did. The pipe was much preferred to the cigar, the smoke from the latter

being apt to be troublesome when the hands are engaged. Of course the pipe was the long German one, consisting of mouth-piece, flexible tube, polished or cherry-tree stem, schwammdose or receiver, and the more or less ornamented head or bowl. Since I am speaking of pipes, I may mention that in Germany every smoker possesses several--and these, of course, vary much in length, calibre, and value. There is abundant opportunity of displaying the owner's taste. Some have their armorial bearings painted on the bowl. Among students, again, it is common to present a friend with a bowl bearing one's likeness, the said likeness being a _silhouette_ or shade in profile. There are, of course, all the other varieties of bowl; some have female figures, others landscapes or public buildings, others the likenesses of well-known characters--John Ronge was rather a favorite at the time I speak of. As to the stem, the most esteemed are those of the cherry-tree, brought from the Vistula. These stems disengage a pleasant odor.

But to return. "To be, or not to be," says Dr. W---- as he rises. The rest of the party finish their games, and think of supper. It is a slight repast; each orders what he chooses, and there is no set table. A beefsteak or a sandwich are the most common viands. The German expression for sandwich, by the way, is rather circumlocutory--the literal translation of it is, "a butter-bread-with-meat;" it is like some of the other composite terms in that language which strike a beginner as being so odd--_hand-shoes_, for instance, or _finger-hat_, for gloves and a thimble.

The club used to meet every Friday. Each alternate week, however, we had what was called a ladies' club. On these occasions, the female portions of the families of members were entitled to be present. The only other difference was, that, when ladies came, the gentlemen abstained from smoking pipes, and confined themselves to cigars.

But it is time to break up. Cloaks and great-coats are donned. There is a lighting of lanterns, for the roads are dark, and some of us have a considerable way to go. We separate with a simultaneous "Good-night--may you sleep well."

A TEMPERANCE MEETING.

A temperance meeting was announced as being about to be held at a village called Blumenthal, situated a few miles from Lesmona. On the appointed day, I proceeded thither with some friends. On our arrival at the place, we found a large canvas-covered booth erected on the border of an extensive wood; this booth was open on every side, being meant as a protection only against the rays of the sun. Adjacent was an inn, a solitary house, the village being at some little distance. Entering here, I was not a little surprised to find the majority of the promoters of temperance drinking wine. It was just ten o'clock of the forenoon. The fact, however, was, first, that many had come from a considerable distance, and stood in need of some refreshment, and secondly, that the pledge given on entering the society went no further than a promise to abstain from ardent spirits. Total abstinence seems not to find much favor in Germany, and the efforts of the Mässigkeit-Verein are directed almost entirely against the use of the deadly branntwein of the country. This branntwein is made from the potato, and is not merely intoxicating, but, even in small quantities, is of a most pernicious effect on the human system, destroying the stomach, and affecting the nerves, even when far from being indulged in to any thing like excess.

At last the meeting began. A clergyman opened it with a short prayer, and then the assembly sang a temperance hymn. The air to which it was adapted was no other than our National Anthem--which, by the way, the Germans fondly but erroneously claim as a German composition. Then came the usual succession of speeches, then another hymn, and then the meeting, it being past noon, adjourned for dinner. The meal was served in the inn, and also in booths similar to that constructed for the meeting; but many had brought their provisions with them, and stretched themselves on the turf under the shade of the forest. Altogether--and especially as a large number of women had attended, and these of all classes, from the peasant in gaudy colors to the more simply-dressed lady--the scene was most picturesque: it looked like a pic-nic on a great scale. After dinner, there were more speeches and more music. The speeches tired me, and I wandered into the wood, where I found the music much improved by being heard at a distance. The fact is, that the country people in this part of Germany are any thing but the proficients in music, which, according to the idea commonly entertained on the subject in Britain, all Germans are. They, on the contrary, know scarcely any thing whatever of the art; even in the churches, part-singing is unknown. While I was at Lesmona, the pastor of that place had indeed begun to instruct the children of his parish in psalmody, and, as he is perfectly competent to do so, a change may ultimately be effected; but in my time the church music was absolutely painful to listen to; the vocal was deafening and discordant, and, as for the instrumental, I shall not to my dying day forget the inhuman turn which old Mr. Müller the organist introduced, and with evident complacency, too, at the end of every two or three bars. Even among the upper classes in the country, music is but scantily cultivated. In Lesmona, for instance, one family, and one alone, paid any attention to the art. That family, however--all its members included--had attained to a very high degree of excellence in it. In the large towns, on the other hand, the case is very different. In Bremen, for example, I heard the Paulus of Mendelssohn given entirely by amateurs, and both in the choruses, and in the solos, the finish of the performance was perfect. In the neighborhood of Hamburg, too, I have met small companies of workmen from the town enjoying a short walk into the country, and singing in parts with admirable precision and _ensemble_.

But to return to Blumenthal. The meeting at last broke up. As soon as it did, a fire balloon was sent up. What connection, however, this had with the objects of the assembly, I never was able to ascertain.

Since I have introduced the word Verein--union, or society--I may notice one of another kind, a branch of which had its head-quarters at Lesmona. I mean the Gustavus-Adolphus Society. Its object is to unite by a common bond the common Protestantism of Germany. I have not heard lately of its progress and success, but I always greatly doubted of its possibility, and am convinced it can not endure, on its original footing at least. On what common ground (unless it be a negative one, and that is worth nothing), can the evangelical party and the rationalists take their stand? Even while I was in Lesmona, the elements of discord had begun to show themselves; for in that remote nook were found keen partisans; and it was only by a compromise effected with the greatest difficulty that the Lesmona branch of the union did not fall to pieces before it was completely established. And, as for the compromise, such things never last long.

EVENING PARTIES.

I found the inhabitants of Lesmona exceedingly hospitable. It is the custom in that part of the world for any new-comer to pay a visit to those people of the place, to whom he desires to make himself known. It is in their option to return the visit or not. If the visit is not returned, it is understood that the honor and pleasure and so forth of your visit is declined; if, on the contrary, even a card is left for you within a few days, you may count on the friendship of the family.

One of the first visits I made was to Dr. W----. As is usual, I was offered coffee and a cigar. When they were finished, and my small-talk exhausted, I took my leave, after what I thought a somewhat stiff interview. Indeed I almost regretted I had gone. So much for first impressions. I changed my mind, when within a very few days I received a kind invitation to an evening party at the worthy doctor's house. Doctor W----, as I found out when I came to know him, was quite a _character_. Bred to the bar, he was soon found totally unqualified for his profession, from the extraordinary benevolence of his nature. Instead of seeking for practice, he did all he could to prevent his clients from going to law. The consequence was, that, whatever may have been the rewards of his conscience, his profession gave him but few. Finding, therefore, that he had mistaken his vocation, and that his purse remonstrated strongly against his continuing in the pursuit of forensic distinction, he wisely abandoned the line he had at first chosen, and accepted the post of chief custom-house-officer on the frontier of Hanover and Bremen. Here, modestly but comfortably settled, he gave his leisure hours to the study of history, and, in a congenial retirement, soon found himself quite happy. He soon became remarkable for the accuracy of his information, and more especially for his acquaintance with minute points and details. Thus, for example, when on his return from his journey to Marienbad, to which I have already alluded, he visited the town and field of battle of Leipsic, he found himself as much at home, with regard to the topography, as did the very guide he had engaged to point out the places rendered famous by the great fight.

On the evening appointed, I duly made my appearance in Madame W----'s saloon or drawing-room. It was the handsomest I saw in the country, and possessed a carpet. In general, this article, so indispensable to English comfort, is represented, and that indeed but barely, by a few straw mats scattered about. Tea was handed round. This the Germans drink with cream, or wine, or neither. It is esteemed a great luxury, as it costs dear, but they make it so weak, that there is not an old woman in England who would not regard it with contempt. After tea, we began to play at what they call company-games. Many of these are identical with our own inn-door amusements. Thus, they have hide-the-handkerchief, blind-man's-buff (which they call _the blind cow_), and many others. One, however, seems to me quite peculiar, not merely to Germany, but to this part of it. It is called _Luitye lebt noch_--literally, _the little fellow is still alive_. _Luitye_ is Plattdeutsch, or low German, the dialect, as I have already said, of this district. The game is played thus: The party form a circle. Some splints of wood, three or four inches long, have been provided. One of these is lighted, and blown out again in a few seconds. This is _luitye_. There is, of course, for some little time, a part of the charcoal which remains red. The stick is passed from hand to hand, each player, as he gives it to his neighbor, exclaiming, "Luitye lebt noch!" He or she in whose hands it is finally extinguished has to pay a forfeit. No one can refuse it when offered; and one of the most amusing parts of the matter is to hold luitye--the little fellow--till he is on the very point of expiring, and then to force him on the person next you, so that he goes out before he can get him further. It is, however, more amusing still, when he who would thus victimize his friend delays too long, and is himself caught.

After this, and some other German games, which I did not much enjoy, as they consisted chiefly in the repetition of certain formal phrases, without much meaning, we acted charades--not very successfully, I must admit. Then we seated ourselves round a table, in the middle of which a piece of light cotton was placed. At this we all began to blow fiercely, and a tempest arose, on which the cotton was tossed about in all directions. When it finally found refuge on the person of any of us, the recipient was condemned to a forfeit. This game is entertaining enough, and was carried on amidst much boisterous puffing and laughing, till suddenly the cotton mysteriously disappeared. It appeared it had actually been carried into the open mouth of a gentleman, whose powers had been so severely taxed that he had lost his wind. This put an end to the amusement, and we proceeded to draw the forfeits.

Then we had supper. It was a less substantial and more judicious meal than I had generally seen in the neighborhood. It was also a more ambitious one; not a few of the dishes were disguised with the artistic skill which is the pride of modern cookery. In particular, I remember that I accepted a spoonful of what I thought was a composition of raspberries, strawberries, and red currant jelly. It turned out to be a sort of hashed lobster pickle. Shortly after supper we broke up.

In such parties, I should remark that all present took part in them, from the oldest to the youngest. What distinguished them most, besides this, was a kind of homely cheerfulness that was quite delightful. Every one came in good humor, and resolved to enjoy himself. And in this it was very evident all succeeded. I never saw any dancing at any of these soirées, and rarely was there any music. When, however, there was any of the latter, it was excellent. I shall not soon forget the way in which the music of Schiller's "Founding of the Bell" was performed by some of my Lesmona and Ritterhude friends.

A PEEP AT THE "PERAHARRA."

Of the religious festivals of the Buddhists of Ceylon, that known as the Peraharra is the most important. It is observed at Kandy, the capital of the ancient kings of Ceylon, and at Ratnapoora, the chief town of the Saffragam district. Few good Buddhists will be absent from these religious observances; and whole families may be seen journeying on foot for many miles, over mountains, through dense jungles and unwholesome swamps, across rapid and dangerous streams, along hot sandy pathways, loaded with their pittance of food and the more bulky presents of fruit, rice, oil, and flowers, to lay at the foot of the holy shrine of Buddha, to be eventually devoured by the insatiable priests.

In the month of July, 1840, I had a peep at the celebrated Peraharra of Ratnapoora, where the shrine sacred to the memory of _Saman_ rivals in attraction the great _Dalada Maligawa_ of Kandy. Like its mountain competitor, it has its relic of Buddha enshrined in a richly-jeweled casket, which is made an object of especial veneration to the votaries of that god. _Saman_ was the brother of the famed Rama, the Malabar conqueror who invaded Ceylon in ages long past, and extirpated from its flowery shores the race of mighty giants who had held its people in subjection for many centuries--a sort of Oriental King Arthur. To Saman was given the district of Saffragam; and the people of that country at his death, promoted him to the dignity of a deity, as a slight token of their regard.

The Ratnapoora festival is the more attractive by reason of its being made the occasion of a large traffic in precious stones, with which the neighborhood abounds. In this way the great part of the Buddhists manage to combine commerce with devotion.

The road to the Saffragam district was, in the time at which I traveled it, a very barbarous and dangerous affair, differing widely from the excellent traces which existed through most of the maritime provinces of Ceylon. It was then, in fact, little more than a mere bullock-track, or bridle-path, with no bridges to aid in crossing the streams which intersect it. The journey from Colombo to Ratnapoora may now be easily performed in one day: at that time it required a good nag and careful diligence to accomplish it in two.

Day dawned as I got clear of the Pettah, or Black Town of Colombo, and crossed a small stream which led me to the jungle, or village road, I was to follow. In England, we should call such a muddy lane; but here one knows little between the good high roads and the bullock-track. Strange as it may sound to home travelers, one is often glad to see the sun rise, and feel it warm the heavy, damp air in the tropics. Before me lay a long straggling line of low jungle, indicating the road: far away in the distance rose the high, bluff hill and rocks towering over the once royal domain of _Avishawella_. Around, on every side, was water, completely hiding the fields from view, and only allowing a bush, or a tree, or a hut-top, to be seen peeping up through the aqueous vail, dotting the wide expanse like daisies in a field. The rains had flooded the whole of the low country, which, inundated by many mountain torrents, could not discharge the mass of streams nearly so fast as it received them. Over and across all this watery wilderness huge masses of misty vapor came rolling and tumbling along, as though shrouding some Titanic water-sprites who had been keeping it up rather late the night before, and were not quite sure of the way home. One might have imagined, indeed, that it was some universal washing-day, and that the great lid of the national copper had just been lifted up.

As the sun rose above the line of black rocks in the distance, its rays lit up those misty monsters of the flood, imparting to them life-like tints, which gave them beauty, and forms they had not known before. As these sun-lit fogs rolled on, a thousand shapes moved fitfully among them: troops of wild horsemen; crystal palaces with gilded gates; grim figures playing at bopeep; hills, towns, and castles; with many a ship at sea, and lovely cottages in quiet, sunny glades; all these, and more, seemed there. With the sea-breeze, all that array of cloudy creatures departed, leaving the air hot and stifling from the reflection of the sun's rays in the endless flood above me. But where were the poor Singalese villagers, their families, and their goods, amidst all this wreck? As I jogged along, the cry of a child, the crowing of a cock, the bark of a dog, floated across the ocean of mist, but whence came they? I looked to the right and to the left. I strained my eyes straightforward, but not a soul, or a feather, or a snout was to be seen. Presently the fog cleared away, and I could see overhead into the trees. There, chairs, tables, chatties, paddy-pounders, boxes of clothes, children in cots, men, women, cats, dogs, all were there in one strange medley, curiously ensconced among the wide-spreading branches of the trees. Over their heads, and on each side, mats and cocoa-nut leaves were hung to keep off rain and damp fogs, while against each side of the tree was placed a thick notched stick, which served as a ladder for the whole party. Here and there canoes were to be seen paddled across the fields to keep up communication between the different villages. It was a strange but desolate spectacle, and I was glad to find myself, at last, free from the watery neighborhood, and once more riding on _terra firma_.

