Chapter VIII.

Oh! Helen, fair Helen—type of the quiet, serene, unnoticed, deep-felt excellence of woman! Woman, less as the ideal that a poet conjures from the air, than as the companion of a poet on the earth! Woman who, with her clear sunny vision of things actual, and the exquisite fibre of her delicate sense, supplies the deficiencies of him whose foot stumbles on the soil, because his eye is too intent upon the stars! Woman, the provident, the comforting—angel whose pinions are folded round the heart, guarding there a divine spring unmarred by the winter of the world! Helen, soft Helen, is it indeed in thee that the wild and brilliant “lord of wantonness and ease” is to find the regeneration of his life—the rebaptism of his soul? Of what avail thy meek, prudent household virtues, to one whom Fortune screens from rough trial?—whose sorrows lie remote from thy ken?—whose spirit, erratic and perturbed, now rising, now falling, needs a vision more subtle than thine to pursue, and a strength that can sustain the reason, when it droops, on the wings of enthusiasm and passion?

And thou thyself, O nature shrinking and humble, that needest to be courted forth from the shelter, and developed under the calm and genial atmosphere of holy, happy love—can such affection as Harley L’Estrange may proffer suffice to thee? Will not the blossoms, yet folded in the petal, wither away beneath the shade that may protect them from the storm, and yet shut them from the sun? Thou who, where thou givest love, seekest, though meekly, for love in return;—to be the soul’s sweet necessity, the life’s household partner to him who receives all thy faith and devotion—canst thou influence the sources of joy and of sorrow in the heart that does not heave at thy name? Hast thou the charm and the force of the moon, that the tides of that wayward sea shall ebb and flow at thy will? Yet who shall say—who conjecture how near two hearts can become, when no guilt lies between them, and time brings the ties all its own? Rarest of all things on earth is the union in which both, by their contrasts, make harmonious their blending; each supplying the defects of the helpmate, and completing, by fusion, one strong human soul! Happiness enough, where even Peace does but seldom preside, when each can bring to the altar, if not the flame, still the incense. Where man’s thoughts are all noble and generous, woman’s feelings all gentle and pure, love may follow, if it does not precede;—and if not—if the roses be missed from the garland, one may sigh for the rose, but one is safe from the thorn.

The morning was mild, yet somewhat overcast by the mists which announce coming winter in London, and Helen walked musingly beneath the trees that surrounded the garden of Lord Lansmere’s house. Many leaves were yet left on the boughs; but they were sere and withered. And the birds chirped at times; but their note was mournful and complaining. All within this house, until Harley’s arrival, had been strange and saddening to Helen’s timid and subdued spirits. Lady Lansmere had received her kindly, but with a certain restraint; and the loftiness of manner, common to the Countess with all but Harley, had awed and chilled the diffident orphan. Lady Lansmere’s very interest in Harley’s choice—her attempts to draw Helen out of her reserve—her watchful eyes whenever Helen shyly spoke, or shyly moved, frightened the poor child, and made her unjust to herself.

The very servants, though staid, grave, and respectful, as suited a dignified, old-fashioned household, painfully contrasted the bright welcoming smiles and free talk of Italian domestics. Her recollections of the happy warm Continental manner, which so sets the bashful at their ease, made the stately and cold precision of all around her doubly awful and dispiriting. Lord Lansmere himself, who did not as yet know the views of Harley, and little dreamed that he was to anticipate a daughter-in-law in the ward whom he understood Harley, in a freak of generous romance, had adopted, was familiar and courteous, as became a host. But he looked upon Helen as a mere child, and naturally left her to the Countess. The dim sense of her equivocal position—of her comparative humbleness of birth and fortunes, oppressed and pained her; and even her gratitude to Harley was made burthensome by a sentiment of helplessness. The grateful longing to requite. And what could she ever do for him?

Thus musing, she wandered alone through the curving walks; and this sort of mock country landscape—London, loud and even visible beyond the high gloomy walls, and no escape from the windows of the square formal house—seemed a type of the prison bounds of Rank to one whose soul yearns for simple loving Nature.

Helen’s reverie was interrupted by Nero’s joyous bark. He had caught sight of her, and came bounding up, and thrust his large head into her hand. As she stopped to caress the dog, happy at his honest greeting, and tears that had been long gathering to the lids fell silently on his face, (for I know nothing that more moves us to tears than the hearty kindness of a dog, when something in human beings has pained or chilled us), she heard behind the musical voice of Harley. Hastily she dried or repressed her tears, as her guardian came up, and drew her arm within his own.

“I had so little of your conversation last evening, my dear ward, that I may well monopolize you now, even to the privation of Nero. And so you are once more in your native land?”

Helen sighed softly.

“May I not hope that you return under fairer auspices than those which your childhood knew?”

Helen turned her eyes with ingenuous thankfulness to her guardian, and the memory of all she owed to him rushed upon her heart.

Harley renewed, and with earnest, though melancholy sweetness—“Helen, your eyes thank me; but hear me before your words do. I deserve no thanks. I am about to make to you a strange confession of egotism and selfishness.”

“You!—oh, impossible!”

“Judge yourself, and then decide which of us shall have cause to be grateful. Helen, when I was scarcely your age—a boy in years, but more, methinks, a man at heart, with man’s strong energies and sublime aspirings, than I have ever since been—I loved, and deeply—”

He paused a moment, in evident struggle. Helen listened in mute surprise, but his emotion awakened her own; her tender woman’s heart yearned to console. Unconsciously her arm rested on his less lightly.

“Deeply, and for sorrow. It is a long tale, that may be told hereafter. The worldly would call my love a madness. I did not reason on it then—I can not reason on it now. Enough; death smote suddenly, terribly, and to me mysteriously, her whom I loved. The love lived on. Fortunately, perhaps, for me, I had quick distraction, not to grief, but to its inert indulgence. I was a soldier; I joined our armies. Men called me brave. Flattery! I was a coward before the thought of life. I sought death: like sleep, it does not come at our call. Peace ensued. As when the winds fall the sails droop—so when excitement ceased, all seemed to me flat and objectless. Heavy, heavy was my heart. Perhaps grief had been less obstinate, but that I feared I had cause for self-reproach. Since then I have been a wanderer—a self-made exile. My boyhood had been ambitious—all ambition ceased. Flames, when they reach the core of the heart, spread, and leave all in ashes. Let me be brief: I did not mean thus weakly to complain—I to whom heaven has given so many blessings! I felt, as it were, separated from the common objects and joys of men. I grew startled to see how, year by year, wayward humors possessed me. I resolved again to attach myself to some living heart—it was my sole chance to rekindle my own. But the one I had loved remained as my type of woman, and she was different from all I saw. Therefore I said to myself, ’I will rear from childhood some young fresh life, to grow up into my ideal.’ As this thought began to haunt me, I chanced to discover you. Struck with the romance of your early life, touched by your courage, charmed by your affectionate nature, I said to myself, ’Here is what I seek.’ Helen, in assuming the guardianship of your life, in all the culture which I have sought to bestow on your docile childhood, I repeat, that I have been but the egotist. And now, when you have reached that age, when it becomes me to speak, and you to listen—now, when you are under the sacred roof of my own mother—now I ask you, can you accept this heart, such as wasted years, and griefs too fondly nursed, have left it? Can you be, at least, my comforter? Can you aid me to regard life as a duty, and recover those aspirations which once soared from the paltry and miserable confines of our frivolous daily being? Helen, here I ask you, can you be all this, and under the name of—Wife?”

It would be in vain to describe the rapid, varying, indefinable emotions that passed through the inexperienced heart of the youthful listener, as Harley thus spoke. He so moved all the springs of amaze, compassion, tender respect, sympathy, childlike gratitude, that when he paused, and gently took her hand, she remained bewildered, speechless, overpowered. Harley smiled as he gazed upon her blushing, downcast, expressive face. He conjectured at once that the idea of such proposals had never crossed her mind; that she had never contemplated him in the character of wooer; never even sounded her heart as to the nature of such feelings as his image had aroused.

“My Helen,” he resumed, with a calm pathos of voice, “there is some disparity of years between us, and perhaps I may not hope henceforth for that love which youth gives to the young. Permit me simply to ask, what you will frankly answer—Can you have seen in our quiet life abroad, or under the roof of your Italian friends, any one you prefer to me?”

“No, indeed, no!” murmured Helen. “How could I?—who is like you?” Then, with a sudden effort—for her innate truthfulness took alarm, and her very affection for Harley, child-like and reverent, made her tremble, lest she should deceive him—she drew a little aside, and spoke thus:

“Oh, my dear guardian, noblest of all human beings, at least in my eyes, forgive, forgive me if I seem ungrateful, hesitating; but I can not, can not think of myself as worthy of you. I never so lifted my eyes. Your rank, your position—”

“Why should they be eternally my curse? Forget them, and go on.”

“It is not only they,” said Helen, almost sobbing, “though they are much; but I your type, your ideal!—I!—impossible! Oh, how can I ever be any thing even of use, of aid, of comfort, to one like you!”

“You can, Helen—you can,” cried Harley, charmed by such ingenuous modesty. “May I not keep this hand?”

And Helen left her hand in Harley’s, and turned away her face, fairly weeping. A stately step passed under the wintry trees.

“My mother,” said Harley L’Estrange, looking up, “I present to you my future wife.”

(To Be Continued.)

THE ORPHAN’S DREAM OF CHRISTMAS.

It was Christmas Eve—and lonely, By a garret window high, Where the city chimneys barely Spared a hand’s-breadth of the sky, Sat a child, in age—but weeping, With a face so small and thin, That it seem’d too scant a record To have eight years traced therein.

Oh, grief looks most distorted When his hideous shadow lies On the clear and sunny life-stream That doth fill a child’s blue eyes, But _her_ eye was dull and sunken, And the whiten’d cheek was gaunt, And the blue veins on the forehead Were the penciling of Want.

And she wept for years like jewels, Till the last year’s bitter gall, Like the acid of the story, In itself had melted all; But the Christmas time returned, As an old friend, for whose eye She would take down all the pictures Sketch’d by faithful Memory,—

Of those brilliant Christmas seasons, When the joyous laugh went around; When sweet words of love and kindness Were no unfamiliar sound When, lit by the log’s red lustre, She her mother’s face could see, And she rock’d the cradle, sitting On her own twin brother’s knee:

Of her father’s pleasant stories; Of the riddles and the rhymes, All the kisses and the presents That had mark’d those Christmas times. ’Twas as well that there was no one (For it were a mocking strain) To wish _her_ a merry Christmas, For _that_ could not come again.

How there came a time of struggling, When, in spite of love and faith, Grinding Poverty would only In the end give place to Death; How her mother grew heart-broken, When her toil-worn father died, Took her baby in her bosom, And was buried by his side:

How she clung unto her brother As the last spar from the wreck, But stern Death had come between them While her arms were around his neck There were _now_ no loving voices; And, if few hands offered bread, There were none to rest in blessing On the little homeless head.

Or, if any gave her shelter, It was less of joy than fear; For they welcom’d Crime more warmly To the selfsame room with her. But, at length they all grew weary Of their sick and useless guest; She must try a workhouse welcome For the helpless and distressed.

But she pray’d; and the Unsleeping In his ear that whisper caught; So he sent down Sleep, who gave her Such a respite as she sought; Drew the fair head to her bosom, Pressed the wetted eyelids close, And with softly-falling kisses, Lulled her gently to repose.

Then she dreamed the angels, sweeping With their wings the sky aside, Raised her swiftly to the country Where the blessed ones abide: To a bower all flushed with beauty, By a shadowy arcade, Where a mellowness like moonlight By the Tree of Life was made:

Where the rich fruit sparkled, star-like, And pure flowers of fadeless dye Poured their fragrance on the waters That in crystal beds went by: Where bright hills of pearl and amber Closed the fair green valleys round, And, with rainbow light, but lasting, Were there glistening summits crown’d

Then, that distant-burning glory, ’Mid a gorgeousness of light! The long vista of Archangels Could scarce chasten to her sight. There sat One; and her heart told her ’Twas the same, who, for our sin, Was once born a little baby “In the stable of an inn.”

There was music—oh, such music!— They were trying the old strains That a certain group of shepherds Heard on old Judea’s plains; But, when that divinest chorus To a softened trembling fell, Love’s true ear discerned the voices That on earth she loved so well.

At a tiny grotto’s entrance A fair child her eyes behold, With his ivory shoulders hidden ’Neath his curls of living gold; And he asks them, “Is she coming?” But ere any one can speak, The white arms of her twin brother Are once more about her neck.

Then they all come round her greeting; But she might have well denied That her beautiful young sister Is the poor pale child that died; And the careful look hath vanished From her father’s tearless face, And she does not know her mother Till she feels the old embrace.

Oh, from that ecstatic dreaming Must she ever wake again, To the cold and cheerless contrast—— To a life of lonely pain? But her Maker’s sternest servant To her side on tiptoe stept; Told his message in a whisper,—— And she stirred not as she slept!

Now the Christmas morn was breaking With a dim, uncertain hue, And the chilling breeze of morning Came the broken window through; And the hair upon her forehead, Was it lifted by the blast, Or the brushing wings of Seraphs, With their burden as they pass’d?

All the festive bells were chiming To the myriad hearts below; But that deep sleep still hung heavy On the sleeper’s thoughtful brow. To her quiet face the dream-light Had a lingering glory given; But the child _herself_ was keeping Her Christmas-day in Heaven!

WHAT CHRISTMAS IS IN THE COMPANY OF JOHN DOE. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

I have kept (among a store of jovial, genial, heart-stirring returns of the season) some very dismal Christmasses. I have kept Christmas in Constantinople, at a horrible Pera hotel, where I attempted the manufacture of a plum-pudding from the maccaroni-soup they served me for dinner, mingled with some Zante currants, and a box of figs I had brought from Smyrna; and where I sat, until very late at night, endeavoring to persuade myself that it was cold and “Christmassy” (though it wasn’t), drinking Levant wine, and listening to the howling of the dogs outside, mingled with the clank of a portable fire-engine, which some soldiers were carrying to one of those extensive conflagrations which never happen in Constantinople oftener than three times a day. I have kept Christmas on board a Boulogne packet, in company with a basin, several despair-stricken females, and a damp steward; who, to all our inquiries whether we should be “in soon,” had the one unvarying answer of “pretty near,” to give. I have kept Christmas, when a boy, at a French boarding-school, where they gave me nothing but lentils and _bouilli_ for dinner, on the auspicious day itself. I have kept Christmas by the bed-side of a sick friend, and wished him the compliments of the season in his physic-bottles (had they contained another six months’ life, poor soul!) I have kept Christmas at rich men’s tables, where I have been uncomfortable; and once in a cobbler’s shop, where I was excessively convivial. I have spent one Christmas in prison. Start not, urbane reader! I was not sent there for larceny, nor for misdemeanor: but for debt.

It was Christmas-eve; and I—my name is Prupper—was taking my walks abroad. I walked through the crowded Strand, elate, hilarious, benignant, for the feast was prepared, and the guests were bidden. Such a turkey I had ordered! Not the prize one with the ribbons—I mistrusted that; but a plump, tender, white-breasted bird, a king of turkeys. It was to be boiled with oyster-sauce; and the rest of the Christmas dinner was to consist of that noble sirloin of roast beef, and that immortal cod’s head and shoulders! I had bought the materials for the pudding, too, some half-hour previously: the plums and the currants, the citron and the allspice, the flour and the eggs. I was happy.

Onward, by the bright grocers’ shops, thronged with pudding-purchasers! Onward, by the book-sellers’, though lingering, it may be, for a moment, by the gorgeous Christmas books, with their bright binding, and brighter pictures. Onward, by the pastry cooks’! Onward, elate, hilarious, and benignant, until, just as I stopped by a poulterer’s shop, to admire the finest capon that ever London or Christmas saw, a hand was laid on my shoulder!

“Before our sovereign lady the Queen”—“by the grace of God, greeting”—“that you take the body of Thomas Prupper, and him safely keep”—“and for so doing, this shall be your warrant.”

These dread and significant words swam before my dazzled eyelids, dancing maniac hornpipes on a parchment slip of paper. I was to keep Christmas in no other company than that of the once celebrated fictitious personage, supposed to be the familiar of all persons similarly situated—JOHN DOE.

I remember with horror, that some fortnight previously, a lawyers’s clerk deposited on my shoulder a slip of paper, which he stated to be the copy of a writ, and in which her Majesty the Queen (mixed up for the nonce with John, Lord Campbell) was pleased to command me to enter an appearance somewhere, by such a day, in order to answer the plaint of somebody, who said I owed him some money. Now, an appearance had not been entered, and judgment had gone by default, and execution had been obtained against me. The Sheriff of Middlesex (who is popularly, though erroneously, supposed to be incessantly running up and down in his bailiwick) had had a writ of _fieri facias_, vulgarly termed a _fi. fa._ against my goods; but hearing, or satisfying himself by adroit espionage, that I had _no_ goods, he had made a return of _nulla bona_. Then had he invoked the aid of a more subtle and potential instrument, likewise on parchment, called a _capias ad satisfaciendum_, abbreviated in legal parlance into _ca. sa._, against my body. This writ he had confided to Aminadab, his man; and Aminadab, running, as he was in duty bound to do, up and down in his section of the bailiwick, had come across me, and had made me the captive of his bow and spear. He called it, less metaphorically, “nabbing me.”

Mr. Aminadab (tall, aquiline-nosed, oleaginous, somewhat dirty; clad in a green Newmarket coat, a crimson velvet waistcoat, a purple satin neckcloth with gold flowers, two watch-guards, and four diamond rings)—Mr. Aminadab proposed that “something should be done.” Would I go to White-cross-street at once I or to Blowman’s, in Cursitor-street? or would I just step into Peele’s Coffee-house for a moment? Mr. Aminadab was perfectly polite, and indefatigably suggestive.

The capture had been made in Fleet-street; so we stepped into Peele’s, and while Mr. Aminadab sipped the pint of wine which he had obligingly suggested I should order, I began to look my position in the face. Execution taken out for forty-five pounds nine and ninepence. _Ca. sa._, a guinea; _fi. fa._, a guinea; capture, a guinea; those were all the costs as _yet_. Now, some days after I was served with the writ, I had paid the plaintiff’s lawyer, on account, thirty pounds. In the innocence of my heart, I imagined that, by the County Court Act, I could not be arrested for the balance, it being under twenty pounds. Mr. Aminadab laughed with contemptuous pity.

“We don’t do business that way,” said he; “we goes in for the whole lot, and then you pleads your set-off, you know.”

The long and the short of the matter was, that I had eighteen pounds, twelve shillings, and ninepence, to pay, before my friend in the purple neckcloth would relinquish his grasp; and that to satisfy the demand, I had exactly the sum of two pounds two and a half-penny, and a gold watch, on which a relation of mine would probably advance four pounds more. So, I fell to writing letters, Mr. Aminadab sipping the wine and playing with one of his watch-chains in the meanwhile.

I wrote to Jones, Brown, and Robinson—to Thompson, and to Jackson likewise. I wrote to my surly uncle in Pudding-lane. Now was the time to put the disinterested friendship of Brown to the test; to avail myself of the repeated offers of service from Jones; to ask for the loan of that sixpence which Robinson had repeatedly declared was at my command as long as he had a shilling. I sealed the letters with an unsteady hand, and consulted Mr. Aminadab as to their dispatch. That gentleman, by some feat of legerdemain, called up from the bowels of the earth, or from one of those mysterious localities known as “round the corner,” two sprites: one, his immediate assistant; seedier, however, and not jeweled, who carried a nobby stick which he continually gnawed. The other, a horrible little man with a white head and a white neckcloth, twisted round his neck like a halter. His eye was red, and his teeth were gone, and the odor of rum compassed him about, like a cloak. To these two acolytes my notes were confided, and they were directed to bring the answers like lightning to Blowman’s. To Blowman’s, in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane, I was bound, and a cab was straightway called for my conveyance there-to. For the matter of that, the distance was so short, I might easily have walked, but I could not divest myself of the idea that every body in the street knew I was a prisoner.

I was soon within the hospitable doors of Mr. Blowman, officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex. His hospitable doors were double, and, for more hospitality, heavily barred, locked, and chained. These, with the exceptions of barred windows, and a species of grating-roofed yard outside, like a monster bird-cage, were the only visible signs of captivity. Yet there was enough stone in the hearts, and iron in the souls, of Mr. Blowman’s inmates, to build a score of lock-up houses. For that you may take my word.

I refused the offer of a private room, and was conducted to the coffee-room, where Mr. Aminadab left me, for a while, to my own reflections; and to wait for the answers to my letters.

They came—and one friend into the bargain. Jones had gone to Hammersmith, and wouldn’t be back till next July. Brown had been disappointed in the city. Robinson’s money was all locked up. Thompson expected to be locked up himself. Jackson was brief, but explicit: he said he “would rather not.”

My friend brought me a carpet-bag, with what clothes I wanted in it. He advised me, more over, to go to Whitecross-street at once, for a sojourn at Mr. Blowman’s domicile would cost me something like a guinea per diem. So, summoning Mr. Aminadab, who had obligingly waited to see if I could raise the money or not, I announced my intention of being conveyed to jail at once. I paid half-a-guinea for the accommodation I had had at Mr. Blowman’s; I made a pecuniary acknowledgment of Mr. Aminadab’s politeness; and I did not fail to remember the old man in the white halter and the spirituous mantle. Then, when I had also remembered a red-headed little Jew boy, who acted as Cerberus to this Hades, and appeared to be continually washing his hands (though they never seemed one whit the cleaner for the operation), another cab was called, and off I went to Whitecross-street, with a heart considerably heavier than a paving stone.

I had already been three hours in captivity, and it was getting on for eight o’clock. The cab was proceeding along Holborn, and I thought, involuntarily, of Mr. Samuel Hall, black and grimy, making his progress through the same thoroughfares, by the Oxford Road, and so on to Tyburn, bowing to the crowd, and cursing the Ordinary. The foot-pavement on either side was thronged with people at their Christmas marketing, or, at least, on some Christmas business—so it seemed to me. Goose Clubs were being held at the public houses—sweeps for sucking-pigs, plum-puddings, and bottles of gin. Some ladies and gentlemen had begun their Christmas rather too early, and were meandering unsteadily over the flag-stones. Fiddlers were in great request, being sought for in small beershops, and borne off bodily from bars, to assist at Christmas Eve merry-makings. An immense deal of hand-shaking was going on, and I was very much afraid, a good deal more “standing” than was consistent with the strict rules of temperance. Every body kept saying that it was “only once a year,” and made that an apology (so prone are mankind to the use of trivial excuses!) for their sins against Father Mathew. Loud laughter rang through the frosty air. Pleasant jokes, innocent “chaff,” passed; grocers’ young men toiled lustily, wiping their hot faces ever and anon; butchers took no rest; prize beef melted away from very richness before my eyes; and in the midst of all the bustle and jollity, the crowding, laughing, drinking, and shouting, I was still on my unvarying way to Whitecross-street.

There was a man resting a child’s coffin on a railing, and chattering with a pot-boy, with whom he shared a pot of porter “with the sharp edge taken off.” There are heavy hearts—heavier perchance than yours, in London, this Christmas Eve, my friend Prupper, thought I. To-morrow’s dawn will bring sorrow and faint-heartedness to many thousands—to oceans of humanity, of which you are but a single drop.

The cab had conveyed me through Smithfield Market, and now rumbled up Barbican. My companion, the gentleman with the crab-stick (to whose care Mr. Aminadab had consigned me), beguiled the time with pleasant and instructive conversation. He told me that he had “nabbed a many parties.” That he had captured a Doctor of Divinity going to a Christmas, a bridegroom starting for the honeymoon, a colonel of hussars in full fig for her Majesty’s drawing-room. That he had the honor once of “nabbing” the eldest son of a peer of the realm, who, however, escaped from him through a second-floor window, and over the tiles. That he was once commissioned to “nab” the celebrated Mr. Wix, of the Theatres Royal. That Mr. Wix, being in the act of playing the Baron Spolaccio, in the famous tragedy of “Love, Ruin, and Revenge,” he, Crabstick, permitted him, in deference to the interests of the drama, to play the part out, stationing an assistant at each wing to prevent escape. That the delusive Wix “bilked” him, by going down a trap. That he, Crabstick, captured him, notwithstanding under the stage, though opposed by the gigantic Wix himself, two stage carpenters, a demon, and the Third Citizen. That Wix rushed on the stage, and explained his position to the audience, whereupon the gallery (Wix being an especial favorite of theirs) expressed a strong desire to have his (Crabstick’s) blood; and, failing to obtain that, tore up the benches; in the midst of which operation the recalcitrant Wix was removed. With these and similar anecdotes of the nobility, gentry, and the public in general, he was kind enough to regale me, until the cab stopped. I alighted in a narrow, dirty street; was hurried up a steep flight of steps; a heavy door clanged behind me; and Crabstick, pocketing his small gratuity, wished me a good-night and a merry Christmas. A merry Christmas: ugh!

That night I slept in a dreadful place, called the Reception ward, on an iron bedstead, in a room with a stone floor. I was alone, and horribly miserable. I heard the Waits playing in the distance, and dreamed I was at a Christmas party.

Christmas morning in Whitecross-street Prison! A turnkey conducted me to the “Middlesex side”—a long dreary yard—on either side of which were doors leading into wards, or coffee-rooms, on the ground floor, and by stone-staircases, to sleeping-apartments above. It was all very cold, very dismal, very gloomy. I entered the ward allotted to me, Number Seven, left. It was a long room, with barred windows, cross tables and benches, with an aisle between; a large fire at the further end; “Dum spiro, spero,” painted above the mantle-piece. Twenty or thirty prisoners and their friends were sitting at the tables, smoking pipes, drinking beer, or reading newspapers. But for the unmistakable jail-bird look about the majority of the guests, the unshorn faces, the slipshod feet, the barred windows, and the stone floor, I might have fancied myself in a large tap-room.

There was holly and mistletoe round the gas-pipes; but how woeful and forlorn they looked! There was roast-beef and plum-pudding preparing at the fire-place; but they had neither the odor nor the appearance of free beef and pudding. I was thinking of the cosy room, the snug fire, the well-drawn curtains, the glittering table, the happy faces, when the turnkey introduced me to the steward of the ward (an officer appointed by the prisoners, and a prisoner himself) who “tables you off,” _i.e._, who allotted me a seat at one of the cross-tables, which was henceforward mine for all purposes of eating, drinking, writing, or smoking; in consideration of a payment on my part of one guinea sterling. This sum made me also free of the ward, and entitled to have my boots cleaned, my bed made, and my meals cooked. Supposing that I had not possessed a guinea (which was likely enough), I should have asked for time, which would have been granted me; but, at the expiration of three days, omission of payment would have constituted me a defaulter; in which case, the best thing I could have done would have been to declare pauperism, and remove to the poor side of the prison. Here, I should have been entitled to my “sixpences,” amounting in the aggregate to the sum of three shillings and sixpence a week toward my maintenance.

The steward, a fat man in a green “wide-awake” hat, who was incarcerated on remand for the damages in an action for breach of promise of marriage, introduced me to the cook (who was going up next week to the Insolvent Court, having filed his schedule as a beer-shop keeper). He told me, that if I chose to purchase any thing at a species of every-thing-shop in the yard, the cook would dress it; or, if I did not choose to be at the trouble of providing myself, I might breakfast, dine, and sup at his, the steward’s, table, “for a consideration,” as Mr. Trapbois has it. I acceded to the latter proposition, receiving the intelligence that turkey and oyster-sauce were to be ready at two precisely, with melancholy indifference. Turkey had no charms for me now.

I sauntered forth into the yard, and passed fifty or sixty fellow-unfortunates, sauntering as listlessly as myself. Strolling about, I came to a large grating, somewhat similar to Mr. Blowman’s bird-cage, in which was a heavy gate called the “lock,” and which communicated with the corridors leading to the exterior of the prison. Here sat, calmly surveying his caged birds within, a turnkey—not a repulsive, gruff-voiced monster, with a red neckerchief and top boots, and a bunch of keys, as turnkeys are popularly supposed to be—but a pleasant, jovial man enough, in sleek black. He had a little lodge behind, where a bright fire burned, and where Mrs. Turnkey, and the little Turnkeys lived. (I found a direful resemblance between the name of his office, and that of the Christmas bird.) His Christmas dinner hung to the iron bars above him, in the shape of a magnificent piece of beef. Happy turnkey, to be able to eat it on the outer side of that dreadful grating! In another part of the yard hung a large black board, inscribed in half-effaced characters, with the enumerations of divers donations, made in former times by charitable persons, for the benefit in perpetuity of poor prisoners. To-day, so much beef and so much strong beer was allotted to each prisoner.

But what were beef and beer, what was unlimited tobacco, or even the plum-pudding, when made from prison plums, boiled in a prison copper, and eaten in a prison dining-room? What though surreptitious gin were carried in, in bladders, beneath the under garments of the fairer portion of creation; what though brandy were smuggled into the wards, disguised as black draughts, or extract of sarsaparilla? A pretty Christmas market I had brought my pigs to!

Chapel was over (I had come down too late from the “Reception” to attend it); and the congregation (a lamentably small one) dispersed in the yard and wards. I entered my own ward, to change (if any thing could change) the dreary scene.

Smoking and cooking appeared to be the chief employments and recreations of the prisoners. An insolvent clergyman in rusty black, was gravely rolling out puff-paste on a pie-board; and a man in his shirt-sleeves, covering a veal cutlet with egg and bread-crum, was an officer of dragoons!

I found no lack of persons willing to enter into conversation with me. I talked, full twenty minutes, with a seedy captive, with a white head, and a coat buttoned and pinned up to the chin.

Whitecross-street, he told me (or Burdon’s Hotel, as in the prison slang he called it), was the only place where any “life” was to be seen. The Fleet was pulled down; the Marshalsea had gone the way of all brick-and-mortar; the Queen’s Prison, the old “Bench,” was managed on a strict system of classification and general discipline; and Horsemonger-lane was but rarely tenanted by debtors; but in favored Whitecross-street, the good old features of imprisonment for debt yet flourished. Good dinners were still occasionally given; “fives” and football were yet played; and, from time to time, obnoxious attorneys, or importunate process-servers—“rats” as they were called—were pumped upon, floured, and bonneted. Yet, even Whitecross-street, he said with a sigh, was falling off. The Small Debts Act and those revolutionary County Courts would be too many for it soon.

