j 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 

At I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I art, and watched her many a day, 
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ; 
And 1 almost worshipped her when she smiled, 
And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 
I tan rolled on, but the last one sped,' 

My idol was shattered, my earth star fled ! 
And I learned how much the heart can bear, 
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair. 

'T is past, 't is past I but I gase on it now, 
With quivering breath and throbbing brow ; 
'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she dJ 
And memory flows with lava tide. 
Say it is folly and deem me weak, 
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek | 
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 


[Daxtb Gabriel Bosnrn, an English artist, one of 
the originators of what Is termed the Pre-Raphaelite 
style of art, or imitation of the early Italian painters, 
with their vivid colours, minute details, and careful fln- 
ish, is known also as a poet and translator. In 186] 
Mr. Rossetti published « The Earlg Italian Poet* from 
CiuUo (TAIcamo to Dante AUghierl (1100-1200-1300), in 
the original metre*, together vith Danle't VUa Auooo." In 
1870 he issued a volume of " Poem*," some of which 
were early productions printed in periodical works. 
Nearly all of them are in form and colour, subject 
and stylo of treatment, similar to the Pre-Raphaelite 
pictures. The first relates the thoughts and musings 
of a maiden in heaven while waiting the arrival of her 
lover from the land of the living. He died in 1882.] 

The blessed damoiel leaned out 

From the gold bar of heaven ; 
Her eyes were deeper than the depth 

Of waters stilled at even ; 
She had three lilies in her hand, 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe ungirt from clasp to hem, 

Nor wrought flowers did adorn, 
But a white rose of Mary's gift 

For service, meetly worn ; 
And her hair hanging down her back, 

Was yellow like ripe corn. 

It was the rampart of God's house 

That she was standing on, 
By God built over the starry depth, 

The which is space begun, 
So high that looking downward thence, 

She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in heaven, across the flood 

Of ether like a bridge, 
Beneath the tides of day and night, 

With flame and darkness ridge, 
The voH. as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 



Heard hardly some of her new friends 

Amid then loving games, 
Spake evermore among themselves 

Their virginal chaste names : 
And the souls mounting up to God, 

Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself, and stooped 

Out of the circling charm, 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep, 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaxe still strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
Its path ; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 


[George Combe, (1788-1858). Mr. Combe wu a writer 
to the Signet In Edinburgh, but strongly attached to 11- j 
terary and philosophical pursuits. He was much re- 
spected by his fellow-citizens, and was known over 
Europe and America for his speculations in mental sci- 
ence, Ac. An interesting Life of Mr. Combe, bjr Charles 
Gibbon, was published in 1878. Hit chief works are— 
« Enay on Phrenology," 1819 j" The Oont&m&mof Jf«s w 
1828 ; "System of Phrenology," 1836 ; "Not- on Ike United 
Sate* of America," three vols., 1841; "Phrenology applied 
to Painting and Sculpture ; " and pamphlets on the " Re- 
lation between Science and Religion," on u Capital Pun- 
Uhmento? on "National Education," the u Omrency 
Question," etc.] 

As commonly employed, the word power 
is synonymous with strength, or much power, 
instead of denoting mere capacity, wnether 
much or little, to act ; while by activity is 
usually understood much quickness of ac- 
tion, and great proneness to act. As it is 
drsirable, however, to avoid every chance of 
ambiguity, I snail employ the words power 
and activity in the sense first before explain- 
ed ; and to high degrees of power I shall 
apply the terms energy, intensity, strength, 
or vigour ; while to great activity I shall ap- 
ply the terms vivacity, agility, rapidity, or 

In physics, strength is quite distinguish- 

able from quickness. The balance-whee* 
of a watch moves with much rapidity, but 
so slight is its impetus, that a hair would 
suffice to stop it ; the beam of a steam-en- 
gine progresses slowly and massively 
through space, but its energy is prodigiously 

In muscular action these qualities are re* 
cognized with equal facility as different 
The greyhound bounds over hill and dale 
with animated agility ; but a slight obstacle 
would counterbalance his momentum, and 
arrest his progress. The elephant, on the 
other hand, rolls slowly and heavily along ; 
but the impetus of his motion would sweep 
away an impediment sufficient to resist fifty 
greyhounds at the summit of their speed. 

In mental manifestations,— considered 
apart from organization, — the distinction 
between energy and vivacity is equally pal* 
pable. On the stage, Mrs. oiddons and Mr. 
John Kemble were remarkable for the so- 
lemn deliberation of their manner, both in 
declamation and in action, and yet they 
were splendidly gifted with energy. They 
carried captive at once the sympathies ana 
the understanding of the audience, and made 
every man feel his faculties expanding, and 
his whole mind becoming greater under the 
influence of their power. Other performers, 
again, are remarkable for agility of action 
and elocution, who, nevertheless, are felt to 
be feeble and ineffective in rousing an au- 
dience to emotion. Vivacity is their distin- 
5uishing attribute, with an absence of vigour, 
.t the bar, in the pulpit, and in the senate, 
the same distinction prevails. Many mem- 
bers of the learned professions display great 
fluency of elocution and felicity of illustra- 
tion, surprising us with the quickness of 
their parts, who, nevertheless, are felt to be 
neither impressive nor profound. They ex- 
hibit acuteness without depth, and ingenuity 
without comprehensiveness of understand- 
ing. This alsoproceeds from vivacity with 
little energy. Tnere are other public speak- 
ers, again, who open heavily in debate — 
their faculties acting slowly but deeply, like 
the first heave of a mountain wave. Their 
words fall like minute-guns upon the ear, 
and to the superficial they appear about to 
terminate ere they have begun their efforts. 
But even their first accent is one of power ; 
it rouses and arrests attention ; their very 
pauses are expressive, and indicate gather- 
ing energy to be embodied in the sentence 
that is to come. When fairly animated, 
they arc impetuous as the torrent, brilliant 



as the lightning's beam, and overwhelm and 
take possession of feebler minds, impress- 
ing them irresistibly with a feeling of gigan- 
tic power. 

As a general rale, the largest organs in 
each head have naturally the greatest, and 
the smallest the least, tendency to act, and 
to perform their functions with rapidity. 
The temperaments also indicate the amount 
of this tendency. The nervous is the most 
vivacious, next the sanguine, then the bilious, 
while the lymphatic is characterized by 
proneness to inaction. In a lymphatic brain, 
great size may be present and few manifes- 
tations occur through sluggishness ; but if a 
strong external stimulus be presented, ener- 
gy often appears. If the brain be very small, 
no degree of stimulus, either external or 
internal, will cause great power to be mani- 

A certain combination of organs — name- 
ly, Combativeness, Destructiveness, Hope, 
Firmness, Acquisitiveness, and Love of Ap- 
probation, all largo — is favourable to general 
vivacity of mind ; and another combination 
— namely, Combativeness, Destructiveness. 
Hope, Firmness, and Acquisitiveness, small 
or moderate, with Veneration and Benevo- 
lence large, — is frequently attended with 
sluggishness of the mental character; but 
the activity of the whole brain is constitu- 
tionally greater in some individuals than in 
others, as already explained. It may even 
happen that, in the same individual, one or- 
gan is naturally more active than another, 
without reference to size, just as the optic 
nerve is sometimes more irritable than the 
auditory ; but this is by no means a common 
occurrence. Exercise greatly increases ac- 
tivity as well as power, and hence arise the 
benefits of education. Dr. Spurzheim thinks 
that " long fibres produce more activity, and 
thick fibres more intensity." 

The doctrine, that size is a measure of 
power, is not to be held as implying that 
much power is the only or even tne most va- 
luable quality which a mind in all circum- 
stances can possess. To drag artillery over 
a mountain, or a ponderous wagon through 
the streets of London, we would prefer an 
elephant or a horse of great size and muscu- 
lar power ; while, for graceful motion, agili- 
ty, and nimbleness, we would select an 
Arabian palfrey. In like manner, to lead 
men in gigantic and difficult enterprises — 
to command by native greatness, in perilous 
times, when law is trampled under foot — to 
vail forth the energies of a people, and direct 

them against a tyrant at home, or an alli- 
ance of tyrants abroad — to stamp the impress 
of a single mind upon a nation — to infuse 
strength into thoughts, and depth into feel- 
ings, which shall command the homage of 
enlightened men in every age — in short, to 
be a Bruce, Bonaparte, Luther, Knox, De- 
mosthenes, Shakspeare, Milton, or Cromwell. 
— a large brain is indispensably reauisite. 
But to display skill, enterprise, and fidelity 
in the various professions of civil life — to 
cultivate with success the less arduous 
branches of philosophy — to excel in acute- 
ness, taste, and felicity of expression — to 
acquire extensive erudition and refined 
manners — a brain of a moderate size is 
perhaps more suitable than one that is very 
large ; for wherever the energy is intense, it 
is rare that delicacy, refinement, and taste 
are present in an equal degree. Individuals 
possessing moderate-sized brains easily find 
their proper sphere, and enjoy in it scope 
for all their energy. In ordinary circum- 
stances they distinguish themselves, but they 
sink when difficulties accumulate around 
them. Persons with large brains, on the 
other hand, do not readily attain their ap- 
propriate place ; common occurrences do 
not rouse or call them forth, and, while un- 
known, they are not trusted with great un- 
dertakings. Often, therefore, such men pine 
and die in obscurity. When, however, they 
attain their proper element, they are con- 
scious of greatness, and glory in the expan- 
sion of their powers. Their mental energies 
rise in proportion to the obstacles to be sur- 
mounted, and blaze forth in all the magnifi- 
cence of self-sustaining energetic genius, on 
occasions when feebler minds would sink in 


[Munoo Pabk wm born at Fowlshields, near Selkirk, 
on the 10th of September, 1771. He studied medicine, 
and performed a Toy age to Bencoolen in the capacity of 
assistant-surgeon to an East Indtaman. The African 
Association, founded In 1778 for the purpose of promo- 
ting discovery in the interior of Africa, had tent out 
several travellers — John Ledyard, Lucas, and Majoi 
Houghton— all of whom had died. Park, however, 
undeterred by these examples, embraced the society's 
offer, and set sail in May 1796. On the 21st of June fol- 
lowing he arrived at Jillifree, on the banks of the Qam- 
bja. He pursued his journey towards the kingdom of 



Bambarra, and saw the great object of hie mission, the 
river Niger, flowing toward the east. The sufferings of 
Park during his journey, the various incidents he en- 
countered, his captivity among the Moors, and his de- 
scription of the inhabitants, their manners, trade, and 
oustonis, constitute a narrative of the deepest interest. 
The traveller returned to England towards the latter 
and of the year 1797, when all hope of him had been 
abandoned, and In 1709 he published his travels. The 
style is simple and manly, and replete with a fine moral 
feeling. One of his adventures— which had the honour 
of being turned into verse by the Duchess of Devon- 
shire—is thus related. The traveller had reached the 
town of 3ego, the capital of Bambarra, and wished to 
cross the river towards the residence of the king.] 

I waited more than two hoars without 
having an opportunity of crossing the river, 
during which time the people who had 
crossed carried information to Mansong, 
the king, that a white man was waiting for 
a passage, and was coming to see him. He 
immediately sent over one of his chief men, 
who informed me that the king could not 
possibly see me until he knew what had 
Drought me into his country; and that I 
must not presume to cross the river without 
the king's permission. He therefore advised 
me to lodge at a distant village, to which 
he pointed, for the night, and said that in 
the morning he would give me further in- 
structions now to conduct myself. This 
was very discouraging. However as there 
was no remedy, I set off for the village, 
where I found, to my great mortification, 
that no person would admit me into his 
house. I was regarded with astonishment 
and fear, and was obliged to sit all day 
without victuals in the shade of a tree ; and 
the night threatened to be very uncomforta- 
ble — for the wind rose, and there was great 
appearance of a heavy rain — and the wild 
beasts are so^ very numerous in the neigh- 
bourhood, that I should have been under 
the necessity of climbing up the tree and 
resting amongst the branches. About sun- 
set, however, as I was preparing to pass the 
night in this manner, ana had turned my 
horse loose that he might graze at liberty, 
a woman, returning from the labours of the 
field, stopped tj> observe me, and perceiving 
that I was weary and dejected, inquired 
into my situation, which I briefly explained 
to her ; whereupon, with looks of great com- 
passion, she took up my saddle and bridle and 
told me to follow her. Having conducted 
me into her hut, she lighted up a lamp, 
spread a mat on the floor, and told me I 
might remain there for the night Finding 

that I was very hungry, she said she would 
procure me something to eat. She accor- 
dingly went out, and returned in a short 
time with a very fine fish, which, having 
caused to be half-broiled upon some embers, 
she gave me for supper. The rites of hospi- 
tality being thus performed towards a stran- 
ger in distress, my worthy benefactress — 
pointing to the mat, and telling me I might 
sleep there without apprehension— called to 
the female part of her family, who had stood 
gazing on me all the while in fixed aston- 
ishment, to resume their task of spinning 
cotton, in which they continued to employ 
themselves a great part of the night They 
lightened their labour by songs, one of 
which was composed extempore, for I was 
myself the subject of it It was sung by 
one of the young women, the rest joining in 
a sort of a chorus. The air was sweet and 
plaintive, and the words, literally translated, 
were these : " The winds roared, and the 
rains fell. The poor white man, faint and 
weary, came and sat under our tree. He 
has no mother to bring him milk — no wife 
to grind his corn. Chorus. — Let us pity 
the white man — no mother has he, «c. 
Trifling as this recital may appear to the 
reader, to a person in my situation the cir- 
cumstance was affecting in the highest de- 
gree. I was oppressed by such unexpected 
kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In 
the morning I presented my compassionate 
landlady with two of the four brass buttons 
which remained on my waistcoat — the only 
recompense I could make her. 


After the robbers were gone, I sat for 
some time looking around me with amaze- 
ment and terror. Whichever way I turned 
nothing appeared but danger and: difficulty. 
I saw myself in the midst of a vast wilder- 
ness, in the depth of the rainy season, naked 
and atone, surrounded by savage animals, 
and men still more savage. I was five 
hundred miles from the nearest European 
settlement All these circumstances crowded 
at once on my recollection, and I confess 
that my spirits began to fail me. I con- 
sidered my fate as certain, and that I had 
no alternative but to lie down and perish. 
The influence of religion, however, aided 



and supported me. I reflected thai no hu- 
man prudence or foresight could possibly 
have averted my present sufferings. I was 
indeed a stranger in a strange land, yet I 
was still under the protecting eye of that 
Providence who has condescended to call 
himself the stranger's friend. At this mo- 
ment, painful as my reflections were, the 
extraordinary beauty of a small moss in 
fructification irresistibly caught my eye. I 
mention this to show from what trifling 
circumstances the mind will sometimes de- 
rive consolation ; for though the whole plant 
was not larger than the top of one of my 
fingers, I could not contemplate the delicate 
conformation of its roots, leaves, and cap- 
sula, without admiration. Can that Being, 
thought I, who planted, watered, and 
brought to perfection, in this obscure part 
of the world, a thing which appears of so 
small importance, look with unconcern upon 
the situation and sufferings of creatures 
formed after his own image? Surely not. 
Reflections like those would not allow me 
to despair. I started up, and, disregarding 
both hunger and fatigue, travelled forwards, 
assured that relief was at hand : and I was 
not disappointed. In a short time I came 
lo a small village, at the entrance of which 
I overtook the two shepherds who had come 
with me from Kooma. They were much 
surprised to see me ; for they said they 
never doubted that the Foulahs, when they 
had robbed, had murdered me. Departing 
from this village, we travelled over several 
rocky ridges, and at sunset arrived at Sibi- 
dooloo, the frontier town of the kingdom of 

Motoo Pass. 

ROUSSEAU (1712-1778). 

[Lotw Simond, a French author, who, by familiarity 
with onr language and country, wrote in Kngllsh as 
veil at in hie native tongue, published in 1822 a work 
In 2 volumes— ** Switzerland ; or a Journal of a Tour and 
Bmdemee in that Country fe the yean 1817, 1818 and 1819." 
M. Simond had previously written a similar work on 
Great Britain, during the years 1810 and 1811, which 
was well received and favourably reviewed by Southey, 
Jeffrey, and other critics. M. Simond resided twenty 
yean in America. We subjoin his character sketch of 

Rousseau, from his garret, governed an 
empire — that of the mind ; the founder of a 
new religion in politics, and to his enthusi- 
attic followers a prophet — he said and they 

believed ! The disciples of Voltaire might 
be more numerous, but they were bound to 
him by far weaker ties. Those of Rous- 
seau made the French Revolution, and per- 
ished for it; while Voltaire, miscalculating 
its chances, perished by it Both perhaps 
deserved their fate; but the former cer- 
tainly acted the nobler part, and went to 
battle with the best weapons too— for in the 
deadly encounter of all the passions, of the 
most opposite principles and irreconcilable 
prejudices, cola-hearted wit is of little avail. 
Heroes and martyrs do not care for epi- 
grams : and he must have enthusiasm who 
pretends to lead the enthusiastic or to cope 
with them. Une intime persuasion, Rous- 
seau has somewhere said, m'a toujours tenu 
lieu d? eloquence ! And well it might : for 
the first requisite to command belief is to 
believe yourself. Nor is it easy to impose 
on mankind in this respect. There is no 
eloquence, no ascendency over the minds of 
others, without this intimate persuasion, in 
yourself. Rousseau's might only be a sort 
of poetical persuasion lasting but as long 
as the occasion ; yet it was thus powerful, 
only because it was true, though but for <a 

Quarter of an hour perhaps, in the heart of 
lis inspired writer. 

Mr. II , son of the friend of Rous- 
seau, to whom he left his manuscripts^ and 
especially his Confessions, to be published 
after his death, had the goodness to shew 
them to me. I observed a fair copy written 
by himself in a small hand like print, very 
neat and correct j not a blot or an erasure 
to be seen. The most curious of these pa- 
pers, however, were several sketch-books, or 
memoranda, half-filled, where the same hand 
is no longer discernible ; but the same ge- 
nius, and the same wayward temper and 
perverse intellect, in every fugitive thought 
which is there put down. Rousseau's com- 
position, like Montesquieu's, was laborious 
and slow; his ideas flowed rapidly, but 
were not readily brought into proper order ; 
they did not appear to have come in conse- 
quence of a previous plan ; but the plan 
itself, formed afterwards, came in aid of the 
ideas, and served as a sort of frame for 
them, instead of being a system to which 
they were subservient. Very possibly some 
of the fundamental opinions he defended so 
earnestly, and for which his disciples would 
willingly have suffered martyrdom, were 
originally adopted because a bright thought, 
caught as it dew, was entered in his com- , 
mon-place book. 



These loose notes of Rousseau afford a 
curious insight into his taste in composi- 
tion. You find him perpetually retrenching 
epithets — reducing his thoughts to their 
simplest expression — giving words a pecu- 
liar energy by the new application of their 
original meaning — going back to the naivett 
of old language ; and, m the artificial pro- 
cess of simplicity, carefully effacing the 
trace of each laborious footstep as he ad- 
vanced j each idea, each image, coming out 
at last, as if cast entire at a single throw, 
original, energetic, and clear. Although 

Mr. M had promised to Rousseau that 

he would publish his Confessions as they 
were, yet he took upon himself to suppress 
a passage explaining certain circumstances 
of his abjurations at Anneci, affording a 
curious but frightfully disgusting picture of 
monkish manners at the time. It is a pity 

that Mr. M did not break his word in 

regard to some few more passages of that 
most admirable and most vue of all the pro- 
ductions of genius. 

worth, that what would have been laugh- 
able in any one else was almost respectable 
in her. That ambition of eloquence, so con- 
spicuous in her writings, was much less ob- 
servable in her conversation; there was 
more abandon in what she said than in 
what she wrote ; while speaking, the spon- 
taneous inspiration was no labor, but all 
pleasure. Conscious of extraordinary pow- 
ers, she gave herself up to the present en- 
joyment of the good things, and the deep 
things, flowing in a full stream from her 
own well -stored mind and luxuriant fancy. 
The inspiration was pleasure, the pleasure 
was inspiration ; and without precisely in- 
tending it, she was, every evening of her life, 
in a circle of company, the very Corinne she 
had depicted. 

Louis Simoivsl 

MADAME DE STAfiL (1766-1817). 