During the heat of the next day I turned aside to a shady green lane. A mile along this quiet pathway I was tempted to rest myself at the mouth of a dark-looking cave, by the side of a running stream of beautiful water. Tying my pony to a bush, I entered at the low archway, and found myself at once in utter darkness; but after a short time I began to distinguish objects, and then saw, close to me, one whom I should have least looked for in that strange, desolate spot. It was a Chinese, tail and all. My first idea was, as I looked at the figure through the dim light of the cave, that it was nothing more than a large China jar, or, perhaps a huge tea-chest, left there by some traveler; but, when the great, round face relaxed into a grin, and the little pea-like eyes winked, and the tail moved, and the thick lips uttered broken English, I took a proper view of the matter, and wished my cavern acquaintance "good-morning." I soon gathered the occupation of See Chee in this strange place; the cave we were then in was one of the many in that neighborhood, in which a particular kind of swallow builds the edible nests so highly prized by the Chinese and Japanese for conversion into soups, stews, and, for aught we know, into tarts. The Chinaman told me, what I was scarcely prepared to learn, that he rented from the Ceylon government the privilege to seek these birds' nests in this district, for which he paid the yearly sum of one hundred dollars, or seven pounds, ten shillings. Procuring a _chule_, or native torch, the Chinese nest-hunter showed me long ledges of shelving rock at the top of the cavern, whereon whole legions of curious little gummy-like excrescences were suspended; some were perfect nests, others were in course of formation, and these latter I learned were the most valued; those which had had the young birds reared in them being indifferently thought of, and were only bought by the lower orders of soup-makers. Having rested myself and pony, I once more pushed on for Ratnapoora, where I arrived, heated, jaded, and dusty, by high noon.

A chattie bath seldom fails to refresh the Indian traveler, and fit him for the enjoyment of his meal. In the cool of the evening I strolled out to watch the preparations for the nightly festivities. These continue for about a fortnight, chiefly after sunset, though devotees may be seen laying their simple offerings at the foot of the shrine, during most part of the afternoon. The little bazaar of the town was alive with business; all vestiges of its wonted filth and wretchedness were hidden beneath long strips of white linen, and garlands of cocoa-nut leaves and flowers hung round by bands of bright red cloth. Piles of tempting wares were there; beads, bangles, and scarfs to decorate; rice, jaggery, and sweetmeats to eat, and innumerable liquors to drink, were placed in profuse array. The streets and lanes poured forth long strings of human beings, heated with the sun, flushed with drink, and bedizened with trumpery jewelry and mock finery. Poor tillers of the soil; beggarly fishermen; mendicant cinnamon peelers; half-starved coolies; lean, sickly women, and poor, immature children, passed onward in the motley throng, burying their every-day misery beneath the savage mirth of a night or two at the Peraharra.

Following the living, dark stream, as closely as the heat, dust, and strange odors would allow me, I arrived, at length, near to the Temple of Saman. The edifice, of which I caught a distant glimpse, was half concealed beneath the heavy, luxuriant foliage of cocoa-nut topes, arekas, plantains, and banyan trees. An ocean of human heads filled up the space around the building, from which proceeded the well-known sounds of the reed and the tom-tom. Gay flags fluttered from the four corners, and the lofty pinnacle in the centre; wreaths of flowers, plaited leaves and ribbons of many colors, waved jauntily from roof to door; while round the pillars of the walls and door posts clustered rich bunches of most tempting fruit.

Close by this busy scene, another group was forming under a large and lofty _Pandahl_, or open bungalow. Forcing my way to one corner of the shed, I found a company of Indian jugglers consisting of two men, a girl, and a child of perhaps three years. The men were habited in strange uncouth dresses, with large strings of heavy black beads round their necks; the girl was simply and neatly clad in white, with silver bangles and anklets, and a necklace of native diamonds. It would be impossible to detail all their extraordinary performances, which far exceeded any thing I had ever read of their art. The quantity of iron and brass ware which they contrived to swallow was truly marvelous; ten-penny nails, clasp-knives, gimlets, were all treated as so many items of pastry or confectionary, and I could but picture to myself the havoc a dozen of these cormorants would commit in an ironmonger's shop. Not the least remarkable of their feats was that of producing a sheet of water upon the sand close at our feet; and, after conjuring upon its clear surface half-a-dozen young ducks and geese, suddenly causing it to freeze in such a solid mass as to allow of our walking across it without causing so much as a crack in its crystal body. One more feat I must relate; which was that of suspending the girl while seated on a sort of ottoman, to the ridge-pole of the shed; and, at a given signal, removing the rope by which she hung, leaving her still suspended in the air--not with a regular apparatus, such as is used by the performers of a similar trick in London and Paris, but apparently with no apparatus at all! For, to my exceeding amazement, a sword was given to me, as the only European of the company, and I was told to cut and slash as much as I pleased above and around the girl. After some hesitation, I hacked and hewed the air in every direction, around and close to the suspended maiden with a vigor which would inevitably cut asunder any means of support; yet there she swung unmoved, without any sort of apparent agent of suspension except the air itself! Snake-charming and dancing completed the entertainment. When I left the place it was night.

Near the temple, all was noise and confusion, and it was with some difficulty that I forced my way through the dense crowd, and reached the steps of the venerated shrine. The priest stationed at the entrance made a way in for me as well as he could, but the pressure inside was intense. Hundreds of men and women pressed eagerly forward to reach the flight of huge stone stairs which led up to the sacred depositary. It was as bad as a crush to get into the Crystal Palace. My passage was so slow that I had time to examine and admire the fine antique carved work on the pillars and ceiling of the entrance-hall, as well as on the tall pilasters which lined the ample staircase. There was a beauty of style and a high degree of finish about this work that could not be attained in Ceylon in the present day. Arrived, at length, at the inner temple or sacred shrine above, I passed with the rest, between a richly brocaded curtain which hung in folds across the entrance at the top of the stairs, and stood before the famed relic of Buddha, or rather the jeweled casket which contained it. I felt disappointed at the spectacle here, arising, perhaps, from my taking no interest in the exhibition as a religious ceremony, and looking at it merely as an empty show, not far removed from the status of Bartholemew Fair. The strong glare of a hundred lights, the heat and crowd of so many in so small a place, the sickly perfume of the piles of Buddha flowers heaped before the shrine by the pilgrims, the deafening, discordant din of a score of tom-toms, and vile screeching pipes, made me glad enough to descend the stairs, and, flinging a rupee into the poor-box of the god, to escape once more into the fresh air.

From the votaries of Saman I entered another crowd, assembled round a gayly decorated building, which I at once perceived was a Hindoo temple. Here, to the sound of much music, and by the light of many lamps, a group of young dancing-girls were delighting the motley crowd. There were but three of them, one a finely-made, tall, sylph-like creature, with really graceful movements; the others younger, stouter, and far less pleasing. A good deal of pains had evidently been taken with their dress, which sparkled at all points with what I was assured were precious stones. I have heard that it is not uncommon for these Nautch girls to have jewelry about their dress to the value of twenty thousand pounds. The graceful little jacket which the chief dancer wore over her flowing white robes sparkled and glistened with something which was quite new to me as articles of ornament: along the edge of her pure white garment, shone a whole host of fire-flies, which by some ingenious arrangement had been secured to the dress, and gave a strange and pleasing novelty to the appearance of her attire, as she swept gracefully round in slow and measured steps. The music to which these people dance is any thing but pleasing to an English ear: indeed, there is scarcely a trace of rhythm in it; yet they contrive to measure their mazy and difficult dance by its notes with admirable precision. Long custom has so attached them to their empty meaningless music that they can appreciate no other. I am certain that M. Julien's band would scarcely be listened to by the Singalese if there were a few tom-toms within hearing. It is a curious fact that in the districts in which these Nautch girls are brought up, education is so rare, that these dancers are generally the only lay persons within many days' journey who can either read or write. The priests can all read, if not write, and they take care to instruct the temple-girls in order to enable them to learn the various songs and legends for recital at their periodic festivals. The rest of the population they keep in the densest ignorance.

Leaving the dancers and priests, I strolled toward the river Kaloo-ganga, whose quiet, palm-shaded banks stood out in sweetest contrast to the noisy revelry I had just beheld. The moon was near the full, and rising high above the many rich green topes of palms, and gorgeous plantains, lit up the peaceful scene with radiance not of earth. It is hardly possible to conceive the magic beauty of moonlight in the tropics; those who have witnessed it, can never forget their feelings under its influence. The master hand of our finest painters might attempt to depict it, but the affair would be a dead failure; and did it succeed, strangers to these climes would pronounce it an unnatural painting. Even in its reality, it bears the impress of something half unearthly, and it requires the testimony of the huge fingery leaves, as they wave to the breeze, to assure one that the whole scene is not imaginary. Fully as bright and radiating, though softer in its hue, than the broad sunshine, the moon poured down in living streams its gifts of ether-light. The monster palms, the slender arekas, the feathery bamboos and tamarinds, reveled in the harmony and glow of radiant moonlight, which leaping down in phosphorescent waves, sprang on from leaf to flower, from bud to herb, and streaming through the waving seas of giant, emerald grass, died sparkling at its feet.

Some of the topes along this gentle river grew so thickly that not the faintest ray of light found its soft way among them; the deepest shade was there, and only in one of these could I trace any vestiges of living beings. A little hut was buried far away in the inmost recesses of a tope--all bright above, all gloom below. The door was open, and from it shone a faintly glimmering light; so tiny was the ray amidst that heavy shade, so distant did it seem, that it defied all conception of space, and made my eyes ache to gaze at it. I, at length, distinguished faint sounds proceeding from it. They were those of a regular harmony. Strolling nearer, I heard that they proceeded from cultivated voices. What a sensation! The music was that of the "Evening Hymn!" and it came upon me with the echoes of the uncouth Babel of Heathenism I had just left still ringing in my ears, like the sunlight on a surging sea. When I recovered from the delightful surprise, I found that the singers were the family of a native missionary who had embraced Christianity.

The next day the bazaar was crowded with dealers in and diggers for precious stones. Hundreds of Moormen, Chitties, Arabs, Parsees, and Singalese were busily employed in barter; and a most noisy operation it was. In the neighborhood of Ratnapoora exist many tracts of clayey and gravelly land, rich in rubies, sapphires, garnets, turquoise, and cat's-eyes. For the privilege of digging for these, or of sifting them from the sands of some of the rivers, the natives pay heavy rents to Government; often sub-letting the ground, at large profits, to needy speculators. Their harvest is usually offered for sale during the Peraharra; and, be their gains what they may, they are generally rid of the whole amount before the end of the festival. The existence of this source of wealth is, unfortunately, a bane, rather than a blessing, to the district; for whole villages flock to the ruby-grounds, delving and sifting for weeks together, utterly neglecting their rice-fields and gardens. Arrack taverns have multiplied, intemperance has increased, long tracts of fertile land have ceased to be sown with paddy, and the country-people now buy their food from strangers, in place of growing it, as formerly. It will be a happy time for Saffragam when its stores of precious stones shall be exhausted; for not till then will peaceful industry be once more sought.

Struggling and forcing a way through the busy crowd were to be seen one or two Hindoo fakeers, most repulsive objects, depending for subsistence on the alms of pilgrims and others. One of these wretched creatures, in the fulfillment of a vow, or as an act of fancied righteousness, had held his left arm for so many years erect above his head, that it could not now be moved--and grew transfixed, emaciated, and bony. It seemed more like a dry, withered stick tied to the body than a part of itself. The other fakeer had closed his hands so long that the finger-nails had grown quite through the palms, and projected at the back of them; these miserable-looking objects appeared to reap a tolerable harvest, and seemed to be then in no pain.

Under the shade of a banyan tree, a grave-looking Moorman was amusing a crowd of boys and women with the recital of some wonderful or silly legend. The trade of story-telling, in the East, is still a profitable one, if I might judge from the comfortable appearance of this well-clad talker.

When I left Ratnapoora, crowds were still flocking into the town, for on the morrow the huge temple elephants were expected to march in procession through the place, decked out in all sorts of finery, and bearing the casket and relic; but it was a wearisome spectacle, and I was heartily glad to find myself once more on my pony, quietly winding through green paddyfields and under shady topes.

A TOBACCO FACTORY IN SPAIN.

This is the most immense establishment of the kind in Spain, and is devoted exclusively to the manufacture of snuff and cigars. "Chewing" is a habit to which the Spaniards are not addicted. Tobacco, being a government monopoly, yields an enormous revenue to the crown; the factories being the most extensive in the world, and the demand for the weed even greater than the supply. The Fabrica of Seville, though utterly devoid of architectural merit, is only surpassed in size by the famous monastery of the Escurial. It is six hundred and sixty-two feet in length, by five hundred and twenty-four in width: having been erected by a fat Dutchman about the middle of the last century, its slight claims to symmetry and elegance are in no degree to be wondered at. Its substantiality, however, and excellent adaptation to the purposes for which it was intended, render it well worthy of a careful examination, either by the fastidious cigar-smoker or indefatigable snuff-taker. For the edification of such in particular have we undertaken this brief description of the edifice.

Within its walls it has twenty-eight courts, while externally the building is encompassed by a deep moat, in order to guard against the possibility of smuggling on the part of the operatives. The number of persons usually employed, ranges from five to six thousand, though several thousand additional hands are sometimes called into requisition in years of extraordinary demand. By far the greater proportion of these are females, perhaps even four-fifths. Our application for admission was readily granted, and such was the politeness of the managers, that they put us immediately under the charge of a young Spaniard connected with the building, with instructions to him to show us every part of the establishment which we might desire to see. This mission he performed to our entire satisfaction. We soon dispatched the snuff department which occupies the ground floor, and which gave us such a terrible fit of sneezing, that we were somewhat fearful our nasal organs would never recover from the severe shock they had experienced. None but males were employed in the snuff rooms, and more wretched-looking objects I think I never saw.

They were frightfully cadaverous and pale, showing distinctly in their countenances the pernicious influence of such a poisoned and tobacco impregnated atmosphere upon their constitutions. Their appearance was more like that of demons than human beings, and it was with a sense of the deepest aversion, that we left their dark and dismal quarters. Ascending to the upper story, we entered an immense hall, running nearly the whole length of the building, in which between three and four thousand females, seated at tables, were busily engaged in the manufacture of cigars. It was indeed a strange spectacle. Not a man was to be seen among the enormous concourse, and even had there been half a dozen, well might we have exclaimed, "What are these among so many?" The females were of every age, from childhood upward, and, as a general rule, their complexions were characterized by a sallow and unhealthy look. The animation which prevailed among them on our sudden advent, was perfectly overwhelming: such a din and clattering of voices were absolutely deafening. Every mouth was in rapid motion, and quite rivaled in its vibrations the meteoric movements of their hands. _We_ were evidently the engrossing subject of conversation, and our vanity was consequently on the alert to overhear some of the remarks that were made, and thus discover what impression our appearance had caused upon the thickly-clustered damsels around us. But to our great dismay, we heard but little of a complimentary nature, which aroused our indignation to such a height, that we were half inclined to make a terrific charge amid the mighty throng, and seek revenge by kissing in turn each beautiful culprit upon whom we could lay our hands. But seriously, we saw very little beauty among them, which we attributed in a great measure to the unwholesome nature of their occupation. Certainly I never saw such a striking want of good looks among any other class in Spain. In Seville these girls are termed _cigarreras_, and they have a not very enviable reputation.