That tall, robust, bushy-whiskered man, (he said) in the magnificently flowered dressing-gown, the crimson Turkish smoking cap, the velvet slippers, and the ostentatiously displayed gold guard-chain, was a “mace-man:” an individual who lived on his wits, and on the want of wit in others. He had had many names, varying from Plantagenet and De Courcy, to “Edmonston and Co.,” or plain Smith or Johnson. He was a real gentleman once upon a time—a very long time ago. Since then, he had done a little on the turf, and a great deal in French hazard, roulette, and _rouge et noir_. He had cheated bill-discounters, and discounted bills himself. He had been a picture-dealer, and a wine-merchant, and one of those mysterious individuals called a “commission agent.” He had done a little on the Stock Exchange, and a little billiard-marking, and a little skittle-sharping, and a little thimble-rigging. He was not particular. Bills, however, were his passion. He was under a cloud just now, in consequence of some bill-dealing transaction, which the Commissioner of Insolvency had broadly hinted to be like a bill-stealing one. However, he had wonderful elasticity, and it was to be hoped would soon get over his little difficulties. Meanwhile, he dined sumptuously, and smoked cigars of price; occasionally condescending to toss half-crowns in a hat with any of the other “nobs” incarcerated.

That cap, and the battered worn-out sickly frame beneath (if I would have the goodness to notice them) were all that were left of a spruce, rosy-cheeked, glittering young ensign of infantry. He was brought up by an old maiden aunt, who spent her savings to buy him a commission in the army. He went from Slowchester Grammar School, to Fastchester Barracks. He was to live on his pay. He gambled a year’s pay away in an evening. He made thousand guinea bets, and lost them. So the old _denouement_ of the old story came round as usual. The silver dressing-case, got on credit—pawned for ready money; the credit-horses sold; more credit-horses bought; importunate creditors in the barrack-yard; a letter from the colonel; sale of his commission; himself sold up; then Mr. Aminadab, Mr. Blowman, Burdon’s Hotel, Insolvent Court, a year’s remand; and, an after life embittered by the consciousness of wasted time and talents, and wantonly-neglected opportunities.

My informant pointed out many duplicates of the gentleman in the dressing-gown. Also, divers Government clerks, who had attempted to imitate the nobs in a small way, and had only succeeded to the extent of sharing the same prison; a mild gray-headed old gentleman who always managed to get committed for contempt of court; and the one inevitable baronet of a debtor’s prison, who is traditionally supposed to have eight thousand a year, and to stop in prison because he likes it—though, to say the truth, this baronet looked, to me, as if he didn’t like it at all.

I was sick of all these, and of every thing else in Whitecross-street, before nine o’clock, when I was at liberty to retire to my cold ward. So ended my Christmas-day—my first, and, I hope and believe, my last Christmas-day in prison.

Next morning my welcome friend arrived and set me free. I paid the gate-fees, and I gave the turnkeys a crown, and I gave the prisoners unbounded beer. I kept New Year’s day in company with a pretty cousin with glossy black hair, who was to have dined with me on Christmas-day, and who took such pity on me that she shortly became Mrs. Prupper. Our eldest boy was born, by a curious coincidence, next Christmas-day—which I kept very jovially, with the doctor, after it was all over, and we _didn’t_ christen him Whitecross.

WHAT CHRISTMAS IS, AS WE GROW OLDER. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

Time was, with most of us, when Christmas-day encircling all our limited world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound together all our home enjoyments, affections, and hopes; grouped every thing and every one around the Christmas fire; and made the little picture shining in our bright young eyes, complete.

Time came, perhaps, all so soon! when our thoughts overleaped that narrow boundary; when there was some one (very dear, we thought then, very beautiful, and absolutely perfect) wanting to the fullness of our happiness; when we were wanting too (or we thought so, which did just as well) at the Christmas hearth by which that some one sat; and when we intertwined with every wreath and garland of our life that some one’s name.

That was the time for the bright visionary Christmases which have long arisen from us to show faintly, after summer rain, in the palest edges of the rainbow! That was the time for the beatified enjoyment of the things that were to be, and never were, and yet the things that were so real in our resolute hope that it would be hard to say, now, what realities achieved since, have been stronger!

What! Did that Christmas never really come when we and the priceless pearl who was our young choice were received, after the happiest of totally impossible marriages, by the two united families previously at daggers-drawn on our account? When brothers and sisters in law who had always been rather cool to us before our relationship was effected, perfectly doted on us, and when fathers and mothers overwhelmed us with unlimited incomes? Was that Christmas dinner never really eaten, after which we arose, and generously and eloquently rendered honor to our late rival, present in the company, then and there exchanging friendship and forgiveness, and founding an attachment, not to be surpassed in Greek or Roman story, which subsisted until death? Has that same rival long ceased to care for that same priceless pearl, and married for money, and become usurious? Above all, do we really know, now, that we should probably have been miserable if we had won and worn the pearl, and that we are better without her?

That Christmas when we had recently achieved so much fame; when we had been carried in triumph somewhere, for doing something great and good; when we had won an honored and ennobled name, and arrived and were received at home in a shower of tears of joy; is it possible that _that_ Christmas has not come yet?

And is our life here, at the best, so constituted that, pausing as we advance at such a noticeable mile-stone in the track as this great birthday, we look back on the things that never were, as naturally and full as gravely as on the things that have been and are gone, or have been and still are? If it be so, and so it seems to be, must we come to the conclusion, that life is little better than a dream, and little worth the loves and strivings that we crowd into it?

No! Far be such miscalled philosophy from us, dear Reader, on Christmas-day! Nearer and closer to our hearts be the Christmas spirit, which is the spirit of active usefulness, perseverance, cheerful discharge of duty, kindness, and forbearance! It is in the last virtues especially, that we are, or should be, strengthened by the unaccomplished visions of our youth; for who shall say that they are not our teachers to deal gently even with the impalpable nothings of the earth!

Therefore, as we grow older, let us be more thankful that the circle of our Christmas associations and of the lessons that they bring, expands! Let us welcome every one of them, and summon them to take their places by the Christmas hearth.

Welcome, old aspirations, glittering creatures of an ardent fancy, to your shelter underneath the holly! We know you, and have not outlived you yet. Welcome, old projects and old loves, however fleeting, to your nooks among the steadier lights that burn around us. Welcome, all that was ever real to our hearts; and for the earnestness that made you real, thanks to Heaven! Do we build no Christmas castles in the clouds now? Let our thoughts, fluttering like butterflies among these flowers of children, bear witness! Before this boy, there stretches out a Future, brighter than we ever looked on in our old romantic time, but bright with honor and with truth. Around this little head on which the sunny curls lie heaped, the graces sport, as prettily, as airily, as when there was no scythe within the reach of Time to shear away the curls of our first-love. Upon another girl’s face near it—placider but smiling bright—a quiet and contented little face, we see Home fairly written. Shining from the word, as rays shine from a star, we see how, when our graves are old, other hopes than ours are young, other hearts than ours are moved; how other ways are smoothed; how other happiness blooms, ripens, and decays—no, not decays, for other homes and other bands of children, not yet in being nor for ages yet to be, arise, and bloom, and ripen to the end of all!

Welcome, every thing! Welcome, alike what has been, and what never was, and what we hope may be, to your shelter underneath the holly, to your places round the Christmas fire, where what is sits open-hearted! In yonder shadow, do we see obtruding furtively upon the blaze, an enemy’s face? By Christmas-day we do forgive him! If the injury he has done us may admit of such companionship, let him come here and take his place. If otherwise, unhappily, let him go hence, assured that we will never injure nor accuse him.

On this day, we shut out nothing!

“Pause,” says a low voice. “Nothing? Think!”

“On Christmas-day, we will shut out from our fireside, nothing.”

“Not the shadow of a vast city where the withered leaves are lying deep?” the voice replies. “Not the shadow that darkens the whole globe? Not the shadow of the City of the Dead?”

Not even that. Of all days in the year, we will turn our faces toward that city upon Christmas-day, and from its silent hosts bring those we loved, among us. City of the Dead, in the blessed name wherein we are gathered together at this time, and in the Presence that is here among us according to the promise, we will receive, and not dismiss, thy people who are dear to us!

Yes. We can look upon these children-angels that alight, so solemnly, so beautifully, among the living children by the fire, and can bear to think how they departed from us. Entertaining angels unawares, as the Patriarchs did, the playful children are unconscious of their guests; but we can see them—can see a radiant arm around one favorite neck, as if there were a tempting of that child away. Among the celestial figures there is one, a poor mis-shapen boy on earth, of a glorious beauty now, of whom his dying mother said it grieved her much to leave him here, alone, for so many years as it was likely would elapse before he came to her—being such a little child. But he went quickly, and was laid upon her breast, and in her hand she leads him.

There was a gallant boy, who fell, far away, upon a burning sand beneath a burning sun, and said, “Tell them at home, with my last love, how much I could have wished to kiss them once, but that I died contented and had done my duty!” Or there was another, over whom they read the words, “Therefore we commit his body to the dark!” and so consigned him to the lonely ocean, and sailed on. Or there was another who lay down to his rest in the dark shadow of great forests, and, on earth, awoke no more. O shall they not, from sand and sea and forest, be brought home at such a time!

There was a dear girl—almost a woman—never to be one—who made a mourning Christmas in a house of joy, and went her trackless way to the silent City. Do we recollect her, worn out, faintly whispering what could not be heard, and falling into that last sleep for weariness? O look upon her now! O look upon her beauty, her serenity, her changeless youth, her happiness! The daughter of Jairus was recalled to life, to die; but she, more blest, has heard the same voice, saying unto her, “Arise forever!”

We had a friend who was our friend from early days, with whom we often pictured the changes that were to come upon our lives, and merrily imagined how we would speak, and walk, and think, and talk, when we came to be old. His destined habitation in the City of the Dead received him in his prime. Shall he be shut out from our Christmas remembrance? Would his love have so excluded us? Lost friend, lost child, lost parent, sister, brother, husband, wife, we will not so discard you! You shall hold your cherished places in our Christmas hearts, and by our Christmas fires; and in the season of immortal hope, and on the birthday of immortal mercy, we will shut out nothing!

The winter sun goes down over town and village; on the sea it makes a rosy path, as if the Sacred tread were fresh upon the water. A few more moments, and it sinks, and night comes on, and lights begin to sparkle in the prospect. On the hill-side beyond the shapelessly diffused town, and in the quiet keeping of the trees that gird the village-steeple, remembrances are cut in stone, planted in common flowers, growing in grass, entwined with lowly brambles around many a mound of earth. In town and village, there are doors and windows closed against the weather, there are flaming logs heaped high, there are joyful faces, there is healthy music of voices. Be all ungentleness and harm excluded from the temples of the Household Gods, but be those remembrances admitted with tender encouragement! They are of the time and all its comforting and peaceful reassurances; and of the history that reunited even upon earth the living and the dead; and of the broad beneficence and goodness that too many men have tried to tear to narrow shreds.

HELEN CORRIE.—LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A CURATE.

Having devoted myself to the service of Him who said unto the demoniac and the leper, “Be whole,” I go forth daily, treading humbly in the pathway of my self-appointed mission, through the dreary regions, the close and crowded streets, that exist like a plague ground in the very heart of the wealthy town of L——.

They have an atmosphere of their own, those dilapidated courts, those noisome alleys, those dark nooks where the tenements are green with damp, where the breath grows faint, and the head throbs with an oppressive pain; and yet, amid the horrors of such abodes, hundreds of our fellow-creatures act the sad tragedy of life, and the gay crowd beyond sweep onward, without a thought of those who perish daily for want of the bread of eternal life. Oh! cast it upon those darkened waters, and it shall be found again after many days. There we see human nature in all its unvailed and degraded nakedness—the vile passions, the brutal coarseness, the corroding malice, the undisguised licentiousness. Oh, ye who look on and abhor, who pass like the Pharisee, and condemn the wretch by the wayside, pause, and look within: education, circumstances, have refined and elevated your thoughts and actions; but blessed are those who shall never know by fearful experience how want and degradation can blunt the finest sympathies, and change, nay, brutalize the moral being.

How have I shuddered to hear the fearful mirth with whose wild laughter blasphemy and obscenity were mingled—that mockery of my sacred profession, which I knew too well lurked under the over-strained assumption of reverence for my words, when I was permitted to utter them, and the shout of derision that followed too often my departing steps, knowing that those immortal souls must one day render up their account; and humbly have I prayed, that my still unwearied zeal might yet be permitted to scatter forth the good seed which the cares and anxieties should not choke, nor the stony soil refuse!

Passing one evening through one of those dilapidated streets, to which the doors, half torn from their hinges, and the broken windows, admitting the raw, cold, gusty winds, gave so comfortless an aspect, I turned at a sudden angle into a district which I had never before visited. Through the low arch of a half-ruined bridge, a turbid stream rolled rapidly on, augmented by the late rains. A strange-looking building, partly formed of wood, black and decaying with age and damp, leaned heavily over the passing waters; it was composed of many stories, which were approached by a wooden stair and shed-like gallery without, and evidently occupied by many families. The lamenting wail of neglected children and the din of contention were heard within. Hesitating on the threshold, I leant over the bridge, and perceived an extensive area beneath the ancient tenement; many low-browed doors, over whose broken steps the water washed and rippled, became distinguishable. As I gazed, one of them suddenly opened, and a pale haggard woman appeared, shading a flickering light with her hand. I descended the few slippery wooden steps leading to the strange abodes, and approached her. As I advanced, she appeared to recognize me.

“Come in, sir,” she said hurriedly; “there is one within will be glad to see you;” and, turning, she led me through a winding passage into a dreary room, whose blackened floor of stone bore strong evidence that the flood chafed and darkened beneath it.

In an old arm-chair beside the rusty and almost fireless grate, sat, or rather lay, a pale and fragile creature, a wreck of blighted loveliness.

“Helen,” said the woman, placing the light on a rough table near her, “here is the minister come to see you.”

The person she addressed attempted to rise, but the effort was too much, and she sank back, as if exhausted by it. A blush mantled over her cheek, and gave to her large dark eyes a faint and fading lustre. She had been beautiful, _very_ beautiful; but the delicate features were sharpened and attenuated, the exquisite symmetry of her form worn by want and illness to a mere outline of its former graceful proportions; yet, even amid the squalid wretchedness that surrounded her, an air of by-gone superiority gave a nameless interest to her appearance, and I approached her with a respectful sympathy that seemed strange to my very self.

After a few explanatory sentences respecting my visit, to which she assented by a humble yet silent movement of acquiescence, I commenced reading the earnest prayers which the occasion called for. As I proceeded, the faint chorus of a drinking song came upon my ears from some far recesses of this mysterious abode; doors were suddenly opened and closed with a vault-like echo, and a hoarse voice called on the woman who had admitted me; she started suddenly from her knees, and, with the paleness of fear on her countenance, left the room. After a moment’s hesitating pause, the invalid spoke in a voice whose low flute-like tones stole upon the heart like aerial music.

“I thank you,” she said, “for this kind visit, those soothing prayers. Oh, how often in my wanderings have I longed to listen to such words! Cast out, like an Indian pariah, from the pale of human fellowship, I had almost forgotten how to pray; but you have shed the healing balm of religion once more upon my seared and blighted heart, and I can weep glad tears of penitence, and dare to hope for pardon.”

After this burst of excitement, she grew more calm, and our conversation assumed a devotional yet placid tenor, until she drew from her bosom a small packet, and gave it to me with a trembling hand.

“Read it, sir,” she said; “it is the sad history of a life of sorrow. Have pity as you trace the record of human frailty, and remember that you are the servant of the Merciful!”

She paused, and her cheek grew paler, as if her ear caught an unwelcome but well-known sound. A quick step was soon heard in the passage, and a man entered, bearing a light; he stood a moment on the threshold, as if surprised, and then hastily approached us. A model of manly beauty, his haughty features bore the prevailing characteristics of the gipsy blood—the rich olive cheek, the lustrous eyes, the long silky raven hair, the light and flexible form, the step lithe and graceful as the leopard’s; yet were all these perfections marred by an air of reckless licentiousness. His attire, which strangely mingled the rich and gaudy with the worn and faded, added to the ruffianism of his appearance; and as he cast a stern look on the pale girl, who shrank beneath his eye, I read at once the mournful secret of her despair. With rough words he bade me begone, and, as the beseeching eye of his victim glanced meaningly toward the door, I departed, with a silent prayer in my heart for the betrayer and the erring.

A cold drizzling rain was falling without, and I walked hastily homeward, musing on the strange scene in which I had so lately mingled. Seated in my little study, I drew my table near the fire, arranged my reading-lamp, and commenced the perusal of the manuscript confided to my charge. It was written in a delicate Italian hand upon uncouth and various scraps of paper, and appeared to have been transcribed with little attempt at arrangement, and at long intervals; but my curiosity added the links to the leading events, and I gradually entered with deeper interest into the mournful history.

“How happy was my childhood!” it began. “I can scarcely remember a grief through all that sunny lapse of years. I dwelt in a beautiful abode, uniting the verandas and vine-covered porticoes of southern climes with the substantial in-door comforts of English luxury. The country around was romantic, and I grew up in its sylvan solitudes almost as wild and happy as the birds and fawns that were my companions.

“I was motherless. My father, on her death, had retired from public life, and devoted himself to her child. Idolized by him, my wildest wishes were unrestrained; the common forms of knowledge were eagerly accepted by me, for I had an intuitive talent of acquiring any thing which contributed to my pleasure; and I early discovered that, without learning to read and write, the gilded books and enameled desks in my father’s library would remain to me only as so many splendid baubles; but a regular education, a religious and intellectual course of study, I never pursued. I read as I liked, and when I liked. I was delicate in appearance, and my father feared to control my spirits, or to rob me of a moment’s happiness. Fatal affection! How did I repay such misjudging love!

“Time flowed brightly on, and I had already seen sixteen summers, when the _little cloud_ appeared in the sky that so fearfully darkened my future destiny. In one of our charitable visits to the neighboring cottages, we formed an acquaintance with a gentleman who had become an inhabitant of our village; a fall from his horse placed him under the care of our worthy doctor, and he had hired a small room attached to Ashtree farm, until he recovered from the lingering effects of his accident. Handsome, graceful, and insinuating in his address, he captivated my ardent imagination at once. Unaccustomed to the world, I looked upon him as the very ‘mould of form;’ a new and blissful enchantment seemed to pervade my being in his presence and my girlish fancy dignified the delusion with the name of love? My father was delighted with his society; he possessed an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes and strange adventures, was an excellent musician, and had the agreeable tact of accommodating himself to the mood of the moment. He was a constant visitor, and at length became almost domesticated in our household. Known to us by the name of Corrie, he spoke of himself as the son of a noble house, who, to indulge a poetic temperament, and a romantic passion for rural scenery, had come forth on a solitary pilgrimage, and cast aside for a while what he called the iron fetters of exclusive society. How sweet were our moonlight ramblings through the deep forest glens; how fondly we lingered by the Fairies’ Well in the green hollow of the woods, watching the single star that glittered in its pellucid waters! And, oh, what passionate eloquence, what romantic adoration, was poured forth upon my willing ear, and thrilled my susceptible heart!

“Before my father’s eye he appeared gracefully courteous to me, but not a word or glance betrayed the passion which in our secret interviews worshiped me as an idol, and enthralled my senses with the ardency of its homage. This, he told me, was necessary for my happiness, as my father might separate us if he suspected that another shared the heart hitherto exclusively his own. This was my first deception. Fatal transgression! I had departed from the path of truth, and my guardian angel grew pale in the presence of the tempter. Winter began to darken the valleys; our fireside circle was enlivened by the presence of our accomplished guest. On the eve of my natal day, he spoke of the birth-day fetes he had witnessed during his Continental and Oriental rambles, complimented my father on the antique beauty and massy richness of the gold and silver plate which, rarely used, decorated the sideboard in honor of the occasion; and, admiring the pearls adorning my hair and bosom, spoke so learnedly on the subject of jewels, that my father brought forth from his Indian cabinet my mother’s bridal jewels, diamonds, and emeralds of exquisite lustre and beauty. I had never before seen these treasures, and our guest joined in the raptures of my admiration.

“ ‘They will adorn my daughter,’ said my father, with a sigh, as he closed the casket, and retired to place it in its safe receptacle.

“ ‘Yes, my Helen,’ said my lover, ‘they shall glitter on that fair brow in a prouder scene, when thy beauty shall gladden the eyes of England’s nobles, and create envy in her fairest daughters.’

“I listened with a smile, and, on my father’s return, passed another evening of happiness—my last!

“We retired early, and oh, how bright were the dreams that floated around my pillow, how sweet the sleep that stole upon me as I painted the future—an elysium of love and splendor! I was awakened by a wild cry that rang with agonizing horror through the midnight stillness: it was the voice of my father. I sprang hastily from my couch, threw on a wrapper, seized the night-lamp, and hurried to his chamber. Ruffians opposed my entrance; the Indian cabinet lay shattered on the floor, and I beheld my father struggling in the fierce grasp of a man, who had clasped his throat to choke the startling cry. With maniac force I reached the couch, and, seizing the murderous hand, called aloud for help. The robber started with a wild execration, the mask fell from his face, and I beheld the features of Gilbert Corrie!...

“When I recovered consciousness, I found that I had suffered a long illness—a brain fever, caused, the strange nurse said, by some sudden shock. Alas, how dreadful had been that fatal cause! Sometimes I think my head has never been cool since; a dull throb of agony presses yet upon my brow; sometimes it passes away; my spirits mount lightly, and I can laugh, but it has a hollow sound—oh, how unlike the sweet laughter of by-gone days!...

“We were in London. My apartments were sumptuous: all that wealth could supply was mine; but what a wretch was I amid that scene of splendor! The destroyer was now the arbiter of my destiny. I knew his wealth arose from his nefarious transactions at the gaming-table. I knew my father was dead; the severe injuries he had received on that fatal night and the mysterious disappearance of his daughter had laid him in his grave. Gilbert Corrie was virtually his murderer, yet still I loved him! A passion partaking of delirium bound me to his destiny. I shrank not from the caress of the felon gamester—the plague-stain of sin was upon me—the burning plow-shares of the world’s scorn lay in my path, and how was the guilty one to dare the fearful ordeal? For fallen woman there is _no return;_ no penitence can restore her sullied brightness; the angel-plumes of purity are scattered in the dust, and never can the lost one regain the Eden of her innocence. The world may pity, may pardon, but never more _respect;_ and, oh, how dreadful to mingle with the pure, and feel the mark of Cain upon your brow!...

“A change came suddenly upon Gilbert. There was no longer the lavish expenditure, the careless profusion: his looks and tone were altered. A haggard expression sat upon his handsome features, and the words of endearment no longer flowed from his lips; a quick footstep beneath the window made him start, strange-looking men visited him, his absences were long, his garments often changed: the vail was about to be lifted from my _real_ position.

“One night he entered hastily, snatched me from the luxurious fauteuil on which I rested, and led me, without answering my questions, to a hackney-coach. We were speedily whirled away, and I never again beheld that home of splendor. By by-paths we entered a close and murky street, the coach was discharged, I was hurried over a dark miry road, and, passing through a court-yard, the gate of which closed behind us, was led without ceremony into a wretched apartment, thronged with fierce, ill-looking men, seated round a table well supplied with wines and ardent spirits. Our entrance was hailed with shouts. Gilbert was called by the name of ‘noble captain’ to the head of the table, and I was suffered disregarded to weep alone. I seated myself at length by the blazing fire, and then first knew the real horrors of my destiny.

“From their discourse I gathered that Gilbert had committed extensive forgeries, and had that night escaped the pursuit of justice. Bumpers of congratulation were drunk; plans of robberies discussed, and the gipsy captain chosen as the leader of the most daring exploits contemplated.

“Since that night, how fearful have been my vicissitudes! Sometimes, as the splendidly-dressed mistress of private gambling-rooms, I have received the selected dupes in a luxurious boudoir, decoying the victims by fascinating smiles into the snare laid for them by Gilbert and his associates. Sometimes, encamping with the wild gipsy tribe in some hidden dell or woodland haunt, where their varied spoils were in safe keeping. Anon, the painted and tinseled queen of an itinerant show, where Gilbert enacted the mountebank, and by the brilliance of his fascinating eloquence drew into his treasury the hard-earned savings of the rustic gazers.

“To all those degredations have I submitted, and now, oh, now, more than ever, has the iron entered into my soul! He has ceased to love me. I have become an encumbrance; my beauty has faded from exposure and neglect. I have sunk beneath his blows, have writhed beneath the bitterness of his sarcasms, his brutal jests, his scornful mockery of my penitence and tears. I have endured the agony of hunger while he rioted with his companions in profligate luxury; and yet, if the old smile lights up his countenance, the old look shines forth from his lustrous eyes, he is again to me the lover of my youth, and the past is a hideous dream. Oh, woman’s heart, how unfathomable is thy mystery!”

The manuscript here ended abruptly. How sad a moral might be drawn from the history of this unfortunate! What rare gifts of mind and beauty had the want of religion marred and blighted! Had the Sun of Righteousness shone upon that ardent heart, its aspirations had been glorious, its course

“Upward! upward! Through the doubt and the dismay Upward! to the perfect day!”

What mournful tragedies are ever around us, flowing on with the perpetual under-current of human life, each hour laden with its mystery and sorrow, sweeping like dim phantoms through the arch of time, and burying the fearful records in the oblivion of the abyss beyond! How few of the floating wrecks are snatched from the darkening tide!

I returned the next day to the dwelling of Helen, but it was shut up, and in the day-time appeared as if long deserted. To all inquiries, the neighbors answered reluctantly that it had long been uninhabited, and that its last occupants had been a gang of coiners, who were now suffering the penalty of transportation. I often visited the same district, but all my after-search was in vain, and the fate of Helen Corrie still remains an undiscovered mystery.

THE GOOD OLD TIMES IN PARIS.

The world, since it was a world at all, has ever been fond of singing the praises of the good old times. It would seem a general rule, that so soon as we get beyond a certain age, whatever that may be, we acquire a high opinion of the past, and grumble at every thing new under the sun. One cause of this may be, that distance lends enchantment to the view, and that the history of the past, like a landscape traveled over, loses in review all the rugged and wearisome annoyances that rendered it scarcely bearable in the journey. But it is hardly worth while to speculate upon the causes of an absurdity which a little candid retrospection will do more to dissipate than whole folios of philosophy. We can easily understand a man who sighs that he was not born a thousand years hence instead of twenty or thirty years ago, but that any one should encourage a regret that his lot in life was not cast a few centuries back, seems inexplicable on any rational grounds. The utter folly of praising the good old times may be illustrated by a reference to the wretched condition of most European cities; but we shall confine ourselves to the single case of Paris, now one of the most beautiful capitals in the world.

In the thirteenth century the streets of Paris were not paved; they were muddy and filthy to a very horrible degree, and swine constantly loitered about and fed in them. At night there were no public lights, and assassinations and robberies were far from infrequent. At the beginning of the fourteenth century public lighting was begun on a limited scale; and at best only a few tallow candles were put up in prominent situations. The improvement, accordingly, did little good, and the numerous bands of thieves had it still pretty much their own way. Severity of punishment seldom compensates the want of precautionary measures. It was the general custom at this period to cut off the ears of a condemned thief after the term of his imprisonment had elapsed. This was done that offenders might be readily recognized should they dare again to enter the city, banishment from which was a part of the sentence of such as were destined to be cropped. But they often found it easier to fabricate false ears than to gain a livelihood away from the arena of their exploits; and this measure, severe and cruel as it was, was found inefficient to rid the capital of their presence.

Among the various adventures with thieves, detailed by an author contemporaneous with Louis XIII., the following affords a rich example of the organization of the domestic brigands of the time, and of the wretched security which the capital afforded to its inhabitants:

A celebrated advocate named Polidamor had by his reputation for riches aroused the covetousness of some chiefs of a band of brigands, who flattered themselves that could they catch him they would obtain possession of an important sum. They placed upon his track three bold fellows, who, after many fruitless endeavors, encountered him one evening accompanied only by a single lackey. Seizing fast hold of himself and attendant, they rifled him in a twinkling; and as he had accidentally left his purse at home, they took his rich cloak of Spanish cloth and silk, which was quite new, and of great value. Polidamor, who at first resisted, found himself compelled to yield to force, but asked as a favor to be allowed to redeem his mantle. This was agreed to at the price of thirty pistoles; and the rogues appointed a rendezvous the next day, at six in the evening, on the same spot, for the purpose of effecting the exchange. They recommended him to come alone, assuring him that his life would be endangered should he appear accompanied with an escort. Polidamor repaired to the place at the appointed hour, and after a few moments of expectation he saw a carriage approaching in which were seated four persons in the garb of gentlemen. They descended from the vehicle, and one of them, advancing toward the advocate, asked him in a low voice if he were not in search of a cloak of Spanish cloth and silk. The victim replied in the affirmative, and declared himself prepared to redeem it at the sum at which it had been taxed. The thieves having assured themselves that he was alone, seized him, and made him get into the carriage; and one of them presenting a pistol to his breast, bade him hold his tongue under pain of instant death, while another blindfolded him. As the advocate trembled with fear, they assured him that no harm was intended, and bade the coachman drive on.