I had seen Madame de Stae! a child ; and 
I saw her again on her death-bed. The in- ' 
termediate years were spent in another he- 
misphere, as far as possible from the scenes 
in which she lived. Mixing again, not many 
months since, with a world in which I am a 
stranger, and feel that I must remain so, 
I just sawthis celebrated woman, and heard, 
as it were, her last words, as I had read her 
works before, uninfluenced by any local 
bias. Perhaps the impressions of a man 
thus dropped from another world into this, j 
may be deemed something like those of 
posterity. i 

Madame de Stael lived for conversation : * 
she was not happy out of a large circle, and ' 
a French circle, where she could be heard ; 
in her own language to the best advantage. < 
Her extravagant admiration of the society 
of Paris was neither more nor less than ge- 
nuine admiration of herself. It was toe 
best mirror she could get — and that was all. 
Ambitious of all sorts of notoriety, she 
would have given the world to have been 
born noble and a beauty. Yet there was in 
this excessive vanity so much honesty and 
frankness, it was so entirely void of affecta- 
tion and trick, she made so fair and so irre- 
sistible an appeal to your own sense of her 



[Chabiotte Bbontk, one of the best English novelists, 
wm born *t Thornton, Yorkshire, in 1816. She was the 
third daughter of six remarkable children, fire ^irls and 
a boy. Their father, the Rev. Patrick Bronte, bestowed 
on them a careful education, although he made the mis- 
take of sending the three eldest to school where they 
were harshly treated. 'When 38 years of age she mar- 
ried her father's curate, the Rev. Mr. NichoUs, and died 
the following year. Her novels are, " The Prafemon, 9 
" Shirk*," " FOMte," and " Jane Byre." The last named, 
(like " Dorid Oopperfield," by Dickens), being largely a 
picture of her own life.] 

To that class in whose eyes whatever is 
unusual is wrong; whose ears detect in 
each protest against bigotry — that parent of 
crime — an insult to piety, that regent of 
God on earth, I would suggest to such 
doubters certain obvious distinctions; I 
would remind them of certain simple truths. 

Conventionality is not morality. Self- 
righteousness is not religion. To attack 
the first is not to assail the last. To pluck 
the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is 
not to lift an impious hand to the crown of 
thorns. These things and deeds are diame- 
trically opposed ; they are as distinct as vice 
from virtue. Men too often confound them : 
they should not be confounded : appearance 
should not be mistaken for truth; narrow 



human doctrines, that only tend to elate and 
magnify a few, should not be substituted for 
the world-redeeming creed of Christ There 
is — I repeat it — a difference ; and it is a 
good, and not a bad action to mark broadly 
and clearly the line of separation between 

The world may not like to see these ideas 
dissevered, for it has been accustomed to 
blend them ; finding it convenient to make 
external show pass for sterling worth — to 
let white-washed walls vouch for clean 
shrines. It may hate him who dares to 
scrutinize and expose — to raise the gilding, 
and shew base metal under it — to penetrate 
the sepulchre, and reveal charnel relics: 
but hate as it will, it is indebted to him. 

Ahab did not like Micaiah, because he 
never prophesied good concerning him, but 
evil: probably he liked the sycophant son 
of Ghenaanah better ; yet might Ahab have 
escaped a bloody death, had he but stopped 
his ears to flattery, and opened them to faith- 
ful counsel. 

There is a man in our own days whose words 
are not framed to tickle delicate ears ; who, 
to my thinking, comes before the great ones 
of society much as the son of Irnlah came 
before the throned kings of Judah and Is- 
rael ; and who speaks truth as deep, with a 
power as prophet-like and as vital — a mien 
as dauntless and as daring. Is the sati- 
rist of " Vanity Fair" admired in high 
places ? I cannot tell ; but I think if some 
of those amongst whom he hurls the Greek- 
fire of his sarcasm, and over whom he 
flashes the levin-brand of his denunci- 
ation, were to take his warnings in time — 
they or their seed might yet escape a fatal 

Why have I alluded to this man ? I have 
alluded to him, reader, because I think I 
see in him an intellect profounder and more 
unique than his contemporaries have yet 
recognized; because I regard him as the 
first social regenerator of the day— as the 
very master of that working corps who 
would restore to rectitude the warped sys- 
tem of things. 

Why did they tend me so Car and 00 lonely, 
Up where the moon spread and gray rocks are piled T 

Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only 
Watch o'er the step* of a poor orphan child. 

Tet distant and soft the night-breeze is blowing, 
Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild; 

God in his mercy protection is shewing, 
Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child. 

Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing, 
Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled, 

Still will my Father, with promise and blessings, 
Take to his bosom the poor orphan child. 

There is a thought that for strength should avail me, 
Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled ; 

Heaven is a home, and a rest will not full me ; 
God is a friend to tho poor orphan child. 

Charlotts Bronte. 


My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary ; 

long is the way, and the mountains are wild ; 
Boon will the twilight close moonless and dreary 

0?er the path of the poor orphan child. 


About fourscore years ago, there used to 
be seen sauntering on the terraces of Sans- 
Souci, for a short time in the afternoon, or 
you might have met him elsewhere at an 
earlier hour, riding or driving in a rapid 
business manner, on the open roads or 
through the scraggy woods and avenues of 
that intricate amphibious Potsdam region, 
a highly interesting lean little old man, of 
alert though slightly stooping figure 5 whose 
name among strangers was King Friedrich 
the Second, or Frederick the Great of Prus- 
sia, and at home among the common peo- 
ple, who much loved and esteemed him, 
was Voter Fritz — Father Fred — a name of 
familiarity which had not bred contempt in 
that instance. He is a king every inch of 
him, though without the trappings of a 
king. Presents himself in a Spartan sim- 
plicity of vesture : no crown but an old 
military cocked-hat — generally old, or 
trampled and kneaded into absolute soft* 
ness, if new ; no sceptre but one like 
Agamemnon's, a walking-stick cut from the 
woods, which serves also as a riding-stick 
(with which he hits the horses "between 
the ears," say authors); and for royal 
robes, a mere soldier's blue coat with red 
facings— coat likely to be old, and sure to 
have a good deal of Spanish snuff on the 
breast of it ; rest of the apparel dim, unob- 
trusive in colour or cut, ending in high 



over-knee military boots, which may be 
brushed (and, I hope, kept soil with an un- 
derhand suspicion of oil), but are not per- 
mitted to be blackened or varnished ; Day 
and Martin with their soot-pots forbidden 
to approach. The man is not of godlike 
physiognomy, any more than of imposing 
stature or costume *, close-shut mouth with 
thin lips, prominent jaws and nose, receding 
brow, by no means of Olympian height ; 
head, however, is of long form, and has su- 
perlative gray eves in it. Not what is 
called a beautiful man : nor yet, by all ap- 
pearance, what is called a happy. On the 
contrary, the face bears evidence of many 
sorrows, as they are termed, of much hard 
labour done in this world j and seems to 
anticipate nothing but more still coming. 
Quiet stoicism, capable enough of what joy 
there were, but not expecting any worth 
mention ; great unconscious and some con- 
scious pride, well tempered with a cheery 
mockery of humour, are written on that 
old face, which carries its chin well forward, 
in spite of the slight stoop about the neck ; 
snuffy nose, rather flung into the air, under 
its old cocked-hat, like an old snuffy lion 
on the watch: and such a pair of eyes as 
no man, or lion, or lynx of that century 
bore elsewhere, according to all the testi- 
mony we have. " Those eyes," says Mira- 
beau, " which, at the bidding of his great 
soul, fascinated you with seduction or with 
terror " (portaimt au gr4 de son time h&ro- 
\que y la seduction on la terrcur). Most 
excellent, potent, brilliant eyes, swift-dart- 
ing as the stars, steadfast as the sun ; gray, 
we said, of the azure-gray colour ; large 
enough, not of glaring size ; the habitual 
expression of them vigilance and pene- 
trating sense, rapidity resting on depth. 
Which is an excellent combination ; and 
gives us the notion of a lambent outer 
radiance springing from some great in- 
ner sea of light and fire in the man. 
The voice, if he speak to you, is of simi- 
lar physiognomy: clear, melodious, and 
sonorous; all tones are in it, from that 
of ingenuous inquiry, graceful sociality, 
light-flowing banter (rather prickly for 
most part), up to definite word of com- 
mand, up to desolating word of rebuke and 
reprobation : a voice " the clearest and 
most agreeable in conversation I ever 
heard," says witty Dr. Moore. " He speaks 
a great deal," continues the doctor ; " yet 
those who hear him regret that he does not 
speak a good deal more. His observation* 

are always lively, very often just ; and few 
men possess the talent of repartee in 
greater perfection" . . . The French 
Revolution may lie said to have, for about 
half a century, quite submerged Friedrich, 
abolished him from the memories of men ; 
and now on coming to light again, he is 
found defaced under strange mud-incrusta- 
tions, and the eyes of mankind look at him 
from a singularly changed, what we must 
call oblique and perverse point of vision. 
This is one of the difficulties in dealing 
with his history — especially if you happen 
to believe both in the French Revolution 
and in him ; that is to say, both that Real 
Kingship is eternally indispensable, and 
also that the Destruction of Sham Kingship 
(a frightful process) is occasionally so. 

On the breaking out of that formidable 
Explosion and Suicide of his Century, 
Friedrich sank into comparative obscurity: 
eclipsed amid the ruins of that universal 
earthquake, the very dust of which dark- 
ened all the air, and made of day a disas- 
trous midnight. Black midnight, broken 
only by the blaze of conflagrations; 
wherein, to our terrified imaginations, were 
seen, not men, French and other, but 
ghastly portents, stalking wrathful, and 
shapes of avenging gods. It must be 
owned the figure of Napoleon was titanic 
— especially to the generation that looked 
on him, and that waited shuddering to be 
devoured by him. In general, in that 
French Revolution, all was on a huge 
scale ; if not greater than anything in hu- 
man experience, at least more grandiose. 
All was recorded in bulletins, too, addressed 
to the shilling-gallery ; and there were fel- 
lows on the stage with such a breadth of 
sabre, extent of whiskerage, strength of 
windpipe, and command of men and gun- 
powder, as had never been seen before. 
How they bellowed, stalked, and flourished 
about ; counterfeiting Jove s thunder to an 
amazing degree I Terrific Drawcansir fig- 
ures, of enormous whiskerage, unlimited 
command of gunpowder ; not without suffi- 
cient ferocity, and even a certain heroism, 
stage-heroism in them; compared with 
whom, to the shilling-gallery, ana frightened 
excited theatre at large, it seemed as if 
there had been no generals or sovereigns be- 
fore ; as if Friedrich, Gustavus, Cromwell, 
William Conqueror, and Alexander the 
Great were not worth speaking of hence- 

Thoius Caiui* 




In this God's world, with its wild whirling 
eddies and mad foam oceans, where men 
and nations perish as if without law, and 
judgment for an unjust thing is sternly de- 
layed, dost thou think that there is therefore 
no justice? It is what the fool hath said in 
* his heart It is what the wise, in all times, 
were wise because they denied, and knew 
for ever not to be. I tell thee again, there 
is nothing else but justice. One strong 
thing I find here below: the just thing, the 
true thing. My friend, if thou hadst all the 
artillery of Woolwich trundling at th^ back 
in support of an unjust thing ; and infinite 
bonfires visibly waiting ahead of thee, to 
blaze centuries long for thy victory on be- 
half of it, I would advise thee to call halt, to 
fling down thy baton, and say, " In God's 
name, No 1 " Thy " success ? " Poor devil, 
what will thy success amount to? If the 
thing is unjust, thou hast not succeeded; 
no, not though bonfires blazed from north 
to south, and bells rang, and editors wrote 
leading articles, and the just things lay 
trampled out of sight, to all mortal eyes an 
abolished and annihilated thing. Success ? 
In a few years thou wilt be dead and dark 
—all cold, eyeless, deaf; no blaze of bon- 
fires, ding-dong of bells, or leading articles 
visible or audible to thee again at all for 
ever. What kind of success is that ? It is 
true all goes by approximation in this world ; 
with any not insupportable approximation 
we must be patient. There is a noble Con- 
servatism as well as an ignoble. Would to 
Heaven, for the sake of Conservatism itself, 
the noble alone were left, and the ignoble, 
by some kind severe hand, were ruthlessly 
lopped away, forbidden any more to show 
itself! For it is the right and noble alone 
that will have victory in this struggle ; the 
rest is wholly an obstruction, a postpone- 
ment and fearful impediment of the victory. 
Towards an eternal centre of right and 
nobleness, and of that only, is all this con- 
fusion tending. We already know whither 
it is tending ; what will have victory, what 
▼ill have none I The Heaviest will reach 
the centre. The Heaviest, sinkin? through 
complex fluctuating media and vortices, has 
its deflections, its obstructions, nay, at times 
its resiliences, its rebound ings ; whereupon 
some blockhead shall be heard jubilating: 
"See, your Heaviest ascends!" but at i:ll 
moments it is moving centreward, fast as is 
convenient for it ; sinking, sinking ; and, by * 

You III. 

laws older than the world, old as the Maker's 
first plan of the world, it has to arrive there. 
Await the issue. In all battles, if you 
await the issue, each tighter has prospered 
according to his right His right and his 
might, at the close of the account, were one 
and the same. He has fought with all his 
might, and in exact proportion to all his 
right he has prevailed. His very death is no 
victory over him. He dies, indeed ; but his 
work lives, very truly lives. A heroic Wal- 
lace, quartered on the scaffold, cannot hin- 
der that his Scotland become, one day, a 
part of England ; but he does hinder that it 
become, on tyrannous unfair terms, a part of 
it ; commands still, as with a god's voice, 
from his old Valhalla and Temple of the 
Brave, that there be a just, real union, as of 
brother and brother, not a false and merely 
semblant one as of slave and master. K 
the union with England be in fact one of 
Scotland's chief blessings, we thank Wallace 
withal that it was not the chief curse. Scot- 
land is not Ireland ; no, because brave men 
rose there, and said, " Behold, ye must not 
tread us down like slaves ; and ye shall not, 
and cannot ! " Fight on, thou brave, true 
heart, and falter not, through dark fortune 
and through bright The cause thou tight- 
est for, so far as it is true, no further, yet 
precisely so far, is very sure of victory. The 
falsehood alone of it will be conquered, will 
be abolished, as it ought to be ; but the truth 
of it is part of Nature's own laws, co-oper- 
ates witn the world's eternal tendencies, and 
cannot be conquered. 

Thomas Gabltle. 


[John Collins, of whom we can learn nothing except 
that he wai one of the proprietors of the Birmingham 
DaUy Chronicle, and died in 1808.] 

In the downhill of life, when I find rm declining, 

May my lot no leas fortunate be 
Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining, 

And a cot that o'erlooks the wide eea ; 
With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, 

While I carol away idle sorrow, 
And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn. 

Look forward with hope for to-morrow. 

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, 

As the sunshine or rain may prevail ; 
And a Hmall spot of ground for the use of the spade toot 

With a barn for the use of the flail : 



A oow for my daily, a dog for my game, 
And a purse when a friend wants to borrow ; 

I'll envy no nabob his riches or lame, 
Nor what honors await him to-morrow. 

From the bleak northern blast may my oot be 

Secured by a neighbouring hill ; 
And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly 

By the sound of a murmuring rill : 
And while peace and plenty I find at my board, 

With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, 
With my friends may I share what to-day may afford. 

And let them spread the table to-morrow. 

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering 

Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, 
On the brink of the grave Til not seek to keep hovering, 

Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : 
But my face in the glass 111 serenely survey, 

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow ; 
And this old worn-out stuff which is threadbare to-day, 

Hay become everlasting to-morrow. 


lllKBKXT Kwowlm, a native of Canterbury (1798- 
1817), produced, when a youth of eighteen, the follow- 
ing fine religious stanzas, which, being published in an 
article by Southey in the Quarterly Review, soon obtained 
general circulation and celebrity : tbey have much of 
the steady faith and devotional earnestness of Cbwper.J 

Lord, it is good for us to be here : if thou wilt, let us 
make here three tabernacles ; one for thee, and one for 
Moses, and one for Elias.— Jfotfaew, xvil. 4. 

Methinks it is good to be here, 
If thou wilt, let us build— but for whom ? 

Nor Ellas nor Moses appear ; 
But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom 
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 

Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah no 1 
Affrighted, he shrlnketh away ; 

For we, they would pin him below 
In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, 
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 

To Beauty ? Ah no I she forgets 
The charms which she wielded before; 

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, 
For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, 
The trappings which dizen the proud, 

Alas! they are all laid aside, 
And here 's neither dress nor adornments allowed, 
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the 

To Biehes? Alas 1 'tis In vain ; 
Who hid, in their turns have been hid ; 

The treasures are squandered again ; 
And here in the grave are all metals forbid 
But the tinsel that shines on the dark ooffln-Iid. 

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, 
The revel, the laugh, and the Jeer? 

Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer. 
And none but the worm is a reveller here. 

Shall we build to Affection and Love? 
Ah no! they have withered and died, 

Or fled with the spirit above. 
Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, 
Yet none have saluted and none have replied. 

Unto Sorrow ?— the dead cannot grieve ; 
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 

Which Compassion itself could relieve. 
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear; 
Peace ! peace is the watchword, the only one here. 

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? 
Ah no! for his empire is known, 

And here there are trophies enow ! 
Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, 
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, 
And look for the sleepers around us to rise ! 

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled ; 
And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, 
Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the 


[Maeis de RABtmif-CHANTAL, ManptU* de Srtgni, 
was born in 1626, in Paris, and died in 1696. She receiv- 
ed a fine education, married a nobleman at eighteen, 
and was greatly admired in society for her wit and 
beauty. The Duchesses de Longueville and Cherreuss 
were among her intimate friends. Her chief distinction 
rests upon her letters to her daughter, Madame d« Grig- 
nan,— not intended for publication,— many of which are 
admirable specimens of vivacious and piquant epistolary 

Paris, Monday, Dec. 15, 1670. 
I am going to tell you a thing, the most 
astonishing, the most 'surprising, the most 
marvellous, the most miraculous, the most 
magnificent, the most confounding, the most 
unheard-of, the most singular, the most 
extraordinary, the most incredible, the most 
unforeseen, the greatest, the least, the rarest, 
the most common, the most public, the most 



private till to-day, the most brilliant, the 
most enviable ; — in short, a thing of which 
there is bat one example in past ages, and 
that not an exact one either : a thing that 
we cannot believe at Paris ; how, then, will 
it gain credence at Lyons ? a thing which 
makes everybody cry, " Lord have mercy 
upon us ! " a thing which causes the great- 
est joy to Madame de Rohan and Madame 
de Hauterive ; a thing, in fine, which is to 
happen on Sunday next, when those who 
are present will doubt the evidence of their 
senses ; a thing which, though it is to be done 
on Sunday, yet perhaps will not be finished 
on Monday. I can not bring myself to tell 
you ; guess what it is. I give you three 
times to do it in. What, not a word to 
throw at a dog ? Well, then, I find I must 
tell you. Monsieur de Lauzun is to be mar- 
ried next Sunday at the Louvre, to 

pray gues* to whom ! I give you four times 
to do it in, — I give you six, — I give you a 
hundred* Says Madame de Coulanges: — 
*' It is really very hard to guess ; perhaps it 
is Madame de la Valliere. 

Indeed, madam, it is not " It is Made- 
moiselle de Retz, then." No, nor she either ; 
you are extremely provincial. " Lord bless 
me, r say you, " what stupid wretches we are ! 
it is Mademoiselle de Colbert all the while." 
Nay, now you are still further from the 
mark. ''Why, then, it must certainly be 
Mademoiselle de Crequy." You have it not 
vet. Well, I find I must tell you at last, 
tie is to be married next Sunday at the 
Louvre, with the king's leave, to Mademoi- 
selle — Mademoiselle de , Mademoiselle 

—guess, pray guess her name ; he is to be 
married to Mademoiselle, the great Made- 
moiselle; Mademoiselle, daughter to the 
late Monsieur ; Mademoiselle, grand-daugh- 
ter of Henry the I Vth : Mademoiselle d'Eu, 
Mademoiselle de Domoes, Mademoiselle de 
Montpensier, Mademoiselle d'Orleans, Ma- 
demoiselle, the king's cousin-german, — Ma- 
demoiselle, destined to the throne, — Made- 
moiselle, the only match in France that was 
worthy of Monsieur. What glorious matter 
for talk ! If you should burst forth like a 
bedlamite, say we have told you a lie, that 
it is false, that we are making a jest of you, 
and that a pretty jest it is, without wit or in- 
vention ; in short, if you abuse us, we shall 
think you are quite in the right; for we 
have done just the same things ourselves. 
Farewell, you will find by the letters you 
receive this post, whether we tell you truth 
or not 

Paris, Friday, May 6, 1672. 