INFIRMITIES OF GENIUS.

We must, in the first place, deny that there is any _necessary_ connection between genius and vice, or madness, or eccentricity. Genius is a ray from heaven; and is naturally akin to all those things on earth "which are lovely and pure, and of a good report." Its very name shows its connection with the _genial_ nature; its main moral element is love. Men are now in their hearts so conscious of this, that when they hear of instances of disconnection between genius and virtue, it is with a start of surprise and horror; and we believe that though all the men of genius who ever lived had been tainted with vice, still the _thoughtful_ would have been slow of drawing the horrible inference, that the brightest and most divine-seeming power in the human mind was a fiend in the garb of a radiant angel, and would have sought elsewhere for the real solution of the problem. But when we remember that so many of this gifted order _have_ been true to themselves and to their mission, the belief is strengthened, that the instances of a contrary kind can be accounted for upon principles or facts which leave intact alike the sanity, the health, and the morality, of genius _per se_.

Such principles and facts there do exist; and we now proceed to enumerate some of them. And first, some of the most flagrantly bad of literary men have had no real pretensions to genius. Savage, for example, Boyce, and Dermody, were men of tolerable talent, and intolerable impudence, conceit, and profligacy. Churchill was of a higher order, but has been ridiculously overrated by whoever it was that wrote a paper on him, not long since, in the "Edinburgh Review"--a disgraceful apology for a disgraceful and disgusting life. Swift and Chatterton, with all their vast talents, wanted, we think, the fine differentia, and the genial element of real poetic genius. And time would fail us to enumerate the hundreds of lesser spirits who have employed their small modica of light, which they mistook for genius, as lamps allowing them to see their way more clearly down to the chambers of death. Talent, however great, is not genius. Wit, however refined, is not genius. Learning, however profound, is not genius. But genius has been confounded not only with these respectable and valuable powers, but with glibness of speech, a knack of rhyming, the faculty of echoing others, elegance of language, fury of excitation, and a hundred other qualities, either mechanical or morbid, and then the faults of such feeble or diseased pretenders have been gravely laid down at the door of the insulted genius of poetry.

Secondly, real genius has not always received its due meed from the world. Like real religion, it has found itself in an enemy's land. Resisted, as it has often been, at every step, it has not been able uniformly to maintain the dignity, or to enjoy the repose, to which it was entitled. Men of genius have occasionally soured in temper, and this has bred now the savage satisfaction with which Dr. Johnson wrote and printed, in large capitals, the line in his "London"--

"Slow rises worth by poverty depressed;"

and now feelings still fiercer, more aggressive, and more destructive to the moral balance of the soul. It is a painful predicament in which the man of genius has often felt himself. Willing to give to all men a portion of the bread of life, and unable to obtain the bread that perisheth--balked in completing the unequal bargain of light from heaven with earthly pelf--carrying about fragments of God's great general book of truth from reluctant or contemptuous bookseller to bookseller--subject even after his generous and noble thoughts are issued to the world, to the faint praise, or chilly silence, or abusive fury of oracular dunces--to the spurn of any mean slave who can find an assassin's cloak in the "Anonymous," and who does not even, it may be, take the trouble of looking at the divine thing he stabs, but strikes in blind and brutal fury; such has been and is the experience of many of whom the world is not worthy; and can it be wondered at, that some of them sink in the strife, and that others, even while triumphing, do so at the expense of much of the bloom, the expansive generosity, the all-embracing sympathy which were their original inheritance? Think of Byron's first volume, trampled like a weed in the dust--of Shelley's magnificent "Revolt of Islam," insulted and chased out of public view--of Keats's first volume and its judicial murder--of other attempts, less successful, such as the treatment of Carlyle's "French Revolution," at its first appearance, by a weekly journal (the "Athenæum"), which _now_ follows his proud path with its feeble and unaccepted adulation, and then speak with more pity of the aberrations into which the weaker sons of the muse have been hurried, and with more respect of the stern insulation and growing indifference to opinion and firmness of antagonistic determination which characterize her stronger children.

Thirdly, the aberrations of genius are often unduly magnified. The spots in a star are invisible--those in a sun are marked by every telescope. No man is a hero to his _valet de chambre_. And the reason often is, the valet is an observant but malicious and near-sighted fool. He sees the spots without seeing their small proportion to the magnitude of the orb. Nay, he creates spots if he can not see them. The servants of Mrs. Siddons, while she was giving her famous private readings from Milton and Shakspeare, thought their mistress mad, and used to say, "There's the old lady making as much noise as ever." Many and microscopic are the eyes which follow the steps of genius; and, too often, while they mark the mistakes, they are blind to the motives; to the palliations, to the resistance, and to the remorse. The world first idolizes genius--rates it even beyond its true worth--calls it perfect--remembers its divine derivation, but forgets that it must shine on us through earthly vessels, and then avenges on the earthly vessels the disappointment of its own exaggerated expectations. Hence each careless look, or word, or action of the hapless son of publicity, is noted, and, if possible, misinterpreted; his occasional high spirits are traced to physical excitement; his occasional stupidity voted a sin; his rapture and the reaction from it are both called in to witness against him: nay, an entire class of creatures arises, whose instinct it is to discover, and whose trade it is to tell his faults as a writer, and his failings as a man. It is under such a broad and searching glare, like that of a stage, that many men of warm temperament, strong passions, and sensitive feelings, have been obliged to play their part. And can we wonder that--sometimes sickened at the excessive and unnatural heat, sometimes dazzled by the overbearing and insolent light, and often disgusted at the falsehood of their position, and the cruelty or incompetence of their self-constituted judges--they have played it ludicrously or woefully ill?

But again, till of late, the moral nature, and moral culture of genius, were things ignored by general opinion, by critics, and even by men of genius themselves. Milton and a few others were thought lucky and strange exceptions to the general rule. The general rule was understood to be that the gifted were MOST apt to go astray--that the very light that was in them was darkness--that aberration, in a word, was the law of their goings. One of their own number said that

"The light that led astray, Was light from heaven."

Critics, such as Hazlitt, _too_ well qualified to speak of the errors of the genius which they criticised, were not content to palliate those by circumstances, but defended them on the dangerous principle of necessary connection. The powers of high intellect were magnified--its errors excused--and its solemn duties and responsibilities passed over in silence. The text, "Where much is given, much also shall be required," was seldom quoted. Genius was regarded as a chartered libertine--not as a child of divine law--guided, indeed, rather by the spirit than the letter, but still in accordance with law, as well as with liberty--as a capricious comet, not a planet, brighter and swifter than its fellows. Now, we think all this is changing, and that the true judges and friends of the poet, while admitting his fallibility, condemning his faults, and forewarning him of his dangers, are ever ready to contend that his gift is moral, that his power is conferred for holy purposes, that he is a missionary of God, in a lower yet lofty sense--and that if he desecrate his powers, he is a traitor to their original purposes, and shall share in the condemnation of that servant who "was beaten with many stripes." But must not the long--the written--the sung, the enacted prevalence of a contrary opinion--of a false and low idea of genius, as a mere minister of enjoyment, or child of impulse, irresponsible as the wind, have tended to perpetuate the evils it extenuated, and to render the gifted an easier prey to the temptations by which they were begirt, and infinitely less sensible to the mischiefs which their careless or vicious neglect of their high stewardship was certain to produce? Must THEY bear the whole blame? Must not a large portion of it accrue to the age in which they lived, and to that public opinion which they breathed like an atmosphere?

We attribute the higher and purer efforts which genius is _beginning_ to make, both in art and in life, to the growing prevalence of a purer opinion, and of a more severe, yet charitable criticism. The _public_, indeed, has, as we have intimated above, much to learn yet, in its treatment of its gifted children; but the wiser and better among the critics have certainly been taught a lesson by the past. Into the judgment of literary works the consideration of their moral purpose has now entered as an irresistible element. And the same measure is also fast being applied, mercifully, yet sternly, to our literary men.

Finally, it follows from these remarks, that we expect every year to hear less and less of the aberrations of genius. And that for various reasons. First, fewer and fewer will, under our present state of culture, claim to be considered as men of genius, and the public is less likely to be troubled with the affected oddities of pretenders, and the _niaiseries_ of monkeys run desperate. Then, again, the profession of letters is now less likely to be chosen by men of gifts, it is so completely overdone; and need we say, that as a profession, its exceeding precariousness and the indefinite position it gives to the literary man have been very pernicious to his morals and his peace. Then

"The old world _is_ coming right,"

and as it rights, is learning more to respect the literary character, to understand its peculiar claims, and to allow for its SINLESS infirmities. Lastly--and chief of all, men of letters are _beginning_ to awaken--are feeling the strong inspiration of common sense--are using literature less as a cripple's crutch and more as a man's staff--are becoming more charitable to each other, and are sensible with a profounder conviction that literature, as well as life, is a serious thing, and that for all its "idle words" they must give an account at the day of judgment. May this process be perfected in due time. And may all, however humble, who write, feel that they have each his special part to play in this work of perfectionment!

We are very far from being blind worshipers of Thomas Carlyle. We disapprove of much that he has written. We think, that unintentionally, he has done deep damage to the realities of faith, as well as to the "shams" of hypocrisy. He has gone out from the one ark and has not returned like the dove with the olive leaf--but rather, like the raven, strayed and croaked hopelessly over the carcasses of this weltering age. And our grief, at reading one or two of his recent pamphlets (which posterity will rank with such sins of power, as the wilder works of Swift and Byron), resembled that of a son whose father had disgraced his gray hairs by a crime or outrage. But even in the depth of this undiminished feeling of sorrow, we must acknowledge that no writer, save Milton and Wordsworth, has done so much in our country to restore the genuine respectability, and to proclaim the true mission of literature. In his hands and on his eloquent tongue it appears no idle toy for the amusement of the lovesick or the trifling--no mere excitement--but a profound, as well as beautiful reality--to be attested, if necessary, by a martyr's tears and blood, and at all events by the life and conversation of an honest and virtuous man. And he has himself so attested it. With Scott, literature was a great money-making machine. With Byron it was the trunk of a mad elephant, through which he squirted out his spite at man, his enmity at God, and his rage at even his own shadow. Carlyle has held his genius as a trust--has sought to unite it to his religion (whatever _that_ may be)--has expressed it in the language of a determined life--and has made, by the power of his example, many to go and do likewise. If he has not produced a yet broader and more permanent effect--if Carlyleism, as a system, is fast weakening and dying away--if the young minds of the age are beginning to crave something better than a creed with no articles, a gospel of negations, a faith with no forms, a hope with no foundations, a Christianity without facts (like a man with life and blood, but without limbs)! the fault lies in the system, and not in the author of it. Although, to this also we are tempted to attribute his well-known disgust _latterly_ at literature. He has tried to form his own sincere love and prosecution of it into a religion, and has failed. And why? Literature is only a subjective, and not an objective reality. It is made to adorn and explain religion--but no sincerity of prosecution, or depth of insight can change it into a religion itself. _That_ must have not only an inward significance, but an outward sign, more vital and lasting than the Nature of the Poet. This the Christian finds in Jesus, and the glorious facts connected with him. But Carlyle, with all his deep earnestness, and purity of life, has become, we fear, a worshiper without a God, a devotee with the object of the devotion extinct--a strong swimmer in a Dead Sea, where no arm can cleave the salt and sluggish waters--and although he seems to despise the mere adorer of beauty, yet nothing else does he adore, and nothing else has he hitherto taught, but this, that one may worship no distinctly objective Deity, and be, nevertheless, a sincere, worthy, and high-minded man. But he has left the questions unanswered: Will such a faith produce results on the generality of men--will it _stand_? and, although it may so far satisfy the conscience as to produce in one man, or a few like unto him, the satisfaction of sincerity, can it produce the perseverance of action, the patience of hope, and the energy of faith, which have worked, and are working, in thousands and millions of Christian men--alike high and humble, rich and poor, ignorant and refined? Still, great should be the praise of a man who has redeemed literature from degradation, and changed it into a noble, if not a thoroughly religious thing, by the sheer force of genius, and rugged sincerity.

RACE HORSES AND HORSE RACES.

It is Monday--the Monday before the Derby Day, and a railway takes us, in less than an hour, from London Bridge to the capital of the racing world, close to the abode of its Great Man, who is--need we add! the Clerk of the Epsom Course. It is, necessarily, one of the best houses in the place; being--honor to literature--a flourishing bookseller's shop. We are presented to the official. He kindly conducts us to the Downs, to show how the horses are temporarily stabled; to initiate us into some of the mysteries of the "field;" to reveal to us, in fact, the private life of the race-horse.

We arrive at a neat farm-house, with more outbuildings than are usually seen appended to so modest a homestead. A sturdy, well-dressed, well-mannered, purpose-like, sensible-looking man, presents himself. He has a Yorkshire accent. A few words pass between him and the Clerk of the Course, in which we hear the latter asseverate with much emphasis that we are, in a sporting sense, quite artless--we rather think "green," was the exact expression--that we never bet a shilling, and are quite incapable, if even willing, to take advantage of any information, or of any inspection vouchsafed to us. Mr. Filbert (the trainer) hesitates no longer. He moves his hat with honest politeness; bids us follow him, and lays his finger on the latch of a stable.

The trainer opens the door with one hand; and, with a gentleman-like wave of the other, would give us the precedence. We hesitate. We would rather not go in first. We acknowledge an enthusiastic admiration for the race-horse; but at the very mention of a race-horse, the stumpy animal whose portrait headed our earliest lesson of equine history, in the chapters of the "Universal Spelling Book," vanishes from our view, and the animal described in the Book of Job prances into our mind's eye: "The glory of his nostril is terrible. He mocketh at fear and is not affrighted. He swalloweth the ground with the fierceness of his rage." To enjoy, therefore, a fine racer--not as one does a work of art--we like the point of sight to be the point of distance. The safest point, in case of accident (say, for instance, a sudden striking-out of the hinder hoofs), we hold to be the vanishing point--a point by no means attainable on the inside of that contracted kind of stable known as a "loose-box."