After a rapid flight, which was yet long enough to inspire the prisoner with deadly terror, the carriage stopped in front of a large mansion, the gate of which opened to receive them, and closed again as soon as they had passed the threshold. The robbers alighted with their captive, from whose eyes they now removed the bandage. He was led into an immense saloon, where were a number of tables, upon which the choicest viands were profusely spread, and seated at which was a company of gentlemanly-looking personages, who chatted familiarly together without the slightest demonstration of confusion or alarm. His guardians again enjoined him to lay aside all fear, informed him that he was in good society, and that they had brought him there solely that they might enjoy the pleasure of his company at supper. In the mean while water was served to the guests, that they might wash their hands before sitting at table. Every man took his place, and a seat was assigned to Polidamor at the upper and privileged end of the board. Astonished, or rather stupefied at the strange circumstances of his adventure, he would willingly have abstained from taking any part in the repast; but he was compelled to make a show of eating, in order to dissemble his mistrust and agitation. When the supper was ended and the tables were removed, one of the gentlemen who had assisted in his capture accosted him with polite expressions of regret at his want of appetite. During the interchange of courtesies which ensued, one of the bandits took a lute, another a viol, and the party began to amuse themselves with music. The advocate was then invited to walk into a neighboring room, where he perceived a considerable number of mantles ranged in order. He was desired to select his own, and to count out the thirty pistoles agreed upon, together with one for coach-hire, and one more for his share of the reckoning at supper. Polidamor, who had been apprehensive that the drama of which his mantle had been the occasion might have a very different _dénouement_, was but too well pleased to be quit at such a cost, and he took leave of the assembly with unfeigned expressions of gratitude. The carriage was called, and before entering it he was again blindfolded; his former conductors returned with him to the spot where he had been seized, where, removing the bandage from his eyes, they allowed him to alight, presenting him at the same moment with a ticket sealed with green wax, and having these words inscribed in large letters, “_Freed by the Great Band_.” This ticket was a passport securing his mantle, purse, and person against all further assaults. Hastening to regain his residence with all speed, he was assailed at a narrow turning by three other rascals, who demanded his purse or his life. The advocate drew his ticket from his pocket, though he had no great faith in it as a preservative, and presented it to the thieves. One of them, provided with a dark lantern, read it, returned it, and recommended him to make haste home, where he at last arrived in safety.

Early in the seventeenth century the Parisian rogues availed themselves of the regulations against the use of snuff to pillage the snuff-takers. As the sale of this article was forbidden by law to any but grocers and apothecaries, and as even they could only retail it to persons provided with the certificate of a medical man, the annoyance of such restrictions was loudly complained of. The rogues, ever ready to profit by circumstances, opened houses for gaming—at that period almost a universal vice—where “snuff at discretion” was a tempting bait to those long accustomed to a gratification all the more agreeable because it was forbidden. Here the snuff-takers were diligently plied with wine, and then cheated of their money; or, if too temperate or suspicious to drink to excess, they were unceremoniously plundered in a sham quarrel. To such a length was this practice carried, that an ordinance was at length issued in 1629, strictly forbidding all snuff-takers from assembling in public places or elsewhere, “_pour satisfaire leur goút_!”

The thieves of the good old times were not only more numerous in proportion to the population than they are at present, but were also distinguished by greater audacity and cruelty.—They had recourse to the most diabolical ingenuity to subdue the resistance and to prevent the outcries of their victims. Under the rule of Henry IV. a band of brigands arose, who, in the garb, and with the manners of gentlemen, introduced themselves into the best houses under the pretext of private business, and when alone with the master, demanded his money at the dagger’s point. Some of them made use of a gag—a contrivance designated at the period the _poire d’angoisse_. This instrument was of a spherical shape, and pierced all over with small holes; it was forced into the mouth of the person intended to be robbed, and upon touching a spring sharp points protruded from every hole, at once inflicting the most horrible anguish, and preventing the sufferer from uttering a single cry. It could not be withdrawn but by the use of the proper key, which contracted the spring. This device was adopted universally by one savage band, and occasioned immense misery not only in Paris, but throughout France.

An Italian thief, an enterprising and ingenious rogue, adopted a singular expedient for robbing women at their devotions in church. He placed himself on his knees by the side of his intended prey, holding in a pair of artificial hands a book of devotion, to which he made a show of the most devout attention, while with his natural hands he cut the watch or purse-string of his unsuspecting neighbor. This stratagem, favored by the fashion, then general, of wearing mantles, met with great success, and of course soon produced a host of clumsy imitators, and excited the vigilance of the police, who at length made so many seizures of solemn-faced devotees provided with wooden kid-gloved hands, that it fell into complete discredit, and was at last abandoned by the profession.

Cunning as were the rogues of a past age, they were liable to capture like their modern successors. A gentleman having resorted to Paris on business, was hustled one day in the precincts of the palace, and robbed of his well-filled purse. Furious at the loss of a considerable sum, he swore to be avenged. He procured a clever mechanic, who, under his directions, contrived a kind of hand-trap for the pocket, managed in such a manner as to preclude the possibility of an attempt at purse-stealing without detection. Having fixed the instrument in its place, impatient for the revenge he had promised himself, he sallied forth to promenade the public walks, mingled with every group, and stopped from time to time gazing about him with the air of a greenhorn. Several days passed before any thing resulted from his plan; but one morning, while he was gaping at the portraits of the kings of France in one of the public galleries, he finds himself surrounded and pushed about, precisely as in the former instance; he feels a hand insinuating itself gently into the open snare, and hears immediately the click of the instrument, which assures him that the delinquent is safely caught. Taking no notice, he walks on as if nothing had happened, and resumes his promenade, drawing after him the thief, whom pain and shame prevented from making the least effort to disengage his hand. Occasionally the gentleman would turn round, and rebuke his unwilling follower for his importunity, and thus drew the eyes of the whole crowd upon his awkward position. At last, pretending to observe for the first time the stranger’s hand in his pocket, he flies into a violent passion, accuses him of being a cut-purse, and demands the sum he had previously lost, without which he declares the villain shall be hanged. It would seem that compounding a felony was nothing in those days; for it is upon record that the thief, though caught in the act, was permitted to send a messenger to his comrades, who advanced the money, and therewith purchased his liberty.

The people were forbidden to employ particular materials in the fabrication of their clothing, to ride in a coach, to decorate their apartments as they chose, to purchase certain articles of furniture, and even to give a dinner-party when and in what style they chose. Under the Valois régime strict limits were assigned to the expenses of the table, determining the number of courses of which a banquet should consist, and that of the dishes of which each course was to be composed. Any guest who should fail to denounce an infraction of the law of which he had been a witness, was liable to a fine of forty livres; and officers of justice, who might be present, were strictly enjoined to quit the tables of their hosts, and institute immediate proceedings against them. The rigor of these regulations extended even to the kitchen, and the police had the power of entry at all hours, to enforce compliance with the statutes.

But it was during the prevalence of an epidemic that it was least agreeable to live in France in the good old times. No sooner did a contagious malady, or one that was supposed to be so, make its appearance, than the inhabitants of Paris were all forbidden to remove from one residence to another, although their term of tenancy had expired, until the judge of police had received satisfactory evidence that the house they desired to leave had not been affected by the contagion. When a house was infected, a bundle of straw fastened to one of the windows warned the public to avoid all intercourse with the inmates. At a later period two wooden crosses were substituted for the straw, one of which was attached to the front door, and the other to one of the windows in an upper story. In 1596 the provost of Paris having learned that the tenants of some houses infected by an epidemic which was then making great ravages, had removed these badges, issued an ordinance commanding that those who transgressed in a similar manner again should suffer the loss of the right hand—a threat which was found perfectly efficient.

By an ordinance of 1533, persons recovering from a contagious malady, together with their domestics, and all the members of their families, were forbidden to appear in the streets for a given period without a white wand in their hands, to warn the public of the danger of contact.—Three years after, the authorities were yet more severe against the convalescents, who were ordered to remain shut up at home for forty days after their cure; and even when the quarantine had expired, they were not allowed to appear in the streets until they had presented to a magistrate a certificate from the commissary of their district, attested by a declaration of six house-holders, that the forty days had elapsed. In the preceding century (in 1498) an ordinance still more extraordinary had been issued. It was at the coronation of Louis XII., when a great number of the nobles came to Paris to take part in the ceremony. The provost, desiring to guard them from the danger of infection, published an order that all persons of both sexes, suffering under certain specified maladies, should quit the capital in twenty-four hours, _under the penalty of being thrown into the river_!

VISION OF CHARLES XI.

We are in the habit of laughing incredulously at stories of visions and supernatural apparitions, yet some are so well authenticated, that if we refuse to believe them, we should, in consistency, reject all historical evidence. The fact I am about to relate is guaranteed by a declaration signed by four credible witnesses; I will only add, that the prediction contained in this declaration was well known, and generally spoken of, long before the occurrence of the events which have apparently fulfilled it.

Charles XI. father of the celebrated Charles XII. was one of the most despotic, but, at the same time, wisest monarchs, who ever reigned in Sweden. He curtailed the enormous privileges of the nobility, abolished the power of the Senate, made laws on his own authority; in a word, he changed the constitution of the country, hitherto an oligarchy, and forced the States to invest him with absolute power. He was a man of an enlightened and strong mind, firmly attached to the Lutheran religion; his disposition was cold, unfeeling, and phlegmatic, utterly destitute of imagination. He had just lost his queen, Ulrica Eleonora, and he appeared to feel her death more than could have been expected from a man of his character. He became even more gloomy and silent than before, and his incessant application to business proved his anxiety to banish painful reflections.

Toward the close of an autumn evening, he was sitting in his dressing-gown and slippers, before a large fire, in his private apartment. His chamberlain, Count Brahe, and his physician, Baumgarten, were with him. The evening wore away, and his Majesty did not dismiss them as usual; with his head down and his eyes fixed on the fire, he maintained a profound silence, weary of his guests, and fearing, half unconsciously, to remain alone. The count and his companion tried various subjects of conversation, but could interest him in nothing. At length Brahe, who supposed that sorrow for the queen was the cause of his depression, said with a deep sigh, and pointing to her portrait, which hung in the room,

“What a likeness that is! How truly it gives the expression, at once so gentle and so dignified!”

“Nonsense!” said the king, angrily, “the portrait is far too flattering; the queen was decidedly plain.”

Then, vexed at his unkind words, he rose and walked up and down the room, to hide an emotion at which he blushed. After a few minutes he stopped before the window looking into the court; the night was black, and the moon in her first quarter.

The palace where the kings of Sweden now reside was not completed, and Charles XI. who commenced it, inhabited the old palace, situated on the Ritzholm, facing Lake Modu. It is a large building in the form of a horseshoe: the king’s private apartments were in one of the extremities; opposite was the great hall where the States assembled to receive communications from the crown. The windows of that hall suddenly appeared illuminated. The king was startled, but at first supposed that a servant with a light was passing through; but then, that hall was never opened except on state occasions, and the light was too brilliant to be caused by a single lamp. It then occurred to him that it must be a conflagration; but there was no smoke, and the glass was not broken; it had rather the appearance of an illumination. Brahe’s attention being called to it, he proposed sending one of the pages to ascertain the cause of the light, but the king stopped him, saying, he would go himself to the hall. He left the room, followed by the count and doctor, with lighted torches. Baumgarten called the man who had charge of the keys, and ordered him, in the king’s name, to open the doors of the great hall. Great was his surprise at this unexpected command. He dressed himself quickly, and came to the king with his bunch of keys. He opened the first door of a gallery which served as an ante-chamber to the hall. The king entered, and what was his amazement at finding the walls hung with black.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked he.

The man replied, that he did not know what to make of it, adding, “When the gallery was last opened, there was certainly no hanging over the oak paneling.”

The king walked on to the door of the hall.

“Go no further, for heaven’s sake,” exclaimed the man; “surely there is sorcery going on inside. At this hour, since the queen’s death, they say she walks up and down here. May God protect us!”

“Stop, sire,” cried the count and Baumgarten together, “don’t you hear that noise? Who knows to what dangers you are exposing yourself! At all events, allow me to summon the guards.”

“I will go in,” said the king, firmly; “open the door at once.”

The man’s hand trembled so that he could not turn the key.

“A fine thing to see an old soldier frightened,” said the king, shrugging his shoulders; “come count, will you open the door?”

“Sire,” replied Brahe, “let your Majesty command me to march to the mouth of a Danish or German cannon, and I will obey unhesitatingly, but I can not defy hell itself.”

“Well,” said the king, in a tone of contempt, “I can do it myself.”

He took the key, opened the massive oak door, and entered the hall, pronouncing the words “With the help of God.” His three attendants, whose curiosity overcame their fears, or who, perhaps, were ashamed to desert their sovereign, followed him. The hall was lighted by an innumerable number of torches. A black hanging had replaced the old tapestry. The benches round the hall were occupied by a multitude, all dressed in black; their faces were so dazzlingly bright that the four spectators of this scene were unable to distinguish one among them. On an elevated throne, from which the king was accustomed to address the assembly, sat a bloody corpse, as if wounded in several parts, and covered with the ensigns of royalty; on his right stood a child, a crown on his head, and a sceptre in his hand; at his left an old man leant on the throne; he was dressed in the mantle formerly worn by the administrators of Sweden, before it became a kingdom under Gustavus Vasa. Before the throne were seated several grave, austere looking personages, in long black robes. Between the throne and the benches of the assembly was a block covered with black crape; an ax lay beside it. No one in the vast assembly appeared conscious of the presence of Charles and his companions. On their entrance they heard nothing but a confused murmur, in which they could distinguish no words. Then the most venerable of the judges in the black robes, he who seemed to be their president, rose, and struck his hand five times on a folio volume which lay open before him. Immediately there was a profound silence, and some young men, richly dressed, their hands tied behind their backs, entered the hall by a door opposite to that which Charles had opened. He who walked first, and who appeared the most important of the prisoners, stopped in the middle of the hall, before the block, which he looked at with supreme contempt. At the same time the corpse on the throne trembled convulsively, and a crimson stream flowed from his wounds. The young man knelt down, laid his head on the block, the ax glittered in the air for a moment, descended on the block, the head rolled over the marble pavement, and reached the feet of the king, and stained his slipper with blood. Until this moment surprise had kept Charles silent, but this horrible spectacle roused him, and advancing two or three steps toward the throne, he boldly addressed the figure on its left in the well-known formulary, “If thou art of God, speak; if of the other, leave us in peace.”

The phantom answered slowly and solemnly, “King Charles, this blood will not flow in thy time, but five reigns after.” Here the voice became less distinct, “Woe, woe, woe to the blood of Vasa!” The forms of all the assembly now became less clear, and seemed but colored shades: soon they entirely disappeared; the lights were extinguished; still they heard a melodious noise, which one of the witnesses compared to the murmuring of the wind among the trees, another to the sound a harp string gives in breaking. All agreed as to the duration of the apparition, which they said lasted ten minutes. The hangings, the head, the waves of blood, all had disappeared with the phantoms, but Charles’s slipper still retained a crimson stain, which alone would have served to remind him of the scenes of this night, if indeed they had not been but too well engraven on his memory.

When the king returned to his apartment, he wrote an account of what he had seen, and he and his companions signed it. In spite of all the precautions taken to keep these circumstances private, they were well known, even during the lifetime of Charles, and no one hitherto has thought fit to raise doubts as to their authenticity.

STREET-SCENES OF THE FRENCH USURPATION.

A writer in Dickens’s Household Words gives a graphic sketch of a visit to Paris during the recent usurpation of Louis Napoleon, and of the scenes of butchery which occurred in the streets. On arriving in Paris, he says, every thing spoke of the state of siege. The newspapers were in a state of siege; for the Government had suspended all but its own immediate organs. The offices of the sententious “Siècle,” the mercurial “Presse,” the satiric “Charivari,” the jovial “Journal pour Rire,” were occupied by the military; and, to us English, they whispered even of a park of artillery in the Rue Vivienne, and of a government proof-reader in the printing-office of “Galignani’s Messenger,” striking out obnoxious paragraphs by the dozen. The provisions were in a state of siege, the milk was out, and no one would volunteer to go to the _crêmiers_ for more; the cabs, the _commissionnaires_ with their trucks, were besieged; the very gas was slow in coming from the main, as though the pipes were in a state of siege. Nobody could think or speak of any thing but this confounded siege. Thought itself appeared to be beleaguered; for no one dared to give it any thing but a cautious and qualified utterance. The hotel was full of English ladies and gentlemen, who would have been delighted to go away by the first train on any of the railways; but there might just as well have been no railways, for all the good they were, seeing that it was impossible to get to or from the termini with safety. The gentlemen were valorous, certainly—there was a prevalence of “who’s afraid?” sentiments; but they read the French Bradshaw earnestly, and gazed at the map of Paris with nervous interest—beating, meanwhile, the devil’s tattoo. As for the ladies, dear creatures, they made no secret of their extreme terror and despair. The lone old lady, who is frightened at every thing, and who will not even travel in an omnibus with a sword in a case, for fear it should go off, was paralyzed with fear, and could only ejaculate, “Massacre!” The strong-minded lady of a certain age, who had longed for the “pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war,” had taken refuge in that excellent collection of tracts, of which “The Dairyman’s Daughter,” is one; and gave short yelps of fear whenever the door opened. Fear, like every other emotion, is contagious. Remarking so many white faces, so much subdued utterance, so many cowed and terrified looks, I thought it very likely that I might get frightened, too. So, having been up all the previous night, I went to bed.

I slept; I dreamt of a locomotive engine blowing up and turning into the last scene of a pantomime, with “state of siege” displayed in colored fires. I dreamt I lived next door to an undertaker, or a trunk-maker, or a manufacturer of fire-works. I awoke to the rattle of musketry in the distance—soon, too soon, to be followed by the roar of the cannon.

I am not a fighting man. “’Tis not my vocation, Hal.” I am not ashamed to say that I did _not_ gird my sword on my thigh, and sally out to conquer or to die; that I did not ensconce myself at a second floor window, and pick off _à la Charles IX._, the leaders of the enemy below.—Had I been “our own correspondent,” I might have written, in the intervals of fighting, terrific accounts of the combat on cartridge paper, with a pen made from a bayonet, dipped in gunpowder and gore. Had I been “our own artist,” I might have mounted a monster barricade—waving the flag of Freedom with one hand, and taking sketches with the other. But being neither, I did not do any thing of the kind. I will tell you what I did: I withdrew, with seven Englishmen as valorous as myself, to an apartment, which I have reason to believe is below the basement floor; and there, in company with sundry _carafons_ of particular cognac, and a large box of cigars, passed the remainder of the day.

I sincerely hope that I shall never pass such another. We rallied each other, talked, laughed, and essayed to sing; but the awful consciousness of the horror of our situation hung over us all—the knowledge that within a few hundred yards of us God’s image was being wantonly defaced; that in the streets hard by, in the heart of the most civilized city of the world, within a stone’s throw of all that is gay, luxurious, splendid, in Paris, men—speaking the same language, worshiping the same God—were shooting each other like wild beasts; that every time we heard the sharp crackling of the musketry, a message of death was gone forth to hundreds; that every time the infernal artillery—“nearer, clearer, deadlier than before”—broke, roaring on the ear, the ground was cumbered with corpses. Glorious war! I should like the amateurs of sham fights, showy reviews, and scientific ball practice, to have sat with us in the cellar that same Thursday, and listened to the rattle and the roar. I should like them to have been present, when venturing up during a lull, about half-past four, and glancing nervously from our _porte-cochère_, a regiment of dragoons came thundering past, pointing their pistols at the windows, and shouting at those within, with oaths to retire from them. I should like the young ladies who waltz with the “dear Lancers,” to have seen _these_ Lancers, in stained white cloaks, with their murderous weapons couched. I should like those who admire the Horse Guards—the prancing steeds, the shining casques and cuirasses, the massive epaulets and dangling sabres, the trim mustache, irreproachable buckskins, and dazzling jack-boots—to have seen these cuirassiers gallop by: their sorry horses covered with mud and sweat; their haggard faces blackened with gunpowder; their shabby accoutrements and battered helmets. The bloody swords, the dirt, the hoarse voices, unkempt beards. Glorious war! I think the sight of those horrible troopers would do more to cure its admirers than all the orators of the Peace Society could do in a twelve-month!

We dined—without the ladies, of course—and sat up until very late; the cannon and musketry roaring meanwhile, till nearly midnight. Then it stopped—

To recommence again, however, on the next (Friday) morning. Yesterday they had been fighting all day on the Boulevards, from the Madeleine to the Temple. To-day, they were murdering each other at Belleville, at La Chapelle St. Denis, at Montmartre. Happily the firing ceased at about nine o’clock, and we heard no more.

I do not, of course, pretend to give any account of what really took place in the streets on Thursday; how many barricades were erected, and how they were defended or destroyed. I do not presume to treat of the details of the combat myself, confining what I have to say to a description of what I really saw of the social aspect of the city. The journals have given full accounts of what brigades executed what manœuvres, of how many were shot to death here, and how many bayoneted there.

On Friday at noon, the embargo on the cabs was removed—although that on the omnibuses continued; and circulation for foot passengers became tolerably safe, in the Quartier St. Honoré, and on the Boulevards. I went into an English chemist’s shop in the Rue de la Paix, for a bottle of soda-water. The chemist was lying dead up-stairs, shot. He was going from his shop to another establishment he had in the Faubourg Poissonière, to have the shutters shut, apprehending a disturbance. Entangled for a moment on the Boulevard, close to the Rue Lepelletier, among a crowd of well-dressed persons, principally English and Americans, an order was given to clear the Boulevard. A charge of Lancers was made, the men firing their pistols wantonly among the flying crowd; and the chemist was shot dead. Scores of similar incidents took place on that dreadful Thursday afternoon.—Friends, acquaintances of my own, had friends, neighbors, relations, servants, killed. Yet it was all accident, chance-medley—excusable, of course. How were the soldiers to distinguish between insurgents and sight-seers? These murders were, after all, but a few of the thorns to be found in the rose-bush of glorious war!

From the street which in old Paris times used to go by the name of the Rue Royale, and which I know by the token that there is an English pastry-cook’s on the right-hand side, coming down; where in old days I used (a small lad then at the Collège Bourbon) to spend my half-holidays in consuming real English cheesecakes, and thinking of home—in the Rue Royale, now called, I think, Rue de la République; I walked on to the place, and by the Boulevard de la Madeleine, des Italiens, and so by the long line of that magnificent thoroughfare, to within a few streets of the Porte St. Denis. Here I stopped, for the simple reason that a hedge of soldiery bristled ominously across the road, close to the Rue de Faubourg Montmartre, and that the commanding officer would let neither man, woman, nor child pass. The Boulevards were crowded, almost impassable in fact, with persons of every grade, from the “lion” of the Jockey Club, or the English nobleman, to the pretty grisette in her white cap, and the scowling, bearded citizen, clad in blouse and _calotte_, and looking very much as if he knew more of a barricade than he chose to aver. The houses on either side of the way bore frightful traces of the combat of the previous day. The Maison Doré, the Café Anglais, the Opéra Comique, Tortoni’s, the Jockey Club, the Belle Jardinière, the Hôtel des Affaires Etrangères, and scores, I might almost say hundreds of the houses had their windows smashed, or the magnificent sheets of plate-glass starred with balls; the walls pockmarked with bullets: seamed and scarred and blackened with gunpowder. A grocer, close to the Rue de Marivaux, told me that he had not been able to open his door that morning for the dead bodies piled on the step before it. Round all the young trees (the old trees were cut down for former barricades in February and June, 1848), the ground shelves a little in a circle; in these circles there were pools of blood. The people—the extraordinary, inimitable, consistently inconsistent French people—were unconcernedly lounging about, looking at these things with pleased yet languid curiosity. They paddled in the pools of blood; they traced curiously the struggles of some wounded wretch, who, shot or sabred on the curbstone, had painfully, deviously, dragged himself (so the gouts of blood showed) to a door-step—to die. They felt the walls, pitted by musket bullets; they poked their walking-sticks into the holes made by the cannon-balls. It was as good as a play to them.

The road on either side was lined with dragoons armed _cap-a-pié_. The poor tired horses were munching the forage with which the muddy ground was strewn; and the troopers sprawled listlessly about, smoking their short pipes, and mending their torn costume or shattered accoutrements. Indulging, however, in the _dolce far niente_, as they seemed to be, they were ready for action at a moment’s notice. There was, about two o’clock, an _alerte_—a rumor of some tumult toward the Rue St. Denis. One solitary trumpet sounded “boot and saddle;” and, with almost magical celerity, each dragoon twisted a quantity of forage into a species of rope, which he hung over his saddle-bow, crammed his half-demolished loaf into his holsters, buckled on his cuirass; then, springing himself on his horse, sat motionless: each cavalier with his pistol cocked, and his finger on the trigger. The crowd thickened; and in the road itself there was a single file of cabs, carts, and even private carriages. Almost every moment detachments of prisoners, mostly blouses, passed, escorted by cavalry; then a yellow flag was seen, announcing the approach of an ambulance, or long covered vehicle, filled with wounded soldiers; then hearses; more prisoners, more ambulances, orderly dragoons at full gallop, orderlies, military surgeons in their cocked hats and long frock coats, broughams with smart general officers inside, all smoking.

As to the soldiers, they appear never to leave off smoking. They smoke in the guard-room, off duty, and even when on guard. An eye-witness of the combat told me that many of the soldiers had, when charging, short pipes in their mouths, and the officers, almost invariably, smoked cigars.

At three, there was more trumpeting, more drumming, a general backing of horses on the foot-passengers, announcing the approach of some important event. A cloud of cavalry came galloping by; then, a numerous and brilliant group of staff-officers. In the midst of these, attired in the uniform of a general of the National Guard, rode Louis Napoleon Bonaparte.

I saw him again the following day in the Champs Elysée, riding with a single English groom behind him; and again in a chariot, escorted by cuirassiers.

When he had passed, I essayed a further progress toward the Rue St. Denis; but the hedge of bayonets still bristled as ominously as ever. I went into a little tobacconist’s shop; and the pretty _marchande_ showed me a frightful trace of the passage of a cannon ball, which had gone right through the shutter and glass, smashed cases on cases of cigars, and half demolished the little tobacconist’s parlor.

My countrymen were in great force on the Boulevards, walking arm and arm, four abreast, as it is the proud custom of Britons to do. From them, I heard, how Major Pongo, of the Company’s service, would certainly have placed his sword at the disposal of the Government in support of law and order, had he not been confined to his bed with a severe attack of rheumatism: how Mr. Bellows, Parisian correspondent to the “Evening Grumbler,” had been actually led out to be shot, and was only saved by the interposition of his tailor, who was a sergeant in the National Guard; and who, passing by, though not on duty, exerted his influence with the military authorities, to save the life of Mr. Bellows; how the Reverend Mr. Faldstool, _ministre Anglican_, was discovered in a corn-bin, moaning piteously: how Bluckey, the man who talked so much about the Pytchley hounds, and of the astonishing leaps he had taken when riding after them, concealed himself in a coal-cellar, and lying down on his face, never stirred from that position from noon till midnight on Thursday (although I, to be sure, have no right to taunt him with his prudence): how, finally, M’Gropus, the Scotch surgeon, bolted incontinently in a cab, with an immense quantity of luggage, toward the _Chemin-de-fer du Nord_; and, being stopped in the Rue St. Denis, was ignominiously turned out of his vehicle by the mob; the cab, together with M’Gropus’s trunks, being immediately converted into the nucleus of a barricade:—how, returning the following morning to see whether he could recover any portion of his effects, he found the barricades in the possession of the military, who were quietly cooking their soup over a fire principally fed by the remnants of his trunks and portmanteaus; whereupon, frantically endeavoring to rescue some _disjecta membra_ of his property from the wreck, he was hustled and bonneted by the soldiery, threatened with arrest, and summary military vengeance, and ultimately paraded from the vicinity of the bivouac, by bayonets with sharp points.

With the merits or demerits of the struggle, I have nothing to do. But I saw the horrible ferocity and brutality of this ruthless soldiery. I saw them bursting into shops, to search for arms or fugitives; dragging the inmates forth, like sheep from a slaughter-house, smashing the furniture and windows. I saw them, when making a passage for a convoy of prisoners, or a wagon full of wounded, strike wantonly at the bystanders, with the butt-ends of their muskets, and thrust at them with their bayonets. I might have seen more; but my exploring inclination was rapidly subdued by a gigantic Lancer at the corner of the Rue Richelieu; who seeing me stand still for a moment, stooped from his horse, and putting his pistol to my head (right between the eyes) told me to “_traverser_!” As I believed he would infallibly have blown my brains out in another minute, I turned and fled. So much for what I saw. I know, as far as a man can know, from trustworthy persons, from eye-witnesses, from patent and notorious report, that the military, who are now the sole and supreme masters of that unhappy city and country, have been perpetrating most frightful barbarities since the riots were over. I know that, from the Thursday I arrived, to the Thursday I left Paris, they were daily shooting their prisoners in cold blood; that a man, caught on the Pont Neuf, drunk with the gunpowder-brandy of the cabarets, and shouting some balderdash about the _République démocratique et sociale_, was dragged into the Prefecture of Police, and, some soldiers’ cartridges having been found in his pocket, was led into the court-yard, and there and then, untried, unshriven, unaneled—shot! I know that in the Champ de Mars one hundred and fifty-six men were executed; and I _heard_ one horrible story (so horrible that I can scarcely credit it) that a batch of prisoners were tied together with ropes like a fagot of wood; and that the struggling mass was fired into, until not a limb moved, nor a groan was uttered. I know—and my informant was a clerk in the office of the Ministry of War—that the official return of insurgents killed was _two thousand and seven_, and of soldiers _fifteen_. Rather long odds!

We were in-doors betimes this Friday evening, comparing notes busily, as to what we had seen during the day. We momentarily expected to hear the artillery again, but, thank Heaven, the bloodshed in the streets at least was over; and though Paris was still a city in a siege, the barricades were all demolished; and another struggle was for the moment crushed.

The streets next day were full of hearses; but even the number of funerals that took place were insignificant, in comparison to the stacks of corpses which were cast into deep trenches without shroud or coffin, and covered with quicklime. I went to the Morgue in the afternoon, and found that dismal charnel-house fully tenanted. Every one of the fourteen beds had a corpse; some, dead with gunshot wounds; some, sabred; some, horribly mutilated by cannon-balls. There was a _queue_ outside of at least two thousand people, laughing, talking, smoking, eating apples, as though it was some pleasant spectacle they were going to, instead of that frightful exhibition. Yet, in this laughing, talking, smoking crowd, there were fathers who had missed their sons; sons who came there dreading to see the corpses of their fathers; wives of Socialist workmen, sick with the almost certainty of finding the bodies of their husbands. The bodies were only exposed six hours; but the clothes remained—a very grove of blouses. The neighboring churches were hung with black, and there were funeral services at St. Roch and at the Madeleine.