My Dear Child : — I must return to nar- 
ration, it is a folly I can never resist Pre- 
pare, therefore, for a description. I was 
yesterday at a service performed in honou* 
of the Chancellor Segnier at the Oratory. 
Painting, sculpture, music, rhetoric, in a 
word, the four liberal arts, were at the ex- 
pense of it Nothing could exceed the 
beauty of the decorations ; they were finely 
imagined, and designed by Le Brun. The 
mausoleum reached to the top of the dome, 
adorned with a thousand lamps, and a va- 
riety of figures characteristic of him in 
whose honour it was erected. Beneath 
were four figures of Death, bearing the 
marks of his several dignities, as having 
taken away his honours with his life. One 
of them held his helmet, another his ducal 
coronet, another the ensigns of his order, 
another his chancellor's mace. The four 
sister arts, painting, music, eloquence, and 
sculpture were represented in deep distress, 
bewailing the loss of their protector. The 
first representation was supported by the 
four virtues, fortitude, temperance, justice, 
and religion. Above these, four angels, or 
genii, received the soul of the deceased, 
and seemed pruning their purple wings to 
bear their precious charge to heaven. The 
mausoleum was adorned with a variety of 
little seraphs, who supported an illuminated 
shrine, which was fixed to the top of the 
cupola. Nothing so magnificent or so well 
imagined was ever seen ; it is Le Brim's 
master-piece. The whole church was 
adorned with pictures, devices, and em- 
blems, which all bore some relation to the 
life, or office, of the chancellor; and some 
of nis noblest actions were represented in 
painting. Madame de Verneuil offered to 
purchase all the decoration at a great price ; 
but it was unanimously resolved by those 
who had contributed to it, to adorn a gal- 
lery with it, and to consecrate it as an ever- 
lasting monument of their gratitude and 
magnificence. The assembly was grand 
and numerous, but without confusion. I 
sat next to Monsieur de Tulle, Madame 
Colbert and the Duke of Monmouth, who 
is as handsome as when we saw him at the 
palais royal. (Let me tell you in a paren- 
thesis, that he is going to the army to join 
the king.) A young father of the Oratory 
came to speak the funeral oration. I de- 



sired Monsieur de Tulle to bid him come 
down, and to mount the pulpit in his place ; 
since nothing could sustain the beauty of 
the spectacle, and the excellence of the mu- 
sic, but the force of his eloquence. My 
child, this young man trembled when he 
began, and we all trembled for him. Our 
ears were at first struck with a provincial 
accent; he is of Marseilles, and called 
Lene. But as he recovered from his confu- 
sion, he became so brilliant; established 
himself so well; gave so just a measure of 
praise to the deceased; touched with bo 
much address and delicacy all the passages 
in his life where delicacy was required ; 
placed in so true a light all that was most 
worthy of admiration ; employed all the 
charms of expression, all the masterly 
strokes of eloquence, with so much pro- 
priety and so much grace, that every one 
present, without exception, burst into ap- 
plause, charmed with so perfect, so finished 
a performance. He is twenty-eight years 
of age, the intimate friend of M. de Tulle, 
who accompanied him when he left the as- 
sembly. We were for naming him the 
Chevalier Mascaron, and I think he will 
even surpass his friend. As for the music, 
it was fine beyond all description. Baptiste 
exerted himself to the utmost, and was as- 
sisted by all the king's musicians. There 
was an addition made to that fine Miserere; 
and there was a Libera, which filled the 
eyes of the wht le assembly with tears ; I 
do not think the music in heaven could ex- 
ceed it. There were several prelates pre- 
sent. I desired Guitaut to look for the 
good Bishop of Marseilles, but we could 
not see him. I whispered him, that if it 
had been the funaral oration of any person 
living, to whom he might have made his 
court by it, he woald not have failed to have 
been there. Thin little pleasantry made us 
laugh, in spite of the solemnity of the cere- 
mony. My dear child, what a strange let- 
ter is this ? I fancy I have almost lost my 
senses ! What is this long account to you ? 
To tell the truth, I have satisfied my love 
of description. 

Madam* Db Sxyxgwi. 

Lamb esc, Tuesday morning, 
10 o'clock, 1672. 

When we reckon without Providence, we 
must frequently reckon twice. I was 

dressed from head to foot by eight o'clock ; 
I had drank my coffee, heard mass, taken 
leave of everybody, the mules were loaded, 
and the tinkling of their bells gave me no- 
tice that it was time to mount my litter ; 
my room was full of people, entreating me 
not to think of setting out on account of 
the heavy rain which had fallen incessantly 
for several days, and was then pouring 
more violently than ever ; but I resisted afi 
their arguments, resolving to abide by the 
promise 1 made you in my letter of yester- 
day, of being with you by Thursday, at 
farthest : at that very instant, in came M. 
de Grignan in his night-gown and slippers, 
and talked to me very gravely of the rash- 
ness of such an undertaking, saying that 
the muleteer would not be able to follow the 
litter ; that my mules would fall into some 
ditch on the road ; that my people would 
be so wet and fatigued, that they would not 
be able to lend me assistance ; so that I 
changed my mind in a moment, and yielded 
to his sage remonstrances : and now, my 
dear child, the trunks are brought back, 
the mules are unharnessed, the footmen 
and maids are drying themselves by the 
fire, for they were wet through in only cross- 
ing the courtyard j and I dispatch you this 
messenger, knowing your goodness will 
make you uneasy, and wishing to lessen 
my own uneasiness, being very anxious 
about your health ; for this man will either 
bring me word here, or meet one on the 
road. In short, my dear, he will be with 
you at Grignan on Thursday instead of 
me ; and I shall set out the first moment 
it pleases God and M. de Grignan, who is 
become absolute master of me, and well 
knows my reasons for wishing so much to 
be at Grignan. I should be glad if this 
affair could be kept a secret from M. de la 
Garde, for he will take a most unmerciful 

Kleasure in finding everything turn oat as 
e foretold ; but let him take care, and not 
grow vain upon this pretended gift of 

Hadaju Ds SrYiaxi 


[Matthew Grxoobt Lewis, author of " TV Monk," 
w«i born in London in the year 1776, died 1816. Bis 
father was deputy-secretary in the War-office. When a 
child, Lewis had pored over" OlamvUU on HUeta," and 
other books on diablerie; and in Germany he found 
abundant food of the same description. Romance and 
the drama were his favourite studies; and while rest* 



foot abroad, he composed his story of "The Monk," a 
work more extravagant in its we of supernatural ma- 
chinery than any previous English tale of modern 
time*, and disfigured with licentious passages. The 
novel was published in 1796, and attracted much atten- 
tion. A prosecution, it is said, was threatened on ac- 
count of the peccant scenes and descriptions; to avert 
which, Lewis pledged himself to recall the printed 
copies, and to recast the work in another edition. The 
author continued through life the same strain of mar- 
vellous and terrific composition— now clothing it in 
verse, now infusing it into the scenes of a drama, and at 
other times expanding it into regular tales. His 
" Talea of Terror M (1799), u Tale* of Wonder" (to which 
Sir Walter Scott contributed), " Romantic Tab* " (1806), 
"The Bravo of Venice" (1804), and "Feudal Tgranto" 
(1806), both translated from the German, with numerous 
dramas, all bespeak the same parentage as u The Monk," 
and none of them excels it His best poetry, as well as 
prose, is to be found in this novel ; for like Mrs. Bad- 
cliffe, Lewis introduced poetical compositions into his 
tales; and his ballads (which we give) of "Aloneo the 
Brave " and u Dnramdarle " were as attractive as any of 
the adventures of Ambrosio the monk.] 

Sad and fearful is the story 
Of the Ronoevalles light : 
On those fatal plains of glory 
Perished many a gallant knight. 

There fell Dnrandarte ; neyer 
Verse a nobler chieftain named ; 
He, before his lips for ever 
Closed in silence, thus exclaimed : 

" Oh, Belerma ! oh, my dear one, 
For my pain and pleasure born ; 
Seven long years I served thee, fair one, 
Seven long years my fee was scorn. 

' And when now thy heart, replying 
To my wishes, burns like mine, 
Cruel fate, my bliss denying, 
Bids me every hope resign. 

" Ah I though young I fall, believe me, 
Death would never claim a sigh ; 
'Tis to lose thee, 'tis to leave thee, 
Makes me think it hard to die ! 

* Oh ! my cousin, Montesinos, 
By that friendship firm and dear, 
Which from youth has lived between us, 
Now my last petition hear. 

" When my soul, these limbs forsaking, 
Eager seeks a purer air, 
From my breast the cold heart taking, 
Give it to Belerma's care. 

" Say, I of my lands possessor 
Named her with my dying breath ; 
Say, my lips I oped to bless her, 
Ere they closed for aye in death : 

" Twice a week, too, how sincerely 
I adored her, cousin, say ; 
Twice a week, for one who dearly 
Loved her, cousin, bid her pray. 

" Montesinos, now the hour 
Marked by fate is near at hand ; 
Lo ! my arm has lost its power ; 
Lo 1 I drop my trusty brand. 

" Eyes, which forth beheld me going, 
Homewards ne'er shall see me hie ; 
Cousin, stop those tears o'erflowing, 
Let me on thy bosom die. 

" Thy kind hand my eyelids closing, 
Yet one favour I implore — 
Pray thou for my soul's reposing, 
When my heart shall throb no more. 

" So shall Jesus, still attending, 
Gracious to a Christian's vow, 
Pleased accept my ghost ascending, 
And a Beat in heaven allow." 

Thus spoke gallant Durandarte ; 
Soon his brave heart broke in twain. 
Greatly joyed the Moorish party 
That the gallant knight was slain. 

Bitter weeping, Montesinos 
Took from him his helm and glaive ; 
Bitter weeping, Montesinos 
Dug his gallant cousin' b grave. 

To perform his promise made, he 
Cut the heart from out the breast, 
That Belerma, wretched lady 1 
Might receive the last bequest. 

Sad was Montesinos* heart, he 
Felt distress his bosom rend. 
" Oh ! my cousin, Durandarte, 
Woe is me to view thy end ! 

" Sweet in manners, fair in favour, 
Mild in temper, fierce in fight, 
Warrior nobler, gentler, braver, 
Never shall behold the light. 

" Cousin, lo ! my tears bedew thee \ 
How shall I thy loss survive ? 
Durandarte, he who slew thee, 
Wherefore left he me alive ? " 




A warrior 00 bold, and a virgin so bright, 

Conversed as they Mt on the green ; 
They gased on each other with tender delight: 
Alonzo the brave was the name of the knight — 

The maiden's, the Fair Imogine. 

- And, oh ! " said the youth, " since to-morrow I go 

To fight in a far-distant land, 
Tour tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow, 
Some other will court you, and you will bestow 

On a wealthier suitor your hand] " 

M Oh ! hush these suspicions," Fair Imogine said, 

" Offensive to lore and to me ; 
For, if you be living, or if you be dead, 
I swear by the Virgin that nose in your stead 

Shall husband of Imogine be. 

M If e'er I, by lust or by wealth led aside, 

Forget my Alonzo the Brave, 
God grant that, to punish my falsehood and pride, 
Tour ghost at the marriage may sit by my side, 
May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, 

And bear me away to the grave I " 

To Palestine hastened the hero so bold, 

His love she lamented him sore ; 
But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when, behold 1 
A baron, all covered with jewels and gold, 

Arrived at Fair Imogine's door. 

His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain, 

Soon made her untrue to her vows ; 
He dazzled her eyes, he bewildered her brain ; 
He caught her affections, so light and so vain, 

And carried her home as his spouse. 

And now had the marriage been blest by the priest; 

The revelry now was begun ; 
The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast, 
Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased, 

When the bell at the castle tolled— one. 

Then first with amaaement Fair Imogine found 

A stranger was placed by her side : 
His air was terrific ; he uttered no sound — 
He spake not, he moved not, ho looked not around— 

But earnestly gazed on the bride. 

His visor was closed, and gigantic his height, 

His armour was sable to view ; 
All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight; 
The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright; 

The lights in the chamber burned blue ! 

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay ; 

The guests sat in silence and fear; 
At length spake the bride— while she trembled : " I pray, 
Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, 

And deign to partake of our cheer." 

The lady is silent; the stranger complies— 

His visor he slowly unclosed ; 
God 1 what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes! 
What words can express her dismay and surprise 

When a skeleton's head was exposed 1 

All present then uttered a terrified shout, 
All turned with disgust from the scene; 
The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out, 
And sported his eyes and his temples about, 
While the spectre addressed Imogine : 

" Behold me, thou false one, behold me ! M he cried; 

" Remember Alonzo the Brave ! 
God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride, 
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side ; 
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, 

And bear thee away to the grave I " 

Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound, 

While loudly she shrieked In dismay ; 
Then sunk with his prey through the wide-yawning 

Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found, 

Or the spectre that bore her away. 

Not long lived the baron; and none, since thai V m\ 

To inhabit the castle presume ; 
For chronicles tell that, by order sublime, 
There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime, 

And mourns her deplorable doom. 

At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprits, 

When mortals in slumber are bound, 
Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white, 
Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight, 

And shriek as he whirls her around I 

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the 

Dancing round them the spectres are seen ; 
Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave 
They howl : " To the health of Alonzo the Brave, 

And his consort, the Fair Imogine ! " 

Matthxw Gxsiost Liwb. 


[Sir Jahxs Stiphkn, born in London 1789, died at Cob- 
lentz 1859, was educated a barrister, appointed counsel to 
the Board of Trade, and under-Secretary of State, 
knighted in 1847, and became professor of modern his- 
tory at Cambridge in 1849. He wrote many articles for 
the Edinburgh Review, marked by great eloquence and 
acumen. His u Bmup *• EbcbtMutioal BfcyrapAy," (from 
one of which we quote), appeared in 1849, and have 

eed through four editions. His "Lector* <m Hi 
JHatory 0/ francs," 2 voto, appeared in 185LJ 



Weak and frail he may have been, but 
from the days of Paul of Tarsus to our own, 
the annals of mankind exhibit no other ex- 
ample of a soul borne onward so triumph- 
antly through distress and danger, in all 
their most appalling aspects. He battled 
with hunger, and thirst, and nakedness, and 
assassination, and pursued his mission of 
love with ever increasing ardour, amidst the 
wildest war of the contending elements. At 
the island of Moro (one of the group of the 
Moluccas), he took his stand at the root of a 
volcano j and as the pillar of fire threw up 
its wreaths to heaven, and the earth tottered 
beneath him, and the firmament was rent 
by falling rocks and peals of unintermitting 
thunder, he pointed to the fierce lightnings 
and river of molten lava, and called on the 
agitated crowd which clung to him for safe- 
ty, to repent, and to obey the truth ; but he 
also taught them that the sounds which 
racked their ears were the groans of the in- 
fernal world, and the sights which blasted 
their eyes an outbreak from the atmosphere 
of the place of torment Repairing for the 
celebration of mass, to an edifice which he 
had consecrated for the purpose, an earth- 
quake shook the building to its base. The 
terrified worshippers fled ; but Xavier, stand- 
ing in meek composure before the rocking 
altar, deliberately completed that mysterious 
sacrifice, with a faith, at least in this in- 
stance, enviable in the real presence, rejoic- 
ing, as he says in his description of the 
scene, to perceive that the demons of the 
island thus winged their flight before the 
archangel's sword, from the place where they 
had so long exercised their foul dominion. 
There is no schoolboy of our days who could 
not teach much unsuspected by Francis Xav- 
ier, of the laws whicn govern the material 
and the spiritual worlds. But we have not 
many doctors who know as much as he did 
of the nature of Him by whom the worlds of 
matter and of spirit were created ; for he 
studied in the school of protracted martyr- 
dom and active philanthropy, where are 
divulged secrets unknown and unimagined 
by the wisest and most learned of ordinary 
men. * * * * * * * 

But his earthly toils and projects were now 
to cease forever. The angel of death ap- 
peared with a summons, for which, since 
death first entered our world, no man was ever 
more triumphantly prepared. It found him 
on board the vessel on the point of departing 
for Siam. At his own request he was re- 
moved to the shore, that he might meet his 

end with the greater composure. Stretched 
on the naked beach, with the cold blasts of 
a Chinese winter aggravating his pains, be 
contended alone with the agonies of the fever 
which wasted his vital power. It was an 
agony and a solitude for which the happiest 
of the sons of men might well have ex- 
changed the dearest society and the purest 
of the joys of life. It was an agony in 
which his still uplifted crucifix reminded 
him of a far more awful woe endured for his 
deliverance. It was a solitude thronged by 
blessed ministers of peace and consolation, 
visible in all their bright and lovely aspects 
to the now unclouded eye of faith, and audi- 
ble to the dying martyr through the yielding 
bars of his mortal prison-house, in strains of 
exulting joy till then unheard and unimag- 
ined. Tears burst from his fading eyes, 
tears of an emotion too big for utterance. 
In the' cold collapse of death his features 
were for a brief moment irradiated as with 
the first beams of approaching glory. He 
raised himself on his crucifix ; and exclaim- 
ing, In tt, Domine speravi — non confundar 
in ceternum I he bowed his head and died. 
* * * He lived among men as if 
to show how little the grandeur of the human 
soul depends on mere intellectual power. It 
was his to demonstrate with what vivific rays 
a heart imbued with the love of God and 
man may warm and kindle the nations, 
however dense may be the exhalations 
through which the giant pursues his course 
from the one end of heaven to the other. 
Scholars criticised, wits ridiculed, prudent 
men admonished, and kings opposed him : 
but on moved Francis Xavier, borne onward 
by an impulse which crushed and scattered 
to the winds all such puny obstacles. In 
ten short years, as if mercy had lent him 
wings and faith an impenetrable armour, he 
traversed oceans, islands and continents, 
through a track equal to more than twice 
the circumference of our globe ; everywhere 
preaching, disputing, baptizing, and found- 
ing Christian churches. There is at least 
one well-authenticated miracle in Xavier's 
story. It is, that any mortal man should 
have sustained such toils as he did ; and 
have sustained them, too, not merely with 
composure, but as if in obedience to some 
indestructible exigency of his nature. " The 
Father Master Francis (the words are those 
of his associate, Melchior Nunez), when ' 
laboring for the salvation of idolaters, seemed 
to act, not by any acquired power, but as 
by some natural instinct j for he could take, 



neither pleasure nor even exist except in 
such employments. They were hjs repose ; 
and when he was leading men to the know- 
ledge and the love of God, however much 
he exerted himself, he never appeared to be 
making any effort" 

Seven hundred thousand converts, (for 
in these matters Xavier's eulogists are not 
parsimonious), are numbered as the fruits 
of his mission ; nor is the extravagance so 
extreme if the word " conversion " be un- 
derstood in the sense in which they used it. 
Kings, Rajahs, and Princes were always, 
when possible, the first object of his care. 
Some such conquests he certainly made ; 
and as the flocks would often follow their 
shepherds, and as the gate into the Chris- 
tian fold was not made very strait, it may 
have been entered by many thousands and 
tens of thousands. But if Xavier taught 
the mighty of the earth, it was for the sake 
of the poor and miserable, and with them he 
chiefly dwelt. *»»»** * * 

No man, however abject his condition, 
disgusting his maladies, or hateful his 
crimes, ever turned to Xavier without learn- 
ing that there was at least one human heart 
on which he might repose with all the con- 
fidence of a brother's love. To his eye the 
meanest and the lowest reflected the 
image of Him whom he followed and 
adored ; nor did he suppose that he could 
ever serve the Saviour of mankind so *ac- : 
ceptably as by ministering to their sorrows ! 
and recalling them into the way of peace. ' 
It is easy to smile at his visions, to detect 
his errors, to ridicule the extravagant auste- , 
rities of his life, and even to show how much 
his misguided zeal eventually counteracted 
his own designs. But with our philosophy, 
our luxuries, and our wider experience, it is 
not easy for us to estimate or to compre- 
hend the career of such a man. Between 
his thoughts and our thoughts there is but 
little in common. Of our wisdom he knew 
nothing, and would have despised it if he 
had. Philanthropy was his passion ; reck- 
less daring his delight, and faith, glowing 
in meridian splendour, the sunshine in 
which he walked. He judged or felt (and who 
shall say that he judged or felt erroneously?) 
that the Church demanded an illustrious 
sacrifice, and that he was to be the victim ; 
— that a voice which had been dumb for 
fifteen centuries must at length be raised 
a<?ain, and that to him that voice had been 
imparted ; — that a new Apostle must go 
forth to break up the incrustations of man's ; 

long-hardened heart, and that to him that 
apostolate had been committed. So judg- 
ing, or so feeling, he obeyed the summons 
of trim whom he regarded as Christ's vicar 
on earth, and the echoes from no sublunary 
region, which the summons seemed to awa- 
ken in his bosom. In holding up to reve- 
rential admiration such self-sacrifices as his, 
slight, indeed, is the danger of stimulating 
an enthusiastic imitation. Enthusiasm 1 
our pulpits distil their bland rhetoric against 
it ; but where is it to be found ? Do not 
our share markets, thronged even by the 
devout, overlay it — and our rich benefices 
extinguish it — and our pentecosts, in the 
dazzling month of Hay, dissipate it — and 
our stipendiary missions, and our mitres, 
decked, even in heathen lands, with jewels 
and with lordly titles— do they not, as so 
many lightning conductors, effectually di- 
vert it? There is indeed the lackadaisical 
enthusiasm of devotional experiences, and 
the sentimental enthusiasm of religions ba- 
zars, and the oratorical enthusiasm of chari- 
table platforms, and the tractarian enthu- 
siasm of certain well-beneficed ascetics ; 
but in what, except the name, do they re- 
semble the " God-in-uB " enthusiasm of 
Francis Xavier — of Xavier the magnani- 
mous, the holv, and the gay j the canonized 
saint, not of ttome only, but of universal 
Christendom ; who, if at this hour there re- 
mained not a solitary Christian to claim 
and to rejoice in his spiritual ancestry, 
should yet live in hollowed and everlasting 
remembrance; as the man who has be- 
queathed to these later ages, at once the 
clearest proof and the most illustrious ex- 
ample, that even amidst the enervating arts 
of our modem civilization, the apostolic 
energy may still burn with all its primaeval 
ardour in the human soul, when animated 
and directed by a power more than human. 