The trainer evidently mistakes our fears for modesty. We boldly step forward to the outer edge of the threshold, but uncomfortably close to the hind-quarters of Pollybus, a "favorite" for the Derby. When we perceive that he has neither bit nor curb; nor bridle, nor halter, that he is being "rubbed down" by a small boy, after having taken his gallops; that there is nothing on earth--except the small boy--to prevent his kicking, or plunging, or biting, or butting his visitors to death; we breathe rather thickly. When the trainer exclaims, "Shut the door, Sam!" and the little groom does his master's bidding, and boxes us up, we desire to be breathing the fresh air of the Downs again.

"Bless you, sir!" says our good-tempered informant, when he sees us shrink away from Pollybus, changing sides at a signal from his cleaner; "these horses" (we look round, and for the first time perceive, with a tremor, the heels of another high-mettled racer protruding from an adjoining stall) "these horses are as quiet as you are; and--I say it without offense--just as well-behaved. It is quite laughable to hear the notions of people who are not used to them. They are the gentlest and most tractable creeturs in creation. Then, as to shape and symmetry, is there any thing like them?"

We acknowledge that Pretty Perth--the mare in the adjoining box--could hardly be surpassed for beauty.

"Ah, _can_ you wonder at noblemen and gentlemen laying out their twenty and thirty thousand a year on them?"

"So much?"

"Why, my gov'nor's stud costs us five-and-twenty thousand a-year, one year with another. There's an eye, sir!"

The large, prominent, but mild optics of Pretty Perth are at this moment turned full upon us. Nothing, certainly, can be gentler than the expression that beams from them. She is "taking," as Mr. Filbert is pleased to say, "measure of us." She does not stare vulgarly, or peer upon us a half-bred indifference; but, having duly and deliberately satisfied her mind respecting our external appearance, allows her attention to be leisurely diverted to some oats with which the boy had just supplied the manger.

"It is all a mistake," continues Mr. Filbert, commenting on certain vulgar errors respecting race-horses; "thorough-breds are not nearly so rampagious as mongrels and half-breds. The two horses in this stall are gentlefolks, with as good blood in their veins as the best nobleman in the land. They would be just as back'ard in doing any thing unworthy of a lady or gentleman, as any lord or lady in St. James's--such as kicking, or rearing, or shying, or biting. The pedigree of every horse that starts in any great race, is to be traced as regularly up to James the First's Arabian, or to Cromwell's White Turk, or to the Darley or Godolphin barbs, as your great English families are to the Conqueror. The worst thing they will do, is running away now and then with their jockeys. And what's that? Why, only the animal's animal-spirit running away with _him_. They are not," adds Mr. Filbert, with a merry twinkle in his eye, "the only young bloods that are fond of going too fast."

To our question whether he considers that a race-horse _could_ go too fast, Mr. Filbert gives a jolly negative, and remarks that it is all owing to high feeding and fine air; "for, mind you, horses get much better air to breathe than men do, and more of it."

All this while the two boys are sibillating lustily while rubbing and polishing the coats of their horses; which are as soft as velvet, and much smoother. When the little grooms come to the fetlock and pastern, the chamois-leather they have been using is discarded as too coarse and rough, and they rub away down to the hoofs with their sleek and their plump hands. Every wish they express, either in words or by signs, is cheerfully obeyed by the horse. The terms the quadruped seems to be on with the small biped, are those of the most easy and intimate friendship. They thoroughly understand one another. We feel a little ashamed of our mistrust of so much docility, and leave the stable with much less awe of a race-horse than we entered it.

"And now, Mr. Filbert, one delicate question--What security is there against these horses being drugged, so that they may lose a race?"

Mr. Filbert halts, places his legs apart, and his arms akimbo, and throws into his reply a severe significance, mildly tinged with indignation. He commences with saying, "I'll tell you where it is: there is a deal more said about foul play and horses going amiss, than there need be."

"Then the boys are never heavily bribed?"

"Heavily bribed, sir!" Mr. Filbert contracts his eyes, but sharpens up their expression, to look the suspicion down. "Bribed! it may not be hard to bribe a man, but it's not so easy to bribe a boy. What's the use of a hundred-pound note to a child of ten or twelve years old? Try him with a pen'north of apples, or a slice of pudding, and you have a better chance; though I would not give you the price of a sugar-stick for it. Nine out of ten of these lads would not have a hair of their horse's tails ruffled if they could help it; much more any such harm as drugs or downright poison. The boy and the horse are so fond of one another, that a racing stable is a regular happy family of boys and horses. When the foal is first born, it is turned loose into the paddock; and if his mother don't give him enough milk, the cow makes up the deficiency. He scampers about in this way for about a year: then he is 'taken up;' that is, bitted, and backed by a 'dumb-jockey'--a cross of wood made for the purpose. When he has got a little used to that, we try him with a speaking jockey--a child some seven or eight years old, who has been born, like the colt, in the stables. From that time till the horse retires from the turf, the two are inseparable. They eat, drink, sleep, go out and come in together. Under the directions of the trainer, the boy tells the horse what to do, and he does it; for he knows that he is indebted to the boy for every thing he gets. When he is hungry, it is the boy that gives him his corn; when he is thirsty, the boy hands him his water; if he gets a stone in his foot, the boy picks it out. By the time the colt is old enough to run, he and the boy have got to like one another so well that they fret to be away from one another. As for bribing! Why, you may as well try to bribe the horse to poison the boy, as the boy to let the horse be injured."

"But the thing _has_ happened, Mr. Filbert?"

"Not so much as is talked about. Sometimes a likely foal is sent to a training stable, and cracked up as something wonderful. He is entered to run. On trial, he turns out to be next to nothing; and the backers, to save their reputation, put it about that the horse was played tricks with. There is hardly a great race, but you hear something about horses going amiss by foul play."

"Do many of these boys become jockeys?"

"Mostly. Some of them are jockeys already, and ride 'their own' horses as they call them. Here comes one."

A miniature man, with a horsewhip neatly twisted round the crop or handle, opens the gate.

"Well, Tommy, how are you, Tommy?"

"Well, sir, bobbish. Fine day, Mr. Filbert."

Although Mr. Filbert tells us in a whisper that Tommy is only twelve next birth-day, Tommy looks as if he had entered far into his teens. His dress is deceptive. Light trowsers terminating in buttons, laced shoes, long striped waistcoat, a cut-away coat, a colored cravat, a collar to which juveniles aspire under the name of "stick-ups," and a Paris silk hat, form his equipment.

"Let's see, Tommy; what stakes did you win last?"

Tommy flicks, with the end of his whip-crop, a speck of dirt from the toe of his "off" shoe, and replies carelessly, "The Great Northamptonshire upon Valentine. But then, I have won a many smaller stakes, you know, Mr. Filbert."

"Are there many jockeys so young as Tommy?"

"Not many so young," says Tommy, tying a knot in his whip thong, "but a good many smaller." Tommy then walks across the straw-yard to speak to some stable friend he has come to see. Tommy has not only the appearance, but the manners of a man.

"That boy will be worth money," says Mr. Filbert. "It is no uncommon thing for a master to give a lad like that a hundred pound when he wins a race. As he can't spend it in hard-bake, or ginger-beer, or marbles (the young rogue _does_, occasionally, get rid of a pound or two in cigars), he saves it. I have known a racing-stable lad begin the world at twenty, with from three to four thousand pound."

Tommy is hopping back over the straw, as if he had forgotten something. "O, I beg your pardon for not asking before," he says, "but--how does Mrs. Filbert find herself?"

"Quite well, thank you, Tommy." Tommy says he is glad to hear it, and walks off like a family-man.

Our interview with Mr. Filbert is finished, and we pace toward the race-course with its indefatigable clerk. Presently, he points to a huge white object that rears its leaden roof on the apex of the highest of the "Downs." It is the Grand Stand. It is so extensive, so strong, and so complete, that it seems built for eternity, instead of for busy use during one day in the year, and for smaller requisitions during three others. Its stability is equal to St. Paul's, or the Memnonian Temple. Our astonishment, already excited, is increased when our cicerone tells us that he pays as rent and in subscriptions to stakes to be run for, nearly two thousand pounds per annum for that stand. Expecting an unusually great concourse of visitors this year, he has erected a new wing, extended the betting inclosure, and fitted up two apartments for the exclusive use of ladies.

Here we are! Let us go into the basement. First into the weighing-house, where the jockeys "come to scale" after each race. We then inspect the offices for the Clerk of the Course himself; wine-cellars, beer-cellars, larders, sculleries, and kitchens, all as gigantically appointed, and as copiously furnished as if they formed part of an ogre's castle. To furnish the refreshment-saloon, the Grand Stand has in store two thousand four hundred tumblers, one thousand two hundred wine-glasses, three thousand plates and dishes, and several of the most elegant vases we have seen out of the Glass Palace, decorated with artificial flowers. An exciting odor of cookery meets us in our descent. Rows of spits are turning rows of joints before blazing walls of fire. Cooks are trussing fowls; confectioners are making jellies; kitchen-maids are plucking pigeons; huge crates of boiled tongues are being garnished on dishes. One hundred and thirty legs of lamb, sixty-five saddles of lamb, and one hundred and thirty shoulders of lamb; in short, a whole flock of sixty-five lambs have to be roasted, and dished, and garnished, by the Derby Day. Twenty rounds of beef, four hundred lobsters, one hundred and fifty tongues, twenty fillets of veal, one hundred sirloins of beef, five hundred spring chickens, three hundred and fifty pigeon-pies; a countless number of quartern loaves, and an incredible quantity of ham have to be cut up into sandwiches; eight hundred eggs have got to be boiled for the pigeon-pies and salads. The forests of lettuces, the acres of cress, and beds of radishes, which will have to be chopped up; the gallons of "dressings" that will have to be poured out and converted into salads for the insatiable Derby Day, will be best understood by a memorandum from the chief of that department to the _chef de-cuisine_, which happened, accidentally, to fall under our notice: "Pray don't forget a large tub and a birch-broom for mixing the salad!"

We are preparing to ascend, when we hear the familiar sound of a printing machine. Are we deceived? O, no! The Grand Stand is like the kingdom of China--self-supporting, self-sustaining. It scorns foreign aid; even to the printing of the Racing Lists. This is the source of the innumerable cards with which hawkers persecute the sporting world on its way to the Derby, from the Elephant and Castle to the Grand Stand. "Dorling's list! Dorling's correct list! with the names of the horses, and colors of the riders!"

We are now in the hall. On our left, are the parlors--refreshment rooms specially devoted to the Jockey Club; on our right, a set of seats, reserved, from the days of Flying Childers, for the members of White's Clubhouse.

We step out upon the lawn; in the midst is the betting-ring, where sums of money of fabulous amounts change hands.

The first floor is entirely occupied with a refreshment-room and a police court. Summary justice is the law of the Grand Stand. Two magistrates sit during the races. Is a pick-pocket detected, a thimble-rigger caught, a policeman assaulted? The delinquent is brought round to the Grand Stand, to be convicted, sentenced, and imprisoned in as short a time as it takes to run a mile race.

The sloping roof is covered with lead, in steps; the spectator from that point has a bird's-eye view of the entire proceedings, and of the surrounding country, which is beautifully picturesque. When the foreground of the picture is brightened and broken by the vast multitude that assembles here upon the Derby Day, it presents a whole which has no parallel in the world.

On that great occasion, an unused spectator might imagine that all London turned out. There is little perceptible difference in the bustle of its crowded streets, but all the roads leading to Epsom Downs are so thronged and blocked by every description of carriage, that it is marvelous to consider how, when, and where they were all made--out of what possible wealth they are all maintained--and by what laws the supply of horses is kept equal to the demand. Near the favorite bridges, and at various leading points of the leading roads, clusters of people post themselves by nine o'clock to see the Derby people pass. Then come flitting by, barouches, phaetons, Broughams, gigs, four-wheeled chaises, four-in-hands, Hansom cabs, cabs of lesser note, chaise-carts, donkey-carts, tilted vans made arborescent with green boughs, and carrying no end of people, and a cask of beer--equestrians, pedestrians, horse-dealers, gentlemen, notabilities, and swindlers, by tens of thousands--gradually thickening and accumulating, until, at last a mile short of the turnpike, they become wedged together, and are very slowly filtered through layers of policemen, mounted and a-foot, until, one by one, they pass the gate, and skurry down the hill beyond. The most singular combinations occur in these turnpike stoppages and presses. Four-in-hand leaders look affectionately over the shoulders of ladies, in bright shawls, perched in gigs; poles of carriages appear, uninvited, in the midst of social parties in phaetons; little, fast, short-stepping ponies run up carriage-wheels before they can be stopped and hold on behind like footmen. Now, the gentleman who is unaccustomed to public driving, gets into astonishing perplexities. Now, the Hansom cab whisks craftily in and out, and seems occasionally to fly over a wagon or so. Now the post-boy, on a jibbing or a shying horse, curses the evil hour of his birth, and is ingloriously assisted by the shabby hostler out of place, who is walking down with seven shabby companions, more or less equine, open to the various chances of the road. Now, the air is fresh, and the dust flies thick and fast. Now, the canvas booths upon the course are seen to glisten and flutter in the distance. Now, the adventurous vehicles make cuts across, and get into ruts and gravel-pits. Now, the heather in bloom is like a field of gold, and the roar of voices is like a wind. Now, we leave the hard road and go smoothly rolling over the soft green turf, attended by an army of importunate worshipers in red jackets and stable jackets, who make a very Juggernaut car of our equipage, and now breathlessly call us My Lord, and now, Your Honor. Now, we pass the outer settlements of tents, where pots and kettles are--where gipsy children are--where airy stabling is--where tares for horses may be bought--where water, water, water, is proclaimed--where the Tumbler in an old pea-coat, with a spangled fillet round his head, eats oysters, while his wife takes care of the golden globes, and the knives, and also of the starry little boy, their son, who lives principally upside-down. Now, we pay our one pound at the barrier, and go faster on, still Juggernautwise, attended by our devotees, until at last we are drawn, and rounded, and backed, and sidled, and cursed, and complimented, and vociferated, into a station on the hill opposite the Grand Stand, where we presently find ourselves on foot, much bewildered, waited on by five respectful persons, who _will_ brush us all at once.

Well, to be sure, there never was such a Derby Day, as this present Derby Day! Never, to be sure, were there so many carriages, so many fours, so many twos, so many ones, so many horsemen, so many people who have come down by "rail," so many fine ladies in so many Broughams, so many of Fortnum and Mason's hampers, so much ice and champagne! If I were on the turf, and had a horse to enter for the Derby, I would call that horse Fortnum and Mason, convinced that with that name he would beat the field. Public opinion would bring him in somehow. Look where I will--in some connection with the carriages--made fast upon the top, or occupying the box, or tied up behind, or dangling below, or peeping out of window--I see Fortnum and Mason. And now, Heavens! all the hampers fly wide open, and the green Downs burst into a blossom of lobster-salad!