And yet—with this Golgotha so close; with the blood not yet dry on the Boulevards; with corpses yet lying about the streets; with five thousand soldiers bivouacking in the Champs Elysées; with mourning and lamentation in almost every street; with a brutal military in almost every printing-office, tavern, café; with proclamations threatening death and confiscation covering the walls; with the city in a siege, without a legislature, without laws, without a government—this extraordinary people was, the next night, dancing and flirting at the Salle Valentino, or the Prado, lounging in the _foyers_ of the Italian Opera, gossiping over their _eau-sucrée_, or squabbling over their dominoes outside and inside the cafés. I saw Rachel in “Les Horaces;” I went to the _Variétés_, the _Opéra Comique_, and no end of theatres; and as we walked home at night through lines of soldiers, brooding over their bivouacs, I went into a restaurant, and asking whether it had been a ball which had starred the magnificent pier-glass before me, got for answer, “Ball, sir!—cannon-ball, sir!—yes, sir!” for all the world as though I had inquired about the mutton being in good cut, or asparagus in season!

So, while they were shooting prisoners and dancing the Schottische at the Casino; burying their dead; selling _breloques_ for watch-chains in the Palais Royal; demolishing barricades, and staring at the caricatures in M. Aubert’s windows; taking the wounded to the hospitals, and stock-jobbing on the Bourse; I went about my business, as well as the state of siege would let me. Turning my face homeward, I took the Rouen and Havre Railway, and so, _viâ_ Southampton, to London. As I saw the last cocked hat of the last gendarme disappear with the receding pier at Havre, a pleasant vision of the blue-coats, oil-skin hats, and lettered collars of the land I was going to, swam before my eyes; and, I must say that, descending the companion-ladder, I thanked Heaven I was an Englishman. I was excessively sea-sick, but not the less thankful; and getting at last to sleep, dreamed of the Bill of Rights and Habeas Corpus. I wonder how _they_ would flourish amidst Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, and Musketry!

WHAT BECOMES OF THE RIND?

Of all the occupations that exercise the ordinary energies of human beings, the most abstracting is that of sucking an orange. It seems to employ the whole faculties for the time being. There is an earnestness of purpose in the individual so employed—an impassioned determination to accomplish what he has undertaken—that creates a kindred excitement in the bystanders. His air is thoughtful; his eye severe, not to say relentless; and although his mouth is full of inarticulate sounds, conversation is out of the question. But the mind is busy although the tongue is silent; and when the deed is accomplished, the collapsed spheroid seems to swell anew with the ideas to which the exercise had given birth. One of these ideas we shall catch and fix, for occurring as it did to ourselves, it is our own property: it was contained in the question that rose suddenly in our mind as we looked at the ruin we had made—What becomes of the rind?

And this is no light question; no unimportant or merely curious pastime for a vacant moment. In our case it became more and more serious; it clung and grappled, till it hung upon our meditations like the albatross round the neck of the Ancient Mariner. Only consider what a subject it embraces. The orange, it is true, and its congener the lemon, are Celestial fruits, owing their origin to the central flowery land; but, thanks to the Portuguese, they are now domesticated in Europe, and placed within the reach of such northern countries as ours, where the cold prohibits their growth. Some of us no doubt force them in an artificial climate, at the expense of perhaps half a guinea apiece; but the bulk of the nation are content to receive them from other regions at little more than the cost of apples. Now the quantity we (the English) thus import every year from the Azores, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Malta, and other places, is about 300,000 chests, and each of these chests contains about 650 oranges, all wrapped separately in paper. But beside these we are in the habit of purchasing a large quantity, entered at the custom-house by number, and several thousand pounds’ worth, entered at value; so that the whole number of oranges and lemons we consume in this country may be reckoned modestly at 220,000,000! Surely, then, it is not surprising that while engaged in the meditative employment alluded to, we should demand with a feeling of strong interest—What becomes of the rind?

Every body knows that Scotch marmalade uses up the rinds of a great many Seville oranges, as well as an unknown quantity of turnip skins and stalks of the bore-cole, the latter known to the Caledonian manipulators of the preserve as “kail-custocks.” Every body understands also, that not a few of the rinds of edible oranges take up a position on the pavement, where their mission is to bring about the downfall of sundry passers-by thus accomplishing the fracture of a not inconsiderable number—taking one month with another throughout the season—of arms, legs, and occiputs. It is likewise sufficiently public that a variety of drinks are assisted by the hot, pungent rinds of oranges and lemons as well as by the juice; but notwithstanding all these deductions, together with that of the great quantity thrown away as absolute refuse, we shall find a number of rinds unaccounted for large enough to puzzle by its magnitude the Statistical Society. This mystery, however, we have succeeded in penetrating, and although hardly hoping to carry the faith of the reader along with us, we proceed to unfold it: it is contained in the single monosyllable, _peel_.

Orange-peel, lemon-peel, citron-peel—these are the explanation: the last-mentioned fruit—imported from Sicily, Madeira, and the Canary Islands—being hardly distinguishable from a lemon except by its somewhat less acid pulp and more pungent rind. Even a very careless observer can hardly fail to be struck at this season by the heaps of those candied rinds displayed in the grocers’ windows; but the wildest imagination could not guess at any thing so extravagant as the quantity of the fruit thus used; and even when we learn that upward of 600 _tons of peel_ are manufactured in the year, it is a hopeless task to attempt to separate that prodigious bulk into its constituent parts. Six hundred tons of candied peel! of a condiment employed chiefly if not wholly, in small quantities in the composition of puddings and cakes. Six hundred tons—12,000 hundredweights—1,344,000 pounds—21,504,000 ounces! But having once got possession of the fact, see how suggestive it is. Let us lump the puddings and cakes in one; let us call them all puddings—plum-puddings of four pounds’ weight. We find, on consulting the best authorities—for we would not presume to dogmatize on such a subject—that the quantity of peel used in the composition of such a work is two ounces; and thus we are led to the conclusion that we Britishers devour in the course of a year 10,752,000 full-sized, respectable plum-puddings, irrespective of all such articles as are not adorned and enriched with candied peel.

Citrons intended for peel are imported in brine, but oranges and lemons in boxes. All are ripe in December, January, and February; but as it would be inconvenient to preserve so vast a quantity at the same time, the juice is squeezed out, and the collapsed fruit packed in pipes, with salt and water, till wanted. When the time for preserving comes, it is taken from the pipes, and boiled till soft enough to admit of the pulp being scooped out; then the rind is laid in tubs or cisterns, and melted sugar poured over it. Here it lies for three or four weeks; and then the sugar is drained away, and the rind placed on trays in a room constructed for the purpose. It now assumes the name of “dried peel,” and is stored away in the original orange and lemon boxes, till wanted for candying.

The other constituents of a plum-pudding add but little testimony on the subject of number. We can not even guess the proportion of the 170,000 lbs. of nutmegs we receive from the Moluccas, and our own possessions in the Malay Straits, which may be thus employed; nor how much cinnamon Ceylon sends us for the purpose in her annual remittance of about 16,000 lbs.;(6) nor what quantity of almonds is abstracted, with a similar view, from the 9000 cwts. we retain for our own consumption from the importations from Spain and Northern Africa. Currants are more to our purpose—for that small Corinth grape, the produce of the islands of Zante, Cephalonia, and Ithaca, and of the Morea, which comes to us so thickly coated with dust that we might seem to import vineyard and all—belongs, like the candied peel, almost exclusively to cakes and puddings. Of this fruit we devour in the year about 180,000 cwts. Raisins, being in more general use—at the dessert, for instance, and in making sweet wine—are in still greater demand; we can not do with less than 240,000 cwts of them. They are named from the place where they grow—such as Smyrna or Valencia; or from the grape—such as muscatel, bloom, or sultana; but the quality depends, we believe, chiefly on the mode of cure. The best are called raisins of the sun, and are preserved by cutting half through the stalks of the branches when nearly ripe, and leaving them to dry and candy in the genial rays. The next quality is gathered when completely ripe, dipped in a lye of the ashes of the burned tendrils, and spread out to bake in the sun. The inferior is dried in an oven. The black Smyrna grape is the cheapest; and the muscatels of Malaga are the dearest.

With flour, sugar, brandy, &c., we do not propose to interfere; for although the quantities of these articles thus consumed are immense, they bear but a small proportion to the whole importations. Eggs, however, are in a different category. Eggs are essential to the whole pudding race; and without having our minds opened, as they now are, to the full greatness of the plum-pudding, it would be difficult for us to discover the rationale of the vast trade we carry on in eggs. In our youthful days, when, as yet, plum-puddingism was with us in its early, empirical state, we used to consider “egg-merchant” a term of ridicule, resembling the term “timber-merchant,” as applied to a vender of matches. But we now look with respect upon an egg-merchant, as an individual who manages an important part of the trade of this country with France and Belgium; not to mention its internal traffic in the same commodity. It strikes us, however, that on this subject the Frenchman and Belgian are wiser in their generation than ourselves. We could produce our own eggs easily enough if we would take the trouble; but rather than do this we hire them to do it for us, at an expense of several scores of thousands sterling in the year. They, of course, are very much obliged to us, though a little amused no doubt at the eccentricity of John Bull; and with the utmost alacrity supply us annually with about 90,000,000 eggs. John eats his foreign pudding, however—he is partial to foreign things—with great gravity, and only unbends into a smile when he sees his few chickens hopping about the farm-yard, the amusement of his children, or the little perquisite, perhaps, of his wife. He occasionally eats a newly-laid egg, the date of its birth being carefully registered upon the shell; thinks it a very clever thing in him to provide his own luxuries; and is decidedly of opinion that an English egg is worth two of the mounseers’. His neglect of this branch of rural economy, however, does not prevent his wondering sometimes how these fellows contrive to make the two ends of the year meet, when he himself finds it so difficult a matter to get plums to his pudding.

What becomes of the rind? We have shown what becomes of the rind. We have shown what apparently inconsiderable matters swell up the commerce of a great country. A plum-pudding is no joke. It assembles within itself the contributions of the whole world, and gives a fillip to industry among the most distant tribes and nations. But it is important likewise in other respects. Morally and socially considered, its influence is immense. At this season of the year, more especially, it is a bond of family union, and a symbol of friendly hospitality. We would not give a straw for that man, woman, or child, in the frank, cordial circles of Old English life, who does not hail its appearance on the table with a smile and a word of welcome. Look at its round, brown, honest, unctuous face, dotted with almonds and fragrant peel, surmounted with a sprig of holly, and radiant amid the flames of burning brandy! Who is for plum-pudding? We are, to be sure. What a rich perfume as it breaks on the plate! And this fragrant peel, so distinguishable amid the exhalations! ha! Delaeioucious!—_that’s_ what becomes of the rind!

MAZZINI, THE ITALIAN LIBERAL.

Giuseppe Mazzini is descended from a highly honorable family, and of talented and respectable parentage; his father was an esteemed physician, and also professor of anatomy at the University in Genoa, his native city. His mother is still living, an excellent and dignified lady, as proud of her Giuseppe, as Madame Letitia was of her Napoleon.

When young, Mazzini was remarkably handsome, and will be deemed so now in his mature years, by all who, in the expression of his countenance, his dark intelligent eye, and expansive intellectual forehead, can overlook the deep, we may say premature furrows, traced in that forehead by the never resting labors of a mind of indomitable activity, the constantly renewing anxieties of a generous heart for the welfare of the human race; and above all for that oppressed portion of it which claimed his earliest sympathies, as his compatriots, his brothers, alike in the wrongs they labored under, and their determined resolution to combat with them in every shape, and to win in the contest, either a glorious victory, or an honorable death. The youth of Mazzini was spent in witnessing the struggles of his country for liberty. The fruitlessness of all these struggles, the conviction they carried with them in their repeated defeats, that there was something radically wrong in their organization, or in the manner in which they were carried out, only excited ardent desires in him to trace the evil to its root, and point out the remedy accordingly: his genius naturally bent toward studies,

“High passions and high actions best describing,”

concentrated all its energies upon the situation of Italy, and on the means of rescuing her from the despotism that preyed upon her very vitals, and rendered even the choicest gifts of nature, with which she is so abundantly endowed, not merely nugatory, but an absolute disadvantage and a curse.

The revolution in France of July, 1830, communicated an electric flame throughout Italy, which in the ensuing year kindled insurrections in Modena, Parma, and other departments: the light of victory hovered over them for a moment, but for a moment only. Aid had been hoped for from the Citizen King, but in his very outset Louis Philippe evinced the political caution which marked his reign. Austria, reassured by the conviction she felt of his determination to remain neuter in the struggles of others for the same freedom which had placed himself upon a throne, again advanced upon the cities she had evacuated; the insurgents disappointed, bewildered, paralyzed, offered no further resistance, and again all was wrapped in the gloom of despotism. Then came its invariable attendant denunciations, imprisonments, exile, to all who were suspected of a love of liberty, whether it had impelled them to deeds, or only influenced their words.

Mazzini, though a very young man at this period, was already known in Italy as an author. He had published a weekly literary Gazette, at Genoa, in 1828, called the “_Indicatore Genovese,_” but this journal being strangled, ere the year was out, under the double supervision of a civil and an ecclesiastical censorship, he began another at Leghorn under the title of the “_Indicatore Livornese_” which in a few months succumbed under the same fate. He then beguiled his forced inactivity with furnishing an admirable essay on European literature, and other contributions, to the “_Antologia di Firenze_,” but the review was made the subject of a prosecution, soon after its commencement, at the instigation of the Austrian government, and was finally suppressed. Under these circumstances it was not likely that Mazzini would escape the fate of his party. He was put under arrest, along with many others, though it should seem that the strongest accusation which could be brought against him was that he indulged in habits of thinking; for when his father went to the governor of the city to inquire what offense his son had committed, that could authorize his arrest, the worthy functionary, who appears himself to have belonged to the _Dogberry_ faction, could only allege that the young man was “in the habit of walking every evening in the fields and gardens of the suburbs, alone, and wrapped in meditation;” wisely adding, as his own comment on the matter, “What on earth can he have at his age to think about? we do not like so much thinking on the part of young people, without knowing the subject of their thoughts.”

Mazzini and his companions were tried at Turin by a commission of Senators, embodied for the purpose; they were all acquitted for want of any evidence against them, of evil acts or intentions: nevertheless Mazzini, notwithstanding this virtual acknowledgment of his innocence, was treated with the severity due only to convicted guilt, and detained five months in solitary imprisonment, in the fortress of Savona; a tyrannical act of injustice, not likely to turn the current of his thoughts, or to cure him of his meditative propensities. At length his prison doors were reluctantly opened to him—he was free to depart, but not to remain in Italy; accordingly he took refuge in France, along with a crowd of exiles under similar circumstances, and it was there, in June 1831, that the fruits of his long-nursed musings burst forth, in his address to Charles Albert of Savoy, “_A Carlo Alberto di Savoia un Italiano_,” on the accession of that prince to the throne of Sardinia. This address has been justly termed by Mariotti, “a flash of divine eloquence, such as never before shone over Italy. His companions in misfortune gathered in adoration, and bent before his powerful genius. Ere the year had elapsed, he became the heart and soul of the Italian movement. He was the ruler of a state of his own creation—the king of Young Italy.”

Eager to turn his popularity, alike with his abilities, to the best account for his country, Mazzini now established himself at Marseilles, as the editor of a journal to which he gave the name of “_La Giovine Italia_,” as the expression of his favorite theory of intrusting the great cause of Italian liberty to the young, the ardent, the hopeful; and moreover the unpledged and therefore unfettered; rather than to those who, grown old under a timid, temporizing policy, endeavored in vain to disentangle themselves from the net of foreign diplomacy; and who, while they flattered themselves they were endeavoring to rescue their country from slavery, were in fact still themselves the slaves of high-sounding names, and veered round with all the changing views of those who bore them.

Anxious to enlist in his cause the finest talents of the day, Mazzini invited many persons of acknowledged reputation and ability to contribute to his journal; among them the venerable and justly celebrated Sismondi, author of the “History of the Italian Republics,” and many other works of importance. Sismondi willingly complied, for he loved the high-minded character of the young Italian, and was glad to share in his literary labors, in order that he might be able occasionally to rein in, with a gentle yet judicious hand, the too impetuous spirit which, in fearlessly endeavoring to overleap every obstacle that stood before it, overlooked the destruction that might await an error of calculation: he therefore immediately replied, “If by my name, my example, I can be useful to that Italy which I love as if it were my own country, which I shall never cease to serve, to the very utmost of my ability, and for which I shall never cease to hope, then most willingly do I promise you my co-operation.”

The generous ardor of the Genevese _Economiste_ was not more pleasing to behold than the filial deference of the young republican; for Sismondi spared neither remonstrance nor advice, where he thought the interests of his young colleague, or of the sacred cause in which he was embarked, likely to be endangered by his precipitancy. But neither arguments nor advice had any power over the fixed idea in Mazzini’s mind that Italian liberty was to spring forth from the Italian people, and that Italy, formerly free in her numerous republics, would, after five hundred years of slavery, become free again in one, alone and indivisible. Meanwhile his journal extended its circulation and its influence: supplied through the channel of an active correspondence with abundant information of all that was going on in the peninsula, he astonished and excited the public more and more every day, by the facts he laid before them; he unvailed the cruelties of the tribunals in Romagna, of the government in Modena, of the police in Naples; he brought forth the unhappy prisoners from their cells, and portrayed them in every varied attitude of their sufferings, with a vividness that thrilled the compassionate with horror, and worked the ardent up to rage. It would be difficult for us in our own present state of _press_ and _post_, to imagine the possibility of our counties remaining days and weeks in ignorance of what was passing among each other. Yet so it was in the Italian provinces: under the lynx-eyed vigilance of government officials and spies, the public journals contained little more than details of church ceremonies, or the local affairs of petty municipalities: pamphlets were unknown, and news of a political kind traveled slowly and uncertainly from mouth to mouth, always in dread of some listening ear being ready to catch the words as they floated in the air. Hence the transactions in Romagna and Naples were long unknown to upper Italy; the excitement therefore that the appearance of Mazzini’s journal must have occasioned, revealing as it did facts upon facts calculated to inspire even the most indifferent with a thirst for vengeance, may easily be imagined, but the modes by which it found circulation under every obstacle are more difficult to comprehend. It is scarcely necessary to say how strictly it was prohibited throughout Italy; the possession of it was denounced as a crime, to be punished with three years of the galleys, besides the possessor being subjected for the remainder of his days to the suspicion of being connected with revolutionary factions. The smugglers, albeit accustomed to danger and little susceptible of fear, refused to have any thing to do with it; nevertheless its distribution was effected far and wide; copies were dispatched from Marseilles, by merchant vessels, in parcels directed to persons at places fixed upon for the purpose of receiving them; they thus reached the Committees of “Young Italy” in each city, and were by them transmitted to the subscribers, that is to say, to every one conjoined to the cause; thus the Society itself remained in the shade, while the journal, passed from hand to hand, was every where eagerly perused. In many places it was left, in the obscurity of evening, upon the thresholds of the shops, and at the doors of the theatres, _cafés_, and other frequented places. Never was a periodical paper edited with such marvelous activity, or circulated with such unshaken courage. The leaders risked their heads in its service, and not one of them hesitated so to do. In the same manner has the clandestine press at Rome, since the reinstatement of the priestly government, fearlessly pursued its task of exposing the cruelties, injustice, and meanness of that government in its every act—and the cardinals have not unfrequently had to go to breakfast, with what appetite they might, after finding on their tables a sheet, of which the ink had not had time to dry, wherein their unworthy deeds were set forth and commented upon, in the accents of all others strangest to “ears polite”—that is to say, of _truth_.

The effect of “_La Giovine Italia_” upon the public mind became more and more developed every day. Genoa and Alexandria were the first to show its influence. Turin, Chamberry, and Lombardy followed. Central Italy, crushed for the moment, remained passive; but the flag of republicanism was unfurled, it only waited the moment to lift it up, and that moment came, every way, too soon. The government of Charles Albert was the first to take hostile measures against Young Italy. It saw that the influence of the party was beginning to spread in the army; and it immediately pointed its cannons against Genoa; three persons were executed in that city, three at Chamberry, and six at Alexandria; while Austria stocked her favorite fortress of Speilberg with such as were objects of suspicion, but against whom no charge could be substantiated. These rigorous measures struck terror through the peninsula, and instantly stopped the propagandism of the journal; still hundreds of emigrants, fearful of being compromised, poured in from Italy, and the police redoubled its vigilance in watching over their proceedings. But a step backward was what Mazzini never could take; he looked his dangers full in the face, and tempted fate, not only for himself, but, unhappily, for his colleagues also. The sufferings of his party seemed to call upon him for vengeance, and he sought it by joining himself to a Polish committee, and projecting the attempt upon Savoy, in 1833.

It is a singular fact in the moral history of man, that in the course of his life he almost invariably falls into some error, or commits some fault, which he has either condemned, or suffered from, in others. This appears to have been notoriously the case in this ill-planned, ill-organized, ill-conducted expedition. It was planned in a secret society, whereas Mazzini had always advocated open appeals to the people; he had always inculcated distrust of heads of parties, and he intrusted the command of the troops to General Romarino, a Pole, He had insisted upon the necessity of whole provinces rising _en masse_, if a revolution was to be effected, and he saw General Romarino set out from Geneva, to carry Savoy, with a handful of men. Mazzini himself, with his utmost efforts, scarcely got together five hundred followers, of whom not one half were Italians; and it was with difficulty that they, tracked every where by the police, succeeded in rallying at the small village of Annemasse, to the amount of two hundred; when lo! Romarino, who had always shown himself wavering and undecided, turned his back upon them, even before they had cast eyes upon the enemy—and thus in one single day did Mazzini see vanish at once, the hopes and toils of two years of incessant labor and anxiety. In vain he plied his pen still more vigorously, and called around him “Young Switzerland,” “Young Poland,” “Young France,” and even “Young Europe” at large; few responded to his ardent voice: the Moderates, taking advantage of his discomfiture, and appealing to the selfish prudence of all parties, under the plausible argument of trusting in moral force, turned, for the time, the tide of popular opinion, and Mazzini, banished from France, proscribed in Switzerland, and sentenced to death in Italy, sought an asylum in England, where he betook himself to the literary pursuits which had formed the delight of his younger years, and to the benevolent endeavor of improving the moral state of the humbler classes of his countrymen whom he found scattered about in London; particularly of the poor organ boys, whom, sold by venal parents to sordid masters, or lured from their beautiful native scenes by fallacious representations, he beheld lost in ignorance, enslaved in vice, and suffering under every species of ill-treatment and destitution. His founding an evening school for these unfortunate outcasts was a mortal offense in the eyes of the Roman Catholic priests of every denomination—for a layman to presume to instruct the ignorant, and to hold out a hand to the helpless, was, in their eyes, an unpardonable crime; and they strove to vilify all his acts by connecting them with covert designs of exciting anarchy and rebellion, even in the land that had afforded him a refuge. Nevertheless, the blameless tenor of his domestic life, the magnanimity with which he bore his disappointments and his trials, and the respect in which he was held both for his talents and his private character, which no calumny has ever yet been able to impugn, would have insured him as undisturbed a tranquillity as his anxiety for his country, ever throbbing in his breast, could have permitted him, had he not suddenly been brought forth to public notice, by the English government committing a flagrant act of injustice toward him, which the more it endeavored to explain and vindicate, the more odium it brought upon itself—we allude to the opening of Mazzini’s letters at the General Post-Office in 1844, by order of Lord Aberdeen and the _Right Honorable_ Sir James Graham, at the instigation of Austrian jealousies and fears. The disgraceful disclosures that were brought forward on that occasion, will be fresh in the memory of many of our readers.

The stirring events of Italy in 1847, naturally turned all the thoughts and hopes of Mazzini again to his country, and to the heightening, by his presence, the effect of his doctrines, so long, so ardently preached. But we must be brief; we shall, therefore, pass over intervening steps, and behold him in Rome—Rome proclaimed a republic, Rome, at that moment, promising to realize all the most glorious visions of his youth, all the most thoughtfully-revolved theories of his matured powers. He was elected on the 3d of March, 1849, a deputy in the National Assembly, by 8982 votes, being nearly one thousand ahead of seven other candidates elected at the same time, consequently at the top of the poll. On the 31st of the same month, the dissolution of the Executive Committee was decreed by the Constituent Assembly, and the government of the republic appointed to be intrusted to a Triumvirate, “with unlimited powers.” The citizens chosen for this important office were Carlo Armellini, Giuseppe Mazzini, and Aurelio Saffi. How wisely, temperately, and benevolently they acquitted themselves of the task assigned them, under the most complicated and trying circumstances that ever legislators had to struggle with, is known to all. The contrast of their conduct with that of the Cardinal Triumvirate that succeeded them, will live in the page of impartial history, to the honor of the representatives of the People, the disgrace of the representatives of the Church.

It is needless to say that on the entrance of the French into Rome, Mazzini, with his illustrious colleagues, and many other distinguished patriots, prepared to quit it. Again he found an asylum in England, and again he betook himself to the furtherance of the cause to which all his faculties are devoted, to the emancipation of Italy. “Twenty years,” he says, in the preliminary note to his pamphlet recently published, entitled, “The Charge of Terrorism in Rome, during the Government of the Republic, refuted by Facts and Documents”—“Twenty years, attended with the usual amount of cares, woes, and deceptions, have rolled around me since my first step in the career. But my soul is as calm, my hands are as pure, my faith is as unshaken, and bright with hope for my awakened country, as in my young years. With these gifts one may well endure with a smile such little annoyances as may arise from such writers as Mr. Cochrane, and Mr. Macfarlane.” We should think so!

The first publication of Mazzini’s that attracted notice after his return to England, was his “Letter to Messrs. De Tocqueville and De Falloux, Ministers of France.” It excited universal interest. The simple truth of its statements, which no sophistry of the parties to whom it was addressed could deny, the justice of its reproaches, the manly sentiments it set forth, gained it the sympathy of all persons of candor and liberal views, and added a deeper tinge of shame on the conduct, if not on the cheek, of the President, by whose command the unjust, inconsistent, and we may add barbarous attack upon Republican Rome was made by Republican France.

From the moment that Mazzini set his foot again upon English ground, as a refugee himself, he turned his thoughts toward the sufferings of his fellow-refugees, who still gathered around him with unshaken devotedness and admiration. By his exertions a committee was formed for “The Italian Refugee Fund.” A touching address was inserted by it in the leading journals, wherein, after briefly setting forth the claims of the Italian refugees upon the compassion of the public, it proceeded: “It is not the only sorrow of the Italian exiles that a noble cause is, for the time being, lost. Proscribed and driven from their watch over the beautiful country of their birth and their affections, they seek a refuge here in England, almost the only free land where they may set foot. Hunted by their and the world’s enemies, forlorn and penniless, reduced to indigence, bereft of almost all that makes life dear, and bringing nothing from the wreck beyond the Mediterranean Sea, but hope in the eternal might of the principles they have upheld, the Committee appeals in their behalf to Englishmen, for present help, that they may not die of want, where they have found a home.”

Mazzini’s next care was, to found a “Society of the Friends of Italy,” the objects of which are, by public meetings, lectures, and the press, to promote a correct appreciation of the Italian question, and to aid the cause of the political and religious liberty of the Italian people.

Of Mazzini’s private character we believe there is, among those who know him, but one opinion, that he is the soul of honor, candid and compassionate in his nature, and of almost woman’s tenderness in his friendships and attachments. “I have had the honor,” says Thomas Carlyle, “to know Mr. Mazzini for a series of years, and whatever I may think of his practical insight and skill in worldly affairs, I can with great freedom testify to all men, that he, if I have ever seen one such, is a man of genius and virtue; a man of sterling virtue, humanity, and nobleness of mind; one of those rare men, numerable, unfortunately, but as units in this world, who are worthy to be called Martyr souls.” Equally honorable to him is the testimony of M. Lesseps, the French Envoy to the Roman Republic, in the Memoir of his Mission: “I fear the less making known here the opinion I had of Mazzini, with whom I was already in open strife, namely, that during the whole series of our negotiations, I had but to congratulate myself on his loyalty, and the moderation of his character, which have earned for him all my esteem.... Now that he has fallen from power, and that he seeks, doubtless, an asylum in a foreign land, I ought to render homage to the nobleness of his sentiments, to his conviction of his principles, to his high capacity, and to his courage.”

The man who can win, from the depths of disappointment and adversity, such a tribute from one politically opposed to him, must have something very extraordinary in himself—and such a man is Mazzini. The faults alleged against him are his enthusiasm, which leads him into rash and precipitant measures, and his indomitable will; or, we would rather call it, his unconquerable tenacity of purpose, which is deaf to argument, and spurns control; but it is only his political character that is liable to these charges. His virtues are all his own. When he was in office at Rome he gave the whole of the salary allotted to him to the hospitals, stating that his own private income, though moderate, was sufficient for his wants; and never does distress, in any shape that he may have the power to alleviate, appeal to him in vain. Had he not concentrated all his abilities, all his energies upon the one grand object of his life, the independence of his country, he would have been as eminent in the field of literature, as he is in that of politics. He writes with equal facility and elegance in the French and English languages as in his own, and his beautiful memoir of Ugo Foscolo, his essay upon Art in Italy, in his review of Grossi’s “Marco Visconti,” and many other admirable contributions to periodical literature, sufficiently prove that if the peculiar aspect of the times in which he has lived had not impelled him into public life, he would have found abundant resource in more retired pursuits, for his own enjoyment, and the benefit of society.

CHEWING THE BUYO. A SKETCH OF THE PHILIPPINES.

With a population of 3,000,000—part of which has been for centuries the colony of a European power—and producing many of the tropical products of commerce, the Philippine Isles remain almost as much a _terra incognita_ as China or Japan!

These islands offer a striking illustration of the adage, that “knowledge is power.” They illustrate the power of civilized man to subdue his savage fellow. For ages have a few thousand Spanish merchants been enabled to hold one-third of the native inhabitants in direct and absolute slavery; while more than another third has acknowledged their sway by the payment of tribute. The remaining fraction consists of wild tribes, who, too remote from the seat of commerce and power to make them an object of conquest, still retain their barbarian independence.