Fastened deep in firmest earth, 

Stands the mould of well-burnt clay. 
Now we'll give the bell its birth ; 
Quick, my friends, no more delay I 
From the heated brow 
Sweat must freely flow, 
If to your master praise be given : 
But the blessing comes from Heaven. 



To Jhe work we now prepare 

A serious thought is surely due ; 
And cheerfully the toil we'll share, 

If cheerful words be mingled too. 
Then let us still with care observe 

What from our strength, yet weakness, 
For he respect can ne'er deserve 

Who hands alone to labor brings. 
*Tifl only this which honors man ; 

His mind with heavenly fire was warmed, 
That he with deepest thought might scan 

The work which his own hand has formed. 

With splinters of the dryest pine 

Now feed the fire below ; 
Then the rising flame shall shine, 
And the melting ore shall flow. 
Boils the brass within, 
Quickly add the tin ; 
That the thick metallic mass 
Rightly to the mould may pass. 

What with the aid of fire's dread power 

We in the dark, deep pit now hide, 
Shall, on some lofty, sacred tower, 

Tell of our skill and form our pride. 
And it. shall last to days remote, 

Shall thrill the ear of many a race; 
Shall sound with sorrow's mournful note, 

And call to pure devotion's grace, 
Whatever to the sons of earth 

Their changing destiny brings down, 
To the deep, solemn clang gives birth, 

That rings from out this metal crown. 

See, the boiling surface, whitening, 
Shows the whole is mixing well ; 
Add the salts the metal brightening, 
Ere flows out the liquid bell. 
Clear from foam or scum 
Must the mixture come, 
That with a rich metallic note 
The sound aloft in air may float. 

Vow with joy and festive mirth 

Salute that loved and lovely child, 
Whose earliest moments on the earth 

Are passed in sleep's dominion mild. 
While on Time's lap he rests his head, 
The fatal sisters spin their thread ; 

A mother's love, with softest rays, 

Gilds o'er the morning of his days. — 
But years with arrowy haste are fled, 
His nursery bonds he proudly spurns ; 

He rushes to the world without; 
After long wandering, home he turns, 

Arrives a stranger and in doubt. 
There, lovely in her beauty's youth, 

A form of heavenly mould he meets, 
Of modest air and simple truth ; 

The blushing maid he bashful greets. 
A nameless feeling seizes strong 

On his young heart. He walks alone; 
To his moist eyes emotions throng ; 

His joy in ruder sports has flown, 
He follows, blushing, where she goes ; 

And should her smile but welcome him, 
The fairest flower, the dewy rose, 

To deck her beauty seems too dim. 
tenderest passion ! Sweetest hope J 

The golden hours of earliest love ! 
Heaven's self to him appears to ope; 

He feels a bliss this earth above. 
0, that it could eternal last J 
That youthful love were never past I 

See how brown the liquid turns ! 
Now this rod I thrust within ; 
If it' 8 glazed before it burns, 
Then the casting may begin. 
Quick, my lads, and steady, 
If the mixture's ready ! 
When the strong and weaker blend, 
Then we hope a happ^ end : 
Whenever strength with softness joins, 
When with the rough the mild combines, 

Then all is union sweet and strong. 
Consider, ye who join your hands, 
If hearts are twined in mutual bands ; 
For passion's brief, repentance long. 
How lovely in the maiden's hair 

The bridal garland plays 1 
And merry bells invite us there, 

Where mingle festive lays. 
Alas 1 that all life's brightest hours 
Are ended with its earliest May ! 
That from those sacred nuptial bowers 
The dear deceit should pass away ! 
Though passion may fly, 

Tet love will endure 
The flower must die, 
The fruit to insure. 
The man must without, 
Into struggling life ; 
With toiling and strife ; 
He must plan and contrive ; 
Must be prudent to thrive ; 
With boldness must dare, 
Good fortune to share. 
'Tis by means such as these, that abundance 

is poured 
In a full, endless stream, to increase all his 
While his house to a palace spreads out. 

Within doors governs 
The modest, careful wife, 
The children's kind mother; 
And wise is the rule 
Of her household school. 
She teaches the girls, 



And she warns the boys ; 
She directs all the bands 
Of diligent hands, 
And increases their gain 
By her orderly reign. 
And she fills with her treasures her sweet- 
scented chests ; 
From the toil of her spinning-wheel scarcely 

she rests ; 
And she gathers in order, bo cleanly and 

The softest of wool, and the linen snow-white : 
The useful and pleasant she mingles ever, 
And is slothful never. 
The father, cheerful, from the door, 

His wide-extended homestead eyes ; 
Tells all his smiling fortunes o'er ; 
The future columns in his trees, 
His barn's well furnished stock he sees, 
His granaries e'en now o'erflowing, 
While yet the waving corn is growing. 
He boasts with swelling pride, 
" Firm as the mountain's side 
Against the shock of fate 
Ib now my happy state,* ' 
Who can discern futurity ? 
Who can insure prosperity f 
Quick misfortune's arrow flies. 

Now we may begin to cast ; 

All is right and well prepared : 
Yet, ere the anxious moment's past, 
A pious hope by all be shared. 
Strike the stopper clear I 
God preserve us here ! 
Sparkling, to the rounded mould 
It rushes hot, like liquid gold, 
How useful is the power of flame, 
If human skill control and tame ! 
And much of all that man can boast, 
Without this child of Heaven, were lost. 
But frightful is her changing mien, 
When, bursting from her bonds, she's 

To quit the safe and quiet hearth, 
And wander lawless o'er the earth. 
Woe to those whom then she meets 1 
Against her fury who can stand ? 
Along the thickly peopled streets 

She madly hurls her fearful brand. 
Then the elements, with joy, 
Man's best handiwork destroy. 
From the olouds 
Falls amain 
The blessed rain : 
From the clouds alike 
Lightnings strike. 
Ringing loud the fearful knell, 
Sounds the bell. 
Dark blood-red 
Are all the skies; 

But no dawning light is spread. 
What wild cries 
From the streets arise ! 
Smoke dims the eyes. 
Flickering mounts the fiery glow 
Along the street's extended row, 
Fast as fiercest winds can blow. 
Bright, as with a furnace glare, 
And scorching, is the heated air ; 
Beams are falling, children crying, 
Windows breaking, mothers flying, 
Creatures moaning, crushed and dying—* 
All is uproar, hurry, flight, 
And light as day the dreadful night. 
Along the eager living lane, 
Though all in vain, 
Speeds the bucket. The engine's power 
Sends the artificial shower. 
But see, the heavens still threatening lower I 
The winds rush roaring to the flame. 
Cinders on the store-house frame, 
And its drier stores, fall thick ; 
While kindling, blazing, mounting quick, 
As though it would, at one fell sweep, 

All that on the earth is found 

Scatter wide in ruin round, 
Swells the flame to heaven's blue deep, 
With giant site. 
Hope now dies. 

Man must yield to Heaven's decrees. 

Submissive, yet appalled, he sees 
His fairest works in ashes sleep. 

All burnt over 
Is the place, 
The storm's wild home. How changed it? 
In the empty, ruined wall 

Dwells dark horror ; 
While heaven' 8 clouds in shadow fall 
Deep within. 

One look, 
In memory sad, 
Of all he had, 
The unhappy sufferer took, — 
Then found his heart might yet be glad. 

However hard his lot to bear, 
His choicest treasures still remain ; 
He calls for each with anxious pain, 
And every loved one's with him there 

To the earth it's now committed. 

With success the mould is filled. 
To skill and care alone' s permitted 
A perfect work with toil to build. 
Is the casting right ? 
Is the mould yet tight? 
Ah ! while now with hope we wait, 
Mischance, perhaps, attends its fate. 
To the dark lap of mother earth 



Wo now confide what we have made ; 

As in earth too the seed is laid, 
In hope the seasons will give birth 

To fruits that soon may be displayed. 
And yet more precious seed we sow 

With sorrow in the world's wide field ; 
And hope, though in the grave laid low, 

A flower of heavenly hue 'twill yield. 

Slow and heavy 
Hear it swell t 
'Tis the solemn 
Passing bell 1 
8ad we follow, with these sounds of woe, 
Those who on this last, long journey go. 
Alas 1 the wife, — it is the dear one,— 
Ah I it is the faithful mother, 
Whom the shadowy king of fear 
Tears from all that life holds dear ;— 
From the husband, — from the young, 
The tender blossoms, that have sprung 
From their mutual, faithful love, 
'Twas hers to nourish, guide, improve. 
Ah 1 the ohain which bound them all 

Is for ever broken now ; 
She cannot hear her tender call, 
Nor see them in affliction bow. 
Her true affection guards no more ; 

Her watchful care wakes not again : 
O'er all the once loved orphan's store 
The indifferent stranger now must reign. 

Till the bell is safely cold, 

May our heavy labor rest ; 
Free as the bird, by none controlled, 
Each may do what pleases best. 
With approaching night, 
Twinkling stars are bright. 
Vespers call the boys to play ; 
The master' 8 toils end not with day. 

Cheerful in the forest gloom, 

The wanderer turns his weary steps 
To his loved, though lowly home. 
Bleating flocks draw near the fold ; 

And the herds, 
Wide-horned, and smooth, slow-pacing 

Lowing from the hill, 
The accustomed stall to fill. 

Heavy rolls 

Along the wagon, 

Richly loaded. 

On the sheaves, 

With gayest leaves 

They form the wreath ; 
And the youthful reapers dance 

Upon the heath. 
Btreet and market all are quiet, 
And round each domestic light 
Gathers now a circle fond, 

While shuts the creaking city-gate. 
Darkness hovers 
O'er the earth. 
Safety still each sleeper covers 

As with light, 
That the deeds of crime discovers ; 
For wakes the law's protecting might. 

Holy Order ! rich with all 

The gifts of Heaven, that best we call,-— 

Freedom, peace, and equal laws, — 

Of common good the happy cause I 

She the savage man has taught 

What the arts of life have wrought; 

Changed the rude hut to comfort, splendor, 

And filled fierce hearts with feelings tender 

And yet a dearer bond she wove, — 

Our home, our country, taught to love. 

A thousand active hands, combined 

For mutual aid, with zealous heart, 
In well apportioned labor find 

Their power increasing with their art 
Master and workmen all agree, 

Under sweet Freedom's holy care, 
And eaoh, content in his degree, 

Warns every scorner to beware. 
Labor is the poor man's pride, — 

Success by toil alone is won. 
Kings glory in possessions wide,-* ' 

We glory in our work well done. 

Gentle peace I 
Sweet union I 
Linger, linger, 
Kindly over this our home I 
Never may the day appear, 
When the hordes of cruel war 
Through this quiet vale shall rush ; 

When the sky, 
With the evening's softened air, 

Blushing red, 
Shall reflect the frightful glare 
Of burning towns in ruin dread. 

Now break up the useless mould : 

Its only purpose is fulfilled. 
May our eyes, well pleased, behold 
A work to prove us not unskilled. 
Wield the hammer, wield, 
Till the frame shall yield I 
That the bell to light may rise, 
The form in thousand fragments flies. 

The master may destroy the mould 
With careful hand, and judgment wise 

But, woe I — in streams of fire, if rolled, 
The glowing metal seek the skies ! 

Loud bursting with the crash of thunder, 
It throws aloft the broken ground ', 

Like a volcano rends asunder, 



And spreads in burning ruin round. 
When reckless power by force prevails, 

The reign of peace and art is o'er ; 
And when a mob e'en wrong assails, 

The public welfare is no more. * 

Alas ! when in the peaceful state 

Conspiracies are darkly forming ; 
The oppressed no longer patient wait; 

With fury every breast is storming. 
Then whirls the bell with frequent clang; 

And Uproar, with her howling voice, 
Has changed the note, that peaceful rang, 

To wild confusion's dreadful noise. 

Freedom and equal rights they call, — 

And peace gives way to sudden war ; 
The street is crowded, and the hall, — 

And crime is unrestrained by law: 
Fen woman to a fury turning. 

But mocks at every dreadful deed ; 
Against the hated madly burning, 

With horrid joy she sees them bleed. 
Now naught is sacred ; — broken lies 

Each holy law of honest worth ; 
The bad man rules, the good man flies, 

And every vice walks boldly forth, 

There's danger in the lion's wrath, 

Destruction in the tiger's jaw ; 
But worse than death to cross the path 

Of man, when passion is his law. 
Woe, woe to those who strive to light 

The torch of truth by passion's fire ! 
It guides not ; — it but glares through night 

To kindle freedom's funeral pyre. 

God has given us joy to-night! 

See how, like the golden grain 
From the husk, all smooth and bright, 
The shining metal now is ta'en ! 
From top to well formed rim, 
Not a spot is dim ; 
E'en the motto, neatly raised, 
Shows a skill may well be praised. 

Around, around, 
Companions all, take your ground, 
And name the bell with joy profound. 
Concordia is the word we've found 
Most meet to express the harmonious sound, 
That calls to those in friendship bound. 

Be this henceforth the destined end 
To which the finished work we send. 
High over every meaner thing, 

In the bine canopy of heaven, 
Near to the thunder let it swing, 

A neighbour to the stars be given. 
Let its clear voice above proclaim, 

With brightest troops of distant 

The praise of our Creator's i 

While round each circling season i 
To solemn thoughts of heart-felt power 

Let its deep note full oft invite, 
And tell, with every passing hour. 

Of hastening time's unceasing flight. 
Still let it mark the course of fate ; 

Its cold, un8ympathising voice 
Attend on every changing state 

Of human passions, griefs, and joys. 
And as the mighty sound it gives 

Dies gently on the listening ear, 
We feel how quickly all that lives 

Must change, and fade, and disappear. 

Now, lads, join your strength around I 

Lift the bell to upper air ! 
And in the kingdom wide of sound 
Once placed, we'll leave it there. 
All together 1 heave t 
Its birth-place see it leave I— 
Joy to all within its bound 1 
Peace its first, its latest sound ! 

FmiBPBmicH vox Sooniua, 


[ALOSBitoif Sidney, Engliah author and statesman, 
born about 1622, executed at London, 1683, a son of the 
Earl of Leicester, and grand-nephew of 8ir Philip Sid- 
ney. He became distinguished both in cdvil and in mi- 
litary life, fighting gallantly at Marston Moor, entering 
Parliament, and being made governor of Dublin and of 
Dover. He was one of the Judges of King Charles I, but 
did not sign the warrant of execution. A republican In 
principle, he remained in voluntary exile for years till 
1677, when he was permitted to return to England. He 
was arrested and thrown into the Tower in 1683, charged 
with complicity in the Ryehouse plot, and conspiracy 
against the king's life. Of this no legal evidence was 
produced, but the infamous Judge Jeffreys, with a sub- 
servient Jury, upon garbled extracts from his work on 
Government, yet unpublished, but found among his pa- 
pers, convicted him of high treason. Sidney met the 
barbarous death by the headsman's axe with the forti- 
tude of a stoic, leaving an eloquent vindication of hni 
principles in an address to his countrymen, who have 
enshrined him among the most illustrious martyrs of 
English liberty. From his "Dtsoonrset on Government, » 
work written in refutation of 8ir Robert Earner's De- 
fence of Absolute Monarchy, we quote a few passages:] 

Our author's cavils concerning I know 
not what vulgar opinions that democracies 
were introduced to curb tyranny, deserve 
no answer j for our question is. whether 
one form of government be prescribed to ua 



by God and nature, or we are left according 
to our own understanding, to constitute 
such as seem best to ourselves. As for de- 
mocracy, he may say what pleases him of 
it ; and I believe it can suit only with the 
convenience of a small town, accompanied 
with such circumstances as are seldom 
found. But this no way obliges men to run 
into the other extreme, inasmuch as the va- 
riety of forms between mere democracy and 
absolute monarchy is almost infinite ; and 
if I should undertake to say, there never was 
a good government in the world that did 
not consist of the three simple species of 
monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy, I 
think I might make it good. This, at the 
least, is certain, that the government of the 
Hebrews, instituted by God, had a judge, 
the great sanhedrim, and general assem- 
blies of the people. Sparta had two kings, 
a senate of twenty-eignt chosen men, and 
the like assemblies; all the Dorian cities 
had a chief magistrate, a senate, and occa- 
sional assemblies. The Ionian, Athens, and 
others, had an archon, the areopagi ,• and 
all judgments concerning matters of the 
greatest importance, as well as the election 
of magistrates, were referred to the people. 
Rome, in the beginning, had a king and a 
senate, whilst the election of kings, and 
judgments upon appeals, remained in the 
people ; afterwards consuls, representing 
Kings, and vested with equal power, a more 
numerous senate, and more frequent meet- 
ings of the people. Venice has at this day 
a duke, the senate of the " pregadi," and 
the great assembly of the nobility, which is 
the whole city, the rest of the inhabitants 
being only "incoke," not" civesj" and 
those of the other cities or countries are 
their subjects, and do not participate in the 
government. Genoa is governed in like 
manner: Luca not unlike to them. Ger- 
many is at this day governed by an em- 
peror, the princes or great lords in their 
several precincts, the cities by their own 
magistrates, and by general diets, in which 
the whole power of the nation resides, and 
where the emperor, princes, nobility, and 
cities have their places in pereon, or by 
their deputies. All the northern nations, 
which, upon the dissolution of the Roman 
empire, possessed the best provinces that 
had composed it, were under that form 
which is usually called the Gothic polity : 
they had kings, lords, commons, diets, as- 
semblies of estates, cortez, and parliaments, 
in which the sovereign powers of those na- 

tions did reside, and by which they were 
exercised. The like was practised in Hun- 
gary, Bohemia, Sweden, Denmark, Poland ; 
and if things are changed in some of these 
places within few years, they must give 
better proofs of having gained by the change 
than are yet seen in the world, before I 
think myself obliged to change my opinion. 
Some nations, not liking the name of 
king, have given such a power as kings en- 
joyed in other places to one or more magis- 
trates, either limited to a certain time, or 
left to be perpetual, as best pleased them- 
selves : others, approving the name, made 
the dignity purely elective. Some have in 
their elections principally regarded one fa- 
mily as long as it lasted : others considered 
nothing but the fitness of the person, and 
reserved to themselves a liberty of taking 
when they pleased. Some have permitted 
the crown to be hereditary, as to its ordi- 
nary course ; but restrained the power and 
instituted officers to inspect the proceedings 
of kings, and to take care that the laws were 
not violated : of this sort were the ephori of 
Sparta, the maires du palais, and after- 
wards the constable of France ; the justicia 
in Arragon j rijckshofmeister in Denmark : 
the high-steward in England ; and in all 
places such assemblies as are before-men- 
tioned under several names, who had the 
power of the whole nation. Some have con- 
tinued long and it may be always in the 
same form ; others have changed it ; some, 
being incensed against their Kings, as the 
Romans, exasperated by the viUanies of 
Tarquin, and the Tuscans by the cruelties 
of Mezentius, abolished the name of king : 
others, as Athens, Sicyon, Argos, Corinth, 
Thebes, and the Latins, did not stay for 
such extremities ; but set up other govern- 
ments when they thought it best for them- 
selves, and by this conduct prevented the 
evils that usually fall upon nations, when 
their kings degenerate into tyrants, and a 
nation is brought to enter into a war by 
which all may be lost, and nothing can be 
gained which was not their own before. 
The Romans took not this salutary course ; 
the mischief was grown up before they per- 
ceived, or set themselves against it; and 
when the effects of pride, avarice, cruelty, 
and lust, were grown to such a height that 
they could no longer be endured, they could 
not free themselves without a war: and 
whereas upon other occasions their victories 
had brought them increase of strength, terri- 
tory, and glory ; the only reward of their 



virtue in this wap. to be delivered from a 
plague they bad unadvisedly suffered to 
grow up among them. I confess this was 
most of all to ht esteemed : for if they had 
been overthrown, their condition under Tar- 
quin would have been more intolerable than 
if they had fallen under the power of Pyrr- 
hus or Hannibal ; and all their following 

I>rosperity was the fruit of their recovered 
iberty: but it had been much better to 
have reformed the state after the death of 
one of their good kings, than to be brought 
to fight for their lives against that abomi- 
nable tyrant Our author, in pursuance of 
his aversion to all that is good, disapproves 
this : and, wantipg reasons to justify his 
dislike, according to the custom of impos- 
tors and cheats, hath recourse to the ugly 
terms of a " backdoor sedition," and " ac- 
tion : " as if it were not as just for a people 
to lay aside their kings when they receive 
nothing but evil, and can rationally hope 
for no benefit by them, as for others to set 
them up in expectation of good from them. 
But if the truth be examined, nothing will 
be found more orderly than the changes of 
government, or of the persons and races of 
those that governed, which have been made 
by many nations. * * * 

It may be said that some princes are so 
full of virtue and goodness, as not to desire 
more power than the laws allow, and are 
not obliged to chuse ill men, because they 
desire nothing but what the best are willing 
to do. This may be, and sometimes is : the 
nation is happy that has such a king : but 
he is hard to find, and, more than a human 
power is required to keep him in so good a 
way. The strength of his own affections 
will ever be against him : wives, children, 
and servants will always join with those 
enemies that arise in his own breast to per- 
vert him : if he has any weak side, any lust 
unsubdued, they will gain the victory. He 
has not searched into the nature of man, 
who thinks that any one can resist where 
he is thus on all sides assaulted : nothing 
but the wonderful and immediate power of 
God's Spirit can preserve him ; and to al- 
lege it, will be nothing to the purpose, un- 
less it can be proved, that all princes are 
blessed with such an assistance, or that 
God hath promised it to them and their 
successors for ever, by what means soever 
they came to the crowns they enjoy. 