As if the great Trafalgar signal had been suddenly displayed from the top of the Grand Stand, every man proceeds to do his duty. The weaker spirits, who were ashamed to set the great example, follow it instantly, and all around me there are table-cloths, pies, chickens, hams, tongues, rolls, lettuces, radishes, shell-fish, broad-bottomed bottles, clinking glasses, and carriages turned inside out. Amid the hum of voices a bell rings. What's that? What's the matter? They are clearing the course. Never mind. Try the pigeon-pie. A roar. What's the matter? It's only the dog upon the course. Is that all? Glass of wine. Another roar. What's that? It's only the man who wants to cross the course, and is intercepted, and brought back. Is that all? I wonder whether it is always the same dog and the same man, year after year! A great roar. What's the matter? By Jupiter, they are going to start.

A deeper hum and a louder roar. Every body standing on Fortnum and Mason. Now they're off! No. _Now_ they're off! No. _Now_ they're off! No. _Now_ they are! Yes!

There they go! Here they come! Where? Keep your eye on Tattenham Corner, and you'll see 'em coming round in half a minute. Good gracious, look at the Grand Stand, piled up with human beings to the top, and at the wonderful effect of changing light as all their faces and uncovered heads turn suddenly this way! Here they are! Who is? The horses! Where? Here they come! Green first. No: Red first. No: Blue first. No: the Favorite first! Who says so? Look! Hurrah! Hurrah! All over. Glorious race. Favorite wins! Two hundred thousand pounds lost and won. You don't say so? Pass the pie!

Now, the pigeons fly away with the news. Now, every one dismounts from the top of Fortnum and Mason, and falls to work with greater earnestness than before, on carriage boxes, sides, tops, wheels, steps, roofs, and rumbles. Now, the living stream upon the course, dammed for a little while at one point, is released, and spreads like parti-colored grain. Now, the roof of the Grand Stand is deserted. Now, rings are formed upon the course, where strong men stand in pyramids on one another's heads; where the Highland lady dances; where the Devonshire Lad sets-to with the Bantam; where the Tumbler throws the golden globes about, with the starry little boy tied round him in a knot.

Now, all the variety of human riddles who propound themselves on race-courses, come about the carriages, to be guessed. Now, the gipsy woman, with the flashing red or yellow handkerchief about her head, and the strange silvery-hoarse voice, appears, My pretty gentleman, to tell your fortin, sir; for you have a merry eye, my gentleman, and surprises is in store for you, connected with a dark lady as loves you better than you love a kiss in a dark corner when the moon's a-shining; for you have a lively 'art, my gentleman, and you shall know her secret thoughts, and the first and last letters of her name, my pretty gentleman, if you will cross your poor gipsy's hand with a little bit of silver, for the luck of the fortin as the gipsy will read true, from the lines of your hand, my gentleman, both as to what is past, and present, and to come. Now, the Ethiopians, looking unutterably hideous in the sunlight, play old banjoes and bones, on which no man could perform ten years ago, but which, it seems, any man may play now, if he will only blacken his face, put on a crisp wig, a white waistcoat and wristbands, a large white tie, and give his mind to it. Now, the sickly-looking ventriloquist, with an anxious face (and always with a wife in a shawl) teaches the alphabet to the puppet pupil, whom he takes out of his pocket. Now, my sporting gentlemen, you may ring the Bull, the Bull, the Bull; you may ring the Bull! Now, try your luck at the knock-em-downs, my Noble Swells--twelve heaves for sixpence, and a pincushion in the centre, worth ten times the money! Now, the Noble Swells take five shillings' worth of "heaves," and carry off a halfpenny wooden pear in triumph. Now, it hails, as it always does hail, formidable wooden truncheons round the heads, bodies and shins of the proprietors of the said knock-em-downs, whom nothing hurts. Now, inscrutable creatures in smock frocks, beg for bottles. Now, a coarse vagabond, or idiot, or a compound of the two, never beheld by mortal off a race-course, minces about, with ample skirts and a tattered parasol, counterfeiting a woman. Now, a shabby man, with an overhanging forehead, and a slinking eye, produces a small board, and invites your attention to something novel and curious--three thimbles and one little pea--with a one, two, three--and a two, three, one--and a one--and a two--in the middle--right hand, left hand--go you any bet from a crown to five sovereigns you don't lift the thimble the pea's under! Now, another gentleman (with a stick) much interested in the experiment, will "go" two sovereigns that he does lift the thimble, provided strictly that the shabby man holds his hand still, and don't touch 'em again. Now, the bet's made, and the gentleman with the stick, lifts obviously the wrong thimble, and loses. Now, it is as clear as day to an innocent bystander, that the loser must have won if he had not blindly lifted the wrong thimble--in which he is strongly confirmed by another gentleman with a stick, also much interested, who proposes to "go him" halves--a friendly sovereign to _his_ sovereign--against the bank. Now, the innocent agrees, and loses; and so the world turns round bringing innocents with it in abundance, though the three confederates are wretched actors, and could live by no other trade if they couldn't do it better.

Now, there is another bell, and another clearing of the course, and another dog, and another man, and another race. Now, there are all these things all over again. Now, down among the carriage-wheels and poles, a scrubby growth of drunken post-boys and the like has sprung into existence, like weeds among the many-colored flowers of fine ladies in Broughams, and so forth. Now, the drinking-booths are all full, and tobacco-smoke is abroad, and an extremely civil gentleman confidentially proposes roulette. And now, faces begin to be jaded, and horses are harnessed, and wherever the old gray-headed beggarman goes, he gets among traces and splinter-bars, and is roared at.

So, now, we are on the road again, going home. Now, there are longer stoppages than in the morning; for we are a dense mass of men and women, wheels, horses, and dust. Now, all the houses on the road seem to be turned inside out, like the carriages on the course, and the people belonging to the houses, like the people belonging to the carriages, occupy stations which they never occupy at another time--on leads, on housetops, on out-buildings, at windows, in balconies, in doorways, in gardens. Schools are drawn out to see the company go by. The academies for young gentlemen favor us with dried peas; the Establishments for Young Ladies (into which sanctuaries many wooden pears are pitched), with bright eyes. We become sentimental, and wish we could marry Clapham. The crowd thickens on both sides of the road. All London appears to have come out to see us. It is like a triumphant entry--except that, on the whole, we rather amuse than impress the populace. There are little love-scenes among the chestnut trees by the roadside--young gentlemen in gardens resentful of glances at young ladies from coach-tops--other young gentlemen in other gardens, whose arms, encircling young ladies, seem to be trained like the vines. There are good family pictures--stout fathers and jolly mothers--rosy cheeks squeezed in between the rails--and infinitesimal jockeys winning in canters on walking-sticks. There are smart maid-servants among the grooms at stable-doors, where Cook looms large and glowing. There is plenty of smoking and drinking among the tilted vans and at the public-houses, and some singing, but general order and good-humor. So, we leave the gardens and come into the streets, and if we there encounter a few ruffians throwing flour and chalk about, we know them for the dregs and refuse of a fine, trustworthy people, deserving of all confidence and honor.

And now we are at home again--far from absolutely certain of the name of the winner of the Derby--knowing nothing whatever about any other race of the day--still tenderly affected by the beauty of Clapham--and thoughtful over the ashes of Fortnum and Mason.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

While reading Hartley Coleridge's life, we have been often grieved, but never for a moment have been tempted to anger. There is so much bonhomie, so much unaffected oddity, he is such a queer being, such a _character_, in short, that you laugh more than you cry, and wonder more than you laugh. The judge would be a severe one who could keep his gravity while trying him. One mischief, too, which often attends faulty men of genius is wanting in him. He has not turned his "diseases into commodities"--paraded his vices as if they were virtues, nor sought to circulate their virus. He is, as the old divines were wont to say, a "_sensible_ sinner," and lies so prostrate that none will have the heart to trample on him. His vices, too, were so peculiarly interwoven with his idiosyncrasy, which was to the last degree peculiar, that they can find no imitators. When vice seems ludicrous and contemptible, few follow it; it is only when covered with the gauzy vail of sentimentalism, or when deliberately used as a foil to set off brilliant powers, that it exerts an attraction dangerously compounded of its native charm, and the splendors which shine beside it. Men who are disposed to copy the sins of a gifted, popular, and noble poet like Byron, and who, gazing at his sun-like beams, absorb his spots into their darkened and swimming eyes, can only look with mockery, pity, and avoidance upon the slips of an odd little man, driveling amid the hedgerows and ditches of the lake country, even although his accomplishments were great, his genius undoubted, and his name Coleridge.

His nature was, indeed, intensely singular. One might fancy him extracted from his father's side, while he slept, and _dreamed_. He was like an embodied dream of that mighty wizard. He had not the breadth, the length, or the height of S. T. Coleridge's mind, but he had much of his subtlety, his learning, his occasional sweetness, and his tremulous tenderness. He was never, and yet always a child. The precocity he displayed was amazing--and precocious, and nothing more, he continued to the end. His life was a perpetual promise to _be_--a rich unexpanded bud--while his father's was a perpetual promise to _do_--a flower without adequate fruit. It was no wonder that when the father first saw his child his far-stretching eye was clouded with sorrow as he thought, "If I--a whole, such as has seldom been created, have had difficulty in standing alone, how can this be part of myself? If a frail tendency, running across my being, has damaged me, what is to become of one whose name is Frailty?" Some such thought was apparently in his prophetic mind when he wrote the sonnet beginning with

"Charles, my slow heart was only sad," &c.

Nor did the future history of the child belie the augury of this poetic sigh of a fond, yet fearing parent, over the extracted, embodied frailty and fineness of his own being.

Indeed, a circle of evil auguries surrounded the childhood of little Hartley. The calm, quiet eye of Wordsworth surveyed the sports of the child, and finding them those of no common infant, he wrote the poem to "H. C., six years old," where he says--

"Thou art a dew-drop which the morn brings forth, Ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, Or to be trailed along the soiling earth."

His power of youthful fancy and language was wonderful. Not even Scott's story-telling faculty was equal to his. He delighted in recounting to his brother and companions, not a series of tales, but "one continuous tale, regularly evolved, and possessing a real unity, enchaining the attention of his auditors for a space of years." "This enormous romance, far exceeding in length the compositions of Calprenede, Scudery, or Richardson, though delivered without premeditation, had a progressive story with many turns and complications, with salient points recurring at intervals, with a suspended interest varying in intensity, and occasionally wrought up to a very high pitch, and at length a final catastrophe and conclusion." While constructing this he was little more than twelve years of age.

A _curiosity_, Hartley Coleridge commenced life by being--and a curiosity, somewhat battered and soiled, he continued to the end. His peculiarity lay in such a combination of wonderful powers and wonderful weaknesses, of the mind of a man, the heart of a child, and the body of a dwarf, of purposes proud and high, and habits mean and low--as has seldom been witnessed. The wild disorganization produced by such a medley of contradictory qualities, no discipline, no fortunate conjuncture of circumstances, nothing, perhaps, but death or miracle could have reconciled. He was not _deranged_--but he was _disarranged_ in the most extraordinary degree. And such dark disarrangements are sometimes more hopeless than madness itself. There is nothing for them but that they be taken down, and cast into the new mould of the grave.

This original tendency and formation are thus described by his brother: "He had a certain infirmity of will--the specific evil of his life. His sensibility was intense, and he had not wherewithal to control it. He could not open a letter without trembling. He shrank from mental pain--he was beyond measure impatient of constraint. He was liable to paroxysms of rage, often the disguise of pity, self-accusation, or other painful emotion--anger it could hardly be called--during which he bit his arm or finger violently. He yielded, as it were unconsciously, to slight temptations, slight in themselves, and slight to him, as if swayed by a mechanical impulse apart from his own volition. It looked like an organic defect--a congenital imperfection."

"Of such materials wretched men are made."

And so it fared with poor Hartley Coleridge. Up, indeed, to the time (1814) when he left school, he seems to have been as happy as most schoolboys are--nay, happier than most, in constant intercourse with Mr. Wordsworth, carrying on his English studies in his library at Allanbank, in the vale of Grasmere, and having become acquainted with John Wilson, then residing at his beautiful seat, Elleray, on the banks of Windermere, who became from that time, and continued to the last, one of his kindest friends. Through Mr. Southey's active intervention, he was sent to Merton College, Oxford. His curriculum there was at first distinguished. If inferior in scholarship to many, he yielded to none in general knowledge, in genius, and, above all, in conversation. Ultimately he gained a fellowship in Oriel, with high distinction. But his powers of table-talk became snares to him, and at the close of his probationary year he "was judged to have forfeited his fellowship on the ground mainly of intemperance." Great efforts were made by his father and others to reverse the sentence--but in vain. His ruin was now only a question of time. He repaired to London, but the precarious life of a man of letters was fitted to nurse instead of checking his morbid tendencies and unhappy habits. He next returned to the Lake country, commenced a school in conjunction with another gentleman, and even talked of entering into holy orders. But nothing would prosper with him. His school dwindled away, and he was reduced to make a scrambling livelihood by contributing to periodicals; domesticated the while at Grasmere, in the house of a farmer's widow. Various attempts were made, ever and anon, to make him useful--by taking him to Leeds to edit a biographical work, assisting a friend in teaching school at Ledbergh, &c; but all in vain. To Grasmere he as uniformly found his way back, to resume his erratic existence. In 1845, his mother's death brought him an annuity, which placed him on a footing of complete independence. During all this time he was employed fitfully in literary effort, wrote poems, contributed papers to "Blackwood's Magazine," and delivered occasional addresses to literary societies. He was gentle, amiable, frank; and, notwithstanding his oddities and errors, was a great favorite with all classes in Cumberland. He was, as a churchman and politician, liberal, almost radical, in his opinions. He was a daily reader of his Bible. To the last, he struggled sore to unloose the accursed bands of indolence and sensualism which bound him; but to little purpose.

At length, in the beginning of 1849, he departed this life, after giving various evidences of a penitent spirit. He lies now in a spot, beside which, in little more than a year, the dust of one--alike, but oh, how different!--Wordsworth, was to be consigned. He was in his fifty-second year. "His coffin, at the funeral, was light as that of a child." "It was," says his brother, "a winter's day when he was carried to his last earthly home, cold, but fine, with a few slight scuds of sleet and gleams of sunshine, one of which greeted us as we entered Grasmere, and another smiled brightly through the church-window. May it rest upon his memory!"

THE ORIENTAL SALOONS IN MADRID.