But it has ever been the policy of Spain to shut up her colonies from the intrusion of foreign enterprise—the policy of all nations who retrograde, or are hastening toward decay. This is the true reason why so little has been written about the Philippines and their inhabitants, many of whose customs are both strange and interesting. Perhaps not the least singular of these is that which forms the subject of our sketch—_Comer el Buyo_ (Chewing the Buyo).

The buyo is a thing composed of three ingredients—the leaf of the buyo-palm, a sea-shell which is a species of periwinkle, and a root similar in properties to the _betel_ of India. It is prepared thus: the leaves of the palm, from which it has its name, are collected at a certain season, cut into parallelograms, and spread upon a board or table with the inner cuticle removed. Upon this the powdered root and the shell, also pulverized, are spread in a somewhat thick layer. The shell of itself is a strong alkali, and forms a chief ingredient in the mixture. After having been exposed for some time to the sun, the buyo-leaf is rolled inwardly, so as to inclose the other substances, and is thus formed into a regular cartridge, somewhat resembling a cheroot. Thus prepared, the buyo is ready for use—that is, to be eaten.

In order that it may be carried conveniently in the pocket, it is packed in small cases formed out of the leaves of another species of the palm-tree. Each of these cases contains a dozen cartridges of the buyo.

Buyo-eating is a habit which must be cultivated before it becomes agreeable. To the stranger, the taste of the buyo is about as pleasant as tobacco to him who chews it for the first time; and although it is not followed by the terrible sickness that accompanies the latter operation, it is sure to excoriate the tongue of the rash tyro, and leave his mouth and throat almost skinless. Having once undergone this fearful matriculation, he feels ever afterward a craving to return to the indulgence, and the appetite is soon confirmed.

In Manilla every one smokes, every one chews buyo—man, woman, and child, Indian or Spaniard. Strangers who arrive there, though repudiating the habit for awhile, soon take to it, and become the most confirmed buyo-eaters in the place. Two acquaintances meet upon the _paseo_, and stop to exchange their salutations. One pulls out his _cigarrero_, and says: “Quiere a fumar?” (“Will you smoke?”) The other draws forth the ever-ready buyo-case, and with equal politeness offers a roll of the buyos. The commodities are exchanged, each helping himself to a cartridge and a cigarrito. A flint and steel are speedily produced, the cigars are lit, and each takes a bite of buyo, while the conversation is all the while proceeding. Thus three distinct operations are performed by the same individual at the same time—eating, smoking, and talking! The juice arising from the buyo in eating is of a strong red color, resembling blood. This circumstance reminds us of an anecdote which is, I believe, well authenticated, but at least is universally believed by the people of Manilla. Some years ago a ship from Spain arrived in the port of Manilla. Among the passengers was a young doctor from Madrid, who had gone out to the Philippines with the design of settling in the colony, and pushing his fortune by means of his profession. On the morning after he had landed, our doctor sallied forth for a walk on the paseo. He had not proceeded far when his attention was attracted to a young girl, a native, who was walking a few paces ahead of him. He observed that every now and then the girl stooped her head toward the pavement, which was straightway spotted with blood! Alarmed on the girl’s account, our doctor walked rapidly after her, observing that she still continued to expectorate blood at intervals as she went. Before he could come up with her, the girl had reached her home—a humble cottage in the suburbs—into which she entered. The doctor followed close upon her heels; and summoning her father and mother, directed them to send immediately for the priest, as their daughter had not many hours to live.

The distracted parents, having learned the profession of their visitor, immediately acceded to his request. The child was put to bed in extreme affright, having been told what was about to befall her. The nearest _padré_ was brought, and every thing was arranged to smooth the journey of her soul through the passes of purgatory. The doctor plied his skill to the utmost; but in vain. In less than twenty-four hours the girl was dead!

As up to that time the young Indian had always enjoyed excellent health, the doctor’s prognostication was regarded as an evidence of great and mysterious skill. The fame of it soon spread through Manilla, and in a few hours the newly-arrived physician was beleaguered with patients, and in a fair way of accumulating a fortune. In the midst of all this some one had the curiosity to ask the doctor how he could possibly have predicted the death of the girl, seeing that she had been in perfect health a few hours before. “Predict it!” replied the doctor—“why, sir, I saw her spit blood enough to have killed her half a dozen times.”

“Blood! How did you know it was blood?”

“How? From the color. How else!”

“But every one spits red in Manilla!”

The doctor, who had already observed this fact, and was laboring under some uneasiness in regard to it, refused to make any further concessions at the time; but he had said enough to elucidate the mystery. The thing soon spread throughout the city; and it became clear to every one that what the new _medico_ had taken for blood, was nothing else than the red juice of the buyo, and that the poor girl had died from the fear of death caused by his prediction!

His patients now fled from him as speedily as they had congregated; and to avoid the ridicule that awaited him, as well as the indignation of the friends of the deceased girl, our doctor was fain to escape from Manilla, and return to Spain in the same ship that had brought him out.

SKETCH OF SUWAROW.

The most able military commander that Russia has produced was in person miserably thin, and five feet one inch in height. A large mouth, pug nose, eyes commonly half shut, a few gray side locks, brought over the top of his bald crown, and a small unpowdered queue, the whole surmounted by a three-cornered felt hat ornamented with green fringe, composed the “head and front” of Field-marshal Suwarow; but his eyes, when open, were piercing, and in battle they were said to be terrifically expressive. When any thing said or done displeased him, a wavy play of his deeply-wrinkled forehead betrayed, or rather expressed, his disapproval. He had a philosophical contempt for dress, and might often be seen drilling his men in his shirt sleeves. It was only during the severest weather that he wore cloth his outer garments being usually of white serge turned up with green. These were the most indifferently made, as were his large, coarsely greased slouching boots; one of which he very commonly dispensed with, leaving his kneeband unbuttoned, and his stocking about his heel. A huge sabre and a single order completed his ordinary costume; but on grand occasions his field-marshal’s uniform was covered with badges, and he was fond of telling where and how he had won them. He often arose at midnight, and welcomed the first soldier he saw moving with a piercing imitation of the crowing of a cock, in compliment to his early rising. It is said that in the first Polish war, knowing a spy was in the camp, he issued orders for an attack at cock-crow, and the enemy expecting it in the morning, were cut to pieces at nine at night—Suwarow having turned out the troops an hour before by his well-known cry. The evening before the storm of Ismail, he informed his columns—“To-morrow morning, an hour before daybreak, I mean to get up. I shall then dress and wash myself, then say my prayers, and then give one good cock-crow, and capture Ismail.” When Ségur asked him if he never took off his clothes at night, he replied, “No! when I get lazy, and want to have a comfortable sleep, I generally take off one spur.” Buckets of cold water were thrown over him before he dressed, and his table was served at seven or eight o’clock with sandwiches and various messes which Duboscage describes as “_des ragouts Kosaks detestables_;” to which men paid “the mouth honor, which they would fain deny, but dare not,” lest Suwarow should consider them effeminate. He had been very sickly in his youth, but by spare diet and cold bathing had strengthened and hardened himself into first-rate condition.

MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.

United States.

Public attention, during the month, has been mainly fixed upon Kossuth, in his addresses to the various portions of the people of the United States with whom he is brought in contact. After the banquet given to him, December 16th, by the New York Press, noticed in our last Record, Kossuth remained in New York until Tuesday, the 23d. The Bar of New York gave him a public reception and banquet on the 18th, at which he made a speech devoted mainly to the position, that the intervention of Russia in the affairs of Hungary was a gross violation of the law of nations, deserving the name of piracy; and that the United States was bound alike in interest and in duty, to protest against it. He conceded fully that if such a protest should be made, and treated with contempt, the United States would be bound in honor to enforce it by war. At the same time he declared his conviction that there was not the slightest danger of war, and entered into some historical details to show that Russia would never interfere in Hungarian affairs, until she was assured that England and the United States would not resist her.—At the dinner, speeches were made by several prominent members of the bar. Judge Duer, after a long and very eloquent eulogy of Kossuth and his cause, was going on to reply to his argument in favor of the interference of this country for the protection of international law, but the company refused to allow him to proceed.—On the 20th, in the afternoon, Kossuth addressed a large company of ladies assembled to meet him, in a speech of exquisite beauty and touching eloquence. He also delivered an address at the church of the Rev. H. W. Beecher, in Brooklyn, in which he spoke of the question of religious liberty, as it is involved in the Hungarian struggle.—During his stay in New York he was waited on by a great number of deputations from different sections of the country, and from different classes of the community, who all made formal addresses to him which were answered with wonderful pertinence and tact.

On the 23d he left for Philadelphia, and had a public reception the next day in the old Hall where independence was declared in 1776. His speech was merely one of thanks. He was entertained at a public dinner in the evening, and at another on the evening of Friday, the 26th. His speech on the latter occasion was devoted mainly to the usurpation of Louis Napoleon, which he regarded as having been dictated by the absolute powers of Europe, and as certain to end in his destruction. The struggle in Europe between the principles of freedom and despotism would only be hastened by this act, and he appealed earnestly to the United States for a decision, as to whether they would protest against Russian intervention in Hungarian affairs.

On the 27th he went to Baltimore, where he was most enthusiastically received. In the evening he made a speech of an hour and a half to the citizens at the hall of the Maryland Institute, in which he set forth the connection between Hungary and the rest of Europe, and the reasons why the United States could not remain indifferent to struggles for liberty in any part of the world.

On Tuesday, the 30th, he went to Washington, and was received at the cars by the Senate Committee. Very soon after his arrival he was waited upon by Mr. Webster, and a great number of other distinguished persons. He also received a deputation from the Jackson Democratic Association, and one from the clergy, making to the addresses of both pertinent replies. On Wednesday, the 31st, he was received by President Fillmore at the Executive Mansion. In a brief and admirable address he expressed his fervent thanks for the interest taken by the United States in his liberation from captivity and in the cause he represented, and for the action of the President himself in connection with it. He referred, with warm satisfaction to the declaration in the President’s Message, that the people of this country could not remain indifferent when the strong arm of a foreign power is invoked to stifle public sentiment and to repress the spirit of freedom in any country. The President replied very briefly, saying that the policy of this country had been long settled, and that his own sentiments had been freely expressed in his Message; and his language upon those points would be the same in speaking to foreign nations as to our own—On Wednesday, the 7th, he was formally invited into both Houses of Congress. In the evening he was present at a public dinner given to him by a large number of members of Congress, and other distinguished persons. His speech on that occasion was a terse and most eloquent sketch of the position of his country—of its relation to the principles of liberty, and of the influence upon Europe of the history and example of the United States. To give that influence its full weight, it was necessary that the nations of Europe should be left free to manage their own concerns.—Mr. Webster, on this occasion, also made a long and eloquent speech, expressing the highest appreciation of Kossuth, his country and his cause, and declaring his belief that Hungary was admirably fitted for self-government, and his wish for the speedy establishment of her independence. He said he would not enter upon any discussion of the principles involved in this question as it is now presented, because he had already and repeatedly expressed his views in regard to them. Referring to his speech upon the Greek Revolution in 1823, and to his letter to the Austrian Chargé, M. Hulsemann, he said he was prepared to repeat them word for word and to stand by every thing he had said on those occasions. General Cass also made an eloquent speech avowing his full and most cordial assent to the doctrine that the United States ought to interfere to prevent Russian intervention against the independence of Hungary. Senator Douglass also expressed his concurrence in these views, but said he would not go for joining England in any such protest until she would do justice to Ireland.

Kossuth left Washington on the 12th of January, for Annapolis, where he remained when this Record was closed.

In Congress no public business of importance had been transacted. Both Houses spent several days in debating the subject of Kossuth’s reception.

The Legislature of New York met at Albany on Tuesday, the 6th of January. The Assembly was organized by electing J. C. Heartt, Speaker, and R. W. Sherman, Clerk—both Whigs. In the Senate, Ira P. Barnes, Democrat, was elected clerk. The Message of Governor Hunt was sent in on the same day. He states the aggregate debt of the State at $21,690,802, which the sinking funds provided will pay off in seventeen years. The aggregate taxable property of the State is set down at $1100,000,000. The canal revenues of the last year were $3,722,163: after meeting all constitutional obligations there remained of this, the sum of $964,432 applicable to the completion of the Canals. The funds devoted to school purposes amount to $6,612,850. The number of children taught during the year was 726,291 and the amount expended in teachers’ wages, was $1,432,696. The whole number of insane persons in the state is 2506; convicts in the State prisons, 1714. Referring to national topics, the Message regrets the feelings of hostility sometimes evinced between different sections—saying that “the Constitution having wisely left the States free to regulate their domestic affairs, the dissimilarity in their local institutions furnishes no just ground for mutual complaints and reproaches.” He trusts that the spirit of disunion and that of fanaticism will both exhaust themselves without endangering the stability of our national institutions. Considering at some length the condition and prospects of the African race in this country, he warmly commends to favor the scheme of colonization, and the societies formed to carry it out.

The Legislature of Pennsylvania organized at Harrisburgh, on the 6th. In the House, John S. Rhey, Democrat, was chosen Speaker, receiving 54 out of 88 votes. In the Senate, Mr. Muhlenberg, Democrat, was elected. The Message of Governor Johnston states that the Commonwealth was never in a more prosperous condition. The amount of the public debt is $40,114,236, having been reduced over $700,000 during the last three years, without retarding any of the interests, or useful plans of the State.

Henry Clay, in a letter dated Dec. 17, and addressed to the General Assembly of Kentucky, resigns his seat in the Senate of the United States, the resignation to take effect from the first Monday in September, 1852, He states that he accepted the office only to aid in settling those questions which threatened to disturb the peace of the country; and that object having been accomplished, he wishes to enable the present Assembly to choose his successor. In the Kentucky Legislature, Archibald Dixon, (Whig) was elected Senator, on the 30th of December, to fill the vacancy thus created.

The Library of Congress, kept in the Capitol at Washington, was nearly destroyed by fire on the 24th December. About 35,000 volumes were burned, 20,000 being saved. A great number of very valuable paintings, medals, &c. &c., were also destroyed. The cost of the library has not been far from $200,000.

Hon. JOEL R. POINSETT, long known as a prominent public man in the United States, died at his residence in Statesburg, S.C., December 12, aged 73. He was born in South Carolina, educated under the late President Dwight at Greenfield, Conn., and then sent abroad where he spent five years in study and travel. Returning home he studied law, but soon repaired again to Europe, where he visited Russia, and became a special favorite with the Emperor Alexander, who constantly asked him questions about the institutions of the United States, and who once said to him, “If I were not an Emperor, I would be a Republican.” In 1808, he was sent by President Madison on public business to South America. On his return, during the war, he was taken prisoner. In 1821 he was elected to Congress from the Charleston district. In 1822 he was sent to Mexico by President Monroe, to obtain information concerning the government under Iturbide, in which he was very successful. He was subsequently appointed Minister to Mexico, by Mr. Adams, and remained there until 1829. Returning home he served in the State Senate and in 1836 entered President Van Buren’s cabinet as Secretary of War. After retiring from that post, the remainder of his life was spent in literary pursuits.

Professor MOSES STUART, for many years connected with Andover Theological Seminary, and widely known for Biblical learning, died January 4th, aged 71. He was born at Wilton, Connecticut, March 26, 1780, and, after graduating at Yale College in 1799, acted as tutor in that institution for two or three years. In 1806, he was settled as a pastor in New Haven, and was elected Professor of Sacred Literature in Andover Theological Seminary in 1810—a post which he filled ably and acceptably until his death. He has left voluminous and valuable works.

From CALIFORNIA we have intelligence to Dec. 15th. New and extensive deposits of gold have been found near Auburn, in the northern, and at Mariposa, in the southern mines; the lack of rain had caused the yield of gold from them to be small. The aggregate product of all the mines during November was estimated at twenty per cent. less than during the previous month. Several projects of railroads through different sections of the State were under discussion, and the route between San Francisco and San José was being surveyed. The agricultural resources of the State continued to be developed with steady progress. Farming operations had already commenced. Several murders had been perpetrated in various sections. As an evidence of the prosperity of San Francisco, it is stated that seven large steamers were to leave that port, within a week, for different ports on the Pacific and Australia. The Indians have again been committing frightful ravages among the American settlements on the Colorado. The various tribes upon the southeastern border, known to be disaffected, have given unmistakable signs of revolt. Juan Antonio, who had been prominent as an Indian leader, had been forming a league of several tribes, with intent to attack the towns of San Diego, Los Angeles, and Santa Barbara. Three skirmishes had also taken place with the Yumas, on the Colorado, in which several Americans were killed. Great uneasiness prevailed among the inhabitants of the menaced districts. The latest advices represent the danger as less menacing than was feared. Gen. Conde, with 80 troops of the Mexican Boundary Commission, was at Tuson on the 20th Oct., and would leave next day for the Gila.

From OREGON, our news is to Dec. 6, and is encouraging. The difficulties with the Coquille Indians, which had caused the loss of many lives, had been settled. Coal had been found in considerable quantities at Port Orford. The U. S. Coast Survey party were engaged in determining the latitude and longitude of that point, and had completed a map of the harbor. The rainy season had commenced, and the rivers were rising.

From UTAH we have the official report made by the Judges to the President of the United States, concerning the condition of the Territory. They state that they were compelled to leave by the hostile and seditious sentiments of the Governor, Brigham Young; and they give a detailed statement of his proceedings. They represent polygamy as common there, and the courts as powerless to punish any offenses. The delegate from that Territory in Congress complains of the report, as calculated to do injustice to the inhabitants. He demands an investigation into the charges.

From the SANDWICH ISLANDS we have news that the Expedition from California, which was noticed in our last record as being suspected of questionable designs, proves to be entirety innocent. It is said that they were invited over by the King, who desired to have a body of Americans there, in case his proposal for annexation to the United States should be accepted. They had arrived at Honolulu, and engaged peaceably in various pursuits. Some of the English residents evinced uneasiness at their arrival. A resolution had been adopted in Parliament, declaring that the demands of France were so unjust as to warrant the King, in case of necessity, in putting the Islands under the protection of some friendly power, and pledging the support of the nation to whatever he might think it proper to do.

From MEXICO we have intelligence to the 20th of December. A riot occurred, in consequence of rumored misconduct of the French Consul, in importing goods without paying the duties upon them. Several persons were killed. News had been received of the success of the government troops who were sent to oppose Caravajal’s second attempt at insurrection in the northern departments. Congress closed its extra session on the 14th of December; the President, in his speech, said he should have been very glad to congratulate them upon the realization of important reforms, but he could not do so. No new sources of unhappiness, however, had arisen, and financial matters had been put upon such a basis, that the next Congress could solve existing difficulties. Harmony prevailed between the State and the Central Governments; the army had preserved the nationality of the country, when it was threatened on the frontier. The foreign relations of the republic were declared to be entirely satisfactory. Preparations had already been made for electing members of a new Congress, Subsequent accounts received from the northern departments, give the details of the success of the Government troops there. Caravajal was defeated, with a loss of sixty or seventy;—but he had not been apprehended, and at the latest advices, was expecting reinforcements.

South America.

From SOUTH AMERICA the news is not very decisive. _Uraguay_, however, is completely emancipated from the control of Rosas. Oribe’s army is disbanded, his officers have retired to Buenos Ayres, and he himself has retired to private life. Urquiza had left the Montevidean territory with part of his troops, on board Brazilian transports, for Entre Rios, from which he intended to march to Buenos Ayres. The Brazilian army remained in Uraguay, to support the actual government.——In _Chili_, according to latest advices, the revolution noticed some time since, was evidently extending itself more and more. By accounts received at Lima, December 1, Gen. Cruz, the leader of the insurgents, was at Chillan, with 3000 men, having had several engagements with the government troops under Ex-President Bulnes. Col. Carrera had been defeated by the government forces. At Valparaiso a riot occurred on the 28th of November. The mob attacked the barracks, procured arms, and fortified themselves in the Square. They were attacked by the troops under Governor-General Blanco, and dispersed after half an hour’s engagement, in which 80 were killed. The agitation had subsided.——In _Bolivia_ every thing was quiet.——In _New Grenada_ a law has been passed, declaring the whole slave population to be free after January 1, 1852. General Herrara had returned from his visit to the southern provinces, where he had put down all the attempts at insurrection.

Europe.

From GREAT BRITAIN the political news is important. On Monday, the 22d of December, Lord PALMERSTON resigned his position as Foreign Secretary and ceased to be a member of the Cabinet. Earl GRANVILLE was appointed his successor. The cause of this rupture has not been officially announced. The leading papers, however, ascribe it to a difference of opinion, which had risen to decided hostility, between Lord Palmerston and his colleagues, in regard to foreign affairs. The encouragement which the Foreign Secretary gave to KOSSUTH is mentioned among the grounds of difference: but the _Times_, which is likely to be well-informed, asserts, that the subject of distinct and decisive difference was the French usurpation. It says that Lord Palmerston approved decidedly of the step taken by LOUIS NAPOLEON; whereas, the rest of the Cabinet were inclined to censure it. The same authority says that several of the European governments have warmly remonstrated with England, for allowing political refugees to make that country the scene of plots against the peace of the countries they had left. It adds, however, that this was not among the causes of dissension,—Lord GRANVILLE is thirty-seven years old, and has been attached to the English legation in Paris. It will be remembered that he was Chairman of the Council of the Great Exhibition last year. He is a man of considerable ability and diplomatic skill. It is not supposed, however, that he will make his predecessor’s place good as a debater in the House of Commons.

Of other news from Great Britain, there is not much. A large company of London merchants waited upon Lord JOHN RUSSELL on the 9th, to complain of gross mismanagement and inefficiency, on the part of the Commissioners of Customs, and asking the appointment of a Select Committee of Investigation. The Minister replied to many of the complaints, declaring them to be unjust, and declined to say that he would move for a Committee. The whole matter, however, should receive his attention.

A public dinner was given at Manchester, on the 9th, to Mr. R. J. WALKER, formerly American Secretary of the Treasury. In his speech on the occasion, Mr. W. elaborately argued the question of Free Trade, saying that he was in favor of a still farther reduction of the American duties, and calling upon the English to aid them by reducing the duties on tobacco and other imports of American growth. Referring to recent events in France, he avowed his apprehension that a man who had proved himself a traitor, an insurgent, and a military usurper, would not rest content at home, but that England herself was in danger from the progress of despotism upon the Continent. Whenever such a struggle for freedom should be waged in England, he promised them the support of the United States.

In IRELAND a good deal of interest has been excited by the return of emigrants from America. In many cases they were returning for their families—in others, from disappointment and unfitness for work in the United States.——A Mr. Bateson, manager of the great estates of Lord Templeton, in the county of Monoghan, was shot at, and then beaten with bludgeons, so that he died, by three men in the street; the act was in revenge for some evictions he had made against dishonest tenants.

In SCOTLAND a very large meeting was held in Edinburgh on the 9th, to protest against the grant to Maynooth College. In the course of the debates it was stated that 540 petitions, with 307,278 names, had been sent in against the grant. A resolution was adopted, promising to use every possible effort to “procure the passage of a bill for the entire repeal of said grant” at the next session of Parliament.

The events of the month in France have been of transcendent interest. The Constitution has been abolished, the National Assembly dissolved, martial law proclaimed, and the Republic transformed into a Monarchy, elective in name but absolute in fact.

This change was effected by violence on the morning of Tuesday, December 2d. Our Record of last month noticed the dissensions between the President and the Assembly, and the refusal of the latter to abolish the law restricting suffrage, and the failure of its attempt to obtain command over the army. A law was also pending authorizing the impeachment of the President in case he should seek a re-election in violation of the provisions of the Constitution. During the night of Monday the 1st, preparations were made by the President for destroying all authority but his own. He wrote letters to his Ministers announcing to them that he had made up his mind to resist the attempt of his enemies to sacrifice him, and that, as he did not wish them to be compromised by his acts, they had better resign. The hint of course was taken, and they sent in letters of resignation at once. The principal streets of Paris were occupied by strong bodies of troops at about 5 o’clock on Tuesday morning; and before that hour all the leading representatives and military men whom Louis Napoleon knew to be opposed to his designs, were arrested and committed to prison. Detachments of the police, accompanied by portions of the guard, visited their houses, and arrested Generals Cavaignac, Changarnier, De Lamoricière, Bedeau, and Leflo, Colonel Charras, MM. Thiers, Lagrange, Valentine, Panat, Michel (de Bourges), Beaune, Greppo, Miot, Nadaud, Roger (du Nord), and Baze. They were immediately transferred to the Chateau of Vincennes, and subsequently removed to Ham; with the exception of M. Thiers, who was taken to the prison of Mazas. General Changarnier was arrested at his own house at 4 o’clock in the morning. Several other representatives were with him at the time, and were also taken into custody. Gen. C. attempted to harangue the troops who were sent to arrest him, but they refused to listen to him. At the same time that the above arrests were made, commissaries of police were dispatched to the offices of the public journals to suspend some, and regulate the course of others. In the morning the walls of Paris were found to be placarded with a decree, in the following terms: “In the name of the French people, the President of the Republic decrees: 1. The National Assembly is dissolved. 2. Universal suffrage is re-established; the law of the 31st May is repealed. 3. The French people are convoked in their communes from the 14th to the 21st December. 4. The state of siege is decreed in the whole of the first military division. 5. The Council of State is dissolved. 6. The Minister of the Interior is charged with the execution of this decree.—Louis Napoleon Bonaparte.” At a later hour an appeal to the people was issued by the President, and posted upon the walls. It declared that he had dissolved the Assembly, which was attacking his power, and compromising the peace of France. He had faithfully observed the Constitution, but it was his duty to baffle the perfidious plans of those who were seeking to overturn the Republic. He accordingly appealed to the people. He would not consent longer to hold a power ineffective for good: if they wished him to continue in his post, they must give him the means of fulfilling his mission, which was to close the era of revolutions. He submitted to them the basis of a new Constitution, providing: 1. A responsible head named for ten years. 2. Ministers dependent on the Executive power alone. 3. A Council of State, to propose laws and discuss them. 4. A legislative body discussing and voting laws, named by universal suffrage. 5. A second assembly, formed of all the illustrious of the country. He asked them to vote for or against him on this basis. If he did not obtain a majority, he would give up power. A proclamation to the army was issued in a similar manner. He told the soldiers that he counted on them to cause to be respected the sovereignty of the nation, of which he was the legitimate representative. He reminded them of the insults that had been heaped upon them, and called upon them to vote as citizens, but as soldiers to obey. He was alone responsible: it was for them to remain immovable within the rules of discipline.

As soon as these events were generally known, a portion of the members of the Assembly, two hundred in number, assembled at the residence of M. Daru, one of the Vice Presidents of the Assembly. They there decided to go to their usual place of meeting, but they were refused admission by an armed guard. Returning to M. Daru’s house, they were about commencing a session, when a message arrived from Gen. Lauriston, inviting them to the Mairie of the 10th arrondissement, and saying that he was prepared to defend them against all violence. They accordingly repaired thither, organized, and after due deliberation declared the conduct of Louis Napoleon to be illegal, and in violation of the Constitution, and decreed his deposition, in accordance with Art. 68 of that instrument. They also by a decree freed the officers of the army and navy, and all public functionaries, from their oaths of obedience to him, and convoked the High Court of Justice to judge him and his Ministers. The Court did attempt to meet during the day, but was dispersed. The decree was signed by all the members of Assembly present. After this had been done the building was found to be surrounded by troops, to whom M. Berryer announced the deposition of the President and the appointment of General Oudinot, commander-in-chief of all the troops of Paris. The announcement was coldly received, and officers and troops immediately entered the room and dispersed the Assembly. About 150 of the members were afterward arrested and committed to prison for attempting to meet in some other place; after a day’s confinement they were released. Meantime, the most perfect quiet prevailed throughout Paris. No attempt at resistance was made, and the decrees were read and commented on with apparent indifference. The streets and public places were crowded with troops. Dispatches were sent to the departments and were answered by full assurances of assent.

On Wednesday morning was published a list of one hundred and twenty persons appointed by the President as a Consultative Commission, selected because Louis Napoleon “wished to surround himself with men who enjoy, by a just title, the esteem and confidence of the country.” Of these over eighty refused to serve. During the same morning, indications of discontent began to be apparent. At about 10 o’clock, M. Baudin, one of the representatives of the people, made his appearance on horseback, in official dress and with a drawn sword, in the Rue St. Antoine. He was followed by several others, and strove to arouse the people to resistance. Considerable groups collected, and a fragile barricade was erected. Troops soon came up from opposite directions and hemmed them in. The groups were soon dispersed, and M. Baudin, and two other representatives were killed on the spot. Great numbers of troops continued to arrive, and the whole section was speedily occupied by them. On Thursday morning, appearances of insurrection began to be serious. Barricades were erected in several streets. At 12 o’clock the Boulevards were swept by troops, artillery was brought up, and wherever groups of people were seen they were fired upon. It is now known that police officers encouraged the building of barricades in order to give the troops a chance to attack the people. Buildings were battered with cannon, and scores of respectable people were killed at their windows. Throughout the day the troops behaved in the most brutal manner, bayoneting, shooting, and riding over every body within reach. Great numbers of innocent persons were killed in this manner. It would be impossible to give within our limits a tithe of the interesting incidents of the day, illustrating the spirit that prevailed. It is pretty clearly ascertained that the object of the government was to strike terror into all classes, and that for this purpose the troops had been instructed to show no quarter, but to kill every body that threatened resistance. Many of the soldiers were also intoxicated. ’Order’ was in this manner completely restored by evening. But over two thousand people were killed.

From the departments, meantime, came news of resistance. In the frontier districts of the southeast particularly—the whole valley of the Rhone, in fact the whole region from Joigny to Lyons, including several departments, the rural population rose in great strength against the usurpation. There was very hard fighting in the Nievre, in the Herault, and in the frontier districts of the Sardinian and Swiss Alps: and in many places the contest was distinguished by sad atrocities. In the course of two or three days, however, all resistance was quelled.