Nothing is farther from my intention 
than to speak irreverently of kings : and I 
presume no wise man will think I do so, if 

I profess that, having observed, as well as 
I can, what history, and daily experience, 
teach us concerning the virtues and reli- 
gions that are or have been from the begin- 
ning of the world encouraged and sup- 
ported by monarchs, the methods they have 
followed since they have gone under the 
name of Christians, their moral as well as 
their theological graces, together with what 
the scriptures tell us of those who in the 
last days will principally support the throne 
of antichrist ; I cannot be confident, that 
they are generally in an extraordinary man- 
ner preserved by the hand of God from the 
vices and frailties to which the rest of man- 
kind is subject. If no man can shew that 
I am in this mistaken I may conclude, that 
as they are more than any other men in the 
world exposed to temptations and 6nares, 
they are more than any in danger ofbeing cor- 
rupted, and made instruments of corrupting 
others, if they are no otherwise defended 
than tne rest of men. 

This being the state of the matter on 
both sides, we easily collect, that all gov- 
ernments are subject to corruption and de- 
cay j but with this difference, that absolute 
monarchy is by principle led unto, or rooted 
in it; whereas mixed or popular govern- 
ments are only in a possibility of falling 
into it : as the first cannot subsist, unless 
the prevailing part of the people be cor- 
rupted; the other must certainly perish, 
unless they be preserved in a great 
measure free from vices: and I doubt 
whether any better reason can be given, why 
there have been and are more monarchies 
than popular governments in the world, 
than that nations are more easily drawn 
into corruption than defended from it ; and 
I think that monarchy can be said to be 
natural in no other sense, than that our de- 
praved nature is most inclined to that which 
is worst. 

To avoid unnecessary disputes, I give the 
name popular governments to those of Rome, 
Athens, Sparta, and the like, though improp- 
erly unless the same may be also given to 
many that are usually called monarchies, 
since there is nothing of violence in either ; 
the power is conferred upon the chief mag- 
istrates of both by the free consent of a 
willing people, and such a part as they think 
fit is still retained and executed in their own 
assemblies 5 and in this sense it is that our au- 
thor seems to speak against them. As to pop- 
ular government in the strictest sense (that 
is pure democracy, where the people in 

ALGfcfctfOtf 8TbtfM ON GOVEftNMENtf. 


themselves, and by themselves, perform all 
that belongs to government) I know of no 
such thing ; and if it be in the world have 
nothing to say for it In asserting the lib- 
erty, generally, as I suppose granted by 
God to all mankind, I neither deny, that so 
many as think fit to enter into a society, 
may give so much of their power as they 
please to one or more men, for a time, or 
perpetually, to them and to their heirs, accord- 
ing to such rules as they prescribe j nor ap- 
prove the disorders that must arise if they 
keep it entirely in their own hands: and 
looking upon the several governments, 
which, under different forms and names, 
have been regularly constituted by nations, 
as so many undeniable testimonies that they 
thought it good for themselves, and their 
posterity, so to do, I infer, that as there is 
no man who would not rather chuse to be 
governed by such as are just, industrious, 
valiant, ana wise, than by those that are 
wicked, slothful, cowardly, and foolish ; and 
Co live in society with such as are qualified 
like those of the first sort, rather than with 
those who will ever be ready to commit all 
manner of villanies, or want experience, 
strength, or courage, to join in repelling 
the injuries that are offered by others : so 
there are none who do not according to the 
measure of understanding they have, en- 
deavour to set up those who seem to be 
best qualified, and to prevent the introduc- 
tion of those vices, which render the faith 
of the magistrate suspected, or make him 
unable to perform his duty, in providing for 
the execution of justice, and trie public de- 
fence of the state, against foreign and do- 
mestic enemies. For as no man who is 
not absolutely mad, will commit the care of 
a flock to a villain, that has neither skill, 
diligence, or courage, to defend them, or 
perhaps is maliciously set to destroy them, 
rather than to a stout, faithful, and wise 
shepherd; it is less to be imagined, that 
any would commit the same error in rela- 
tion to that society which comprehends 
himself, with his children, friends, and all 
that is dear to him. 

The same considerations are of equal 
force in relation to the body of every na- 
tion: for since the magistrate, though the 
most perfect in his kind, cannot perform 
his duty, if the people be so base, vicious, 
effeminate and cowardly, as not to second 
his good intentions ; those who expect good 
from him, cannot desire so to corrupt their 
companions that are to help him, as to ren- 

der it impossible for him to accomplish it. 
Though I believe there have been in all 
ages bad men in every nation ; yet I doubt 
whether there was one in Rome, except a 
Catiline or a Caesar, who designed to make 
themselves tyrants, that would not rather 
have wished the whole people as brave and 
virtuous as in the times of the Carthaginian 
wars, than vile and base as in the days of 
Nero and Domitian. But it is madness to 
think, that the whole body would not rather 
wish to be as it was when virtue flourished, 
and nothing upon earth was able to resist 
their power, than weak, miserable, base, 
slavish, and trampled under foot by any 
that would invade them ; and forced as a 
chattel to become a prey to those that were 
strongest Which is sufficient to shew, that 
a people acting according to the liberty, of 
their own will, never advance unworthy 
men, unless it be by mistake, nor willingly 
suffer the introduction of, vices : whereas 
the absolute monarch always prefers the 
worst of those who are addicted to him, and 
cannot subsist unless the prevailing part of 
the people be base and vicious. * * * * 

That our author's book may appear to be 
a heap of incongruities and contradictions, 
it is not amiss to add to what has already 
been observed, that having asserted abso- 
lute monarchy to be " the only natural 
government," he now says, " that the na- 
ture of all people is to desire liberty with- 
out restraint" But if monarchy be that 
power which above all restrains liberty, and 
subjects all to the will of one ; this is as 
much as to say that all people naturally de- 
sire that which is against nature : and by 
wonderful excess of extravagance and folly 
to assert contrary propositions, that on both 
sides are equally absurd and false. For, 
as we have already proved that no govern- 
ment is imposed upon men by God or na- 
ture, it is no less evident that man being a 
rational creature, nothing can be univer- 
sally natural to him, that is not rational 
But this liberty without restraint, being in- 
consistent with any government, and the 
good which man naturally desires for him- 
self, children, and friends, we find no place 
in the world where the inhabitants do not 
enter into some kind of society or govern- 
ment to restrain it: and to say that all 
men desire liberty without restraint, nnd 
yet that all restrain it is ridiculous. The 
truth is, man is hereunto led by reason, 
which is his nature. Every one sees they 
cannot well live asunder, nor many to- 



gether, without some rule to which all most 
submit, This submission is a restraint of 
liberty, but could be of no effect as to the 
good intended, unless it were general ; nor 
general, unless it were natural. When all 
are born to the same freedom, some will 
not resign that which is their own, unless 
others do the like. This general consent of 
all to resign such a part of their liberty as 
seems to be for the good of all. is the voice 
of nature, and the act of men (according to 
natural reason), seeking their own good: 
and if all go not in the same way, accord- 
ing to the same form, it is an evident testi- 
mony that no one is directed by nature $ 
but as a few or many may join together, 
and frame smaller ana greater societies, so 
those societies may institute such an order 
or form of government as best pleases 
themselves ; and if the ends of government 
are obtained, all equally follow the voice of 
nature in constituting them. 

Again, if man were by nature so tena- 
cious of his liberty without restraint he 
must be rationally so. The creation or ab- 
solute monarchies, which entirely extin- 
guishes it, must necessarily be most con- 
trary to it, though the people were willing, 
for they thereby abjure their own nature. 
The usurpation of them can be no less 
than the most abominable and outrageous 
violation of the laws of nature that can be 
imagined: the laws of God must be in the 
like measure broken; and of all govern- 
ments, democracy, in which every man's 
liberty is least restrained, because every 
man hath an equal part, would certainly 
prove to be the most just, rational, and 


[Yalskitts Catullus, the Bohimi poet, the Mend and 
contemporary of Julius Caesar, wai born at Verona 
B. C, 87, and died B. C, 63. Hi* works hare a loose- 
ness and abandon generally characteristic of the age 
and country in which he lired, but a grace and 
beauty of diction bespeaking the true poet] 

there, upon Dia's erer-echolng shore, 

Sweet Ariadne stood, In fond dismay, 
•Vlth wild eye* watching the swift fleet, that bore 
Her loved one Car away. 

And still she gated incredulous ; and stffi* 
Like one awaking from beguiling sleep, 
Found herself standing on the bunchy hill, 
Left there alone to weep. 

But the quick oars upon the waters flashed, 

And Theseus fled, and not a thought behind 
He left; but all his promises were dashed 
Into the wandering wind. 

Far off she strains her melancholy eyes ; 

And like a Usenad sculptured there iustooj% 
Stands as in act to shout, for she espies 
Him she once called her own. 

Dark waves of care swayed o'er her tender soul] 

The fine wore turban from her golden hair 
Had fallen ; the light robe no longer stole 
Over her bosom bare. 

Loose dropped the well-wrought girdle from her bwast. 

That wildly struggled to be free : they lay 
About her feet, and many a briny crest 
Kissed them In careless play. 

But nought she recked of turban then, and 

Of silken garments flowing gracefully. 
O Theseus ! far away in heart and tiwmgt^t 
And soul, she hung on thee! 

Ay me! that hour did cruel lore prepare 

A nerer*endlng thread of wilderlng woe; 
And twining round that heart rude briars of < 
Bade them take root and grow. 

What time, from old Pineus's curred strand, 

A ship put forth towards the south, to bring 
CbiTalrous-hearted Theseus to the land 
Of the unrighteous king. 


Cort£s, having cleared a way for the as- 
sault, sprung up the lower stairway, followed 
by Alvarado, Sandoval, Ordaz, and the other 
gallant cavaliers of his little band, leaving 
a file of arquebusiers and a strong corps of 




Indian allies to hold the enemy in check at 
the foot of the monument. On the first 
landing, as well as on the several galleries 
above, and on the summit, the Aztec war- 
riors were drawn up to dispute his passage. 
From their elevated position they showered 
Qown volleys of lighter missiles, together 
with heavy stones, beams and burning rafters, 
which, thundering along the stairway, over- 
tarnea the ascending Spaniards, and carried 
desolation through their ranks. The more 
fortunate, eluding or springing over these 
obstacles, succeeded in gaining the first ter- 
race, where, throwing themselves on their 
enemies, they compelled them, after a short 
resistance, to fall back. The assailants 
ressed on, effectually supported by a brisk 
ire of the musketeers from below, which so 
much galled the Mexicans in their exposed 
situation, that they were glad to take shelter 
on the broad summit of the teocallu 

Cortes and his comrades were close upon 
their rear, and the two parties soon found 
themselves face to face on this atrial battle* 
field, engaged in mortal combat in presence 
of the whole city, as well as of the troops in 
the courtyard, who paused, as if by mutual 
consent, from their own hostilities, gazing in 
silent expectation on the issue of those above. 
The area, though somewhat smaller than the 
base of the teocaUi, was large enough to 
afford a fair field of fight for a thousand com- 
batants. It was paved with broad, flat stones. 
No impediment occurred over its surface, 
except the huge sacrificial block, and the 
temples of stone which rose to the height of 
forty feet, at the further extremity of the 
arena. One of these had been consecrated 
to the cross *, the other was still occupied by 
the Mexican war-god. The Christian and 
the Aztec contended for their religions under 
the very shadow of their respective shrines ; 
while the Indian priests, running to and fro, 
with their hair wildly streaming over their 
sable mantles, seemed hovering in mid-air, 
like so many demons of darkness urging on 
the work of slaughter. 

The parties closed with the desperate fury 
of men who had no hope but in victory. 
Quarter was neither askea nor given ; and to 
fly was impossible. The edge of the area 
was unprotected by parapet or battlement 
The least slip would be fatal ; and the com- 
batants, as they struggled in mortal agony, 
were sometimes seen to roll over the sheer 
Bides of the precipice together. Cortes him- 
self is said to have had a narrow escape from 
this dreadful fate. Two warriors, of strong 


muscular frames, seized on him, and were 
dragging him violently towards the brink of 
the pyramid. Aware of their intention, he 
struggled with all his icrce, and, before they 
could accomplish their purpose, succeeded 
in tearing himself from their grasp, and 
hurling one of them over the walls with his 
own arm. The story is not improbable in 
itself, for Cortes was a man of uncommon 
agility and strength. It has been often re- 
peated, but not by contemporary history. 

The battle lasted with unintermitting fury 
for three hours. The number of the enemy 
was double that of the Christians ; and it 
seemed as if it were a contest which must 
be determined by numbers and brute force, 
rather than by superior science. But it was 
not so. The invulnerable armour of the 
Spaniard, his sword of matchless temper, 
and his skill in the use of it, gave him ad- 
vantages which far outweighed the odds of 
physical strength and numbers. After doing 
all that the courage of despair could enable 
men to do, resistance grew fainter and fainter 
on the side of the Aztecs. One after another 
they had fallen. Two or three priests only 
survived to be led away in triumph by the 
victors. Every other combatant was stretched 
a corpse on the bloody arena, or had been 
hurled from the giddy heights. Yet the loss 
of the Spaniards was not inconsiderable : it 
amounted to forty-five of their best men j 
and nearly all the remainder were more or 
less injured in the desperate conflict. 

The victorious cavaliers now rushed toward 
the sanctuaries. The lower story was of 
stone, the two upper were of wood. Pene- 
trating into their recesses, they had the mor- 
tification to find the image of the Virgin 
and Cross removed. But in the other edifice 
they still beheld the grim figure of Huitzil- 
opotchli, with his censer of smoking hearts, 
and the walls of his oratory reeking with 
gore — not improbably of their own country- 
men. With snouts of triumph the Christians 
tore the uncouth monster from his niche, 
and tumbled him, in the presence of the 
horror-struck Aztecs, down the steps of the 
teocallu They then set fire to the accursed 
building. The flame speedily ran up the 
slender towers, sending forth an ominous 
light over city, lake, and valley, to the re- 
motest hut among the mountains. It was 
the funeral pyre of paganism, and proclaimed 
the fall of that sanguinary religion which 
had so long hung like a dark cloud over the 
fair regions of Anahuac. 

W. H. Pkmgott. 



Anil, Oouimm or Wimchxlbju 

[An»e,Ocrantemof Winchelasa, died 1720, waa the daughter of Sir William Klngsmfll, of admanton, la I 
xmatf of Southampton, maid of honor to the Dncheai of York, and wife to Heneage, Earl of Winchetna. A • 
leotion of her poama wat printed in 1713 ; wreral still remain unpublished.] 

In suoh a night, when every louder wind 

Is to its distant cavern safe confined, 

And only gentle zephyr fans his wings, 

And lonely Philomel still waking sings ; 

Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight, 

She, hallooing clear, directs the wanderer right: 

In such a night, when passing clouds give place. 

Or thinly veil the heavens' mysterious face ; 

When in some river overhung with green, 

The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen ; 

When freshened grass now bears itself upright, 

And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite, 

Whence springs the woodbine, and the bramble rosej 

And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows ; 

Whilst now a paler hue the fox-glove takes, 

Yet chequers still with red the dusky brakes; 

When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine, 

Show trivial beauties watch their hour to shine ; 

Whilst Salisbury stands the test of every light, 

In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright : 

When odors which declined repelling day, 

Through temperate air uninterrupted stray; 

When darkened groves their softest shadows wear, 

And falling waters we distinctly hear ; 

When through the gloom more venerable shows 

Some ancient fabric, awful in repose ; 

While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal, 

And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale: 

When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads, 

Comes slowly grazing through the adjoining meads, 

Whose stealing pace and lengthened shade we fear; 

Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear ; 

When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food, 

And unmolested kine rechew the cud ; 

When curlews cry beneath the village walls, 

And to her straggling brood the partridge calls ; 

Their short-lived jubilee the creatures keep, 

Which but endures whilst tyrant man does sleep ; 

When a sedate content the spirit feels, 

And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals ; 

But silent musings urge the mind to seek 

Something too high for syllables to speak ; 

Till the free soul to a composedness charmed, 

Finding the elements of rage disarmed, 

O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, 

Joys in the inferior world, and thinks it like her own 

In suoh a night let me abroad remain, 

Till morning breaks, and all's confused again ; 

Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renewed ; 

Or pleasures seldom reached again pursued. 



AUGUSTUS OfflSAR (31 b. a— 14 a. d.) 

[Ghabub Mbutalk, an Kngltoh historian, born in 
1808, wai educated at Cambridge, becoming an eminent 
preacher. His "Hutory of (It Roman$ wader ths Em- 
p*V(7 TOlfc, 1860-62,) M Qmomion of the Soman Em- 
fire? (1864,) *** " G«wral Hilary of Borne," (1875,) are 
bit principal works.] 

In stature Augustus hardly exceeded the 
middle height, but his person was lightly 
and delicately formed, and its proportions 
▼ere such as to convey a favourable and 
even a striking impression. His counte- 
nance was pale, and testified to the weak- 
ness of his health, and almost constant bo- 
dily suffering: ; but the hardships of military 
service had imparted a swarthy tinge to a 
complexion naturally fair, and his eyebrows 
meeting over a sharp and aquiline nose 
gave a serious and stern expression to his 
countenance. His hair was light, and his 
eyes blue and piercing ; he was well pleased 
if any one on approaching him looked on 
the ground and affected to be unable to 
meet their dazzling brightness. It was said 
that his" dress concealed many imperfec- 
tions and blemishes on his person ; but he 
could not disguise all the infirmities under 
which he laboured ; the weakness of the 
forefinger of his right hand and a lame- 
ness in the left hip were the results of 
wounds he incurred in a battle with the 
Iapydse in early life ; he suffered repeated 
attacks of fever of the most serious kind, — 
especially in the course of the campaign of 
Philippi and that against the Cantabrians, 
and again two years afterwards at Borne, 
when his recovery was despaired of. From 
that time, although constantly liable to be 
affected by cold and heat, and obliged to 
nurse himself throughout with the care of a 
valetudinarian, he does not appear to have 
had any return of illness so serious as the pre- 
ceding j and dying at the age of seventy- 
four, the rumour obtained popular currency 
that he was prematurely cut off by poison 
administered by the empress. As the natu- 
ral consequence of this hodily weakness and 
sickly constitution, Octavian did not attempt 
to distinguish himself by active exertions or 
feats of personal prowess. The splendid ex- 
amples of his uncle the dictator and of An- 
tonius his rival, might have early discou- 
raged him from attempting to shine as a 
warrior and hero : he had not the vivacity 
and animal spirits necessary to carry him 
through such exploits as theirs $ and, al- 

though he did not shrink from exposing 
himself to personal danger, he prudently 
declined to allow a comparison to be insti- 
tuted between himself and rivals whom he 
could not hope to equal. Thus necessarily 
thrown back upon other resources, he trusted 
to caution and circumspection, first to pre- 
serve his own life, and afterwards to obtain 
the splendid prizes which had hitherto been 
carried off by daring adventure, and the 

food fortune which is so often its attendant 
[is contest therefore with Antonius and 
Sextus Pompeius was the contest of cunning 
with bravery ; but from his youth upwards 
he was accustomed to overreach, not the 
bold and reckless only, but the most consi- 
derate and wily of his contemporaries, such 
as Cicero and Cleopatra ; he succeeded in 
the end in deluding the senate and people of 
Borne in the establishment of his tyranny ; 
and finclly deceived the expectations of the 
world, and falsified the lessons of the Re- 
publican history, in reigning himself forty 
years in disguise, and leaving a throne to be 
claimed without a challenge by his succes- 
sors for fourteen centuries. 

But although emperor in name, and in 
fact absolute master of his people, the man- 
ners of the Caesar, both in public and pri- 
vate life, were still those of a simple citizen. 
On the most solemn occasions he was dis- 
tinguished by no other dress than the robes 
ana insignia of the offices which he exer- 
cised ; he was attended by no other guards 
than those which his consular dignity ren- 
dered customary and decent In nis court 
there was none of the etiquette of modern 
monarchies to be recognized, and it was 
only by slow and gradual encroachment 
that it came to prevail in that of his succes- 
sors. Augustus was contented to take up 
his residence in the house which had be- 
longed to the orator Licinius Calvus, in the 
neighbourhood of the Forum ; which he af- 
terwards abandoned for that of Hortensius 
on the Palatine, of which Suetonius ob- 
serves that it was remarkable neither for 
size nor splendour. Its halls were small, 
and lined, not with marble, after the luxu* 
rious fashion of many patrician palaces, but 
with the common Arban stone, and the pat* 
tern of the pavement was plain and simple. 
Nor when he succeeded Lepidus in the pon- 
tificate would he relinquish this private 
dwelling for the regia or public residence 
assigned that honourable office. 