"Come," said Don Philippe to us one evening, "come with me to a ball at the Salon de Oriente, where you will see a picture of Madrilenian life, too characteristic to be overlooked--a miniature of its beauty, its taste, and its profligacy combined, which no stranger who visits the metropolis should fail to note, and studiously observe." Having nothing of greater importance before us, we assented forthwith to the proposal of our entertaining teacher, who escorted us thither, as soon as we could put ourselves in proper trim for the occasion. The first glimpse of the ball-room was like a fairy scene. It was built in imitation of an Oriental palace, tastefully painted and illuminated with glittering chandeliers, in the most brilliant manner. The hall was quite thronged with persons of both sexes, a large proportion of whom were engaged in dancing the "Polka Mazurka," to the inspiring music of a full and splendid band. So exciting was the spectacle, that it was with the greatest difficulty we restrained ourselves for a few moments from rushing into the midst of the throng, and finally we broke from all restraint, and bade defiance to the counsels of Don Philippe, who evidently regarded us in the light of a couple of hot headed youths, whose harvest of wild oats had not yet been fully gathered. Away we dashed into the very midst of the merry sport as if, with military ardor, we intended to carry the place by storm; having secured a pair of female prizes, whose brilliant eyes, like lodestones, had drawn us toward them, while under our sudden spell of excitement we mingled with the concourse of laughing dancers, and became ourselves the gayest of the gay. The bright glances which gleamed around us, from every female eye, were softer than the blushes of the moonbeams! Every cheek was flushed with pleasure; every lip was red with joy! The men were wild with frolic, and the youthful damsels intoxicated with delight. Among the former, whom should I recognize, to my infinite surprise and astonishment, but my faithful guide to Segovia and the Escurial. In his dress he was completely metamorphosed into a fashionable gentleman, with white waistcoat and gloves, and the remainder of his suit of fine black broadcloth. In manners, he had not a superior in the room. Approaching me with respect, but with the polished ease of a man well acquainted with the world, he saluted us with unaffected cordiality, and then invited us to partake of some refreshments with him in an adjoining apartment, expressly intended and adapted for this purpose. We did not wish to offend him by a refusal, and therefore assented to his desire. Seating ourselves at a table together, we called for a favorite beverage among the Spaniards, composed of small-beer and lemon, mixed in proportions to suit the taste of those desiring it. An immense bowl, supplied with a certain quantity of iced lemonade, was first brought and placed in the centre of the table before us. Two or three bottles of beer were then opened and poured into this general receptacle, the contents of which were stirred up briskly with a kind of ladle or large spoon. Each of us then helped himself to the frothy compound, which, at the same time that it is very agreeable to the palate, does not produce the slightest inebriating effect.

Turning to me, my quondam guide asked if I had passed a pleasant evening. I replied in the affirmative, and told him I had been much struck with his skillful performance upon "the light fantastic toe." He seemed delighted with the compliment, and praised us highly in return, for the manner in which we had conducted ourselves throughout the entertainment. "These saloons," said he, "are resorted to by all classes of gentlemen in the metropolis, without distinction of rank or station, though they do not sustain so high a public reputation now as they possessed in former years. This is owing to the fact, that ladies of station no longer honor them with their presence, save during the period of the 'masquerades,' when it is said that even the queen herself has mingled among the general throng, confident that her disguise would secure her from either scrutiny or recognition. The females whom you have seen here to-night," continued my guide, "notwithstanding their modest appearance and genteel manners, are most of them either kept-mistresses or public courtesans, while the younger ones, apparently under the protection of their mothers and aunts, by whom they are accompanied, have been brought hither as to a market, in order to secure an '_amante_' or lover, and make the most profitable sale of their charms! This may sound very horrible to your ears, yet I assure you that it is truth. You can scarcely have any conception of the extent of vice which prevails in Madrid, nor of the lightness and indifference with which it is regarded by the community. She who would be called by an evil name in any other country, is only regarded as a gay and lively girl in Spain, so low is the general standard of women. Absolute penury, and the want of respectable employment, have tended to produce this deplorable result, which must necessarily ensue, wherever the poverty and mismanagement of a Government, and the consequent inactivity of industry and commerce, does not create sufficient occupation for the poorer classes, to keep them above starvation, without having recourse to vice. It really offends me," continued my guide, with considerable warmth, "to hear a noble people abused for the existence of faults which do not properly belong to them." "Bravo," cried Don Philippe, "good, good, good! Down with the government! Send the cursed ministers to the infernals, and we'll have a grand Spanish republic. Then you'll see if the Spaniards are not as industrious and brave, and the women as virtuous and chaste, as those of any other land under the sun. Give the people a fair chance, and they will rise, like the bird you call a phoenix, and become a great and powerful nation. Success, I say, to the glorious cause of liberty and republicanism in Spain!"

PHANTOMS AND REALITIES.--AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.[8]

PART THE THIRD--NIGHT.

IV.

The interval of suspense to which we were doomed before we received any tidings of Forrester seemed to us interminable; and our speculations on the cause of his silence did not contribute to make our solitude the more endurable. We clung together, it is true; but it was like people on a raft, with our heads stretched out, looking apart into the distance for succor.

[8] Concluded from the July Number.

At last, at the end of a fortnight, there came a note in Forrester's handwriting (which I well remembered), signed only with an initial letter, requiring to see me alone in a roadside hostelrie about half a mile inland. The note was cautiously worded, so that if it fell into other hands, its purport would be unintelligible.

I thought this strange; but Forrester was always fond of a little mystery, and on the present occasion there might be a necessity for it. I am ashamed to say, that after I had read this note two or three times, I felt some hesitation about giving him the meeting. The doubt was unworthy of us both; yet I could not help asking myself, over and over again, why he wished me to go alone?--why he appointed to meet me at night?--why he should act under a mask in an affair which demanded the utmost candor on all sides?--and a hundred other uncomfortable questions. Circumstances had made me anxious and distrustful; and I was so conscious of the irritable state of my nerves, that, even while these suspicions were passing through my brain, I made an effort to do justice to my friend by recalling to mind the incidents of our former intercourse, throughout which he had displayed a fidelity and steadfastness that entitled him to my most implicit confidence. Even if it had been otherwise, I had no choice but to trust to him; it was indispensable that we should know the determination of our implacable enemy, and it was through Forrester alone we could obtain that information.

The night was dark and stormy. The solitary walk to the little inn afforded me time to collect myself for an interview which I approached with no slight uneasiness. I had left Astræa behind me in a depressed and fretful mood. She could not comprehend why she was excluded from our councils, and seemed to regard it as a sort of conspiracy to dishonor and humiliate her. Every trifling circumstance that affected her personally was viewed in the same light, with jealousy and suspicion. Poor Astræa! Her life was already beginning to jar with mental discords, and the shadows of the future were falling thickly upon her, and darkening her path.

The hostelrie at which I had the appointment with Forrester stood on the edge of a bleak common. In that part of the country there are many similar wastes, stretching a half mile or more into the interior, covered with a scant and sickly herbage, and presenting on the surface an arid picture of sand, stones, and shells, as if these great, unprofitable pastures had been redeemed from the sea without being converted into available land. There is a salt flavor in the air over these wild inland stretches; the sea seems to pursue you with its saline weeds, its keen winds, and measured murmurs; and the absolute solitude of a scene in which you very rarely meet a house or a tree, is calculated to make a dismal impression on a person otherwise out of humor with the world. I felt it forcibly that night. I thought the northeast wind that swept diagonally across the common was more wintry and biting than usual; and the red light in the distant window of the "Jolly Gardeners" (of all conceivable signs for such a spot!) looked as if it were dancing away further and further from me as I advanced across the heath.

At last I reached the inn--a low tiled house, with a tattered portico jutting out upon the road some ten or twelve feet, a few latticed windows, and a narrow passage, lighted by a single candle in a sconce on the wall, leading into a sanded parlor beyond a little square "bar" that looked like the inside of a cupboard, decorated with a variety of jugs, teacups, saucers, and other ware hung up in rows all round. The house was altogether a very tolerable specimen of what used to be called an ale-house in remote country districts; a place suggestive of the strictest caution about liquors, but where you might repose with confidence on an impromptu entertainment of rashers and eggs. It was exactly the sort of house that Forrester would have preferred to a well-appointed hostel in the days of our summer vagrancy, when we used to wander toward Hampstead and Highgate, avoiding beaten tracks and crowded localities, and seeking out for ourselves, whenever we could find it, a secluded "Barley Mow" shut up in a nest of orchards. He had not lost his early tastes--nor had I! That little "bar," with its innumerable samples of delft, threw me back sundry years of my life, to the time when I was free to dream or idle, to go into the haunts of men, or to desert them at will. The incident was a trifling one in itself; but it shot through my heart like a bolt of fire. It was the first time I had gone out and left Astræa alone behind me. I thought of her, seated in her lonely room, brooding over her desolation, and torturing herself with speculations upon the business in which I was engaged: while I?--I was out again on the high road, exulting in a man's privilege to act for myself, with her destiny, for good or evil, at my disposal, and possessing the power of returning into the world from whence I had drawn her, and in which she could never again appear! I?--I was at large once more, with the memories of the freedom and tranquillity I had relinquished tempting my thoughts into rebellion. And she?--alas! she never seemed in my eyes so forlorn and lost as at that moment!

A single glance at the boxed-up "bar," and the honest round face, with a skin-cap over it, that gaped at me behind a complete breastwork of pewter and glass, awakened me from the state of reverie in which I had entered the house. I dare say I looked rather bewildered, like a man just shaking off a fit of abstraction, for the honest round face immediately started out of the chair which served as a socket for the body to which it belonged, and without waiting to hear me ask any questions, instantly proposed to conduct me to the gentleman up-stairs, who had been for some time expecting my arrival.

I found Forrester in a small room which was reached by a flight of stairs, so sharp and precipitate, that they looked as if they were inserted on the face of the wall. Having lighted me into the room, the honest face disappeared, and left us alone together.

Forrester stretched out his hand, as I thought, somewhat formally; then motioning me to a seat opposite to him, waited in silence till the landlord had left the room.

"You are surprised I should have asked you to come here," he said.

"No," I replied, interrupting him, hastily; "but I am surprised we did not hear from you sooner. In the name of Heaven, what can have been the cause of your silence?"

"How long is it since I saw you?"

"How long? Upward of a fortnight, and we expected a letter every day. But the world forgets us when we forget ourselves."

"It might be well with some people, if the world _did_ forget them," he rejoined; "but that is no affair of mine. I have not forgotten you, whatever you may have deserved from others."

This was uttered in a tone of asperity unusual with Forrester. But I felt that I had provoked it by the unacknowledging spirit in which I had met him after all the trouble he had taken on my account, and I was proceeding to make the best apology I could, when he cut me short with a wave of his hand, and entered upon the business that brought us together.

"You were aware when I undertook to negotiate between you and the husband of Astræa, that I was his friend as well as yours. He had even stronger claims upon my friendship; I had known him in our boyhood; and when I returned, after an interval of years, and found him bereaved, as I had been myself--and by the same person--you can not be astonished that I should feel some interest in his situation."

"I do not blame you for that," I returned, hardly knowing what I said, I was so amazed by the tone and substance of this unexpected opening.

"Blame me?" reiterated Forrester. "Blame me for sympathizing with an early friend, whose life, like my own, had been blasted to the root? You must suppose my nature to be something different from that of other men, if you imagine I could witness his sufferings unmoved."

"To what is this intended to lead?" I demanded. "When I saw you last, your sympathies were not so exclusive. You were then, Forrester, the friend of both?"

"Am I not so still? What brings me here? It is not exactly the sort of weather a man would select for a trip of pleasure into the country. What brings me here? Your business. Does this look like a failure of friendship? You are soured--isolation and self-reproaches, which pride will not suffer you to acknowledge, have turned your blood to acid. You are ready to quarrel for straws, and your whole care is how to escape the responsibility which passion and selfishness have brought upon you."

I leaped from my chair at these words, and looked fiercely at Forrester. He was perfectly calm, and continued to speak in a voice of freezing quietness.

"Pray, resume your seat. It is sheer waste of time to lose your temper with me. Either I must speak candidly to you, or there is an end to our intercourse."

"Yes--candidly, but not insultingly," I replied, seizing my chair, and, after giving it a very ill-tempered fling upon the ground, throwing myself into it.

"How foolish it is in you to exhibit this humor to me," he resumed after a short pause. "I imagine I have a right to speak to you exactly what I think, and that the interest I have taken in your concerns ought to protect me from the suspicion of desiring to insult you. Were it my cue to insult you, it is not in this affair I should look for the grounds of quarrel. But let that pass. I have seen the man whom you have made your mortal enemy, and have endeavored to prevail upon him to break the marriage. I have failed."

"Failed? How? Why? What does he say? He is a fiend!"

"Strange that he should have just the same opinion of you. Beelzebub is rather a respectable and virtuous person in his estimation compared with you. Just possible both may be right!"

I never saw Forrester in this sort of vein before. It was as if he were determined to lacerate my feelings and lay them bare; and yet there was a certain eccentric kindness under this rough treatment, which helped to reconcile me to it. At all events, I was bound to endure it; I knew that if I outraged him by any show of distrust or violence, his lips would be closed forever. I felt, too, that I had given him some provocation in the first instance by the temper I had betrayed; and that the fault was at least as much mine as his.

"Well," I cried, "you must forgive me, Forrester, if I am a little chafed and galled, and, as you say, soured. Circumstances have pressed hardly upon me. Remember how long I have been shut out from communication with society--and the state of anxiety and suspense in which I have lived. You must make allowances for me."

"Exactly. _I_ must make allowances for _you_. But when I ask _you_ to make allowances for _him_, who has gone through sufferings a hundred-fold more acute, which you have inflicted upon him, what kind of response do I receive? No matter. I _do_ make allowances for you. If you are not entirely absorbed by selfish considerations, you will endeavor to comprehend the wrong you have committed, and do what you can to avoid making it worse."

"Wrong? Premeditated wrong I never will admit. My conscience is clear of that. But I will not argue with you. What would you have me do?"

"Leave the country. You have no other alternative."

"What? Fly from this demon, who first tempted me, and who now wants to triumph over my ruin?"

"You say your conscience is clear of wrong. You have a happy conscience. But it deceives you. It is true, that when you first knew Astræa, you were ignorant of his rights; but you were not ignorant of them when he found you together and claimed her. Up to that moment, you might have had some excuse. There was yet time to save her, yourself, and him. How did you act, then? If we are to discuss this matter with any hope of arriving at a rational conclusion, you must rid yourself of the flattering deception that you have been doing no wrong. We are not children, but grown-up men and responsible agents."

"Well, I put myself in your hands. But that I should become an exile because this man chooses to pursue me with vindictive feelings, _does_ seem something monstrous."

"From your point of sight, I dare say it does. Just change places with him. A man who desires to decide justly will always endeavor to look at both sides of a question. Put yourself in his position. He loves this woman. I am satisfied he loves her more truly and tenderly, and less selfishly now than he ever loved her from the beginning. You sneer at that. You do not credit the possibility of such a thing. It is a constitutional fallacy of yours to believe that no man loves as you do--that there is a leaven of earth in other men which mixes with their devotion and corrupts it. You have nursed this creed all your life, and it has grown with your growth. You alone are pure and spiritual. I remember you had that notion once before. I remember how you exalted yourself on the intensity and endurance of your passion. Surely by this time you should have outlived that delusion; for even then you might have seen men with hearts as--But I am wandering from the subject."