Preparations were made for the election. The army voted first, and of course its vote was nearly unanimous in favor of Louis Napoleon. The popular election was to take place on Saturday and Sunday, the 20th and 21st of December. The simple question submitted was, whether Louis Napoleon should remain at the head of the state ten years, or not. No other candidate was allowed to be named. Louis Napoleon directed the Pantheon to be restored to its original use as a church, and thereby, as well as by other measures, secured the support of the Catholics. Count Montalembert published a long letter, urging all Catholics throughout France to vote in his favor. The election was conducted quietly—the government discouraging as much as possible the printing and distributing of negative votes. The returns have been received from 68 out of the 86 departments, and these give, in round numbers, 5,400,000 _yes_, and 600,000 _no_. His majority will probably be nearly 7,000,000, which is more than he obtained in 1848.

The London papers state that a correspondence had passed between the governments of England and France upon the subject of Louis Napoleon’s usurpation, in which the former urged a full and explicit declaration of the President’s intentions, and views, as necessary to satisfy the English people in regard to what had already taken place. The replies are said to have been evasive and unsatisfactory. It is stated, also, that Louis Napoleon had directed a circular letter to be prepared, addressed to the various governments of Europe, assuring them of his pacific disposition, and saying that the step he had taken was necessary for the protection of France against the enemies of order.

Marshal Soult died on the 20th of December at his chateau of Soult-berg. He was born March 29,1769—the same year with Napoleon, the Duke of Wellington, Cuvier, Chateaubriand, and Walter Scott, and was 82 years old at the time of his death. He entered the army in 1785, and was subsequently attached to the staff of Gen. Lefebvre. He took part in all the campaigns of Germany until 1799, when he followed Massena into Switzerland and thence to Genoa, where he was wounded and taken prisoner. Set at liberty after the battle of Marengo, he returned to France and became one of the four colonels of the guard of the Consuls. When the empire was proclaimed in 1804 he was made Marshal of France. He subsequently commanded the army in Spain, and in 1813 was made Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Guard. When Napoleon first landed from Elba he issued a proclamation against him, but soon after became one of his warmest adherents. He was afterward the firm supporter of Louis Philippe, as Minister of War and President of the Council, from which he retired in 1847 to private life. He was the last representative of the imperial era of France.

From AUSTRIA the only news is of new arrests and new restrictions. A number of persons in Hungary, including the mother and the sisters of Kossuth, had been arrested merely on suspicion at Pesth: and a subsequent account announces the death of his mother. The prisoners were removed to Vienna. The military governor of Vienna has forbidden the papers hereafter to publish the names of any persons that may be arrested, or to mention the fact of their arrest, on the ground that it “interferes with judicial proceedings.” The government, it is said, has notified the English government, that measures will be taken to prevent Englishmen from traveling in Austria, if Austrian refugees continue to be received and fêted in England.—The financial embarrassments of the government still continue.—It is stated that Prince Schwarzenberg has avowed the intention of the Austrian government to sustain Louis Napoleon in the course he has taken—not that his legitimate right to the position he holds is conceded, but because he is acting on the side of order.

From SPAIN we have intelligence that the Queen has pardoned all the American prisoners proceeding from the last expedition against Cuba, whether in Spain fulfilling their sentence or still in Cuba. The decree announcing this was dated Dec. 9, and alleged the satisfactory conduct and assurances of the American government as the ground of this clemency.—The Spanish Minister, Don Calderon de la Barca, had been honored with the Grand Cross of Charles II. as a reward for his conduct, and Señor Laborde, the Spanish Consul at New Orleans, was to resume his post.—Immediately after receiving news of the _coup-d’état_ in Paris, the Spanish Congress was indefinitely prorogued by the royal authority. A princess was born on the 20th of December.

In TURKEY the question of Russian predominance has again been raised, by the demand of the French, upon the Turkish government, for the control of the Holy Sepulchre, which, they allege, was guaranteed to them by treaty in 1740. Through the agency of their Minister, the French had succeeded in procuring an admission of the binding force of the treaty: but just then the Russian Minister presented a demand that the Holy Sepulchre should still remain in the hands of the Greek Church. This remonstrance caused the Porte to hesitate: and the affair is still undecided.

From CHINA and the EAST news a month later has been received. From Bombay intelligence is to Nov. 17. A very severe hurricane occurred in and around Calcutta on the 22d of October, and caused great damage to the shipping as well as to houses: a great many persons were killed. Hostilities have again broken out between the English and the natives at Gwalior. Troops had been sent out upon service, but no engagements are reported.—In consequence of rival claimants to the throne, a fearful scene of anarchy and blood is commencing in Affghanistan. Many of the Hindoo traders and other peacable inhabitants have fled from the country, and were putting themselves under British protection.—An extensive fire occurred in Canton, Oct. 4, destroying five hundred houses and an immense amount of property. The intelligence of the Chinese rebellion was very vague, and the movement had ceased to excite interest or attract attention.

EDITOR’S TABLE.

The Value of the Union.—In our periodical rounds, we have arrived at the month which numbers in its calendar the natal day of Washington. What subject, then, more appropriate for such a period than the one we have placed at the head of our editorial Table? “_The Value of the Union_”—in other words, the value of our national Constitution? Who shall estimate it? By what mathematical formula shall we enter upon a computation requiring so many known and unknown forces to be taken into the account, and involving results so immense in the number and magnitude of their complications? No problem in astronomy or mechanics is to be compared with it. As a question of science, the whole solar system presents nothing more intricate. It is not a “problem of three bodies,” but of thirty; and these regarded not merely in their internal dynamical relations, but in their moral bearings upon an outer world of widely varied and varying forces.

In the computations of stocks and dividends, and the profit and loss of commercial partnerships, the process is comparatively clear. The balance is ever of one ascertained kind, and expressed in one uniform circulating medium. There is but one standard of value, and, therefore, the methods of ordinary arithmetic are sufficient. But in this estimate, which the most ordinary politician sometimes thinks himself perfectly competent to make, there enter elements that the highest analysis might fail to master. This is because the answer sought presents itself under so many aspects, and in such a variety of relations.

“_The Value of the Union._”—We have forgotten who first employed the ill-omened expression, but it has set us thinking in how many ways it may be taken, and how many different kinds of value may be supposed to enter into such a calculation.

And first—for our subject is so important as to require precision—we may attempt to consider the value of our national Constitution as A WORK OF ART. This is a choice term of the day—a favorite mode of speech with all who would affect a more than ordinary elevation of thought and sentiment. Profound ideas are sought in painting, statuary, and architecture. The ages, it is said, speak through them, and in them. The individual minds and hands by which they receive their outward forms, are only representative of deeper tendencies existing in the generic humanity. In the department of architecture, especially, some of the favorite writers of the age are analyzing the elements of its ideal excellence. The perfection of an architectural structure is its rhythm, its analogy, its inward harmonious support, its outward adaptedness to certain ends, or the expression of certain thoughts, or the giving form and embodiment to certain emotions—in other words, what may be called its artistic logic. Whether this be all true, or whether there is much cant and affectation mingled with it, still may we say that, in the best sense in which such an expression has ever been employed of statuary or architecture, is our Federal Constitution a high and glorious _work of art_; and if it had no other value, this alone would make it exceedingly precious in the eyes of all who have a taste for the sublimity and beauty of order, who love the just and true, and who regard the highest dignity and well-being of our humanity as consisting in a right appreciation of these ideas. One of the most popular and instructive works of the day is Ruskin on the different styles of architecture. Would it be thought whimsical to compare with this the Letters of Madison and Hamilton on the Federal Constitution? We refer to the well-known work entitled The Federalist, and on whose profound disquisitions the pillars of our government may be said to rest. Yes, _there_, we boldly affirm it, _there_, is to be found the true τὸ καλόν—there is architectural and constructive rhythm. There is analogy of ideas, there is harmony of adaptation, there is unity of power. There is both statistical and dynamical beauty—the beauty of rest, the beauty of strength in repose, the beauty of action in harmonious equilibrium. There is that which gives its highest charm to music, the perception of ratios, and ideas, and related chords, instead of mere unmeaning sounds. There is that which makes the enchantment of the picture, the exquisite blending of colors, the proper mingling of light and shade, the perspective adjustment of the near and the remote. There are all the elements of that high satisfaction we experience in the contemplation of any dramatic act, or of any structure, real or ideal, in which there is a perfect arrangement of mutually supporting parts, and a perfect resolution of mutually related forces, all combined with harmonious reference to a high and glorious end.

Irrespective, then, of its more immediate social and political utilities, there is a high value in our Federal Constitution when viewed thus in reference solely to its artistic excellence. We may thus speak of its worth _per se_, as a model of the τὸ καλόν, just as we would of that of a picture, or a temple, or an anthem. But even in this aspect it has its higher utilities. Is there no value in the elevating effect it must ever have upon those who have intellect enough to comprehend what we have called its artistic logic, and soul enough to feel the harmonizing influence of its artistic beauty? Will not a people reason better who have ever before them a work which has been the result of so much philosophical and scientific thought? Will not their moral taste be purified, and their love of the true and the beautiful be increased, in proportion as their minds enter truly into the harmony of such a structure? Is it a mere fancy to suppose that such a silent yet powerful educating influence in our Constitution may be more effectual, on many minds, than any direct restraining power of special statutes?

This train of thought is tempting, and suggests a great variety of illustrations, but we can not dwell on them. If the man who should maliciously cause the destruction of a splendid cathedral, who should set fire to St. Peter’s or St. Paul’s, or who should wantonly mar a master-piece of Power or Canova—if such a one, we say, would justly be visited with the execration of the civilized world, of how much sorer punishment should he be thought worthy who should traitorously conspire the death of our American Union, or even think of applying the torch to the glorious structure of our Federal Constitution? Even to speak lightly of its value should be regarded as no ordinary treason. But let us come down to what many would regard a more practical and utilitarian view of the matter.

AS AN EXAMPLE TO THE WORLD.—What arithmetic shall estimate the value of our Union and of our political institutions in this respect? This is the second element in our computation; although in view of the present condition of mankind it might even seem entitled to the first and highest place. Between the wild surgings of radicalism and the iron-bound coast of despotism, what hope for the nations if the fairest and strongest ship of constitutional liberty part her anchors, only to be engulfed in the yawning vortex on the one side, or dashed to pieces against the rocks on the other? When will the experiment ever be tried under fairer auspices? When may we again expect such a combination of favoring circumstances, propitious providences, moral and religious influences, formative ideas, and historical training as have all concurred in building up the fabric which some would so recklessly destroy? If after the preparation of centuries—if after all our claims to a higher Christianity, a higher civilization, a higher science—if after all our boasts of progress, and of the Press, and of the capacity of man for self-government—the result of it all should be a dissolution of our political and national existence before one generation of its founders had wholly passed away, what can we expect—we earnestly ask every serious reader deeply to ponder this most plain and practical question—what can we expect of the frivolous French infidelity, or the deeper, and therefore far more dangerous German pantheism, or the untaught serfdom of Austria and Russia? It may, perhaps, be said, that the mere dissolution of our Union would not involve any such eventful issue. It is only a temporary expedient (it might be maintained), not belonging to the essence of our nationality, and the real sovereignty, or sovereignties would not be impaired by its loss. Our State governments would remain, and other lesser confederacies might be formed, if political exigencies should require them. This suggests the _third aspect_ under which we would consider the problem that has presented itself for our editorial contemplations.

_The Value of our Union_ as THE KEY-STONE OF STATE AUTHORITY, and of all that may be legitimately included under the idea of State sovereignty. Who shall estimate it in this respect? We are too much inclined to regard our general government, as in some respects, a foreign one, as something outside of our proper nationality, as an external band, or wrapper, that may be loosened without much danger, rather than what it really is, or, at least has become in time, a _con-necting_, interweaving, all-pervading principle, constituting not merely a _sum_ of adjacent _parts_, but a _whole_ of organic _membership_; so that a severance would not leave merely disintegrated fractions, possessing each the same vitality it would have had, or might once have had, if there had never been such membership. The wound could not be inflicted without a deep, and, perhaps, deadly injury, not only to the life of the whole, as a whole, but to the vital forces through which the lower and smaller sections of each several member may have been respectively bound into political unities. It is true, our general government had a peculiar origin, and stands, _in time_, subsequent to the State authorities. It might seem, therefore, to some, to derive its life from them, instead of being itself a proper fountain of vitality. This is _chronologically_ true; but such an inference from it would be _logically_ false, and could only proceed from a very superficial study of the law of political organisms. Whatever may have been the origin of the parts, or the original circumstances of their union, we must now regard the body that has grown out of them as a living organic whole, which can not suffer without suffering throughout. It is _alive all over_, and you can put the amputating knife in no place without letting out some of the life-blood that flows in each member, and in every fibre of each member. It had, indeed, its origin in the union of the parts, but its vital principle has modified the parts, and modified their life, so that you can not now hurt it, or kill it, without producing universal pain and universal death. Nor was such union either arbitrary or accidental. Our general political organization was as naturally born out of the circumstances in which we were placed, as our several State polities grew out of the union of the feeble and varied sources in which they had their historical origin. The written Constitution declarative of the national coalescence (or _growing together_) only expressed an _effect_, instead of constituting a cause.

To change our metaphor, for the sake of varied and easy illustration, we may say, that the Federal Constitution, though last in the actual order of construction, has come to be the key-stone of the whole arch. It can not now be taken out but at the risk of every portion crumbling into atoms. The State interest may have been predominant in the earlier periods, but generations have since been born under the security of this arch, and a conservative feeling of nationality has been growing up with it. In this way our general government, our State governments, our county or district governments, our city corporations, the municipal authorities of our towns and villages, have become _cemented_ together into one grand harmonious whole, whose coherence is the coherence of every part, and in which no part is the same it would, or might have been, had no such interdependent coherence ever taken place. It becomes, therefore, a question of the most serious moment—What would be the effect of loosening this key of the arch? Could we expect any stone to keep its place, be it great or small? In other words, have we any reason to believe that such an event would be succeeded by two, or three, or a few confederacies, still bound together, or might we not rather expect a universal dissolution of our grand national system?

And would it stop here? The charm once broken, would the wounded feeling of nationality find repose in our State governments, or would they, too, in their turn, feel the effects of the same dissolving and decomposing process? These, also, are but creations of law, and compacts, and historical events, and accidents of locality, in which none of the present generation had any share, and which have brought all the smaller political powers within certain boundaries to be members of one larger body politic, with all the irregularities and inequalities it may geographically present. What magic, then, in the bond that holds together the smaller parts composing New York, or Virginia, or Massachusetts, or South Carolina, which is not to be found in the national organization? What sacred immutability in the results giving rise to the one class of political wholes that does not exist in the other? Such questions are becoming already rife among us, and let the healthful charm of our greater nationality be once lost, they would doubtless multiply with a rapidity that might startle even the most radical. The doctrine may not be intended, but it would logically and inevitably result from much of our most popular oratory on the inherent right of self-government, that any part of any separate State might sever its connection with the whole, or might form a union with any contiguous territory, whenever it might seem to the majority of such part to be for their interest, or to belong to their abstract right to make such secession or annexation. There is, however, an extreme to which the principle may be carried, even beyond this. The tendency to what is called individualism, or the making all positive legislation dependent for its authority upon the higher law of the individual sanction, would soon give a practical solution to the most disorganizing theories that now exist as germs in the idea expressed by that barbarous but most expressive term _come-outer-ism_. And this suggests the next and closely related aspect of our important problem.

There is, in the fourth place, the value of the national Constitution as THE GRAND CONSERVATOR OF ALL LOWER LAW, and of all lower political rights whatever. No law of the State, of the city, of the family, of the school, no contract between man and man, no prescriptive right, no title to property, no exclusive domain in land, no authority over persons, could fail to be weakened by a wound inflicted on the all-conserving law of our higher nationality. There are none of these but what are even now demoralized, and seriously affected in their most inner sanctions, by the increasing practice of speaking lightly of a bond so sacred. What right has he to the possession of his acres who counsels resistance to one law of the land, and, in so doing, strikes at the very life of the authority by which he holds all he calls his own? It must be true of human, as well as of the Divine law, that he who offends in one point is guilty of all. The severence of one link breaks the whole chain. There is no medium between complete submission to every constitutional ordinance, or rightful and violent revolution against the whole political system. But if such inconsistency can be charged on him who claims the right of property in land, although that, too, is beginning to be disputed, with how much more force does it press on the man who asserts property, or—if a less odious term is preferred—authority, in persons? We do not dispute his claim. It comes from the common source of all human authority, whether of man over man, or of man to the exclusion of man from a challenged domain. But certainly _his_ title can have no other foundation than the political institutions of the country maintained in all their coherent integrity; and, therefore, he who asserts it should be very conservative, he should be very reverent of law in all its departments, he should be very tender of breaking Constitutions, he should hold in the highest honor the decisions of an interpreting judiciary. He should, in short, be the very last man ever to talk of revolution, or nullification, or secession, or of any thing else that may in the least impair the sacredness or stability of constitutional law.

Call government, then, what we will, social compact, divine institution, natural growth of time and circumstances—conceive of it under any form—still there is ever the same essential idea. It is ever one absolute, earthly, sovereign power, acting, within a certain territory, as the sanction and guaranty of all civil or political rights, in other words, of all rights that can not exist without it. There may be many intermediate links in the chain, but it is only by virtue of this, in the last appeal, that one man has the exclusive right to the house in which he lives, or to the land which he occupies. Hence alone, too, are all the _civil_ rights of marriage and the domestic relations. The family is born of the state. On this account, says Socrates, may it be held that _the law has begotten us_, and we may be justly called its sons. There is the same idea in the maxim of Cicero, _In aris et focis est respublica_; and in this thought we find the peculiar malignity of that awful crime of treason. It is a _breach of trust_, and, in respect to government, of the most sacred trust. It is the foulest parricide. It is aiming a dagger at that civic life from which flows all the social and domestic vitality. The notion, in feudal times, had for its outward type the relation of lord and dependent—of service and obedience on the one hand, and protection on the other. The form has changed, but the essential idea remains, and ever must remain, while human government exists on earth. He who breaks this vital bond, he who would seek to have the protection to his person and his property, while he forfeits the tenure of citizenship, he is the _traitor_. And hence arises the essential difference between treason and mobbism. The man who is guilty of the former not only commits violence, but means by that violence to assail the very existence through which alone he himself may be said to exist as a citizen, or member of a living political organism. There is no more alarming feature of the times than the indifference with which men begin to look upon this foul, unnatural crime, and even to palliate it under the softened title of “political offenses,” or a mere difference in political opinions. To punish it is thought to savor only of barbarism and a barbarous age. If we judge, however, from the tremendous consequences which must result from its impunity, ordinary murder can not be named in the comparison. If he who takes a single life deserves the gallows, of how much sorer punishment shall he be thought worthy who aims at the life of a nation—a nation, too, like our own, the world’s last hope, the preservation of whose political integrity is the most effectual means of INTERVENTION we can employ in favor of true freedom in every other part of the globe.

And this brings us to our fifth measure of value, but we can only briefly state it. The world has seen enough of despotism. It is probable, too, that there will be no lack of lawless popular anarchy. In this view of things, how precious is every element of constitutional liberty! How important to have its lamp ever trimmed and burning, as a guide to the lost, a bright consolation of hope to the despairing! Only keep this light steadily shining out on the dark sea of despotism, and it will do more for the tossing and foundering nations than any rash means of help that, without any avail for good, may only draw down our own noble vessel into the angry breakers, and engulfing billows of the same shipwreck.

EDITOR’S EASY CHAIR.

Even yet the talk of LOUIS NAPOLEON, and of that audacious action which in a day transmuted our thriving sister republic, with her regularly-elected President, and her regularly-made—though somewhat tattered—Constitution, into a kind of anomalous empire, with only an army, and a Bonaparte to hold it together—is loud, in every corner of the country. It has seemed not a little strange, that the man, at whom, three years ago, every one thought it worth his while to fling a sneer, should have gathered into his hands, with such deft management, the reins of power, and absolutely out-manœuvred the bustling little THIERS, and the bold-acting CAVAIGNAC.

Old travelers are recalling their recollection of the spruce looking gentleman, in white kids, and with unexceptionable beaver, who used to saunter with one or two mustached companions along Pall-Mall; and who, some three months after, in even more _recherche_ costume, used to take his morning drive, with four-in-hand, upon the asphalte surface of the Paris avenues. There seemed really nothing under cover of his finesse in air and garb which could work out such long-reaching strategy as he has just now shown us.

Belabor him as we will, with our honest republican anathemas, there must yet have been no small degree of long-sightedness belonging to the man who could transform a government in a day; and who could have laid such finger to the pulse of a whole army of Frenchmen, as to know their heart-bound to a very fraction.

The truth is, the French, with the impulse of a quick-blooded race, admire audacity of any sort; and what will call a shout, will, in nine cases out of ten, call a welcome. It is not a little hard for a plain, matter-of-fact American to conceive of the readiness with which the French army, and all the myrmidons of that glowing republican power, shift their allegiance—as obedient as an opera chorus to the wink of the _maestro_.

We can ourselves recall the memory of a time when that CHANGARNIER, who is now a lion in fetters, held such rule over Paris military and Paris constabulary, that a toss of his thumb would send half the representatives to prison; and now, there is not so much as a regiment who would venture a wail for his losses. This offers sad comment on the “thinking capacity” of bayonets!

What shall we suppose of these hundred thousand scene-shifters in the red pantaloons? Are they worked upon merely by the Napoleonic champagne to a change of views; or are they tired of a sham Republic, and willing to take instead a sham Empire; or have they grown political economists, with new appreciation of government stability, and a long-sighted eagerness to secure tranquillity? Or, is not the humbler truth too patent, that their opinions herd together by a kind of brute sympathy, and are acted upon by splendor—whether of crime or of munificence; and, moreover, is it not too clear that those five hundred thousand men who prop the new dynasty with bayonets, are without any sort of what we call moral education, and rush to every issue like herds of wild bison—guided solely by instinct?

And would not a little of that sort of education which sets up school-houses, and spreads newspapers, and books, and Harper’s Magazines like dew over the length and the breadth of our land, do more toward the healing of that sick French nation, than the prettiest device of Constitution, or the hugest five-sous bath-house? Ah, well-a-day, we shall have little hope for _la belle France_, UNTIL HER ARMY SHOWS INTELLIGENCE, and HER STATESMEN HONESTY.

We can hardly give this current topic the go-by, without bringing to our reader’s eye a happy summing up of suppositions in the columns of Punch, and if our listener will only read Congressional for Parliamentary, and the _Bentons_ and the _Casses_ for the _Grahames_ and the _Gladstones_, he may form a very accurate idea of a _Napoleon-Mr.-Fillmore_.

Suppose the head of the Executive, or the Minister for the time being, were to take it into his head one morning to abolish the Houses of Parliament.—Suppose some of the members elected by large constituencies were to think it a duty to go and take their seats, and were to be met at the doors by swords and bayonets, and were to be wounded and taken off to prison for the attempt.—Suppose the Minister, having been harassed by a few Parliamentary debates and discussions, were to send off to Newgate or the House of Correction a few of the most eminent members of the Opposition, such as the Disraelis, the Grahames, the Gladstones, the Barings, and a sprinkling of the Humes, the Wakleys, the Walmsleys, the Cobdens, and the Brights.—Suppose the press having been found not to agree with the policy of the Minister, he were to peremptorily stop the publication of the _Times_, _Herald_, _Chronicle_, _Post_, _Advertiser_, _Daily News_, _Globe_, &c., &c., and limit the organs of intelligence to the Government _Gazette_, or one or two other prints that would write or omit just what he, the Minister, might please.—Suppose, when it occurred to the public that these measures were not exactly in conformity with the law, the Minister were to go or send some soldiers down to Westminster Hall, shut up the Courts, send the Lord Chancellor about his business, and tell Lords Campbell, Cranworth, and all the rest of the high judicial authorities, to make the best of their way home.—Suppose a few Members of Parliament were to sign a protest against these proceedings; and suppose the documents were to be torn down by soldiers, and the persons signing them packed off to Coldbath Fields or Pentonville.—Suppose all these things were to happen with a Parliament elected by Universal Suffrage, and under a Republican form of Government[.]—And lastly—Suppose we were to be told that this sort of thing is liberty, and what we ought to endeavor to get for our own country;—Should we look upon the person telling us so, as a madman, or a knave, or both? and should we not be justified in putting him as speedily, and as unceremoniously as possible—outside our doors?

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In our last EASY chat with our readers, we sketched in an off-hand way the current of the KOSSUTH talk; and we hinted that our enthusiasm had its fevers and chills; so far as the talk goes, a chilliness has come over the town since the date of our writing—an unworthy and ungracious chill—but yet the natural result of a little over-idolatry. As for Congressional action, no apology can be found, either in moderation or good sense, for the doubtful and halting welcome which has been shown the great Hungarian.

The question of Government interference in his national quarrel was one thing; but the question of a welcome to a distinguished and suffering stranger was quite another. The two, however, have been unfortunately mingled; and a rude and vulgar effort has been made to prejudge his mission, by affronting him as a guest. We may be strong enough to brave Russia, and its hordes of Cossacks; but no country is strong enough to trample on the laws of hospitality We see the hint thrown out in some paper of the day, that the slackened sympathy for KOSSUTH, in Washington, is attributable mainly to the influence of the diplomatic circles of that city. We fear there may be a great deal of truth in this hint: our enthusiasm finds volume in every-day chit-chat, and dinner-table talk; it lives by such fat feeding as gossip supplies; and gossip finds its direction in the salons of the most popular of entertainers.

Washington has a peculiar and shifting social character—made up in its winter elements of every variety of manner and of opinion. This manner and these opinions, however, are very apt to revolve agreeably to what is fixed at the metropolis; and since the diplomatic circles of the capital are almost the only permanent social foci of habit and gossip, it is but natural there should be a convergence toward their action. The fact is by no means flattering; but we greatly fear that it is pointed with a great deal of truth.

Our readers will observe, however, that we account in this way only for the slackened tone of talk, and of salon enthusiasm; nor do we imagine that any parlor influences whatever of the capital can modify to any considerable degree, either legislative, or moral action.

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Of Paris, now that she has fallen again into one, of her political paroxysms, there is little gayety to be noted. And yet it is most surprising how that swift-blooded people will play the fiddle on the barricades! Never—the papers tell us—were the receptions at the Elysée more numerously attended, and never were the dresses richer, or the jewels more ostentatiously displayed.

Some half dozen brilliant _soirées_ were, it seems, on the _tapis_ at the date of Louis Napoleon’s manœuvre; the invitations had been sent, and upon the evenings appointed—a week or more subsequent to the turn of the magic lantern—the guests presented themselves before closed doors. The occupants and intended hosts were, it seems, of that timid class living along the Faubourg St. Honoré and the Faubourg St. Germain, who imagined themselves, their titles, and their wealth, safer under the wing of King Leopold of Belgium, than under the shadow of the new-feathered eagle. A thriving romance or two, they say, belonged to the quiet movements of the Republic. Thus, the papers make us a pleasant story out of CAVAIGNAC and his prospective bride, Mademoiselle ODIER. And if we furbish up for the reading of our country clients, we venture to say that we shall keep as near the truth as one half of the letter-writers.

For two or three years, it seems that General Cavaignac has been a constant visitor at the house of the rich banker, M. ODIER, He was regarded as a friend of the family, and wore the honors of a friend; that is to say, he had such opportunities of conversation, and for attention in respect to the daughter of the house, as is rarely accorded to Paris ladies in their teens. The General looks a man of fifty—he may be less; but he has a noble carriage, a fine face, and a manner full of dignity and gentleness. The pretty blonde (for Mlle. Odier is so described), was not slow to appreciate the captivating qualities of the General. Moreover, there belonged to her character a romantic tinge, which was lighted up by the story of the General’s bravery, and of the dauntless way in which he bore himself through the murderous days of June. In short, she liked him better than she thought.

The General, on the other hand, somewhat fixed in his bachelor habitude, and counting himself only a fatherly friend, who could not hope, if he dared, to quicken any livelier interest—wore imperturbably the dignity and familiarity of his first manner.

One day—so the story runs—conversation turned upon a recent marriage, in which the bridegroom was some thirty years the lady’s senior. The General in round, honest way, inveighed against the man as a deceiver of innocence, and avowed strongly his belief that such inequality of age was not only preposterous, but wicked.

Poor Mademoiselle Odier!—her fond heart feeding so long blindly on hope, lighted by romance and love, could not bear the sudden shock. She grew pale—paler still, and, to the surprise of the few friends who were present—fainted.

Even yet the General lived in ignorance; and would perhaps have died in ignorance, had not some kind friend made known to him the state of Mlle[.] Odier’s feelings. The General was too gallant a man to be conquered in loving; and the issue was, in a week, an acknowledged troth of the banker’s daughter with the General Cavaignac.

Upon the evening preceding the change of the Republic, they were together—father, daughter, and lover—at the first presentation of a new play. The marriage was fixed for the week to come. But in view of the unsettled state of affairs, the General advised a postponement. The next morning he was a prisoner, on his way to Ham.

He wrote—the gossips tell us—a touching letter to Mademoiselle Odier, giving up all claim upon her, as a prisoner, which he had so proudly boasted while free, and assuring her of his unabated devotion.

She wrote—the gossips tell us—that he was dearer to her now than ever.

So the matter stands; with the exception that Cavaignac has been freed, and that the day of marriage is again a matter of consultation.

May they have a long life, and a happy one—longer and happier than the life of the Republic!

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The drawing of the “Lottery of Gold” was _the event_ of Paris which preceded the _coup-d’état_. Some seven millions of tickets had been sold at a franc each; and the highest prize was, if we mistake not, a sum equal to a hundred thousand dollars. Interest was of course intense; and the National Circus, where the lots were drawn, was crowded to its utmost capacity. The papers give varying accounts as to the fortunate holder of the ticket drawing the first prize, one account represents her as a poor washerwoman, and another, as a street porter. A story is told of one poor fellow who, by a mistaken reading of one figure, imagined himself the fortunate possessor of the fortune. He invited his friends to a feast, and indulged in all sorts of joyous folly. The quick revulsion of feeling, when the truth appeared, was too much for the poor fellow’s brain, and he is now in the mad-house.