Many anecdotes are recorded of the mo- 
deration with which the emperor received 



the opposition, and often the rebukes, of in- 
dividuals, in public as well as in private. 
These stories are not without their impor- 
tance, as shewing how little formality there 
was in the tone of addressing the master of 
the Roman world, and how entirely different 
the ideas of the nation were, with regard to 
the position occupied by the Caesar and his 
family, from those with which modern asso- 
ciations have imbued us. We have already 
noticed the rude freedom with which Tibe- 
rius was attacked, although step-son of the 
emperor, and participating in the eminent 
functions of the tribunitian power, by a de- 
claimer in the schools at Rhodes : but Au- 
gustus himself seems to have suffered almost 
as much as any private citizen from the ge- 
neral coarseness of behaviour which charac- 
terized the Romans in their public assem- 
blies, and the rebukes to which he patiently 
submitted were frequently such as would 
lay the courtier of a constitutional sove- 
reign in modern Europe under perpetual 

On one occasion, for instance, in the pub- 
lic discharge of his functions as corrector of 
manners, he had brought a specific charge 
against a certain knight for having squan- 
dered his patrimony. The accused proved 
that he had, on the contrary, augmented it. 
" Well," answered the emperor, somewhat 
annoyed by his error, " but you are at all 
events living in celibacy, contrary to recent 
enactments. The other was able to reply 
that he was married, and was the father of 
three legitimate children ; and when the 
emperor signified that he had no further 
charge to bring, added aloud : " Another 
time, Caesar, when you give ear to informa- 
tions against honest men, take care that 
your informants are honest themselves." 
Augustus felt the justice of the rebuke thus 
publicly administered, and submitted to it 
in silence. 



It was not long before sunset when the 
▼an of the royal procession entered the gates 
of the city. First came some hundreds of 
the menials, employed to clear the path from 
every obstacle, ana singing songs of triumph 

as they came, " which in our ears," says one 
of the conquerors, " sounded like the songs 
of hell I " Then followed other bodies of 
different ranks, and dressed in different liv- 
eries. Some wore a showy stuff, checkered 
white and red, like the squares of a chess- 
board j others were clad in pure white, bear- 
ing ham mere or maces of silver or copper; 
and the guards, together with those in im- 
mediate attendance on the prince, were dis 
tin£uished by a rich azure livery, and a pro- 
fusion of gay ornaments, while the large pen- 
dants attached to the ears indicated the 
Peruvian noble. 

Elevated high above his vassals came the 
Inca Atahuallpa, borne on a sedan or open 
litter, on which was a sort of throne made 
of massive gold of inestimable value. The 
palanquin was lined with the richly coloured 
plumes of tropical birds, and studded with 
shining plates of gold and silver. Round 
his neck was suspended a collar of emeralds, 
of uncommon Bize and brilliancy. His 
short hair was decorated with golden orna- 
ments, and the imperial borla encircled his 
temples. The bearing of the Inca was se- 
date and dignified ; and from his lofty station 
he looked down on the multitudes below 
with an air of composure, like one accus- 
tomed to command. 

As the leading files of the procession en- 
tered the great square, larger, says an old 
chron icier, than any sauare in Spain, they 
opened to the right and left for the royal ret- 
inue to pass. Everything was conducted in 
admirable order. The monarch was per 
mitted to traverse the plaza in silence, and 
not a Spaniard was to be seen. When some 
five or six thousand of his people had en- 
tered the place Atahuallpa haltea, and turn- 
ing round with an inquiring look, demanded, 
" Where are the strangers ? " 

At this moment Fray Vicente de Val- 
verde, a Dominican friar, Pizarro's chap- 
lain, and afterwards bishop of Cuzco, came 
forward with his breviary, or, as other ac- 
counts say, a Bible, in one hand, and a 
crucifix in the other, and, approaching the 
Inca, told him that he came by order of his 
commander to expound to him the doctrines 
of the true faith, for which purpose the 
Spaniards had come from a great distance 
to his country. The friar then explained, 
as clearly as he could, the mysterious doc- 
trine of the Trinity, and. ascending high in 
his account, began with the creation of man. 
thence passed to his fall, to his subsequent 
redemption by Jesus Christ, to the croci- 



fixion, and the ascension, when the Saviour 
left the apostle Peter as his vicegerent upon 
earth. This power had been transmitted to 
the successors of the apostle, good and wise 
men, who, under the title of popes, held 
authority over all powers and potentates on 
earth. One of the last of these popes had 
commissioned the Spanish emperor, the most 
mighty monarch in the world, to conquer 
and convert the natives in this western hem- 
isphere ; and his general, Francisco Pizarro, 
had now come to execute this important 
mission. The friar concluded with beseech- 
ing the Peruvian monarch to receive him 
kindly ; to abjure the errors of his own faith, 
and embrace that of the Christians now 
proffered to him, the only one by which he 
could hope for salvation ; and, furthermore, 
to acknowledge himself a tributary of the 
Emperor Charles the Fifth, who, in that 
event, would aid and protect him as his loyal 

Whether Atahuallpa possessed himself of 
every link in the curious chain of argument 
by which the monk connected Pizarro with 
St Peter, may be doubted. It is certain, 
however, that he must have had very incor- 
rect notions of the Trinity, if, as Garcilasso 
states, the interpreter Felipillo explained it 
by saying, that " the Christians believed in 
three Gods and one God, and that made 
four." But there is no doubt he perfectly 
comprehended that the drift of the discourse 
was to persuade him to resign his sceptre 
and acknowledge the supremacy of another. 
The eyes of the Indian monarch flashed 
fire, and his dark brow grew darker, as he 
replied : " I will be no man's tributary ! t 
am greater than any prince upon earth. 
Your emperor may be a great prince ; I do 
not doubt it, when I see that he has sent his 
subjects so far across the waters ; and I am 
willing to hold him as a brother. As for 
the pope of whom you speak, he must be 
crazy to talk of giving away countries which 
do not belong to him. As for my faith," he 
' continued, u I will not change it. Your own 
God, as you say, was put to death by the 
very men whom he created. But mine," 
he concluded, pointing to his deity — then, 
alas 1 sinking in glory behind the mountains 
— " my god still lives in the heavens, and 
looks down on his children." 

He then demanded of Valverde by what 
authority he had said these thingB. The 
friar pointed to the book which he held as 
his authority. Atahuallpa, taking it, turned 
over the pages a moment, then, as the insult 

he had received probably flashed across his 
mind, he threw it down with vehemence, 
and exclaimed : " Tell your comrades that 
they shall give me an account of their doings 
in my land. I will not'go from here till they 
have made me full satisfaction for all the 
wrongs they have committed." 

The friar, greatly scandalized by the in- 
dignity offered to the sacred volume, stayed 
only to pick it up, and hastening to Pizarro, 
informed him of what had been done, ex- 
claiming at the same time : " Do you not see 
that, while we stand here wasting our breath 
in talking with this dog, full of pride as he 
is, the fields are filling with Indians ? Set 
on at once ; I absolve you." Pizarro saw 
that the hour had come. He waved a white 
scarf in the air, the appointed signal. The 
fatal gun was fired from the fortress. Then 
springing into the square, the Spanish cap- 
tain and his followers shouted the old war- 
cry of " St Jago and at them 1 "• It was an- 
swered by the battle-cry of every Spaniard 
in the city, as, rushing from the avenues of 
the great halls in which they were concealed, 
they poured into the plaza, horse and foot, 
each in his own dark column, and threw 
themselves into the midst of the Indian 
crowd. The latter, taken by surprise, stun- 
ned by the report of artillery and muskets, 
the echoes of which reverberated like thun- 
der from the surrounding buildings, and 
blinded by the smoke which rolled in sul- 
phureous volumes along the square, were 
seized with a panic. They knew not whither 
to fly for refuge from the coming ruin. 
Nobles and commoners — all were trampled 
down under the fierce charge of the caval- 
ry, who dealt their blows right and left, 
without sparing ; while their swords, flashing 
through the thick gloom, carried dismay in- 
to the hearts of the wretched natives, who 
now, for the first time, saw the horse and 
his rider in all their terrors. They made no 
resistance — as, indeed, they had no weapons 
with which to make it. Every avenue to 
escape was closed, for the entrance to the 
square was choked up with the dead bodies 
of men who had perished in vain efforts to 
fly ; and such was the agony of the sur- 
vivors under the terrible pressure of their 
assailants, that a large body of Indians, by 
their convulsive struggles, burst through the 
wall of stone and dried clay, which formed 
part of the boundary of the plaza ! It fell, 
leaving an opening of more than a hundred 
paces, through which multitudes now found 
their way into the country, still hotly pur* 



sued by the cavalry, who, leaping the fallen 
rubbish, hung on the rear of the fugitives, 
striking them down in all directions. 

Meanwhile the fight, or rather massacre, 
continued hot around the Inca, whose per- 
son was the great object of the assault His 
faithful nobles, rallying about him, threw 
themselves in the way of the assailants, and 
strove, by tearing them from their saddles, 
or, at least, by offering their own bosoms as 
a mark for their vengeance, to shield their 
beloved master. It is said by some author- 
ities that they carried weapons concealed 
under their clothes. If so, it availed them 
little, as it is not pretended that they used 
them. But the most timid animal will de- 
fend itself when at bay. That they did not do 
so in the present instance, is proof that they 
had no weapons to use. Yet they still con- 
tinued to force back the cavaliers, clinging 
to their horses with dying grasp, and as one 
was cut down, another taking the place of 
his fallen comrade with a loyalty truly 

The Indian monarch, stunned and bewil- 
dered, saw his faithful subjects falling round 
him without hardly comprehending his situ- 
ation. The litter on which he rode heaved 
to and fro, as the mighty press swayed back- 
wards and forwards ; ana he gazed on the 
overwhelming ruin, like some forlorn mari- 
ner, who, tossed about in his bark by the 
furious elements, sees the lightning's flash, 
and hears the thunder bursting around him, 
with the consciousness that he can do no- 
thing to avert his fate. At length, weary 
with the work of destruction, the Spaniards, 
as the shades of evening grew deeper, felt 
afraid that the royal prize might, after all, 
elude them ; and some of the cavaliers made 
a desperate attempt to end the affray at once 
by taking Atahuallpa's life. But Pizarro, 
who was nearest his person, called out with 
stentorian voice : " Let no one, who values 
his life, strike at the Inca ;" and, stretching 
out his arm to shield him, received a wound 
on the hand from one of his own men — the 
only wound received by a Spaniard in the 

The struggle now became fiercer than 
ever round the royal litter. It reeled more 
and more, and at length, several of the no- 
bles who supported it having been slain, it 
was overturned, and the Indian prince would 
have come with violence to the ground, had 
not his fall been broken by the efforts of Pi- 
zarro and some other of the cavaliers, who 
caught him in their arms. The imperial 

borla was instantly snatched from hii tern 
pies by a soldier named Estete, and the un 
happy monarch, strongly secured, was re* 
moved to a neighbouring building, where he 
was carefully guarded. 

All attempt at resistance now ceased. 
The fate of the Inca soon spread over town 
and country. The charm which might have 
held the Peruvians together was dissolved. 
Every man thought only of his own safety. 
Even the soldiery encamped on the adjacent 
fields took the alarm, and, learning the fatal 
tidings, were seen flying in every direction 
before their pursuers, who in the neat of tri- 
umph shewed no touch of mercy. At length 
night, more pitiful than man,' threw her 
friendly mantle over the fugitives, and the 
scattered troops of Pizarro rallied once more 
at the sound of the trumpet in the bloody 
square of Caxamalca. 

Wm. H. Puaoon. 


[Dr. Johk Woloot (1738-1819) wm a lively satirist, 
who, under the name of " Peter Pindar," published a 
variety of effusions on the topics and public men of hit 
times, which were eagerly read and widely circulated. 
Many of them were in ridicule of the reigning sovereign, 
George III., who was a good subject for the poet ; though 
the latter, as he himself acknowledged, was a bad sub- 
ject to the king. Woloot was born at Dodbrooke, a til- 
lage in Devonshire, in the year 1738. His uncle, are- 
spectable surgeon and apothecary at Fowey, took charge 
of his education, intending that he should become hU 
own assistant and successor in business. Wolcot was in- 
structed in medicine, and w walked the hospitals' 1 is 
London, after which he proceeded to Jamaica with Sir 
William Trelawney, governor of that Island, who had 
engaged him as his medical attendant. The social 
habits of the doctor rendered him a favourite in Jamaica; 
but his time being only partly employed by his profes- 
sional avocations, he solicited and obtained from his 
patron the gift of a living in the church, which hap- 
pened to be then vacant The bishop of London or 
dained the graceless neophyte, and Wolcot entered upon 
his sacred duties. His congregation consisted mostly of 
negroes, and Sunday being their principal holiday and 
market, the attendance at the church was very limited, 
Sometimes not a single person came, and Wolcot and his 
clerk— the latter being an excellent shot— used at such 
times, after waiting for ten minutes, to proceed to the 
sea-side, to enjoy the sport of shooting ring-tailed 
pigeons! The death of Sir William Trelawney out off 
all further hopes of preferment, and every inducemeat 
to a longer residence in the island. Bidding adieu to 
Jamaica and the church, Wolcot accompanied Lsdy 



Trelawney to England, and established himself as a 
physician at Truro, in Cornwall. He inherited about 
£2,000 by the death of his uncle. While resident at 
Truro, Wolcot discovered the talents of Opie— 

The Cornish boy in tin-mines bred — 

whose genius as an artist afterwards became so dis- 

He wrote u Inetnuthna to a Celebrated Lemma*;* 
"Afart Pension;" " Peter'* Prophecy ; n " Ept*Oe to a 
Fallen Mmieter;" "Epietie to Jamee Bruee, Esq^ the 
Abpemmiam Traveller; » u Ode* to Mr. Paime ; " u Ode* to 
Kien Long, Emperor of Ohuta; " " Ode to the Livery of \ 
London,™ and brochure* of a kindred description on most j 
of the celebrated events of the day. From 1778 to 1808, I 
above sixty of these poetical pamphlets were issued by , 
Wolcot. So formidable was he considered, that the ! 
ministry, as he alleged, endeavoured to bribe him to j 
silence. He also boasted that his writings had been i 
translated into six different languages. In 1796, he ob- j 
tained from his booksellers an annuity of £260, payable , 
half-yearly, for the copyright of his works. This hand- ■ 
some allowance he enjoyed, to the heavy loss of the 
other parties, for upwards of twenty years. In the fol- 
lowing terse and lively lines, we have a good caricature I 
sketch of Dr. Johnson's style : 

I own I like not Johnson's turgid style, 
That gives an inch the importance of a mile, 
Casts of manure a wagon-load around, 
To raise a simple daisy from the ground ; 
Uplifts the club of Hercules— for what ? 
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat? 
Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw 
A goose's feather or exalt a straw ; 
Sets wheels on wheels in motion— such a clatter- 
To force up one npor nippcrkin of water; 
Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar, 
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore) 
Alike in every theme his pompous art, 
Heaven's awful thunder or a rumbling cart! 


Once on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping, 
Whipping and spurring, 
Happy in worrying 
A poor defenceless harmless buck — 
The horse and rider wet as muck — 
From his high consequence and wisdom stooping, 

Entered through curiosity a cot, 
■ Where sat a poor old woman and her pot 

The wrinkled, blear-eyed good old granny, 
In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny, 
Had finished apple dumplings for her pot : 
In tempting row the naked dumplings lay, 

When lo ! the monarch, in his usual way, 
Like lightning spoke ; " What's this ? what's this? what, 

Then taking up a dumpling in his hand, 
His eyes with admiration did expand ; 

And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple : he cried 
" Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed ! 
What makes it, pray, so hard ? " The dame replied, 

Low curtsying : u Please your majesty, the apple." 

u Very astonishing indeed ! strange thing I "— 
Turning the dumpling round— rejoined the king. 
u Tis most extraordinary, then, all this is— 
It beats Pinette's conjuring all to pieces: 
Strange I should never of a dumpling dream I 
But, goody, tell me where, where, whore's the seam? "i 
" Sir, there's no seam," quoth she ; " I never knew 
That folks did apple dumplings •era ; " 
" No ! " cried the staring monarch with a grin; 
" How, how the devil got the apple in ? " 

On which the dame the curious scheme revealed 
By which the apple lay so sly concealed, 

Which made the Solomon of Britain start ; 
Who to the palace with full speed repaired. 
And queen and princesses so beauteous soared 

All with the wonders of the dumpling art. 
There did he labour one whole week to shew 

The wisdom of an apple-dumpling maker ; 
And, lo! so deep was majesty in dough, 

The palace seemed the lodging of a baker t 

Db. Job* Woloot. 


Full of the art of brewing beer, 

The monarch heard of WbJtbreaxfs fame ; 
Quoth he unto the queen : w My dear, my dear, 
Whitbread has got a marvellous great name. 
Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brew- 
Rich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew. 
Shame, shame we have not yet his brew-house seen 1" 
Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen. .... 

Muse, sing the stir that happy Whitbread made : 
Poor gentleman ! most terribly afraid 

He should not charm enough his guests divine, 
He gave his maids new aprons, gowns, and smocks ; 
And lo I two hundred pounds were spent in frocks, 

To make the apprentices and draymen fine : 
Busy as horses in a field of clover, 
Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools were tumbled over, 
Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation, 
To treat the lofty ruler of the nation. 

Now moved king, queen, and prlnoesses so grand. 

To vialt the first brewer in the land ; 

Who sometimes swilis his beer and grinds his meat 



In a snug corner, christened Chiawell Street ; 
But oftener, charmed with fashionable air, 
Amidst the gaudy great of Portman Square. 

Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's lord also, 
His grace the Duke of Montague likewise, 

With Lady Harcourt, joined the raree show 
And fixed all Smithfleld's wond'ring eyes : 

For lo ! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters, 

Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs. . . . 

Thus was the brew-house filled with gabbling noise, 
Whilst draymen, and the brewer's boys. 

Devoured the questions that the king did ask ; 
In different parties were they staring seen, 
Wond'ring to think they saw a king and queen ! 

Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask. 

Some draymen forced themselves— a pretty luncheon— 

Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon : 

And through the bung-hole winked with curious eye, 

To view and be assured what sort of things 
Were princesses, and queens, and kings, 

For whose most lofty station thousands sigh I 
And lo ! of all the gaping puncheon clan. 
Few were the mouths that had not got a man I 

Now majesty into a pump so deep 
Did with an opera-glass so curious peep : 
Examining with care each wondrous 
That brought up water I 

Thus have I seen a magpie in the street, 
A chattering bird we often meet, 
A bird for curiosity well known, 

With head awry, 

And cunning eye, 
Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone. 

And now his curious majesty did stoop 

To count the nails on every hoop ; 

And lo ! no single thing came in his way, 

That, full of deep research, he did not say, 

"What's this? hae hae? What's that? What 1 ! this? 

What's that?" 
So quick the words too, when he deigned to speak, 
As if each syllable would break its neck. 

Thus, to the world of great whilst others crawl, 
Our sov'reign peeps into the world of mnatt: 
Thus microscopic geniuses explore 

Things that too oft provoke the public scorn ; 
Yet swell of useful knowledge the store, 

By finding systems in a peppercorn. 

Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare, 
To make the majesty of England stare, 
That he had butts enough, he knew, 
Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew ; 
On which the king with wonder swiftly cried : 
* What, if they reach to Kew, then, side by side. 
What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?" 

To whom with knitted calculating brow, 
The man of beer most solemnly did vow, 

Almost to Windsor that they would extend; 
On which the king, with wondering mien, 
Repeated it unto the wondering queen ; 
On which, quick turning round his haltered heal, 
The brewer's horse, with face astonished, neighed; 
The brewer's dog, too, poured a note of thunder, 
Battled his chain, and wagged his tall for wonder. 

Now did the king for other beers inquire, 
For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire ; 
And after talking of these different beers, 
Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs? 

This was a puzsling disagreeing question, 
Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion ; 
A kind of question to the man of Cask 
That not even Solomon himself would ask. 

Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took 
A very pretty memorandum-book, 
With gilded leaves of ass's-skin so white, 
And in it legibly began to 1 

A charming place beneath the grates 
For roasting chestnuts or potato*. 

Tit hops that give a bitterness to beer, 

Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere. 

Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell? 

Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well? 

To try it soon on our small beer— 

Twill save us several pounds a year. 

To remember to forget to ask 
Old Whitbread to my house one day. 

Not to forget to take of beer the cask, 
The brewer offered me, away. 