"I understand you. I was young, superstitious, ignorant--"

"I will speak plainly. You are not capable of a great devotion. Your character is not strong enough. You have none of the elements of power necessary to the maintenance of the martyrdom of love. In a nature constituted like yours, passion burns up fiercely, and goes out suddenly. I have heard you say--some years gone by!--that you were consumed by a love which would end only with your life. I was silent. I loved, too; but I vailed my eyes, and spoke not, as the coffin which contained all I cherished in the world was lowered into the grave. Hope--affection--the desire of life, were buried with it. You see me now wasted, haggard, solitary, a wreck upon the waters. And you? I find you plunged into the ecstasies of a new passion. And what of the old one? Where are the traces of it now? Some men can not live except in this condition of excitement. You are one of them. But do not deceive yourself into the belief that others have not hearts, because they do not show them in spasms such as these. Do not despise the faithful agonies even of the dwarf!"

I felt the severe justice of the reproach less in Forrester's words than in his pallid face, and the pangs he struggled to conceal. I was even secretly compelled to admit that there was a miserable truth in what he said about Mephistophiles; yet it was difficult for me to give utterance to the expression of any sympathy in the sufferings of a man who seemed to have directed his whole energies to the pursuit of an insane and unprofitable vengeance.

"The portrait is not flattering," I observed. "But why do you thus put me on the rack? What has all this to do with the matter that has brought us together?"

"It has every thing to do with it. The instability of your character--the certainty of remorse and disappointment, passion sated and exhausted, romance broken up, and nothing left but mutual reproaches, which will not be the less bitter because they may not find expression in words--the certainty that such is the fate to which Astræa is doomed under your protection, justifies me in laying before you those secrets of your nature which, without the help of some friendly monitor like me, you would never be able to discover."

This was said in a tone of sarcasm. No man knows himself. With much modesty and humility in some things (springing, perhaps, from weakness rather than discretion or reserve), I had always overrated myself in others. I had a strong faith in my own constancy of purpose--in the steadfastness of my principles and feelings. But it was true that I was self-deceived, if Forrester and Astræa had read my character accurately. Their agreement was something wonderful. They used almost the very same words in describing the points on which my strength was likely to break down. I was beginning to fear that they were right; but I owed a grave responsibility to Astræa, and could not yet be brought to admit, even to myself, that it was possible I should fail in it.

"You judge from the rest of the world, and not from me, Forrester," I replied. "But granted that it is as you say, how can that mend the business? Believe me, you are ignorant of Astræa's character and mine. No matter--let that pass. Suppose we should hereafter find our lives wearisome and joyless, may we not justly trace the cause to the malice that will not suffer us to redeem ourselves."

"Is your redemption, by the strength of your own efforts, so sure, then? Neither he whom you have wronged, nor I, have any faith in your fortitude. We believe that if you were free to marry Astræa, a certain sense of justice would induce you at once to make her your wife; but we believe also, that the enchantment would perish at the altar. Attachments that begin in one form of selfishness generally end in another--even with people of the most amiable intentions."

There was a scoff in his voice that made my blood tingle; but I subdued myself. "Pray, come to the point," I exclaimed, impatiently.

"The point is simple enough," he returned. "My mission has failed. He will make no terms, take no steps for a divorce, listen to no expostulations until a separation shall have taken place between you and Astræa."

"A separation?"

"It is clear to me that, in looking forward to such a contingency, it is not because he hopes or desires, under such circumstances, to see her again; but because it would enable him, without pain or humiliation, to become the guardian of her future life. It is the passion of his soul to dedicate himself, unseen, to the sacred duty of watching over her."

"Preposterous. He watch over her? The recollection of his former guardianship is not so agreeable as to induce her to trust herself under it again. As to separation, her devotion to me would make her spurn such a proposition."

"H--m! It is because I believed her pride would make her spurn it that I recommended you to go abroad."

"And why should we go abroad on that account?"

"Because his revenge, sleepless and insatiable, will render it impossible for you to remain in England."

"His revenge! Pshaw! I am sick of hearing of it. Believe me, the word has lost its terrors--if it ever had any."

"You are wrong. My advice is prudent, and is given honestly, for both your sakes. In England there is danger; abroad, you will be beyond his reach."

"Why," answered I, with a forced smile, "one would suppose that you were speaking of the Grand Inquisition, or the Council of Ten, and that we lived in a country where there was neither law nor social civilization. What do you imagine I can possibly have to fear from him?"

"A vengeance that you can not evade, so subtle and unrelenting as to leave no hour of your existence free from dread and misery. Can you not understand how a man whose life you have laid waste may haunt you with his curse? Can you not comprehend the workings of a mortal hate, ever waiting for its opportunity, patient, silent, untiring, never for an instant losing sight of its object, and making all things and all seasons subservient to its deadly purpose? _I_ can understand this in the most commonplace natures, when they are strongly acted upon; but in him, fiery, self-willed, and vindictive, it is inevitable."

"Is this an inference of your own, drawn from your knowledge of his character, or has he confided his intentions to you?"

"Even if he had not confided his intentions to me, I know him too well not to foresee the course he will take; but he has concealed nothing of his designs from me, except the mode in which he intends to work them out. Of that I know nothing. But it is enough, surely, that such a man should swear an oath of vengeance in my presence, to justify me in the warning I have given you."

"I thank you. And this warning--upon which we seem to put very different valuations--is the result of your friendly interference?"

"You are at liberty to doubt my friendship; but I will not leave my motives open to misconstruction. I repeat to you that I give you this warning, for _his_ sake as much as for yours."

"And why for his sake?"

"Because if you avoid him you may save him from the perpetration of a crime. The whole energies of his mind are directed to one end. He lives for nothing else, and will pursue it at any cost or peril to himself. I know him. If you are wise, you will heed my warning. If not, take your own course. I have discharged my conscience, and have done."

As he spoke these words, he drew his chair toward the fire, and sat musing as if he had dropped out of the conversation.

"Forrester," I exclaimed, "one question more! Why did you not communicate this to Astræa yourself? Why did you leave to me the pain of carrying home such ill news?"

"Home!" repeated Forrester, involuntarily; then, raising his voice, he went on: "Why did I not go to her, and tell her that she ought to separate from you, if she had any regard for her own future security? What should you have thought of my friendship if I had done that? Why, you distrust me as it is."

"No--I have no distrusts. It is evident on which side your sympathies are engaged."

"With whom should I sympathize--the wronged, or the wrong-doer?"

"When we parted last, I believed that you felt otherwise."

"When we parted last, you had made impressions upon me which I have since found to be deceptive. I do not blame you for that. You told your story in your own way, from your own point of sight: I believed it to be true. Nor had I then looked into this man's heart--this suffering man in his agony, whom you painted as a monster: I did not then know how capable he was of loving and of suffering for love's sake--the noblest and the most sorrowful of all suffering! nor how gently that heart, crushed and struck to the core, had risen again to life, strengthened and sweetened by the injuries it had learned to forgive! You can not judge of that tenderness of soul, out of which a happier fortune and a prosperous love might have drawn a life of kindliness and charity. You--who, having accomplished your desires, are now reposing in the lull of your sated passions--you can see nothing in him but the evil which you have helped to nourish; his sacrifices and magnanimity are all darkness to you."

"I will listen no longer," I said, starting up from my chair. "I see distinctly what is before me. Old friends fall from us in our adversities. Well! new ones must be made. It is some comfort that the world is wide enough for us all, and that the loss, even of such a friend as you, is not irreparable."

"H--m! a successful epitome of your creed and character! You can cast old affections and memories from you with as little emotion as a bird moults its feathers; and having got rid of one set of sensations, you can begin again, and so go on, destroying and renewing, and still thinking yourself misunderstood and injured, and taking your revenge in fresh indulgences."

"I will endure no more of this," I exclaimed, seizing my hat and going toward the door; "let us part, before I forget the ties that once bound us together."

"Forget them?" he echoed, and his face grew ghastly pale; but, forcibly controlling his agitation, he went on, in a low voice: "Have you not forgotten them already? Have you not shaken them off like dust from your feet? Ay, let us part; I am unfit to be your friend or companion. Leave me to mate with him you have bereaved, and whose heart is desolate like mine! There, at least, I shall find a community of feeling on one point--the blight which we both owe to you. Go! Leave me--no words--no words!"

Had I spoken it would have been angrily. But although my pride was wounded, and I was bitterly mortified and disappointed at the result of a meeting, which, instead of alleviating my anxiety, had only loaded me with miseries, I felt that it would have been barbarous at that moment, had I given way to my own feelings. I stood and gazed upon him in silence while I held the half-opened door in my hand.

The old feeling was all at once revived, and as he buried his head in his broad, shapeless hands, and bent over the table, the night when he related to me the singular history with which he prefaced the introduction to Gertrude, came back upon me with all its agonies and terrors as freshly as if but a few weeks, instead of long and checkered years, had elapsed in the interval. His great anguish on that occasion, and the grandeur of the sacrifice he made to what he hoped would have been the foundation of the life-long happiness of her he loved, returned with painful distinctness. He was changed in nothing since, except in the haggard expression of his face and figure. His heart--his strong, manly heart--was still the same. His affections were in the grave with Gertrude; he had traversed half the world, had been thrown into trying circumstances, and doubtless, like other men, had been exposed to many temptations, yet he had never swerved from his early attachment, and had brought back with him from his wanderings the same truthfulness and the same sorrow he had carried with him into exile. How strange it was that he, of all men, should be cast by the force of accidental occurrences into close communion with the dwarf! that the only men on earth who in the depths of their hearts could--whether justly or unjustly, mattered little--find a cause for hating and denouncing me, should be drawn together, not by any sympathy of their own, but by a common resentment against me! these two men, so utterly unlike each other in every thing else, whose natures were as widely different and opposed as night and day! And then in the midst of this rose up the memory of Gertrude, of whom I could recollect nothing but a macilent figure, stretched upon a sofa and scarcely breathing. The lineaments were gone, but there were the spirit and the reproach, and the gloom that had settled on the opening of my life, making all the rest wayward, fantastical, and unreasoning.

I paused at the door, looked for the last time on Forrester, and noiselessly leaving the room, descended the stairs. In the next moment I was out again on the bleak heath.

V.

On my return, I found Astræa pacing up and down the room in a state of nervous irritation at my long absence. Her usual self-command was broken down. The grace and dignity that once imparted to her an aspect of calmness and power, were gone. Isolation was doing its work upon her! Isolation and the feeling of banishment and disgrace which we struggled with darkly in our minds, but which were slowly and surely destroying our confidence in ourselves, and our trust in the future.

She was impatient to hear what I had to relate to her, yet was so ruffled by it, that she constantly interrupted me by exclamations of scorn and anger. The suggestion of our separation, and the subsequent guardianship of the dwarf, which I stated simply, without coloring or comment, affected her differently. She looked at me in silence, as I slowly repeated the words of Forrester, her lips trembled slightly, and a faint flush spread over her face and forehead. There was a great conflict going on, and I could see that her strength was unequal to it. Gradually the flush deepened, and tears sprang into her eyes. I shall never forget it! A sob broke from her, and crushing up her face in her outspread hands with a wildness that almost terrified me, she exclaimed:

"I never was humiliated till now! never till now! till now! O God! what have I done that this bitterness should come upon me?"

"Astræa! for Heaven's sake do not give way to these violent emotions. After all, what does it come to?"

She threw back her head with an expression of fierce reproach in her eyes, and replied:

"Disgrace! _You_ do not feel it. _You_ are safe, free, unscathed; but _I_--_I_--and this is what women suffer who sacrifice themselves as I have done!"

"Come, you are nervous and desponding, Astræa. Why do you talk of suffering? No body has the power to inflict suffering upon you now."

"It is idle--idle--idle!" she answered, moving to and fro; "you can not comprehend it. Men have no sense of these things. Happy for them it is so. I believe you mean all in kindness--I believe your manhood, your pride would not allow you to see me unprotected, lost, degraded so early! No! don't speak! Let me go on. He makes a condition that I should leave you--that I should violate the most solemn obligation of my life, and proclaim myself that which my soul recoils from, and my lips dare not utter; then, when I shall have damned myself, he will protect me! With a forbearance, for which I ought to be thankful he will watch over me unseen--provide for my wants--take care that I am fed and housed; and having secured my dependence on him, and broken my rebellious heart, he will take infinite credit to himself for the delicacy and magnanimity with which he has treated me. Oh man--man! how little you know our natures, and how superior we are to you, even in our degradation! I ask you, in what light must he regard me who could presume to make such a proposition? And in what light should I deserve to be regarded if I accepted it?"

"It is quite true, Astræa. I feel the whole force of your observations. The proposition is an insult."

"Thank you--thank you, for that word!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into my arms, and bursting into a flood of tears. "There is something yet left to cling to. Thank God, I am not yet so lost but that you should feel it to be an insult to me. It is something not to be yet quite beyond the reach of insult."

"Astræa," I said, folding her tenderly in my arms, "compose yourself, and trust to me. We must trust to each other. There--there--dear Astræa!"

"What a wretch should I be," she replied, "if _this_ were all--if it were for _this_ I forfeited every thing; no, no, _you_ don't think so. It is my last hold--self-respect!--and it is in your keeping. For you I gave up all--and would have given up life itself--it would be hard if I should perish in my sin by his hands for whom I sinned!" Then releasing herself from me, she grasped my arm, and looking earnestly into my face, she demanded, "And what answer did you give to this proposal?"

"Why, what answer should I give, but that I knew you would spurn it?"

"That was right!" she cried; "right--manly--honest. We must let him know that I am not the defenseless outcast he supposes; he must see and feel that we can walk abroad as proudly in the open day as he or his. _His_ vengeance? What have we to fear? Let us cast the shame from us and show ourselves to the world. We make our own disgrace by hiding and flying from our friends. You see how our forbearance has been appreciated, and what a charitable construction has been put upon our conduct. We owe it to ourselves to vindicate ourselves. I will endure those dismal whispers that carry a blight in every word no longer. I would rather die! Come--let us decide once and forever our future course!"

These were brave words, and bravely uttered. Toward the close, Astræa had regained much of her original power; the strength of purpose and towering will, which I remembered so well in former days, and which gave so elevated a character to her beauty, came back once more, and lighted up her fine features.

It was late; but what were hours to us? Day or night made little difference. We had no objects to call us up early--we had no occupations for the next day--it was immaterial whether we retired or sat up; and so in this listless mode of life we always followed the immediate impulse, whatever it might be. When we found ourselves weary, we betook ourselves to repose; when we felt inclined to talk and maunder over the fire, we never troubled ourselves to ask what o'clock it was. In short, time had no place in our calendar, which was governed, not by the revolutions of the earth, but by our own moods and sensations.