Another equally unfortunate issue is reported of a poor seamstress, who had spent the earnings of years, amounting to six or seven hundred francs, upon the chance of a prize, and drew—nothing. She, too, has lost both money and mind. The affair, however, has had the fortunate result of taming down wild expectancies, and of destroying the taste for such labor hating schemes of profit. It were devoutly to be hoped, that a little of the distaste for moneyed lotteries, would breed a distaste in the French mind for political lotteries.

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As for affairs at home, they budge on in much the old fashion. The town is not over-gay—partly through fatigues of last winter, which are not yet wholly forgotten—partly through a little Wall-street depletion, and partly through the ugly weather, which has sown catarrhs and coughs with a very liberal hand.

Poor Jenny Lind—true to her native tenderness of heart, has yielded up the closing scenes of what would have been a glorious triumph, to the grief at a mother’s death. She goes away from us mourning, and she leaves behind her a nation of mourners!

The opera is to tinkle in our ears again—with the symphony of Steffanone, Benedetti, and the rest. The town takes music quietly this winter, and the old fashion of listening has almost grown into a habit of appreciation. The town is building up into a Paris-sided company of streets; and the seven stories of freestone and marble will soon darken down Broadway into a European duskiness of hue. The street lights glimmer on such nights as the almanac tells no story of the moon; and on other nights we draggle as we may, between clouds and rain—consoling ourselves with the rich city economy, and hopeful of some future and freer dispensation—of gas.

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For want of some piquancy, which our eye does not catch in the French journals, we sum up our chit-chat with this pleasant whim-wham of English flavor:

My man Davis is a bit of a character. If he’s not up to a thing or two, I should like to know who is. I am often puzzled to know how a man who has seen so much of life as he has should condescend to have “no objection to the country,” and to take service with a retired linen-draper, which I am. I keep a dog-cart, and, not being much of a whip, Davis generally drives. He has some capital stories; at least I think so; but perhaps it is his manner of telling them; or perhaps I’m very easily pleased. However, here’s one of them.

HOW MR. COPER SOLD A HORSE.

“Mr. Coper, as kept the Red Lion Yard, in —— street, was the best to sell a horse I ever know’d, sir; and I know’d some good ’uns, I have; but he _was_ the best. He’d look at you as tho’ butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and his small wall-eyes seemed to have no more life in ’em than a dead whiting’s. My master, Capt. ——, stood his hosses there, and, o’ course, I saw a good deal of Mr. Coper. One day a gent came to look at the stable, and see if he could buy a hoss. Coper saw in a minute that he knew nothing about horseflesh, and so was uncommon civil. The first thing he showed him was a great gray coach-hoss, about seventeen hands and a inch, with a shoulder like a Erkilus.”

“I suppose you mean Hercules?”

“I suppose I do, sir. The gent was a little man so, o’ course, the gray was taken in agen, and a Suffolk Punch cob, that ’ud a done for a bishop, was then run up the yard. But, lor! the little gent’s legs ’ud never have been of any use to him; they’d a’ stuck out on each side like a curricle-bar—so he wouldn’t do. Coper showed him three or four others—good things in their way, but not at all suited to the gent. At last Coper says to him, with a sort of sigh, ‘Well, sir, I’m afear’d we shan’t make a deal of it to-day, sir; you’re very particular, as you’ve a right to be, and I’ll look about, and if I can find one that I think ’ll do, I’ll call on you.’ By this time he had walked the gent down the stable to opposite a stall where was a brown hoss, fifteen hands or about, ‘Now there ’ud be the thing to suit you, sir,’ says he, ‘and I only wish I could find one like him.’ ‘Why can’t I have him?’ says the gent. ‘Impossible,’ says Coper. ‘Why impossible?’ says the gent. ‘Because he’s Mrs. Coper’s hoss, and money wouldn’t buy him of her; he’s perfect, and she knows it.’ ‘Well,’ says the gent, getting his steam up, ‘I don’t mind price’ ‘What’s money to peace of mind?’ says Coper. ‘If I was to sell that hoss, my missis would worry my life out.’ Well, sir, the more Coper made a difficulty of selling the hoss, the more the gent wanted to buy, till at last Coper took him to a coach-hus, as tho’ to be private, and said to him in a whisper, ‘Well, tell you what I’ll do: I’ll take ninety pounds for him; perhaps he’s not worth that to every body, but I think he is to you, who wants a perfect thing, and ready-made for you.’ ‘You’re very kind,’ said the gent, ‘and I’ll give you a check at once.’ ‘But, mind,’ says Coper, ‘you must fetch him away at night; for if my missus saw him going out of the yard, I do believe she’d pull a life-guardsman off him. How I shall pacify her I don’t know! Ninety pounds! why, ninety pounds won’t pay me for the rows; leave alone the hoss!’

“The gent quite thought Coper was repenting of the bargain, and so walked away to the little countin’-house, and drew a check for the money. When he was gone, I burst out a-laughin’; because I know’d Mrs. Coper was as mild as a bran-mash, and ’ud never a’ dared to blow up her husband; but Coper wouldn’t have it—he looked as solemn as truth. Well, sir, the horse was fetched away that night.”

“But why at night, Davis?”

“Because they shouldn’t see his good qualities all at once, I suppose, sir; for he’d got the Devonshire coat-of-arms on his off knee.”

“Devonshire coat-of-arms?”

“Yes, sir; you see Devonshire’s a very hilly country, and most of the hosses down there has broken knees, so they calls a speck the Devonshire coat-of-arms. Well, sir, as Mrs. Coper’s pet shied at every thing and nothing, and bolted when he warn’t a-shieing, the gent came back in about a week to Coper.

“ ‘Mr. Coper,’ says he, ‘I can’t get on with that hoss at all—perhaps I don’t know how to manage him; he goes on so odd that I’am afraid to ride him; so I thought, as he was such a favorite with Mrs. Coper, you should have him back again.’

“ ‘Not if you’d give me ninety pounds to do it,’ says Coper, looking as tho’ he was a-going to bite the gent.

“ ‘Why not?’ says the gent.

“ ‘I wouldn’t go through what I have gone through,’ says Coper, hitting the stable-door with his fist enough to split it, ‘not for twice the money. Mrs. Coper never left off rowing for two days and nights, and how I should a’ stopped her, I don’t know, if luck hadn’t stood my friend; but I happened to meet with a hoss the very moral of the one you’ve got, only perhaps just a leetle better, and Mrs. C. took to him wonderful. I wouldn’t disturb our domestic harmony by having that hoss of yourn back again, not for half the Bank of England.’ Now the gent was a very tender-hearted man, and believed all that Coper told him, and kept the hoss; but what he did with him I can’t think, for he was the wiciousest screw as ever put his nose in a manger.”

EDITOR’S DRAWER.

We placed on record, not long since in the “Drawer,” two or three anecdotes of the pomposity and copied manners of New England negroes, in the olden time. Here is another one, that seems to us quite as laughable as the specimens to which we have alluded. It is not quite certain, but rather more than probable, that the minister who takes a part in the story was the same clergyman who said, in conversation with a distinguished Puritan divine, that he could “write six sermons a week and make nothing of it.” “Precisely!” responded the other; “you _would_ make _just_ nothing of your sermons!” But to the story.

There were a good many colored people in Massachusetts many years ago, and one of them, an old and favorite servant, was held by a clergyman in one of the easternmost counties of the State. His name was Cuffee; and he was as pompous and imitative as the CÆSAR, whose master “libbed wid him down on de Plains,” in Connecticut. He presumed a good deal upon his age and consequence, and had as much liberty to do as he pleased as any body in the house. On the Sabbath he was always in the minister’s pew, looking around with a grand air, and, so far as appearances went or indicated, profiting as much by his master’s rather dull preaching as any of the congregation around him who were pretending to listen.

One Sunday morning Cuffee noticed that several gentlemen in the neighborhood of his master’s pew had taken out their pencils, and were taking notes of the discourse; either because it was more than usually interesting, or because they wished it to be seen by the parson that they _thought_ it was. Cuffee determined that he would follow the example thus set him; so in the afternoon he brought a sheet of paper and pen and ink-horn to church with him. His master, looking down from his pulpit into his pew, could hardly maintain his gravity, as he saw his servant “spread out” to his task, his great red tongue out, and one side of his face nearly touching the paper. Cufee applied himself vigorously to his notes, until his master had come to his “sixteenth and lastly,” and “in view of this subject we remark, in the eighth and last place,” &c., knowing nothing all the while, and caring just as little, about the wonderment of his master, who was occasionally looking down upon him.

When the minister reached home, he sent for Cufee to come into his study.

“Well, Cuffee,” said he, “what was that I saw you doing in meeting this afternoon?”

“Me, massa?—w’at was _I_ a-doin?”

“Yes, Cuffee; what was that you were about, in stead of listening to the sermon?”

“I was a-listenin’ _hard_, massa, and I was _takin’ notes_.”

“You taking notes!” exclaimed the minister.

“Sartain, massa; all de oder gem’men take notes too.”

“Well, Cuffee, let us _see_ your notes,” said his master.

Hereupon Cuffee produced his sheet of paper. It was scrawled all over with all sorts of marks and lines; worse than if a dozen spiders, escaped from an ink-bottle, had kept up a day’s march over it. It would have puzzled Champollion himself to have unraveled its mysteries.

The minister looked over the notes, as if with great attention, and at length said,

“Why, Cuffee, this is all nonsense!”

“E’yah! e’yah!” replied Cuffee; “I t’ought so myse’f, all de time you was a-preachin’! Dat’s a fac’! E’yah! e’yah!”

The minister didn’t tell the story himself, being rather shy about the conclusion. It leaked out, however, through Cuffee, one day, and his master “never heard the last of it.”

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In a play which we once read, there is a physician introduced, who comes to prescribe to a querulous, nervous old gentleman. His advice and directions as to what he is to do, &c., greatly annoy the excitable old man; but his _prescriptions_ set him half crazy. He calls to the servant in a voice like a Stentor—although a moment before he had described that organ as “all gone, doctor—a mere penny-whistle”—and ordered him to “kick the doctor down stairs, and pay him at the street-door!” “Calls himself one of the ‘_faculty_?’ ” growled the old invalid, after the physician had left in high dudgeon, and vowing vengeance; “calls himself one of the faculty; stupid old ass! with his white choker and gold-headed cane, and shrugs, and sighs, and solemn looks: ‘faculty!’—why he hasn’t _got_ a faculty! never _had_ a faculty!” We thought, at the time of reading this, of an anecdote which had lain for years in our “Drawer,” of the British actress, in one of the provincial towns of England, who was preparing to enact the solemnly tragic character of “Jane Shore,” in the historical and instructive drama of that name, which is richly worth perusal, for the lesson which it teaches of the ultimate punishment of vice, even in its most seductive form. The actress was in her dressing-room, preparing for the part, when her attendant, an ignorant country girl, informed her that a woman had called to request of her two orders for admission, to witness the performance of the play, her daughter and herself having walked four miles on purpose to see it.

“Does she _know_ me?” inquired the lady.

“Not at all; leastways she _said_ she didn’t,” replied the girl.

“It is very strange!” said the lady—“a most extraordinary request! Has the good woman got her _faculties_ about her?”

“I think she _have_, ma’am,” responded the girl, “for I see her have summat tied up in a red silk handkercher!”

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One seldom meets with a truer thing than the following observations by a quaint and witty author upon what are termed, less by way of “eminence,” perhaps, rather than “notoriety,” _Great Talkers_:—“Great Talkers not only do the least, but generally _say_ the least, if their words be weighed instead of reckoned.” He who labors under an incontinence of speech seldom gets the better of his complaint; for he must prescribe for himself, and is very sure of having a fool for his physician. Many a chatterbox might pass for a shrewd man, if he would keep his own secret, and put a drag-chain now and then upon his tongue. The largest minds have the smallest opinion of themselves; for their knowledge impresses them with humility, by showing them the extent of their ignorance, and the discovery makes them taciturn. Deep waters are still. Wise men generally talk little, because they think much. Feeling the annoyance of idle loquacity in others, they are cautious of falling into the same error, and keep their mouths shut when they can not open them to the purpose. The smaller the _calibre_ of the mind, the greater the _bore_ of a perpetually open mouth. Human heads are like hogsheads—the emptier they are, the louder report they give of themselves. I know human specimens who never think; they only _think_ they think. The clack of their word-mill is heard, even when there is no wind to set it going, and no grist to come from it. A distinguished Frenchman, of the time of Cardinal Richelieu, being in the antechamber of that wily statesman, on one occasion, at the time that a great talker was loudly and incessantly babbling, entreated him to be silent, lest he might annoy the cardinal.

“Why do you wish me not to speak?” asked the chatterbox; “I talk a good deal, certainly, but then I talk well.”

“_Half_ of that is true!” retorted the sarcastic Frenchman.

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It is getting to be a rather serious business for a man to stand up, in these modern days, in a court of justice as a witness. What with impertinent questions of all sorts, and the impudent “bullyragging” of counsel, he is a fortunate and self-possessed man if he is not nearly at his wits’ end before he comes off from that place of torture, a witness-stand. “Moreover, and which is more,” as Dogberry would say, when he _comes_ off, he has not escaped; for now the reporters take him up; and in a little paragraph, inclosed in brackets, we hear somewhat of his character, personal appearance, &c., something after the following fashion:

“[Mr. Jenkins is a small, restless, fidgety man, with little black eyes, one of which has a remarkable inward inclination toward the nose, which latter feature of his face turns up slightly, and indicates, by its color, the influence upon it of alcoholic fluids. He is lame of one leg, and wore a drab roundabout. As he left the stand, we observed a patch on the north side of his pantaloons, which evidenced ‘premeditated poverty.’ Mr. Jenkins was an extremely willing witness.”]

If the witness is so fortunate as to escape the foregoing species of counsel, he may fall into the hands of _another_ description; namely, the ambitious young advocate, who, as “the _learned_ counsel,” considers it incumbent upon him to use high-sounding words, in order to impress both the jury and the witness with the extent of his legal acquirements, and the depth of his erudition generally.

Such a “counsel” it was, who, some years ago, in Albany, had assumed the management of the defense in a case of assault and battery which had occurred in that good old Dutch city. The witness, a not over-clear-headed Irishman, was placed upon the stand, where he was thus interrogated:

“Your name, you say, is Maloney?”

“Yes, Si-r-r; Maloney is me name, and me mother’s name that bore me; long life to her in the owld counthry!”

“We don’t wish to hear any thing of the ‘ould counthry,’ Mr. Maloney,” said the “witty” counsel “Mr. Maloney, do you know my client?”

“Sir?” asked Mr. Maloney, in a monosyllable.

“Do you know _this_ man?” pointing to his client[.]

“Yes, Sir-r-r, I seen him wance-t.”

“Well, Mr. Maloney, did you see that man, that individual sitting at your right hand, did you see him raise his muscular arm, and endeavor to arouse the passions and excite the fears of my client?”

“Sir?” again asked the witness.

“The Court will please note the hesitancy of the witness. Let me ask you the _second_ time, Mr. Maloney, did you have an uninterrupted view, were your optics undimmed, when the plaintiff by your side, the individual in question, raised his muscular arm, and with malice prepense and murder aforethought, assaulted the person of my client, in violation of the laws of the country _and_ of the State of New York?”

“Sir?” said the witness, inquiringly, for the third time.

“Would it not be well, Mr. ——,” suggested the justice upon the bench to the “learned counsel,” “to put your question to the witness in simpler and more direct terms?”

“_Perhaps_ so, your honor. The witness is either very stupid or very designing. Well then, Mr Maloney, you see that man, the plaintiff there, don’t you?”

“Sure, I sees that man plain enough foreaninst me here, but I didn’t know he was a _plaintiff_. He might ha’ been a tinker, for all _I_ knew about it.”

“Well, Mr. Maloney, you see him _now_, at least. Now, sir, do you see _this_ man, my client?” laying his hand upon the defendant’s shoulder.

“Bedad I _do_, yer honor; I’m not a mole nor a bat, yer honor.”

“Very well, Mr. Maloney. Now, Mr. Maloney, did you see _that_ man strike _this_ man?”

“I _did_, yer honor, and knock him flat. Faix! but ’twas a big blow! ’Twas like the kick ov a horse!”

“Your question is answered, Mr. Counsel,” said the magistrate, “and your testimony is now in.”

Dryden’s lesson, that “it needs all we know to make things _plain_,” is somewhat illustrated by this actual occurrence.

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Many a disciple of Lavater and of Spurzheim will tell you that physiology and phrenology are each, and of themselves, infallible tests of character. But, as Robert Burns sings:

“The best-laid schemes of mice and men Gang aft aglee:”

a fact which was very humorously illustrated at the recent trial of the Michigan railroad conspirators. A man entered the crowded court-room one day, during the progress of the long-protracted trial, and looking eagerly around, asked of a by-stander which were the prisoners? A wag, without moving a muscle, pointed to the jury-box, and said.

“_There_ they are, in that box!”

“I _thought_ so!” said the inquirer, in a whisper. “What a set of gallows-looking wretches they are! If there’s any thing in physiology and phrenology, they _deserve_ hanging, any how!”

The jury were all “picked men” of that region!

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It is a good many years ago now, since we laughed a good hour by “Shrewsbury Clock” at the following description, by the hero of a native romance bearing his name, of the manner and bearing of New York Dry Goods “Drummers.” The scene succeeds the history of the hero’s first acquaintance with a “drummer;” who, mistaking him for a country “dealer,” had given him his card on board of a steamboat, taken him to his hotel in town, sent him his wine, given him tickets to the theatre, and requested him to call at his store in Hanover-square, where it was his intention to turn these courtesies to profitable account. On a bright pleasant morning, accordingly, our hero visits the store, where Mr. Lummocks, the drummer, receives him with open arms, and introduces him to his employer. But we will now let him tell the story in his own words; and DICKENS has seldom excelled the picture:

“He shook me heartily by the hand, and said he was really delighted to see me. He asked me how the times were, and offered me a cigar, which I took, for fear of giving offense, but which I threw away the very first opportunity I got.

“ ‘Buy for cash, or on time?’ he asked.

“I was a little startled at the question, it was so abrupt; but I replied, ‘For cash.’

“ ‘Would you like to look at some prints, major?’ he inquired.

“ ‘I am made obliged to you,’ I answered; ‘I am very fond of seeing prints.’

“With that he commenced turning over one piece of calico after another, with amazing rapidity.

“ ‘There, major—very desirable article—splendid style—only two-and-six: cheapest goods in the street.’

“Before I could make any reply, or even guess at his meaning, he was called away, and Mr. Lummocks stepped up and supplied his place.

“ ‘You had better buy ’em, colonel,’ said Mr. Lummocks; ‘they will sell like hot cakes. Did you say you bought for cash?’

“ ‘Of _course_,’ I said, ‘if I buy at all.’

“He took a memorandum out of his pocket, and looked in it for a moment.

“ ‘Let me see,’ said he, ‘Franco, Franco—what did you say your firm was? Something and Franco, or Franco and Somebody? The name has escaped me.’

“ ‘I have no firm,’ I replied.

“ ‘O, you haven’t, hain’t ye? all alone, eh? But I don’t see that I’ve got your first name down in my “tickler.” ’

“ ‘My first name is Harry,’ said I.

“ ‘Right—yes—I remember,’ said Mr. Lummocks, making a memorandum; ‘and your references, colonel, who did you say were your references?’

“ ‘I have no reference,’ I replied; ‘indeed I know of no one to whom I could refer, except my father.’

“ ‘What—the old boy in the country, eh?’

“ ‘My father is in the country,’ I answered, seriously, not very well pleased to hear my parent called the ‘Old Boy.’

“ ‘Then you have no _city_ references, eh?’

“ ‘None at all: I have no friends here, except yourself.’

“ ‘Me!’ exclaimed Mr. Lummocks, apparently in great amazement. ‘Oh, oh!—but how much of a bill do you mean to make with us, captain?’

“ ‘Perhaps I may buy a vest-pattern,’ I replied, ‘if you have got some genteel patterns.’

“ ‘_A vest-pattern!_’ exclaimed Mr. Lummocks; ‘what! haven’t you come down for the purpose of buying goods?’

“ ‘No, sir,’ I replied: ‘I came to New York to seek for employment; and as you had shown me so many kind attentions, I thought you would be glad to assist me in finding a situation.’

“Mr. Lummock’s countenance underwent a very singular change when I announced my reasons for calling on him.

“ ‘Do you see any thing that looks _green_ in there?’ he asked, pulling down his eyelid with his forefinger.

“ ‘No, sir, I do not,’ I replied, looking very earnestly into his eye.

“ ‘Nor in _there_, either?’ said he, pulling open his other eye.

“ ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ I replied, after a minute examination.

“ ‘I guess _not!_’ said Mr. Lummocks; and without making any other answer, he turned on his heel and left me.

“ ‘Regularly sucked, eh, Jack?’ asked a young man who had been listening to our conversation.

“ ‘Don’t mention it!’ said Mr. Lummocks; ‘the man is a fool.’ ”

Our friend was about to demand an explanation of this strange conduct, when the proprietor came forward and told him that he was not a retailer but a _jobber_, and advised him, “if he wanted a vest-pattern, to go into Chatham-street!”

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He must have been a good deal of an observer, and something of a philosopher also, who wrote as follows, in a unique paper, some fifteen years ago:

“Man is never contented. He is the fretful baby of trouble and care, and he will continue to worry and fret, no matter how pretty are the playthings that are laid before him to please him. He will sometimes fret because he can _find nothing to fret about_. I’ve known just such men myself. If he were bound to live in this world forever, he would fret because he couldn’t leave and go to another, ‘just for a change;’ and now, seeing that sooner or later he _must_ go, and no mistake, he frets like a caged porcupine, and thinks he would like to live here always. The fact is, he don’t know _what_ he wants.

“I’ve seen about enough of this world myself. For forty years I’ve been searching every nook and corner for some pleasant spring of happiness, instead of which I have only found a few flood-swollen streams, bearing upon their surface innumerable bubbles of vanity, _and all along by their margins nests of young humbugs are continually being hatched_. I have drunk of these waters nigh unto bursting, and have always departed as dry as a cork.

“In fact, I’ve been kicked about like an old hat, nearly used up by the flagellations of Old Time, and am now feeling the way with my cane down to the silent valley. But, yet, I’m happy—‘happy as a clam at high water.’ I sleep like a top, but I don’t eat as much as I used to. Oh! it is a blessed thing to lie down at night with a light stomach, and a lighter conscience! You ought to _see_ me sleep sometimes! The way I ‘take it easy is a caution to children!’ ”

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It may not be new, but whether new or not, it is worthy of being repeated to our readers, the beautiful reply of a little lad to an English bishop, who said to him, one day, “If you will tell me where GOD is, I’ll give you an orange.” “If you will tell me where HE is _not_,” promptly responded the little fellow, “I will give you _two!_” Better than all earthly logic was the simple faith of this trusting child.

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Here is an awful “fixed fact” for snuff-takers! Perhaps the “Statistics of Snuff and Sneezing” may yet form a part of some remote census of these United States:

“It has been very exactly calculated, that in forty years, two entire years of the snuff-taker’s life are devoted to tickling his nose, and two more to the sonorous and agreeable processes of blowing and wiping it, with other incidental circumstances!”

How about “Statistics of Chewing?”—the time employed in selecting, inserting, rolling, and ejecting the quid?—the length of the yellow lines at the corners of the mouth, in the aggregate?—the lakes of saliva, spirted, squirted, spit, sprinkled, and drizzled? We commend the pregnant theme to some clever American statist. Ah! well would it be if we be stowed half the time in making ourselves agreeable, that we waste in rendering ourselves offensive to our friends!

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The late lamented JOHN SANDERSON, the witty author of “The American in Paris,” speaking of Père La Chaise, says: “A Frenchman, who enjoys life so well, is, of all creatures, the least concerned at leaving it. He only wishes to be buried in the great Parisian burying-ground; and often selects his marble of the finest tints for his monument, and has his coffin made, and his grave dug in advance.” A lady told the author, with great _empressement_, that she had rather _not die at all_, than to die and be buried any where except in Père La Chaise!

LITERARY NOTICES

Harper and Brothers have published an edition of LAYARD’s _Popular Account of Discoveries at Nineveh_, being an abridgment of his large work on the same subject, by the author himself. In this edition, the principal Biblical and historical illustrations are introduced into the narrative. No changes on any material points of opinion or fact are made in the narrative, as more recent discoveries have confirmed the original statements of the author. The present form of the work will no doubt be highly acceptable to the public. With as much condensation as was admitted by the nature of the subject, and at a very moderate expense, the curious researches of Mr. Layard are here set forth, throwing an interesting light on numerous topics of Biblical antiquity, and Oriental customs in general.

_Memoirs of the Great Metropolis_, by F. SAUNDERS (published by G. P. Putnam), is not only a convenient and instructive guide-book for the traveler in England, but contains numerous literary allusions and reminiscences, illustrating the haunts of celebrated authors. The writer is evidently familiar with his subject from personal observation; he is at home in the antique nooks and corners of the British capital; and, at the same time, making a judicious use of the best authorities, he has produced a volume filled with valuable information, and a variety of amusing matter. We advise our friends who are about packing up for a European tour to remember this pleasant book, and if it should not be able to alleviate the misery of sea-sickness, it will at least prepare them for an intelligent examination of the curiosities of London.

_Dream Life: A Fable of the Seasons_, by IK. MARVEL. (Published by Charles Scribner.) A new volume in the same vein of meditative pathos, and quaint, gentle humor as the delightful “Reveries of a Bachelor,”—perhaps, indeed, bearing too great an affinity with that unique volume to follow it in such rapid succession. The daintiest cates most readily produce a surfeit, and it is not strange that the pure Hyblæan sweetness of these delicious compositions should pall upon the sense by a too luxurious indulgence. With a writer of less variety of resource than Ik. Marvel, it would not be worth while to advance such a criticism; but we are perverse enough to demand of him not only pre-eminence in a favorite sphere, but a more liberal taste of other qualities, of which we have often had such pleasant inklings.

In this volume we have the “Dreams” of the Four Seasons, Boyhood, Youth, Manhood, and Age, in which the experience of those epochs is set forth in a soft, imaginative twilight, diversified with passages of felicitous description, and with genuine strains of tender, pathetic beauty, which could come only from the heart of genius. His home-life in the country is a perpetual source of inspiration to Ik. Marvel, in his highest and best creations. He describes rural scenes with a freshness and veracity, which is the exclusive privilege of early recollections. In this respect, “the child is father to the man.” His pages are fragrant with the clover-fields and new hay, in which he sported when a child. With feelings unworn by the world, he lives over again the “dreams of his youth,” which are so richly peopled with fair and sad visions, drawing an abundant supply of materials for his exquisite imagination to shape, and reproducing them in forms that are equally admirable for their tenderness and their truth. What a striking contrast does he present to those writers who trust merely to fancy without the experience of life—whose rural pictures remind you of nature as much as the green and red paint of an artificial flower reminds you of a rose.

In the Dedication of this volume to Washington Irving, the author gracefully alludes to the influence of that consummate master in enabling him to attain the “facility in the use of language, and the fitness of expression in which to dress his thoughts,” which any may suppose to be found in his writings. This is a beautiful testimony, alike honorable to the giver and the receiver. The frankness with which the acknowledgment is made, shows a true simplicity of purpose, altogether above the sphere of a weak personal vanity. And the contagious action of Mr. Irving’s literary example on susceptible, generous minds can scarcely be overrated. The writers now on the stage are more indebted to that noble veteran than they are apt to remember, for the polished refinement of expression which he was the first to make the fashion in this country. They may indeed discover no more resemblance between Mr. Irving’s style and their own, than there is between that of Mr. Irving and Ik. Marvel. In this case, we confess, we should not have suspected the relation alluded to by the latter. We trace other and stronger influences in the formation of his style than the example of Mr. Irving. But the beneficial effect of a great master of composition is not to be estimated by the resemblance which it produces to himself. The artist does not study the works of Raphael or Michael Angelo in order to imitate their characteristics. His purpose is rather to catch the spirit of beauty which pervades their productions, and to learn the secret of method by which it was embodied. In like manner, the young writer can not yield himself to the seductive charm of Mr. Irving’s golden periods, and follow the liquid, melodious flow of his enchanting sentences, without a revelation of the beautiful mysteries of expression, and a new sense of the sweetness and harmony of the language which he is to make his instrument. He may be entirely free from conscious imitation, but he has received a virtue which can not fail to be manifested in his own endeavors. If he be a man of original genius, like Ik. Marvel, he may not indicate the source from which his mind has derived such vigorous impulses; but his obligation is no less real; though instead of reproducing the wholesome leaves on which his spirit has fed, he weaves them into the shining and comely robes that are at once the dress and the adornment of his own thoughts.

_Florence Sackville_ (Harper and Brothers), is the title of a highly successful English novel, dedicated to the poet Rogers. In the form of an autobiography, the heroine relates the incidents of her life, which are marked by a great variety of experience, including many passages of terrible suffering and tragic pathos. The story is sustained with uncommon power; the characters in the plot are admirably individualized; showing a deep insight into human nature, and a rare talent for depicting the recondite workings of passion. A lofty and pure religious sentiment pervades the volume, and deepens the effect of the thrilling narrative.

_Clovernook_, by ALICE CAREY. (Published by Red field). The author of this series of rural sketches enjoys a well-earned reputation as a poet of uncommon imaginative power, with a choice and expressive diction. Her specimens of prose-writing in this beautiful volume will serve to enhance her literary fame. They consist of recollections of Western life, described with great accuracy of detail, and embellished with the natural coloring of a picturesque fancy. Few more characteristic or charming books have recently issued from the American press.

A new edition of that quaint, ingenious allegory, _Salander and the Dragon_, by FREDERIC WILLIAM SHELTON, has been published by John S. Taylor. We are glad to find that the originality and fine moral painting of this remarkable work have found such just appreciation.

_The First Woman_ is the title of an instructive essay on the female character, by Rev. GARDINER SPRING. It is written with clearness and strength, and contains several passages of chaste eloquence. The author would establish the position of woman on the old platform, without yielding to the modern outcry for the extension of her rights. (Published by M. W. Dodd).