•Now having pencilled his remarks so shrewd, 

Sharp as the point, indeed, of a new pin, 
His majesty his watch most sagely viewed, 

And then put up his ass's-skin. 
To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say : 
" Whitbread are all your horses fond of hay ? " 
" Yes, please your majesty," in hnmble notes 
The brewer answered. " Also, sire, of oats; 
Another thing my horses, too, maintains, 
And that, an't please your majesty, are grains." 

" Grains, grains," said majesty, " to fill their crop? 
Grains, grains ?— that comes from hops— yes, hops, toR 

Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault- 
"Sire," cried the humble brewer, " give me lean 
Your sacred majesty to undeceive ; 
Grains, sire, are never made from hops, bat matt." 



"True," laid the cautious monarch with a smile, 

" From malt, malt, malt— I meant malt all the while." 

M Tea," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer, 

" Ant please your majesty, yon did, I'm sure." 

N Yes," answered majesty, with quick reply, 

-I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I." 

Now did the king admire the bell so fine, 
That daily asks the draymen all to dine ; 
On which the bell rung out— how very proper I— 
To shew it was a bell, and had a clapper. 

And now before their sovereign's curious eye- 
Parents and children, fine fat hopeful sprigs, 

All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their sty — 
Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs : 

On which the observant man who fills a throne, 

Declared the pigs were vastly like his own; 

On which the brewer swallowed up in Joys, 

rear and astonishment in both his eyes, 

His soul brimful of sentiments so loyal. 
Exclaimed : M O heavens ! and can my swine 
Be deemed by majesty so fine ? 

Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal?" 

To which the king assented with a nod ; 

On which the brewer bowed, and said : " Good God ! " 

Then winked significant on Miss, 

Significant of wonder and of bliss, 
Who, bridling in her chin divine, 

Crowed her fair hands, a dear old maid, 

And then her lowest curtsy made 
for such high honour done her father's swine. 

Now did his majesty, so gracious, say 
To Mister Whitbread in his flying way : 

"Whitbread, d' ye nick the excisemen now and then? 
Hse, Whitbread, when d» ye think to leave off trade? 
Hae? what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid? 

What, what's the matter with the men ? 

"D 1 ye hunt?— hae, hunt? No— no, you are too old ; 

Too *11 be lord-mayor— lord-mayor one day ; 
Yes, yes, I *ve heard so : yes, yes, so I *m told ; 

Don't, dont the fine for sheriff pay ; 
111 prick you every year, man, I declare ; 
Yes, Whitbread, yes, yes, you shall be lord-mayor. 

* Whitbread d' ye keep a coach, or Job one, pray ? 

Job, Job, that 's cheapest ; yes, that 's best, that 's best. 
You put your liveries on the draymen— hae ? 

Hae, Whitbread ? You have feathered well your nest. 
What, what 's the price now, hae, of all your stock? 
But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock ? " 

Now Whitbread inward said : " May I be cursed 
If I know what to answer first." 

Then searched his brains with ruminating eye ; 
But ere the man of malt an answer found, 
Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round, 

Skipped off, and balked the honour of reply. 

Da. John Wilcox. 





[Gbosov Grotb, the most eminent historian of Greece 
whom this century has produced, born in Kent, 1794, of 
German ancestry, died in London, 1871. Mr. Grotewas 
a banker and member of parliament, and from 1823 to 
the close of his life, an enthusiastic student of Greek 
history, literature, philosophy and art A pronounced 
Liberal in politics, his great history of Greece, (12 vols. 
1846-66,) does Justice to democratic principles, and 
throws a flood of light upon the once obscure annals of 
that marvellous country. Grote also published "Halo 
and (he other companions of Socrates, Aristotle, (1872,) and 
Minor Work*, (posthumous,) 1873."] 

While their camp thus remained unmo- 
lested, every man within it was a prey to 
the most agonizing apprehensions. Ruin 
appeared impending ana inevitable, though 
no one could tell in what precise form it 
would come. The Greeks were in the 
midst of a hostile country, ten thousand 
stadia from home, surrounded by enemies, 
blocked up by impassable mountains and 
rivers, without guides, without provisions, 
without cavalry to aid their retreat, without 
generals to give orders. A stupor of sor- 
row and conscious helplessness seized upon 
all j few came to the evening muster ; few 
lighted fires to cook their suppers; every 
man lay down to rest where he was 5 yet no 
man could sleep, for fear, anguish, and 
yearning after relatives whom he was never 
again to behold. 

Amidst the many causes of despondency 
which weighed down this forlorn army, 
there was none more serious than the fact 
that not a single man among them had now 
either authority to command, or obligation 
to take the initiative. Nor was any ambi- 
tious candidate likely to volunteer his pre- 
tensions, at a moment when the post prom- 
ised nothing but the maximum of difficulty 
as well as of hazard. A new, self-kindled 
light, and self-originated stimulus, was re- 
quired to vivify the embers of suspended 
hope and action in a mass paralyzed for the 
moment, but every way capable of effort ; 
and the inspiration now fell, happily for the 
army, upon one in whom a full measure of 
soldierly strength and courage was com- 
bined with the education of an Athenian, a 
democrat, and a philosopher. 

Xenophon had equipped himself in hiB finest 
military costume at this his first official ap- 
pearance before the army, when the scales 



seemed to tremble between life and death. 
Taking up the protest of Kleanor against 
the treachery of the Persians, he insisted 
that any attempt to enter into convention 
or trust with such liars would be utter ruin ; 
but that, if energetic resolution were taken 
to deal with them only at the point of the 
sword, and punish their misdeeds, there was 
good hope of the favour of the gods and of 
ultimate preservation. As he pronounced 
this last word, one of the soldiers near him 
happened to sneeze ; immediately the whole 
army around shouted with one accord the 
accustomed invocation to Zeus the Preser- 
ver ; and Xenophon. taking up the accident, 
continued : " Since, gentlemen, this omen 
from Zeus the Preserver has appeared at the 
instant when we were talking about preser- 
vation, let us here vow to offer the preserv- 
ing sacrifice to that god, and at the same 
time to sacrifice to the remaining gods as 
well as we can, in the first friendly country 
which we may reach. Let every man who 
agrees with me hold up his hand." All 
held up their hands : all then joined in the 
vow, and shouted the paean. 

This accident, so dexterously turned to 
profit by the rhetorical skill of Xenophon, 
was eminently beneficial in raising the army 
out of the depression which weighed them 
down, and in disposing them to listen to 
his animated appeal. Repeating his as- 
surance that the gods were on their side, 
and hostile to their perjured enemy, he re- 
called to their memory the great invasions 
of Greece by Darius and Xerxes — how the 
vast hosts of Persia had been disgracefully 
repelled. The army had shewn themselves 
on the field of Kunaxa worthy of such fore- 
fathers ; and they would, for the future, be 
yet bolder, knowing by that battle of what 
stuff the Persians were made. As for Ari- 
8eus and his troopB, alike traitors and cow- 
ards, their desertion was rather a gain 
than a loss. The enemy were superior 
in horsemen : but men on horseback 
were, after all, only men, half occu- 
pied in the fear of losing their seats, 
incapable of prevailing against infantry firm 
on the ground, and only better able to 
run away. Now that the satrap refused to 
furnish them with provisions to Duy, they on 
their side were released from their cove- 
nant, and would take provisions without 
buying. Then as to the rivers ; those were 
indeed difficult to be crossed, in the middle 
of their course ; but the army would march 
up to their sources, and could then pass 

them without wetting the knee. Or, indeed, 
the Greeks might renounce the idea of re- 
treat, and establish themselves permanently 
in the king's own country, defying all his 
force, like the Mysians and Pisidians. " If^" 
said Xenophon, " we plant ourselves hero 
at our ease in a rich country, with these 
tall, stately, and beautiful Median and Per- 
sian women for our companions, we shall 
be only too ready, like the Lotophagi, to 
forget our way home. We ought first to go 
back to Greece, and tell our countrymen 
that if they remain poor, it is their own 
fault, when there are rich settlements in this 
country awaiting all who choose to come, 
and who have courage to seize them. Let 
us burn our baggage-wagons and tents, and 
carry with us nothing but what is of the 
strictest necessity. Above all things, let us 
maintain order, discipline, and obedience 
to the commanders, upon which our entire 
hope of safety depends. Let every man 
promise to lend his hand to the commanders 
in punishing any disobedient individuals; 
and let us thus shew the enemy that we 
have ten thousand persons like Klearchus, 
instead of that one whom they so perfi- 
diously seized. Now is the time for action. 
If any man, however obscure, has anything 
better to suggest, let him come forward ana 
state it ; for we have all but one objectr— 
the common safety." 

It appears that no one else desired to say 
a word, and that the speech of Xenophon 
gave unqualified satisfaction; for when 
Cheirisophus put the a uestion, that the meet- 
ing should sanction his recommendations, 
and finally elect the new generals proposed 
— every man held up his hand. Xenophon 
then moved that the army should break up 
immediately, and march to some well-storea 
villages, rather more than two miles dis- 
tant ; that the march should be in a hollow 
oblong, with the baggage in the centre; 
that Cheirisophus, as a Lacedaemonian, 
should lead the van ; while Kleanor and 
the other senior officers would command on 
each flank ; and himself with Timasion, as 
the two youngest of the generals, would 
lead the rear-guard. 


Apart from wealth and high position, the 
personal character of Dion was in itself 
marked and prominent He was of an en- 
ergetic temper, great bravery, and very 



considerable mental capacities. Though 
hia nature was haughty and disdainful to- 
wards individuals, yet as to political com- 
munion, his ambition was by no means 
purely self-seeking and egotistic, like that 
of the elder Dionysius. Animated with ve- 
hement love of power, he was at the same 
time penetrated with that sense of regulated 
polity and submission of individual will to 
fixed laws, which floated in the atmosphere 
of Grecian talk and literature, and stood so 
high in Grecian morality. He was, more- 
over, capable of acting with enthusiasm, 
and braving every hazard in prosecution of 
his own convictions. 

Born about the year 408 b. c, Dion was 
twenty years of age in 387 b. c, when the 
elder Dionysius, having dismantled Rhe- 
gium and subdued Kroton, attained the 
maximum of his dominion, as master of 
the Sicilian and Italian Greeks. Standing 
high in the favour of his brother-in-law 
Dionysius, Dion doubtless took part in the 
wars whereby this large dominion had been 
acquired ; as well as in the life of indul- 
gence and luxury which prevailed generally 
among wealthy Greeks in Sicily and Italy, 
and which to the Athenian Plato appeared 
alike surprising and repulsive. That great 
philosopher visited Italy and Sicily about 
387 b. c. He was in acquaintance and fel- 
lowship with the school of philosophers 
called Pythagoreans : the remnant of the 
Pythagorean brotherhood, who had once 
exercised so powerful a political influence 
over the cities of those regions, and who 
still enjoyed considerable reputation, even 
after complete political downfall, through 
individual ability and rank of the members, 
combined with habits of recluse study, 
mysticism, and attachment . among them- 

With these Pythagoreans Dion also, a 
joung man of open mind and ardent aspi- 
rations, was naturally thrown into commu- 
nication bv the proceedings of the elder 
Dionysius in Italy. Through them he came 
into intercourse with Plato, whose conversa- 
tion made an epoch in his life. 

The mystic turn of imagination, the sen- 
tentious brevity, and the mathematical re- 
searches of the Pythagoreans, produced 
doubtless an imposing effect upon Dion ; 
inst as Lysis, a member of that brotherhood, 
had acquired the attachment and influenced 
the sentiments of Epaminondas at Thebes. 
But -Plato's power of working upon the 
minds of young men was far more impressive 

and irresistible. He possessed a large range 
of practical experience, a mastery of politi- 
cal and social topics, and a charm of elo- 
quence, to which the Pythagoreans were 
strangers. The stirring effects of the So- 
cratic talk, as well as of the democratical 
atmosphere in which Plato had been brought 
up, had developed all the communicative 
aptitude of his mind ; and great as that 
aptitude appears in his remaining dialogues, 
there is ground for believing that it was far 
greater in his conversation. Brought up as 
l)ion had been at the court of Dionysius — 
accustomed to see around him only slavish 
deference and luxurious enjoyment — unused 
to open speech or large philosophical dis- 
cussion — ne found in rlato a new man ex- 
hibited, and a new world opened before 

As the stimulus from the teacher was 
here put forth with consummate efficacy, so 
the predisposition of the learner enabled 
it to take full effect Dion became an 
altered man both in public sentiment and 
in individual behaviour. He recollected 
that, twenty years before, his country, Syra- 
cuse, had been as free as Athens. He 
learned to abhor the iniquity of the despot- 
ism by which her liberty had been over- 
thrown, and by which subsequently the lib- 
erties of so many other Greeks in Italy and 
Sicily had been trodden down also. He was 
made to remark that Sicily had been half 
barbarized through the foreign mercenaries 
imported as the despot's instruments. He 
conceived the sublime idea or dream of rec- 
tifying all this accumulation of wrong and 
suffering. It was his first wish to cleanse 
Syracuse from the blot of slavery, and to 
clothe her anew in the brightness and dig- 
nity of freedom, yet not with the view of 
restoring the popular government as it had 
stood prior to the usurpation, but of estab- 
lishing an improved constitutional polity, 
originated by himself, with laws which not 
only secure individual rights, but also edu- 
cate and moralize the citizens. The func- 
tion which he imagined to himself, and 
which the conversation off Plato suggested, 
was not that of a despot like Dionysius, but 
that of a despotic legislator LycurguB, tak* 
ing advantage of a momentary omnipotence, 
conferred upon him by grateful citizens in 
a state of public confusion, to originate a 
good system, which, when once put in mo- 
tion, would keep itself alive by fashioning 
the minds of the citizens to its own intrinsit 

Gnoses Grotk. 




[Hkiweich Hints, a German poet And critic, of very 
trenchant though unequal powers, born at DOsseldorf in 
1797, died at Paris in 1856. Heine's W*rk* hare been 
collected in seven volumes, Philadelphia, 1857. His 
best productions are the " Reiaebilde or Picturm of Trav- 
el," and his songs. His style is often brilliant and wit- 
ty, with a persistent undercurrent of melancholy, and 
traces of suffering and disappointment] 

As at times the moonbeam pierces 
Through the thickest cloudy rack. 

So to me, through days so dreary, 
One bright image struggles back. 

Seated all on deck, we floated 
Down the Rhine's majestio stream ; 

On its borders, summer-laden, 
Slept the peaceful evening gleam. 

Brooding, at the feet I laid me 

Of a fair and gentle one, 
On whose placid, pallid features 

Played the ruddy-golden sun. 

Lutes were ringing, youths were singing, 
Swelled my heart with feelings strange ; 

Bluer grew the heaven above us, 
Wider grew the spirit's range. 

Fairy-like beside us flitted 
Bock and ruin, wood and plain ; 

And I gazed on all reflected 
In my loved one's eyes again. 


I know not whence it rises, 
This thought so full of woe ; 

But a tale of times departed 
Haunts me, and will not go. 

The air is cool, and it darkens, 
And calmly flows the Rhine, 

The mountain-peaks are sparkling 
In the sunny evening-shine. 

And yonder sits a maiden, 

The fairest of the fair ; 
With gold is her garment glittering, 

As she combs her golden hair : 

With a golden comb she combs it ; 

And a wild song singeth she, 
That melts the heart with a wondrous 

And powerful melody. 

The boatman feels his bosom 
With a nameless longing move j 

He sees not the gulfs before him, 
His gaze is fixed above ; 

Till over boat and boatman 
The Rhine's deep waters run : 

And this, with her magic singing, 
The Lore-lei has done ! 

HBoraicH Ha 


[FiHoniAND FREnjQBATH, a German poet and repub- 
lican, born at Detmoid, 1810, died in 1876. His) early 
poems, full of the spirit of liberty, brought him proeecu- 
tiffn, and a long exile, spent in London. Returning in 
1848, he shared in the revolution which ran over Europe 
in that year. He was imprisoned, tried, and though 
acquitted, forced to leave his native country. Besidei 
his own poems, many of which have a line Oriental 
coloring, and exhibit rich imagination, he has mads 
fine translations of Victor Hugo's poems, of Bums, and 
a selection of the American poets.] 

I cannot take my eyes away 
From you, ye busy, bustling band I 

Your little all to see you lay 
Each, in the waiting seaman's hand I 

Ye men, who from your necks set down 
The heavy basket, on the earth, 

Of bread from German corn, baked brown 
By German wives, on German hearth ! 

And you, with braided queues so neat, 
Black-Forest maidens, slim and brown 

How careful on the sloop's green seat 
You set your pails and pitchers down ! 

Ah 1 oft have home's cool, shady tanks 
These pails and pitchers filled for you : 

On far Missouri's silent banks, 

Shall these the scenes of home renew. — 

The stone-rimmed fount in village street. 
That as ye stooped, betrayed your smiles; 

The hearth and its fiunilliar seat ; 
The mantle and the pictured tiles. 

Soon, in the far and wooded West, 
Shall log-house walls therewith be graced; 

Soon, many a tired, tawny guest 
Shall sweet refreshment from them taste. 

From them shall drink the Cherokee, 
Faint with the hot and dusty chase ; 

No more from German vintage ye 
Shall bear them home, in leaf-crowned 



0, say, why seek ye other lands ? 

The Neckar's vale hath wine and corn ; 
Full of dark firs the Schwarzwald stands ; 

In Spessart rings the Alp-herd's horn. 

Ah ! in strange forests how ye' 11 yearn 
For the green mountains of your home, 

To Deutschland's yellow wheat-fields turn, 
In spirit o'er her vine-hills roam ! 

How will the form of days grown pale 
In golden dreams float softly by ! 

like some unearthly, mystic tale, 
'T will stand before fond memory's eye. 

The boatman calls ! go hence in peace ; 

God bless ye, man and wife and sire ! 
Bless all your fields with rich increase, 

And crown each true heart's pure desire ! 


[Thomas Parnell, born in Ireland, 1679, a brilliant 
wit an* poet, educated in Dublin, and after a distin- 
guished career in London, determined to revisit Ireland, 
bat died at Chester on his way to Ireland, and was in- 
terred there (as the register of Trinity Church states) on 
the 18th of October, 1718. Parnell was an accomplished 
scholar and a delightful companion. His Life was writ- 
ten by Goldsmith, who was proud of his distinguished 
countryman, considering him the last of the great school 
that had modelled Itself upon the ancients. Parnell's 
works are of a miscellaneous nature — translations, songs, 
hymns, epistles, etc. His most celebrated piece is u The 
Remit," familiar to most readers from their infancy. 
Pope pronounced it to be " very good ;" and its sweetness 
of diction and picturesque solemnity of style must al- 
ways please. His tt Night^pine on Dsott," was Indirectly 
preferred by Goldsmith to Gray's celebrated " Elegy ;" 
but few men of taste or feeling will subscribe to such 
an opinion. In the u NigMyieee," Parnell meditates 
among the tombs. Tired with poring over the pages of 
schoolmen and sages, he sallies out at midnight to the 

How deep yon azure dyes the sky ! 
Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie ; 
While through their ranks in silver pride, 
The nether crescent seems to glide. 
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, 
The lake is smooth and clear beneath, 
Where once again the spangled show 
Descends to meet our eyes below. 
The grounds, which on the right aspire, 
In dimness from the view retire: 
The left presents a place of graves, 
Whose wall the silent water laves. 

That steeple guides thy doubtful sight 

Among the livid gleams of night. 

There pass, with melancholy state, 

By all the solemn heaps of fate, 

And think, as softly sad you tread, 

Above the venerable dead. 

" Time was, like thee, they life possessed, 

And time shall be that thou shalt rest.' 1 

Those with bending osier bound, 

That nameless heave the crumbled ground. 

Quick to the glancing thought disclose 

Where toil and poverty repose. 

The flat smooth stones that bear a name, 

The chisel's slender help to fame — 

Which, ere our set of friends decay, 

Their frequent steps may wear away — 

A middle race of mortals own, 

Men half ambitious, all unknown. 

The marble tombs that rise on high, 

Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, 

Whose pillars swell with sculptured stone*. 

Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones ; 

These all the poor remains of state, 

Adorn the rich, or praise the great, 

Who, while on earth in fame they live, 

Are senseless of the fame they give. 