A volume of _Select Poetry for Children and Youth_, with an Introduction, by TRYON EDWARDS, D.D., is published by M. W. Dodd. It is based upon an English selection of acknowledged merit, but with important additions and improvements by the American editor. Excellent taste is shown in its preparation, and it must prove a welcome resource for the mental entertainment of the family circle.

_The Sovereigns of the Bible_, by ELIZA R. STEELE (published by M. W. Dodd), describes, in simple narrative style, the influence of monarchy in the political history of the chosen nation. Closely following the Old Testament account, it is in a great measure free from the tawdry finery, gingerbread work, and German-silver splendor which shine with such dazzling radiance in many modern attempts to improve the style of the sacred records.

_The Snow-Image and Other Twice-told Tales_, by NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. (Boston: Ticknor, Reed, and Fields). This collection of stories is introduced with a racy preface, giving a bit of the author’s literary autobiography. The volume is not inferior in interest to its fascinating predecessors.

_Summerfield; or, Life on a Farm_, by DAY KELLOGG LEE. (Auburn: Derby and Miller). This volume belongs to an order of composition which requires a true eye for nature, a genial sympathy with active life, and a happy command of language for its successful execution. The present author exhibits no ordinary degree of these qualities. His book is filled with lively pictures of country life, presented with warmth and earnestness of feeling, and singularly free from affectation and pretense. It finely blends the instructive with the amusing, aiming at a high moral purpose, but without the formality of didactic writing. We give a cordial welcome to the author, and believe that he will become a favorite in this department of composition. The volume is issued in excellent style, and presents a very creditable specimen of careful typography.

_The Podesta’s Daughter and other Poems_, by GEO. H. BOKER. (Philadelphia: A. Hart). The principal poem in this volume is a dramatic sketch, founded on Italian life in the Middle Ages. It is written with terseness and vigor, displaying a chaste and powerful imagination, with an admirable command of the appropriate language of poetry. The volume contains several miscellaneous pieces, including snatches of songs and sonnets, which evince a genuine artistic culture, and give a brilliant promise on the part of the youthful poet.

_What I Saw in New York_, by JOEL H. ROSS, M.D. (Auburn: Derby and Miller). A series of popular sketches of several of the principal objects of interest in our “Great Metropolis.” The author has walked about the streets with his eyes wide open, noticing a multiplicity of things which are apt to escape the negligent observer, and has described them in a familiar conversational tone, which is not a little attractive. Strangers who are visiting New York for the first time will find an abundant store of convenient information in this well-filled volume—and all the better for the agreeable manner in which it is conveyed.

A useful volume for the emigrant and traveler, and for the student of geography as well, has been issued by J.H. Colton, entitled _Western Portraiture_, by DANIEL S. CURTIS. It contains a description of Wisconsin, Illinois, and Iowa, with remarks on Minnesota, and other Territories. In addition to the valuable practical information which it presents in a lucid manner, it gives several curious pictures of social life and natural scenery in the West. No one who wishes to obtain a clear idea of the resources of this country should fail to consult its very readable pages.

One of the most important London publications of the present season, _Lectures on the History of France_, by Sir JAMES STEPHEN, is just issued by Harper and Brothers in one elegant octavo volume. They were delivered before the University of Cambridge, and comprise a series of brilliant, discursive commentaries on the salient points of French history, from the time of Charlemagne to that of Louis XIV. Of the twenty-four Lectures which compose the volume, three are devoted to the “Power of the Pen in France,” and discuss in a masterly style, the character and influence of Abeilard, Bernard, Montaigne, Descartes, Pascal, and other eminent French writers. Apart from its valuable political disquisitions, no recent work can compare with this volume as a contribution to the history of literature.

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Among the works in preparation by Messrs. Black is a _Memoir of the late Lord Jeffrey_, by his friend Lord COCKBURN. This biography will possess peculiar interest, from Lord Jeffrey’s literary position as one of the originators, and for so many years editor of the _Edinburgh Review_. His connection with Byron, originating in fierce hostility, and terminating in warm friendship, as well as his connection with many other distinguished men, and the grace of his epistolary style, will also impart an interesting character to its contents.

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Mr. JERDAN is proceeding rapidly with his _Autobiography and Reminiscences_, the commencement of which will relate to the youth of some of the highest dignitaries of the law now living, and the sequel will illustrate, from forty years of intimacy, the character and acts of George Canning, and nearly all the leading statesmen, politicians, _literati_, and artists, who have flourished within that period.

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It is reported that Lord BROUGHAM is beguiling his sick leisure at Cannes, with the composition of a work to be entitled, _France and England before Europe in 1851_, a social and political parallel of the two foremost nations of the world.

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An English _Memoir of the Last Emperor of China_ is announced from the pen of Dr. GUTZLAFF, the lately-deceased and well-known missionary to that strange empire, from which intelligent tidings are always welcome.

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A second edition is printing of CARLYLE’S _Life of Sterling_. His first book the fine _Life of Schiller_, took some five-and-twenty years to attain the second-editionship, which is bestowed upon his latest book after as many days.

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A second edition is under way of the Rev. CHARLES KINGSLEY’S glowing novel, _Yeast_, which is regarded by many as the best of all his books, dealing as it does with the rural scenes and manners which are familiar to him at first-hand.

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The last announcement of a new work in the department of history or biography is that of a forthcoming Life of Admiral BLAKE, “based almost entirely on original documents,” by Mr. HEPWORTH DIXON, the biographer of JOHN HOWARD and WILLIAM PENN, and the delineator of London prisons. Mr. Dixon has a taste for the selection of “safe” subjects, and ROBERT BLAKE is surely one of the “safest” that could be chosen. The Nelson of the Commonwealth, without Nelson’s faults and frailties.

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An elegant translation of CHARLES DICKENS’S works, well got up, and well printed, is being published in Copenhagen. The first part commences with _David Copperfield_, from the pen of Herr MOLTKE.

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The collected poems of D. M. MOIR, the “Delta” of _Blackwood_, lately deceased, are announced by the Messrs. Blackwood, with a memoir by THOMAS AIRD. “Delta” was an amiable and benevolent surgeon, at Musselburgh, a little fishing village, a few miles east of Edinburgh, and had nothing about him of the conceit which a little literary fame generally begets in the member of a trifling provincial circle. Whether his musical and rather melancholy verses will be long remembered is doubtful; but a tolerably enduring reputation is probably secured to his _Mansie Wauch_, a genial portraiture of a Scottish village-original, in its way quite as racy, though not so caustic, as GALT’S best works in the same line. Mr. Thomas Aird, his biographer, is the editor of a Dumfries newspaper, and himself a man of original genius. D. M. Moir, by the way, ought not to be confounded with his namesake and fellow contributor to _Blackwood_, GEORGE MOIR, the Edinburgh advocate, a man of much greater accomplishment, the translator of SCHILLER’S _Wallenstein_, and author of the _Fragments from the History of John Bull_, a satire on modern reform, in the manner of Dean SWIFT’S _Tale of a Tub_.

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The Council of King’s College, London, have appointed Mr. JAMES STEPHEN, son of Sergeant Stephen, author of the _Commentaries_, to the Professorship of English Law and Jurisprudence, vacant by the resignation of Mr. Bullock.

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At Belfast, the Chair of Logic and Metaphysics has been, by the Lord Lieutenant, assigned to Dr. JAMES M’COSH, a minister of the Free Church of Scotland, author of one of the most profound works that have appeared of late years—_The Method of the Divine Government, Physical and Moral._

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Mr. HAYWARD, the translator of Faust, has written to _The Morning Chronicle_ to insist on the improbability that there is any truth in a paragraph which has been going the round of the papers, and which described the late convert to Catholicism, the fair and vagrant Ida, Countess von HAHN-HAHN, as parading herself in the streets of Berlin in the guise of a haggard penitent, literally clad in sackcloth and ashes!

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Lord MAHON, in the last volume of his _History of England_ that has been published, has a good deal to say upon Junius, and his decision upon that vexed topic will be heard with interest: “But who was Junius?... I will not affect to speak with doubt when no doubt exists in my mind. From the proofs adduced by others, and on a clear conviction of my own, I affirm that the author of Junius was no other than Sir Philip Francis.” The _Literary Gazette_ also says, “We are as much convinced that Sir Philip Francis was Junius as that George III. was king of Great Britain.”

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In an elaborate article on the intellectual character of KOSSUTH, the _London Athenæum_ remarks, “Of the minor merits of this remarkable man, his command of the English language is perhaps that which creates the largest amount of wonder. With the exception of an occasional want of idiom, the use of a few words in an obsolete sense, and a habit of sometimes carrying (German fashion) the infinitive verb to the end of a sentence—there is little to distinguish M. Kossuth’s English from that of our great masters of eloquence. Select, yet copious and picturesque, it is always. The combinations—we speak of his words as distinct from the thoughts that lie in them—are often very happy. We can even go so far as to say that he has enriched and utilized our language; the first by using unusual words with extreme felicity, the latter by proving to the world how well the pregnant and flexible tongue of Shakspeare adapts itself to the expression of a genius and a race so remote from the Saxon as the Magyar.”

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The Chancellorship of the Dublin University, vacant by the death of the King of Hanover, has been conferred on Lord JOHN GEORGE BERESFORD, the primate of Ireland.

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The Scotch Journals announce the death of one whose name is familiar to many of the scholars of this country, Mr. GEORGE DUNBAR, professor of Greek Literature in the University of Edinburgh.

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The Rev. Dr. SADLEIR, Fellow and Provost of Trinity College, Dublin, died suddenly on the 14th of December, He was a man of liberal views and charitable feelings, and although in a society not remarkable for catholicity of spirit, his advocacy of all measures of progress and freedom was uniform and zealous. He was appointed to the provostship by the Crown in 1837.

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Among recent deaths of literary men, we note that of BASIL MONTAGUE, best known as the editor of the works of Lord Bacon. He was an illegitimate son of the famous Earl of Sandwich, First Lord of the Admiralty, by the unfortunate Miss Reay, who was assassinated in 1779, by the Rev. Mr. Hackman, her betrothed lover. The tragic story is told in all the London guide-books, as well as in collections of celebrated trials. Mr. Basil Montague studied for the law, and rose to a high standing in the profession. He was called to the bar by the Honorable Society of Gray’s Inn, in 1798. On the _Law of Bankruptcy_ he published some valuable treatises, the reputation of which gained him a commissionership. With Romilly and Mackintosh he worked diligently for the mitigation of the severity of the penal code. On capital punishments he wrote several pamphlets, which attracted much public notice. Besides his edition of _Bacon_, with an original biography, he published _Selections from Taylor, Hooker, Hall, and Bacon_. He died at Boulogne, on the 27th of November, in the 82d year of his age.

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From France we can expect no more literature for some time, and we must think ourselves fortunate that GUIZOT’S two new works reached us before “society was saved,” as the man says who has earned the execration of the world. These two works are _Etudes Morales_ and _Etudes sur les Beaux Arts_. The former contains essays on Immortality, on the state of Religion in modern society, on Faith, and a lengthy treatise on Education. The second is interesting, as showing us Guizot criticising Art.

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A curious work, entitled, _Les Murailles Revolutionnaires_ (Revolutionary Walls), has been published in Paris. It contains the proclamations, decrees, addresses, appeals, warnings, denunciations, remonstrances, counsels, professions of faith, plans of political reconstruction, and schemes of social regeneration, which were stuck on the walls of Paris in the first few months’ agitated existence of the Revolution of 1848. At that time the dead walls of _la grande ville_ presented an extraordinary spectacle. They were literally covered with placards of all sizes, all shapes, all colors, all sorts of type, and some were even in manuscript. Several times in the course of a day was the paper renewed; and so attractive was the reading it offered to every passer-by, that it not only put an end to the sale of books, but nearly ruined circulating libraries and _salons de lecture_, in which, for the moderate charge of from two to five sous, worthy citizens are accustomed to read the journals. LOUIS NAPOLEON has changed all that. Among other wondrous decrees that have issued from his barracks, is “Bill-Stickers Beware!” The usurper sees danger in the very poles and paste of an _afficheur_!

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There is in Paris, under the sole direction of an ecclesiastic, the Abbé MIGNE, an establishment embracing a printing office, stereotype foundry, and all other departments of book manufacture, which has in course of publication a complete series of the chief works of Catholic literature, amounting to 2000 volumes, and the prices are such that the mass of the clergy of that faith may possess the whole.

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LAMARTINE has given us the third and fourth volumes of his _Histoire de la Restauration_; BARANTE, the third volume of his _Histoire de la Convention_, bringing the narrative down to 1793. THIERRY announces a new edition of his works; and ALEXANDRE DUMAS has commenced his _Mémoires_ in_ La Presse_.

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The most striking of French novels, or of any novels recently published, is the _Revenants_ (“Ghosts”), of ALEXANDRE DUMAS the younger, which exceeds in cleverness, ingenuity, and absurdity all the novels put together of his prolific parent himself. The heroes and heroines of the _Revenants_ are those of three of the most celebrated tales of last century, GOETHE’S _Werther_, BERNARDIN ST. PIERRE’S _Paul and Virginia_, and the Abbé PREVOST’S _Manon L’Escaut_. The book opens with a description of a visit paid by MUSTEL, a German professor, to his old pupil BERNARDIN SAINT-PIERRE, now living at Paris in the sunshine of the fame procured to him by the publication of _Paul and Virginia_.

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It has been remarked that the name of BONAPARTE is unlucky to literature, for they do not understand that, to flourish, literature requires freedom. No king or emperor, if he had all the gold of Peru, could nowadays do as much for literature as the public; and, to please the public, it must be completely free. “Now,” writes the Paris correspondent of the _Literary Gazette_, “if the illustrious Monsieur Bonaparte can make good his position in France, he _must_ be a despot. On no other ground could he stand for a week—it is _aut Cæsar aut nullus_ with him. And, unfortunately, unlike most despots, he has no taste whatever for literature—he never, it is said, read fifty lines of poetry in his life, and can not even now wade through half-a-dozen pages of prose without falling asleep.”

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SILVIO PELLICO, so famous for his works, his imprisonments, and sufferings, is now in Paris.

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Three novels are announced by a German authoress, CAROLINA VON GÖHREN—_Ottomar_, _Victor, and Thora_, and _Glieder einer Kelte_. The authoress (whose real name is Frau von ZÖLLNER) is a lady of noble family, who has married a man of “no family,” and has _not_ died of the _mésalliance_. She is well known in the best circles of Dresden, and has lately taken to fill her leisure with writing novels, which she does with considerable skill. Her compatriot HAHN-HAHN, by her languid airs of haughty aristocracy, seems to have roused the scorn of Frau von ZÖLLNER, who attacks her with great spirit. The new writer commands the sympathy of English readers by her good, plain common sense, and the moral tendency of her books.

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The scientific literature both of Germany and England is about to be enriched by a translation of OERSTED’S chief work, “The Soul in Nature.” COTTA, of Stuttgard and Tübingen, is to publish the one, and Mr. BOHN the other.

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A German translation is announced of the lately deceased Danish poet, OEHLENSCHLAGER’S _Autobiographical Reminiscences_. Oehlenschlager has an old reputation in this country as the author of the fine-art drama, “Correggio,” and of a still finer theatrical version of the Arabian Nights’ tale, “Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp,” both of which were introduced to the public a quarter of a century ago in _Blackwood’s Magazine_. During his lifetime, he published a portion of his autobiography, which was very interesting and unaffected; and we can predict a fair popularity to the now completed work.

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Of German fictions, the one that has made the most noise lately is the long-announced novel by WOLFGANG MENZEL, the well-known historian, journalist, and critic, entitled _Furore: Geschichte eines Mönchs und einer Nonne aus dem dreissigjährigen Kriege_ (“Story of a Monk and a Nun from the period of the Thirty Years’ War”), which the German critics praise as a lively and variegated picture of that period of turmoil and confusion.

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HEINE’S new work, _Romanzero_, has been prohibited at Berlin, and the copies in the booksellers, shops confiscated. The sale of eight thousand copies before it was prohibited is a practical assurance of its brilliant success. Gay, sarcastic, and poetic, it resembles all his previous works in spirit, though less finished in form. His _Faust_ turns out to be a Ballet, with Mephistopheles metamorphosed into a Danseuse! In the letter which concludes the work there is much interesting matter on the _Faust Saga_, and its mode of treatment.

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The people of Leipzig have just had their “Schiller-fest,” or Schiller’s festival, in honor of the great national poet and tragedian. Schiller was, indeed, a native of Würtemberg, and he lived in Mannheim and Weimar. But Germany, which has no metropolis, enjoys a great many _capitals_: and as the ancients had a god of the sun, the moon, and the various constellations, so do the Germans have a capital of poetic art, another of music, another of painting, and so on. Leipzig is, or pretends to be, the great literary metropolis, and in this capacity the good city holds an annual festival in honor of Schiller. On the present occasion there was a public dinner, with pompous speeches by Messrs. Gutzkow, Bothe, and Apel, while in the Leipzig theatre Shakspeare’s “Macbeth” was given in Schiller’s adaptation to the German stage.

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The Berlin journals announce the arrival in that city of Doctor ZAHN, so well known for his researches in Pompeii and Herculaneum. His work thereon is one of the most important archæological productions extant. He has passed not fewer than twenty-five years of his life among those ancient ruins.

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The foreign obituary includes the name of Dr. MEINHOLD—a name which will live in connection with _The Amber Witch_ and with the singular circumstances attending the reception of that powerful tale.

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The English admirers of HUMBOLDT’S _Kosmos_ will be glad to learn that an important addition has been made to the commentaries on that great work, by Herr Bronne’s “Collection of Maps for the Kosmos.” The first series, containing six plates, has just been published by Krais and Hoffmann, at Stuttgardt. These six plates are to be followed by thirty-six others, and contain the planetary, solar, and lunar systems, the plain globes, and the body of the earth, and the elevations of its surface, with a variety of diagrams, and a set of explanatory notes.

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An intelligent and appreciative German, SIEGFRIED KUPPER, has been attracted by the fine simplicities and interests of the popular poetry of Servia, and has woven together, out of the lays which commemorate the Achilles-Ulysses-Hercules-Leonidas of Servia, _Lazar, der Serbenczar. Ein Helden-gedicht_ “Lazar, the Czar of the Serbs. A Heroic poem.” “Among the earliest announcers of the beauty of the Servian popular poetry,” says the _London Literary Journal_, “was THERESA JAKOB, the daughter of the well-known German Professor, and now for many years married to the American Dr. ROBINSON, the author of _Biblical Researches in Palestine_. This lady (a translation of whose History of the Colonization of America we lately reviewed) published, five-and-twenty years ago, some translated specimens of Servian song, which quite took captive the heart of old GOETHE, whose praises introduced them to the notice of educated Europe. Other Germans, and even some Frenchmen, followed in the same direction; and our own BOWRING’S _Specimens of Servian Poetry_, is probably familiar to many readers. With the growing importance of the Slavonian tribes, a new interest attaches to their copious literature; and to any enterprising young _litterateur_, in quest of an unexplored field of research, we would recommend the poetry, recent and ancient, of the Slavonic races.”

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The Council of the Shakspeare Society have received a very welcome and unexpected present, in the shape of a translation of Shakspeare, in twelve volumes 8vo., into Swedish verse. This laborious work has been accomplished by Professor HAGBERG, of the University of Lund, and it was transmitted through the Swedish Minister resident in London.

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A Signor ANTONIO CACCIA, an Italian exile, sends from the freer press of Leipzig, a book of practical and philosophic travel: _Europa ed America. Scene della Vita dal 1848 al 1850_ (“Europe and America, Scenes from Life in both hemispheres during the years 1848-50”), which contains, besides a notice of California, a good many useful hints to travelers.

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The librarian of the Emperor of Russia has purchased, for the Imperial Library, a complete collection of all the pamphlets, placards, caricatures, songs, &c, published at Berlin during the revolutionary movement of 1848.

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Dr. SMITH, bishop of Victoria, Hong Kong, has sent to the library of the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, a Chinese work _On the Geography and History of Foreign Nations_, by SEU-KE-YU, Governor of the province of Fokeen. Seu-ke-yu is a man of high official station, a distinguished scholar, and very liberal in his views. He commences the geographical part of his book with a statement of the spherical form of the earth, as opposed to the universal belief in China of its being a vast level area, of which the Celestial Empire occupies the central and most considerable part. Numerous maps illustrate the text, being tolerably correct copies from European atlases, the names given in Chinese characters. The work is in six volumes, very well printed, and instead of binding, each part is contained in a wooden case, ingeniously folding, and fastened with ivory pins.

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When the department of the Ministry of Public Instruction was created some four or five years ago in Constantinople, it became apparent that there existed a great desideratum of Moslem civilization, necessary to be supplied as soon as possible—a Turkish Vocabulary and a Turkish Grammar compiled according to the high development of philology. The Grammar has now been published; being compiled by Fuad Effendi, _mustesher_ of the Grand Vizier, a man known for his high attainments—assisted by Ahmed Djesvid Effendi, another member of the Council of Instruction. The work has been printed at Constantinople, and translations will be made into several languages: the French edition being now in preparation by two gentlemen belonging to the Foreign Office of the Sublime Porte, who have obtained a privilege of ten years for its sale.

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Among the new works just out, we notice a Spanish translation of TICKNOR’S _History of Spanish Literature_, by Don PASCUAL DE GAYANGOS y DON ENRIQUE DE VEDIA (_con adiciones y notas criticas_), Mr Ticknor having communicated some notes and corrections to the two translators, who have added from their own stores.

A LEAF FROM PUNCH

A Horrible Business. MASTER BUTCHER.—“Did you take Old Major Dumblebore’s Ribs to No. 12?” BOY.—“Yes, Sir.” MASTER BUTCHER.—“Then, cut Miss Wiggle’s Shoulder and Neck, and hang Mr. Foodle’s Legs till they’re quite tender.”

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Rather Too Much Of A Good Thing.

We see advertised some “Crying Dolls.” We must protest against this new kind of amusement. Just as if the real thing was not enough, but we are to have an addition to an evil, that is already sufficiently “crying” in every household. We wish the inventor of this new toy (which might be called “the Disturber of the Peace of Private Families”) to be woke up regularly in the middle of the night, for the next twelve months to come, by one of his own “Crying Dolls,” and then he will be able to see how he likes it. Let one of the Dolls also be “Teething;” for we should not be astonished now to hear of “Teething Dolls,” and “Coughing and Choking Dolls,” with other infantine varieties, and then the punishment of this “monster in human form” will be complete. Dr. Guillotine perished by the instrument he invented. The inventor of the “Crying Dolls” deserves a similar fate. He should be shut up with all his toys in “full cry,” until, like Niobe, the crying was the death of him, and he was turned, by some offended mythological deity, into the “great pump,” of which his invention proclaims him to be the effigy.

Mrs. Baker’s Pet.

Mrs. Baker, feeling lonely during her husband’s absence at his business, has purchased a dog in the streets for a Pet. The animal has been brought home, and Mrs. BAKER has been for some time anxiously awaiting the arrival of the husband to dinner, to introduce him to her new favorite. The gentleman’s latch key has been heard in the door, and Cook has received orders to dish the dinner. Mr. BAKER, Mrs. BAKER, MARY the Servant, and SCAMP the Pet meet at the door of the dining-room. SCAMP commences an infuriated assault of barks and springs, meant for the inoffensive and astonished BAKER, but which have all the appearance of being directed against MARY, who is entering at the moment with the dinner-plates. MARY drops the plates, smashing two, and begins screaming. SCAMP, excited by the row, redoubles his barks, and bounds to and fro on the door mat. Mr. BAKER, who has heard nothing of the dog, is naturally indignant at the reception, and commences an assault upon him with his umbrella. Mrs. BAKER, who feels that the reputation of her Pet is at stake, endeavors to soothe him by ordering him to “Lie down, and be a good dog;” but SCAMP is insensible to the power of moral suasion. A domestic representation of the old play of “Family Jars,” takes place; the leading parts by Mr. and Mrs. BAKER “for the first time;” the orchestra under the direction of MARY and SCAMP. The performance lasts till bed-time; when the gentleman insists that the dog shall pass the night in the yard. This does not meet SCAMP’S approbation, and he expresses his discontent, by a serenade under the windows of Mr. and Mrs. BAKER’S bedroom, which lasts the whole night, and consists in running up and down the howling scale, winding up with a prolonged shake in C above the line. The performance is enlivened by the perpetual raising of the windows from the neighbors’ houses, and an occasional crash in Mr. BAKER’S yard, which is accounted for the next day by the appearance of half a score of boot-jacks of various sizes and patterns.

FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY.

FIGURES 1 AND 2.—WALKING AND IN-DOOR DRESSES.

FIGURE 1.—WALKING DRESS.—The bonnet is made of terry velvet; the brim is very open at the sides, so as to show the face well, and comes forward at top. The crown is not very deep; it is covered in the first place with a piece of terry velvet, the shape of which resembles a hood, trimmed with black lace two and a half inches wide, and hanging over the curtain. The curtain reaches very high, and falls almost straight, with scarcely any fullness. It is edged all round with lace about an inch wide. Two felted feathers spring from between the hood and the crown, one toward the right, the other toward the left, and entwined together. The inside of the front is trimmed with narrow velvet ribbons and black lace. The sides at the cheeks are filled with bunches of pink volubilis, and loops of black velvet. These bunches of flowers hang down the front with two velvet ends.

Mantle and dress of cloth trimmed with velvet; the mantle is rounded behind and very full. It belongs to the Talma style. The neck is terminated by a little upright collar barely an inch in height, which rises a little on the cravat. The front is closed by three little bands with two button-holes, which are fastened over velvet buttons. The front corners are cut square, but rather sloping, so as to form a point. An inch from the edge a velvet ribbon two inches wide is sewed on flat.

FIGURE 2.—IN-DOOR DRESS.—The head-dress is a Louis XV. puff, made of white blond, satin and velvet ribbons, set on the head. The top consists of two cross bands of ribbon. The round part is formed of two rows of blond flutes. Each of these rows is ornamented with bows of No. 1 velvet. The first row violet, the second yellow. Large bunches of loops of wide satin ribbon, violet and yellow, fill the sides and hollows of the bands; on each side full ribbons which are placed across the head.

Black vest with lappets. This garment sits very close; the skirts are open at the sides and behind, but lap over each other. Satin piping all round the edges. The front is trimmed with two small satin pipings, like frogs, each terminating with a satin button. These sleeves have an elbow, are short, and end in a cuff, opened up the side, and trimmed with three small flaps in satin piping.

Waistcoat of yellow valencias buttoning up straight, with small buttons of the same.

Skirt of silk cloth, is very full, but the plaits are pressed down and kept flat on the hips so as not to swell out, or raise the lappets. These last can be made to sit well by making them lie smooth on the hips. Chemisette composed of two rows of embroidered muslin, fluted and kept up by a satin cravat, tied like a gentleman’s. Three ample rows of embroidered muslin, form the trimming of the under-sleeve.

FIGURE 3.—EVENING DRESS.

EVENING DRESS.—Head-dress of hair only, with a diamond comb. The hair is parted down the middle, and drawn back square from the forehead on each side. One large plat of hair is laid round the top of the head. The back hair is done up in plats and torsades twisted together. The comb is put in straight, and stands rather high. A cashmere _Orientale_. This short garment is cut straight and not hollowed at the waist; it reaches several inches below the hips; the sides are slit up; the sleeves are wide at bottom and open in front. A band of gold lace, about an inch wide, is laid flat all round, about half an inch from the edge, and the same on the sleeves. Two buttons of silk and gold each fasten a small cord ending in a handsome tassel, surmounted by small bows of silk and gold of various sizes. This cord is tied in front. The openings of the sleeves and sides are trimmed in the same manner. The lining is white satin.

Dress of white lutestring. Body low and square, trimmed with several rows of white blond. The top of the skirt is plain for a depth of six or seven inches, and all the lower part is trimmed with vandyked blond flounces. The flounces are very light.

FULL-DRESS FOR HOME.—The cap is a Louis XV. _fanchon_ of _Alençon_ lace. There are two tufts of various flowers on each side; they lie on the bands of hair which are waved and thrown back.

FIGURE 4.—FULL-DRESS FOR HOME.

Waistcoat of black watered silk; festooned edges, high behind, open in front. A row of _Alençon_ lace sewed on flat projects beyond the edge all round the waistcoat. _Basquine_ of terry velvet, trimmed with a broad satin ribbon and plaid velvet of bright colors. The sleeve, wide at bottom, is open behind and trimmed the same. The trimming is drawn in very fine gathers in the middle; the quilled edges are loose.

The skirt of terry velvet like that of the basquine, is trimmed with five flounces lying one on the other. On these flounces are sewed satin ribbons and plaid velvet bands, the top one No. 12, the two others, No. 16, the bottom one No. 22. These ribbons are sewed flat on the flounce, which is not gathered in that part; the gathers of the flounces are preserved between the flat parts. The interval between the ribbons is equal to twice their width. The under-sleeves follow the shape of the others, and have two rows of _Alençon_ lace.

We have nothing new to report respecting the Bloomer costume. The following clever parody of Hamlet’s soliloquy, is quite ingenious:

To wear or not to wear the Bloomer costume, that’s the question. Whether ’tis nobler in us girls to suffer The inconveniences of the long-skirt dress, Or cut it off against these muddy troubles, And, by the cutting, end them. ’Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To don the pants:— The pants! perchance the boots! Ay, there’s the rub. For in those pants and boots what jeers may come, When we have shuffled off these untold skirts Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of so long a custom, For who could bear the scoffs and jeers of boys— The old maid’s scandal—the young man’s laughter— The sidelong leers, and derision’s mock, The insolent press, and all the spurns We Bloomers of these boobies take! Who would the old dress wear, To groan and toil under the weary load, But that the dread of something after it— Of ankles large, of crooked leg, from which Not all escape, puzzles the will, And makes us rather wear the dress we have Than turn out Bloomers.

FOOTNOTES

1 Entered according to Act of Congress.

2 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by Harper and Brothers, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York.

3 Concluded from the January Number.

4 Arsenic produces an increased salivation.

5 Continued from the January Number.

6 This is from McCulloch; but the home-consumption duty was lowered in 1842, from 6d. to 3d. per lb., and the consumption is now in all probability much greater.