Far in a wild, unknown to public view, 
From youth to age a reverend Hermit grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ; 
Remote from men, with God he passed his 

Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose- 
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway ; 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenor of his soul is lost. 
So, when a smooth expanse receives impressed 
Calm nature's image on its watery breast, 
Down bend the banks, the trees depending 

And skies beneath with answering colours 

But, if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, 
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, 
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 
To clear this doubt, to know the world by 

To find if books, or swains, report it right — 
For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly 

dew — 
He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-staff he bore, 



And fixed the scallop in his hat before; 
Then, with the rising sun, a journey went, 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, 
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; 
But, when the southern sun had warmed the 

A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 
And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair ; 
Then, near approaching, " Father, hail ! " he 

And, " Hail, my son !" the reverend sire re- 
Words followed words, from question answer 

And talk of various kind deceived the road ; 
Till each with other pleased, and loath to part, 
While in their age they differ, join in heart. 
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, 
Thus useful ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray; 
Nature, in silence, bid the world repose, 
When, near the road, a stately palace rose. 
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees 

they pass, 
Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides 

with grass. 
It chanced the noble master of the dome 
Still made his house the wandering stranger's 

Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive ; the liveried servants wait ; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate ; 
The table groans with costly piles of food, 
And all is more than hospitably good. 
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they 

Beep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of 

At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day, 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, 
And shake the neighbouring wood to banish 

Up rise the guests, obedient to the call, 
An early banquet decked the splendid hall ; 
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, 
Which the kind master forced the guests to 

Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch 

they go; 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of 

His cup was vanished ; for in secret guise, 
The younger guest purloined the glittering 

As one who spies a serpent in his way, 
Glistening and basking in the summer ray, 

Disordered stops to shun the dancer near, 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with 

So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road, 
The shining spoil his wily partner shewed. 
He stopped with silence, walked with trem- 
bling heart, 
And much he wished, but durst not ask to 

Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it 

That generous actions meet a base reward. 
While thus they pass, the sun his glory 

The changing skies hang out their sable 

clouds ; 
A sound in air presaged approaching rain, 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warned by the signs, the wandering pair re- 
To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat 
'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, 
And strong, and large, and unimproved 

around ; 
Its owner's temper timorous and severe, 
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 
As near the miser's heavy door they drew, 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, 

And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders 

ran ; 
Here long they knock, but knock or call in 

Driven by the wind, and battered by the 

At length some pity warmed the master's 

breast — 
'Twas then his threshold first received a 

guest — 
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, 
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair ; 
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, 
And Nature's fervour through their limbs re- 
Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine — 
Each hardly granted — served them both to 

dine ; 
And when the tempest first appeared to cease, 
A ready warning bid them part in peace. 
With still remark, the pondering hermit 

In one so rich, a life so pure and rude ; 
And why should such — within himself he 

cried — 
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside? 
But what new marks of wonder soon take 

In every settling feature of his face. 
When, from his vest, the young companion 




That cup, the generous landlord owned be- 

And paid profusely with the precious bowl, 

The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! 
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 

The sun emerging, opes an azure sky ; 

A fresher green the smelling leaves display, 

And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day ; 

The weather courts them from their poor re- 

And the glad master bolts the weary gate. 

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom 

With all the travail of uncertain thought : 

His partner's acts without their cause appear; 

'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness 

Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 

LoBt and confounded with the various shows. 

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky ; 

Again the wanderers want a place to lie ; 

Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. 

The soil improved around, the mansion neat, 

And neither poorly low, nor idly great ; 

It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind, 

Content, and not for praise, but virtue, kind. 

Hither the walkers turn their weary feet, 

Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. 

Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest 

The courteous master hears, and thus replies : 
" Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 

To Him who gives us all, I yield a part ; 

From Him you come, for Him accept it here, 

A frank and sober, more than costly cheer ! " 

He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, 

Then talked of virtue till the time of bed ; 

When the grave household round his hall re- 

Warned by a bell, and close the hour with 

At length the world, renewed by calm repose, 

Was strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose ; 

Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 

Near a closed cradle where an infant slept, 

And writhed his neck : the landlord's little 

strange return ! grew black, and gasped, 
and died ! 

Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! 

How looked our hermit when the fact was 
done ! 

Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder 

And breathe blue fire, could more assault his 

Confused, and struck with silence at the 

He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed ; 

His steps the youth pursues : the country lay 

Perplexed with roads ; a servant shewed the 

A river crossed the path ; the passage o'eer 
Was nioe to find ; the servant trod before ; 
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, 
And deep the waves beneath them bending 

The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin, 
Approached the careless guide, and thrust 

him in; 
Plunging he falls, and rising, lifts his head, 
Then flashing turns, -and sinks among the 


While sparkling rage inflames the father's 

He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries: 
" Detested wretch J" — but scarce his speech 

When the strange partner seemed no longer 

His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turned white and flowed upon his 

feet ; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air; 
And wings, whose colours glittered on the 

Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, 
And moves in all its majesty of light. 
Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, 
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; 
Surprise, in secret chains, his word suspends, 
And in a calm, his settling temper ends ; 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke — 
XJie voice of music ravished as he spoke ! 

"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne : 
These charms success in our bright segioit 

And force an angel down, to calm thy mind ; 
For this, commissioned, I forsook the sky ; 
Nay, cease- to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. 
Then know the truth of government divine, 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 
The Maker justly claims that world He made: 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends, 
On using second means to work his ends 
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, 
The power exerts his attributes on high ; 
Your action uses, nor controls your will, 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 
What strange events can strike with more sur- 
Than those which lately struck thy wondering 

Tet, taught by these, confess the Almighty 

And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. 



The great vain man who fared on oostly food, 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
And forced his guests to morning draughts 

of wine, 
Has, with the oup, the graceless custom lost, 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost, 
The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted 

Ne'er moved in pity to the wandering poor ; 
With him I left the oup, to teach his mind 
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be 

Conscious of wanting worth, he views the 

And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. 
Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, 
But now the child half-weaned his heart from 

Child of his age — for him he lived in pain, 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run 1 
But God to save the father took the son. 
To all but thee, in fits he seemed to go, 
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. 
The poor fond parent humbled in the dust, 
Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 
But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack, 
Had that false servant sped in safety back ! 
This night his treasured heaps he meant to 

And what a fund of charity would fail ! 
Thus heaven instructs thy mind: this trial 

Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 

On sounding pinions here the youth with- 
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew ; 
Thus looked Eiisha, when, to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky. 
The fiery pomp ascending left the view ; 
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. 

The bending Hermit here a prayer begun : 
"Lord as in heaven, on earth thy will be 

Then gladly turning, sought his ancient place, 
And passed a life of piety and peace. 

Thomas Pajwxll. 


The Lady Rohesia lav on her death-bed ! 
So said the doctor, ana doctors are gene- 
rally allowed to be judges in these matters ; 
besides, Dr. Butts was the court physician. 

"Is there no hope, doctor?" said Be*- 
trice Gray. 

"Is there no hope?" said Everard In- 
g olds by. 

"Is there no hope?" said Sir Guy de 
Montgomery He was the Lady Rohesia's 
husband j he spoke the last 

The doctor shook his head. He looked 
at the disconsolate widower in posse, then 
at the hour glass : its waning sand seemed 
sadly to shadow forth the sinking pulse of 
his patient Dr. Butts was a very learned 
man. " Ars longa, vita brevis ! "'said Dr. 

" I am very sorry to hear it," quoth Sir 
Guy de Montgomery Sir Guy was a brave 
knight, and a tall, but he was no scholar. 

<r Alas 1 my poor sister ! " sighed Ingolds- 

" Alas ! my poor mistress ! " sobbed Bea- 

Sir Guy neither sighed nor sobbed ; his 
grief was too deep-seated for outward mani- 

" And how long, doctor ? " The af- 
flicted husband could not finish the sentence. 

Dr. Butts withdrew his hand from the 
wrist of the dying lady. He pointed to the 
horologe ; scarcely a quarter of its sand re- 
mained in the upper moiety. Again he 
shook his head j the eve of the patient 
waxed dimmer — the rattling in the throat 

" What's become of Father Francis? " 
whimpered Beatrice. 

" The last consolations of the church," 
suggested Everard. 

A darker shade came over the brow of 
Sir Guv. 

" Where is the confessor? " continued his 
grieving brother-in-law. 

" In the pantry," cried Marion Hackett, 
pertly, as sne tripped down-stairs in search 
of that venerable ecclesiastic j " in the pan- 
try, I warrant me." 

The bower woman was not wont to be in 
the wrong ; in the pantry was the holy man 
discovered — at his devotions. 

"Pax vobiscum /" said Father Francis, as 
he entered the chamber of death. 

" Vita brevis/ 11 retorted Dr. Butts. He- 
was not a man to be browbeat out of his 
Latin, and by a paltry Friar Minim, too. 
Had it been a Bishop, indeed, or even a 
mitred abbot — but a miserable Franciscan. 

" Benedicite/ 11 said the friar. 

" Ars longa I " returned the leech. 

Dr. Butts adjusted the tassels of his fall- 



ing band, drew his short, sad-coloured cloak 
closer around him ; and, grasping his cross- 
handled walking-staff, stalked majestically 
out of the apartment Father Francis had 
the field to himsel£ 

The worthy chaplain hastened to adminis- 
ter the last rites or the church. To all ap- 
pearance he had little time to lose. As he 
concluded, the dismal toll of the passing-bell 
sounded from the belfry tower ; little Hubert, 
the bandy-legged sacristan, was pulling with 
all his might 

The knell seemed to have some effect even 
upon the Lady Bohesia ; she raised her head 
slightly ; inarticulate sounds issued from her 
lips — inarticulate, that is, to the profane ears 
or the laity. Those of Father Francis, in- 
deed, were sharper ; nothing, as he averred, 
could be more distinct than the words, " A 
thousand marks to the Priory of St Mary 
Bounce vaL" 

Now, the Lady Bohesia Ingoldsby had 
brought her husband broad lands and large 
possessions ; much of her ample dowry, too, 
was at her own disposal, ana nuncupative 
wills had not yet been abolished by Act of 
" Pious soul ! " ejaculated Father Francis. 

" A thousand marks, she said " 

"If she did, Til be shot," said Sir Guy 
de Montgomery 

" A thousand marks," continued the con- 
fessor, fixing his cold, grey eye upon the 
knight, as he went on, heedless of the inter- 
ruption : " a thousand marks, and as many 
aves ana paters shall be duly said, as soon 
as the money is paid down." 

Sir Guy shrank from the monk's gaze *, he 
turned to the window, and muttered to him- 
self something that sounded like, " Don't 
you wish you may get it? " 

The bell continued to toll. Father Fran- 
cis had quitted the room, taking with him 
the remains of the holy oil he had been using 
for extreme unction. Everard Ingoldsby 
waited on him down-stairs. 
" A thousand thanks," said the latter. 
" A thousand marks," said the friar. 
" A thousand devils 1 " growled Sir Guy 
de Montgomeri, from the top of the landing- 

But his accents fell unheeded. His bro- 
ther-in-law and the friar were gone *, he was 
left alone with his departing lady and Bea- 
trice Grey. 

Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood pensively at 
the foot of the beef: his arms were crossed 
upon his bosom, his chin was sunk upon his 
You Hi- 

breastj his eyes were filled with tears ; the 
dim rays of the fading watchlight gave a* 
darker shade to the furrows on his brow, 
and a brighter tint to the little bald patch 
on the top of his head, for Sii Guy was a mid- 
dle-aged gentleman, tall and portly withal, 
with a slight bend in his shoulders, but that 
not much j his complexion was somewhat 
florid, especially about the nose ; but his lady 
was in extremis* and at this particular mo* 
ment he was paler than usual. 

" Bim 1 borne "! went the bell. The knight 
groaned audibly. Beatrice Grey wiped her 
eyes with her little square apron of lace de 
Malines ; there was a moment's pause, — a 
moment of intense affliction ; she let it fall, 
all but one corner, which remained between 
her finger and thumb. She looked at Sir 
Guy -j drew the thumb and forefinger of her 
other hand slowly along its border, till they 
reached the opposite extremity. She sobbed 
aloud. " So kind a lady 1 " said Beatrice 
Grey. " So excellent a wife ! " responded 
Sir Guy. "So good!" said the damsel. 
" So dear ! " said the knight " So pious ! " 
said she. " So humble t " said he. " So 
good to the poor ! " " So capital a mana- 
ger ! " " So punctual at matins ! " " Din- 
ner dished to a moment 1" " So devout I " 
said Beatrice. " So fond of me ! ." said Sir 
Guy. "And of Father Francis!" "What 
on earth do you mean by that?" said Sir 
Guy de Montgomeri. 

The knight and the maiden had rung 
their antiphonic changes on the fine quali- 
ties of the departing lady like the strophe 
and antistrophe of a Greek play. The car- 
dinal virtues once disposed of, her minor ex- 
cellences came under review. She would 
drown a witch, drink lamb's wool at Christ- 
mas, beg Dominie Dump's boys a holiday, 
and dine upon sprats on Good Friday. A 
low moan from the subject of these eulogies 
seemed to intimate that the enumeration of 
her good deeds was not altogether lost on 
her — that the parting spirit felt and rejoiced 
in the testimony. 

" She was too good for earth," continued 
Sir Guy. 

" Ye — ye— yes ! " sobbed Beatrice. 

" I did not deserve her," said the knight 

" No— o— o — o 1 " cried the damsel. 

" Not but that I made her an excellent 
husband, and a kind j but she is going, and 
— and — where, or when, or how — shall I get 
such another ? " 

" Not in broad England — not in the whole 
wide world 1 " responded Beatrice Grey— 



* that is, not iust such another." Her voice 
etill faltered, but her accents, on the whole, 
were more articulate. She dropped the cor- 
ner of her apron, and had recourse to her 
handkerchief; in fact, her eyes were get- 
ting red — and so was the tip of her nose. 

Sir Guy was silent ; he gazed for a few 
moments steadfastly on the face of his lady. 
The single word, " Another I " fell from his 
lips like a distant echo. It is not often that 
the viewless nymph repeats more than is ne- 

" Bim I borne ! " went the bell. Bandy- 
legged Hubert had been tolling for half an 
hour. He began to grow tired, and St Pe- 
ter fidgety. 

" Beatrice Grey," said Sir Guy de Mont- 
gomery " what's to be done ? What's to be- 
come of Montgomeri Hall ? — and the but- 
tery ? and the servants ? And what— what's 
to become of me, Beatrice Grey ?" There 
was pathos in his tones, and a solemn pause 
succeeded. " I'll turn monk myself/' said 
Sir Guy. 

" Monk ! " said Beatrice. 

"I'll be a Carthusian," repeated the 
knight, but in a tone less assured. He re- 
lapsed into a reverie. Shave his head 1 He 
did not so much mind that — he was getting 
rather bald already ; but beans for dinner — 
and those without butter ! and, then, a horse- 
hair shirt ! 

The knight seemed undecided. His eye 
roamed gloomily around the apartment ; it 
paused upon different objects, but as if it 
saw them not; its sense was shut, and 
there was no speculation in its glance. It 
rested at last upon the fair face of the sym- 
pathizing damsel at his side, beautiful in her 

Her tears had ceased, but her eyes were 
cast down, and mournfully fixed upon her 
delicate little foot, which was beating the 
devil's tattoo. 

There is no talking to a female when she 
does not look at you. Sir Guy turned round, 
he seated himself on the eage of the bed, 
and, placing his hands beneath the chin of 
the lady, turned up her face in an angle of 
fifteen aegrees. 

" I don't think I shall take the vows, Bea- 
trice ; but what's to become of me ? Poor, 
miserable, old — that is, poor, miserable, mid- 
dle-aged — man that I am ! No one to com- 
fort, no one to care for me ! " 

Beatrice's tears flowed afresh, but she 
opened not her lips. 

« Ton my life ! " continued he, " I don't 

believe there is a creature now would care 
a button if I were hrfnged to-morrow ! " 

" Oh, don't say so, Sir Guy ! " sighed Bea- 
trice; "you know there's—there's Master 
Everard, and — Father Francis—" 

" Pish! " cried Sir Guy, testily. 

Another pause ensued : the knight had 
released her chin, and taken her hand. It 
was a pretty little hand, with long, taper 
fingers and filbert-formed nails; and the 
softness of the palm said little for its own- 
er's industry. 

" Sit down, my dear Beatrice," said the 
knight, thoughtfully ; " you must be fatigued 
with your long watching. Take a seat, my 
child." Sir Guy did not relinquish her 
hand, but he sidled along the counterpane, 
and made room for his companion between 
himself and the bedpost 

Now this is a very awkward position for 
two people to be placed in, especially when 
the right hand of one holds the right hand 
of the other. In such an attitude, what 
the deuce can the gentleman do with his 
left ? Sir Guy closed his till it became an 
absolute fist, and his knuckles rested on the 
bed, a little in the rear of his companion. 

" Another ! " repeated Sir Guy, musing-— 
" if, indeed, I could find such another ! "He 
was talking to his thought, but Beatrice 
Grey answered him — 

" There's Madame Fitzfoozle." 

a A frump ! " said Sir Guy. 

" Or the Lady Bumbarton." ' 

11 With her hump !" muttered he. 

11 There's the Dowager " 

" Stop— stop ! " said the knight ; " stop 
one moment." He paused : he was all on 
the tremble : something seemed rising in 
his throat, but he gave a great gulp and 
swallowed it ""Beatrice," said he, " what 
think you of" — his voice sank into a se- 
ductive softness — " what think you of — 
1 Beatrice Grey?'" 

The murder was out — the knight felt in* 
finitely relieved ; the knuckles of his left 
hand unclosed spontaneously, and the arm 
he had felt such a difficulty in disposing of 
found itself, nobody knows how, all at once 
encircling the jimp waist of the pretty Bea- , 
trice. The young lady's reply was express- 
ed in three syllables. They were, " On, Sir. 
Guy ! " The words might be somewhat in- ' , 
definite, but there was no mistaking the 
look. Their eyes met i Sir Guy's left arm 
contracted itself spasmodically. When the 
eyes met — at least, as theirs met — the lii 
are. very apt to follow the example., TI 




knight had taken one long, loving kiss. Nec- 
tar and ambrosia ! He thought on Dr. Butts 
and his "repetatur haustus " — a prescription 
Father Francis had taken infinite pains to 
translate for him. He was about to repeat 
it, but the dose was interrupted in transitu. 

It has been hinted already that there was 
a little round polished patch on the summit 
of the knight's pericranium, from which his 
locks had gradually receded — a sort of oasis, 
or, rather, a Mont Blanc in miniature, ris- 
ing above the highest point of vegetation. 
It was on this little spot, undefended alike 
by art and nature, that at this interesting 
moment a blow descended, such as we 
must borrow a term from the Sister Island 
adequately to describe ; it was a " whack." 

Sir Guy started upon his feet ; Beatrice 
Grey started upon hers, but a single glance 
to the rear reversed her position ; she fell 
upon her knees and screamed. The knight, 
too, wheeled about and beheld a sight which 
might have turned a bolder man to stone. 
It was she — the all but defunct Bohesia. 
There she sat bolt upright 1 Her eyes no 
longer glazed with the film of impending 
dissolution, but scintillating, like flint ana 
steel; while in her hand she grasped the 
bed-staff, a weapon of mickle might, as her 
husband's bloody coxcomb could now well 
testify. Words were yet wanting, for the 
quinsy, which her rage had broken, still im- 
peded her utterance ; but the strength and 
rapidity of her guttural intonations augured 
well for her future eloquence. 

Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood for awhile 
like a man distraught : this resurrection — 
for such it seemed — had quite overpowered 
him. " A husband ofttimes makes the best 
physician," says the proverb : he was a liv- 
ing personification of its truth. Still, it was 
whispered he had been content with Dr. 
Butts ; but his lady was restored to bless 
him for many years. Heavens, what a life 
he led! 

Years rolled on. The improvement of 
Lady Rohesia's temper did not keep pace 
with that of her health ; and one fine morn- 
ing Sir Guy de Montgomeri was seen to en- 
ter the porte-cochere of Durham House, at 
that time the town residence of Sir Walter 
Raleigh. Nothing more was ever heard of 
him; but a boat-full of adventurers was 
known to have dropped down with the tide 
that evening to Deptford Hope, where lay 
the good ship the Darling, commanded by 
Captain Kemyss, who sailed next morning 
on the Virginia voyage. 

A brass plate, some eighteen inches long, 
may yet be seen in Denton chancel, let 
into a broad slab of Bethersden marble : — 
it represents a lady kneeling, in her wimple 
and hood ; her hands are clasped in prayer, 
and beneath is an inscription in the charac- 
ters of the age — 

" Prale for ye sowle of ye Lady Boyse, 
And for alio Christen Bowles." 

The date is illegible ; but it appears that 
she survived King Henry VIIL, and that 
the dissolution of monasteries had lost St. 
Mary Bounceval her thousand marks. 



[Jossph R. Dkakk. Born at New York, 7th August* 
1796. Educated at Columbia College. Adopted the 
profession of medicine, but died of consumption at the 
early age of twenty-six, September, 1820.] 

'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell : 
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well ; 
He has counted them all with click and stroke, 
Deep in the heart of the mountain oak, 
And he has awakened the sentry elve, 
Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, 
To bid him ring the hour of twelve, 
And call the fays to their revelry: 
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell 
('Twas made of the white snail s pearl y 

" Midnight comes, and all is well ! 
Hither, hither, wing your way, 
'Tis the dawn of the fairy day." 

They come from beds of lichen green, 

They creep from the mullen's velvet screen; 

Some on the backs of beetles fly 

From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, 

Where they swung in their cobweb-hammocks 

And rocked about in the evening breeze ; 
Some from the hum-bird's downy nest — 
They had driven him out by elfin power, 
And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast* 
Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; 
Some had lain on the scoop of th