We discussed a great question that night. No theme before a debating club--such as the choice between Peace and War, between Society or Solitude, or any of those grand abstract antitheses that agitate nations--was ever more completely exhausted in all its details than the question--Whether we should leave England, or remain at home, and go boldly into public, with the determination to live down the persecutions of the dwarf.

It was a question of life or death with us. We both felt that any fate would be more welcome than the life to which we were then condemned. We pined for human faces and human voices. We were sick at heart of eternal loneliness. We longed for free intercourse with educated people like ourselves, who would sympathize with our intellectual wants, and talk to us in our own language. We had arrived at the discovery that the solitude we had colored so brightly in those happy hours of romance which love takes such pains in filling up with delusions, would be rendered much more agreeable by an occasional variety, or an incidental shock from without--any thing that would stir the pulses and awaken the life-blood that was growing stagnant in our veins. We were not weary of each other; on the contrary, anxiety had brought our hearts more closely together; but we had drunk all the light out each other's eyes, and our aspects were becoming wan and passionless from lack of change and movement; we yearned for the presence even of strangers, to break up the dullness and uniformity, and make us feel that we had an interest in the living world, and that our love, sweet as it was in seclusion, was sweeter still as a bond that linked us to the great family, from which in our desolate retreat we felt ourselves entirely cut off.

I need not detail the arguments by which our final resolution was determined. To go abroad, and embrace a voluntary banishment, would have looked like an admission of guilt, which Astræa persisted in repudiating. Whatever verdict society might choose to pronounce, Astræa would be governed only by her own. Her justice adapted itself expressly to the occasion, setting aside the larger views which laws designed for the general security must include. But such is woman's logic ever!--circumstantially sensitive, clear, and narrow! Her voice was for war. I had no motive for opposing her; my pride agreed with her--my reason took the other side; but, in reality, I saw no great choice either way. I knew, or felt, that society would never be reconciled to us. Men have instincts on such points; but women, with their wild sense of what may be called natural law, never can see these things in the same light. This was a matter I could not argue with Astræa. I merely told her that in our anomalous situation, we must not look for much sympathy or consideration; that, in fact, I had known similar cases (perhaps not quite so peculiar, but that made no difference in the eyes of society), and that the issue of the struggle to get back always ended in increased humiliation; yet I was, nevertheless, ready to adopt any plan of life that would satisfy her feelings. I was bound to think of that first, and perfectly willing to take chance for the rest.

It was settled at last, at the close of our long council, that we should adopt a sort of middle course; and before we returned to London, which we now fully resolved to do at the opening of the season, we projected a visit to Brighton, and one or two other places on the coast.

VI.

Talk of the sagacity of the lower animals, and the reasoning faculties of man! We are the most inconsistent of all creatures; we are perpetually contradicting ourselves, perpetually involved in anomalies of our own making. It is impossible to reconcile half the things we do with the exercise of that reason which we boast of as the grand distinction that elevates us above the horse, the dog, the elephant. We never find any of these animals doing unaccountable things, or practically compromising their sagacity.

For my part, looking back on my life, I feel that it is full of contradictions, which, although apparent to me now, were not so in the whirl of agitation out of which they surged. Here, for example, after a flight from the world, and nearly six months' burial in the severest solitude, behold us on a sudden in the midst of the gay crowds of Brighton. The transition is something startling. It was so to us at the time; and I confess that at this distance from the excitement which led to it, I can not help regarding it as an act of signal temerity, considering the circumstances in which we were placed.

Astræa's spirits grew lighter; she cast off her gloom and reserve, and surrendered herself to the full tide of human enjoyment in which we were now floating. Whatever might have been the terror or misgiving at either of our hearts, we did not show it in our looks. We wore a mask to each other--a mask of kindness, each desiring to conceal the secret pang, and to convey to the other a notion that all was at peace within! We were mutually conscious of the well-meant deception, but thought it wiser and more generous on both sides to affect entire confidence in the gayety we assumed! Upon this hollow foundation we set about building the superstructure of our future lives.

We had a cheerful lodging facing the sea--rather a handsome and extravagant lodging; for being intent upon our project of asserting ourselves in the eyes of the world, we resolved to test any friends we might happen to meet, by inviting them to our house. The landlady, a respectable widow, was one of the most civil and obliging persons in the world. Her whole establishment was at our disposal, and she never could do too much to make us feel perfectly at our ease. Emerging as we had just done from utter loneliness, with a strong fear that the hand of the world was against us, all this attention and kindness touched us deeply. Slight an incident as it was, it made us think better of our species, and look forward more hopefully for ourselves. There was yet something to live for! There always is, if we will only suffer our hearts to explore for us, and find it out.

Any person who has moved much in the London circles is sure to find a numerous acquaintance at Brighton. We met several people we had known in the great maelstrom of the West End. It was pleasant to us to exchange salutes with them. It was like coming back after a long voyage, and finding one's self at home again among old faces and household scenes. We were intimate with none of these people; and as our knowledge of them did not justify more than a passing recognition, which was generally very cordial on both sides, we used to return from our drive every day, exulting in the success of our experiment upon society. The world, after all, was not so bad as we supposed.

One day, sauntering on the sands, Astræa saw a lady at a distance whose figure seemed to be familiar to her. She was an old schoolfellow of hers, who had been recently married. They flew into each other's arms. The meeting, indeed, was marked by such affectionate interest on the part of the lady, who was a stranger to me, that I apprehended she was entirely ignorant of our story. Almost the first question that passed between them determined that fact; and as they had a great deal of news to communicate to each other, it was arranged between them that they should meet the next morning for a long gossip.

Astræa went alone, and staid away half the day. She returned to me full of glee. Her friend had listened to her history with the deepest interest, and entirely agreed with her that she could not have acted otherwise, adopting, at the same time, without hesitation, Astræa's opinion of the sanctity of our union. It was not our fault that we had not been married in a church and this generous lady, seeing the embarrassment of our situation, enthusiastically declared that the world might take its own course, but that _she_, at least, would never abandon a friend under such circumstances. This was very cheering. I must remark, however, that this lady was several years younger than Astræa, under whose protection she had been taken at school, where Astræa had been a resident for convenience, rather than a pupil, when she entered it. In this way their attachment originated. It would have been difficult for any young person to have been placed in such close and endearing intimacy with Astræa, and not to have acquired an enthusiastic regard for her. She always inspired that sort of feeling--a deep and passionate love, great admiration of her intellect, implicit respect for her judgment. In the eyes of her schoolfellow she was the model of all human excellence. As easily would she have believed in an error of the planetary system, as that Astræa could commit an aberration of any kind. Whatever Astræa did, appeared to her unimpeachable. A feeling of veneration like this carried away from school will stand many severe shocks in the mind of a true-hearted girl before it will give way.

This was all very well so far as the lady herself was concerned; but how could we answer for the view her husband might take of the matter? She volunteered in the most courageous way to take all that upon herself. She could answer for her husband. She was very young, and very pretty, and very giddy, and only just married, and her husband never denied her any thing, and she ruled him with as queenly an influence as the heart of the most imperious little beauty could desire. Nor did she reckon without her host, as the event proved. Her husband, in the most good-humored way, fell into her view of the case. He was one of those easy-natured souls who, when they marry school-girls, feel themselves called upon to marry the whole school, and to take its romps, and its vows, and its bridesmaid pledges, to heart and home along with their wives. He had heard her speak of Astræa a thousand times, and professed to be very curious to see her; and so it was arranged that we should all meet, and make the merriest double-bridal party in the universe. The reunion was curious between these open-hearted, innocent young people, with their track of bright flowers before them, and those who sat opposite to them, with a terrible conviction that the path which lay before _them_ was covered with ashes.

Our new friends had a large acquaintance at Brighton, and saw a great deal of company; yet they were always glad to get away when they could, and make a little holyday with us. Her husband entered into our meetings with an ease and friendliness that were quite charming. He was an indolent man, taking no trouble to look after pleasure, but ready to be pleased in a passive way with any thing that other people enjoyed. As for his wife, she was always in the highest spirits with Astræa. The chatter they made together was quite an ecstasy. It seemed as if there was no end to the things they had to talk about. Poor Astræa had been shut up from her own sex so long, that the delight with which the companionship of this young creature inspired her appeared to me extremely pathetic and affecting.

One morning we were walking on the Parade as usual. Among the carriages that were flying about, we recognized the open phaeton of our friends. It passed quite close to us--so close that we could have shaken hands with them as they swept by. We expected that they would have stopped as usual, and we stood and put out our hands--but the carriage went on. There was a hasty bow from the lady, and then her head was quickly turned aside, as if something had suddenly attracted her attention. Astræa looked at me, and asked me what I thought of it? I evaded her question, by saying that they had other friends, and that we must not be too _exigeant_. Astræa made no remark, but merely shook her head and walked on.

In the afternoon we met them again. There was a gay crowd of people walking, and our friends, in the midst of a group, were coming up toward us. There was no possibility, at either side, of avoiding the meeting, for the place was narrow, and we were compelled to pass each other slowly. I could perceive, from the way in which Astræa's cheeks kindled, that she was resolved to put her schoolfellow's friendship to the proof at once. I anticipated the result, but thought it best not to interfere, lest Astræa might suppose I shrank from the ordeal. We met face to face. The lady grew very white, and then red, and then white again, and caught her husband by the arm, and moved her lips as if she wished to appear to be speaking to him, although she did not utter a word. Astræa looked full into her eyes. Had the young wife seen a spectre from the grave, she could not have been more effectually paralyzed. That look seemed to turn her to stone. Not a single expression of greeting took place between them. Upon the husband's part, the feeling was even less equivocal. There was a dark, scowling frown upon his face as we came up; he looked straight at us--and walked on. These _insouciant_ men, who take the world so indifferently on ordinary occasions, are always the most fierce when roused. They hate the trouble of being obliged to act with decision, and when compelled to do so, they cut it short by an energetic demonstration, that they may fall back the sooner upon their habitual lassitude.

We returned to our lodging with a clear sense of our position. Galled as I was on my own account, I felt it a hundred times more acutely on account of Astræa. Here was her young friend and enthusiastic disciple, who had always looked up to her with confidence and admiration, who had heard her story, and clung all the more lovingly and protectingly to her in pity for the unhappy circumstances in which she was placed, and this friend had now abandoned and disowned her!--a blow under which some women would have sunk at once, and which would have made others reckless and desperate. Upon Astræa it acted slowly and painfully. Externally it did not seem to affect her much; but I could perceive from that time a tendency to lapse into fits of silence, and a desire to be alone, which I had not noticed before. Whenever she alluded to her friend, she spoke of her as a weak person, who had never been remarkable for much character, with a kind heart and no understanding, and always carried away by the last speaker. Ascribing her inconsistency on this occasion to the influence of her husband, we agreed to dismiss the subject--not from our thoughts, that was impossible--but from our conversation. Astræa was bruised and hurt; and through all her efforts to conceal it, I saw that she suffered severely. It was the first touch she had directly experienced of the ice of the world's contumely, and it had struck in upon her heart.

A few days passed away, and we were reconciling ourselves by daily practice to the personal humiliation of passing and being passed in the streets by the friends with whom we had been recently on terms of absolutely hilarious alliance; when, on one occasion, on returning to our solitary lodging, we were received at the door by our obliging landlady in a manner which plainly showed that her opinion of us had undergone a most singular change during our absence. Her quiet, sleepy eyes scintillated with anger; her face was hot with excitement, and instead of the civility she had hitherto invariably shown us, she all at once broke out into a tirade which I will spare the reader the unpleasantness of hearing: there can be no difficulty in guessing what it was all about. This worthy woman had heard our history--falsified in detail, and blackened by the most venomous exaggeration; and being a very pure lodging-house keeper, standing upon the whiteness of her morals and her caps, and trusting much to the patronage of the rector, who allowed her to refer to him for the proprieties and respectabilities of her establishment, she thought that the best way to vindicate her own reputation was to assail ours in the most open and public manner. Accordingly, she took care that every word she said should be overheard by every body within reach, so that the whole neighborhood should know of her indignation, and report it to her friend the rector. There never was such a change in a woman; it was a saint turned into a demon. I demanded her authority for the injurious aspersions she cast upon us, and threatened her with a variety of tremendous, though exceedingly vague, legal consequences--but to no effect. She desired us to leave the house, and take our remedy; she would give us no satisfaction; she had good grounds for what she said; that was enough for her; she knew what "kind" we were; and a great deal more to the same purpose.

We were deeply aggrieved at discovering that our private affairs were talked of in this scandalous way. As to the vulgar violence of this woman, we thought no more of it after the immediate irritation of her assault on us was over. It was one of those coarse incidents, which, like striking against an awkward person in the streets, happen to us all in life, and are forgotten with the momentary annoyance. But these reports of our situation being afloat, rendered it impossible to remain in Brighton; so that very night we moved down the coast to Worthing. In this dull little watering-place, where the people always seem bent on avoiding each other, we thought we should be secure from evil tongues.

It was late when we arrived, and we put up at the hotel, which, like every thing else in Worthing, has an air of languor and idleness about it. We liked the tone of the house. An eternal twilight brooded over the rooms and passages. Every chamber was occupied, yet the place was as still as a church. If you heard a footstep, it went stealthily as if it were muffled, or "shod with felt;" and the only signs of life you caught from the adjoining apartments, were when some noiseless lady in a morning dress glided into the balcony, and after a side-long look at the sea, glided back again. Out of doors, the order of the day was vigorous promenading, but even this was conducted almost speechlessly, except when a friendly group happened to collect and stop short, and then you could hear an occasional joke and burst of laughter. The promenade was the grand thing. It was not sauntering for relaxation, but brisk exercise, that threw the blood into activity and exhilarated the spirits. In the course of a week, we came to know every face in Worthing by the introduction which this lusty amusement afforded us, and every body in Worthing knew our faces. We were all out at a given hour, tramping up and down at a swinging pace, and passing and repassing each other so often, that we were as familiar with the whole guest population of the place, and the whole guest population with us, as if we had known each other all our lives. Every body had acquaintances there except ourselves. We could see them making up little parties for excursions, soirées, and other amusements; trifles that amused us as lookers-on, but, nevertheless, made us feel our loneliness. We were _in_ the crowd, but not _of_ it. Yet it was better to be in the open air among strangers than to dwell in the desert.

But it was not to be. Our story followed us. We began to perceive, after a little time, that we were observed and noticed, and that people used to turn and look after us. This was the first hint we received of what was now becoming rather an alarming fact to us--that we were known. To be known with us, was to be shunned, or impertinently gazed at, as if we were either great criminals, or notorieties of no very respectable order. At last, it became difficult for us to walk about, from the universality of the notice we attracted; and at the hotel there was no possibility of mistaking the nature of the curiosity, not of the most respectful kind, which tracked us up the stairs and down the stairs, and penetrated even to our rooms, in the person of a sinister-looking waiter, who had the oddest conceivable way of looking at us out of the corner of one eye, which he pursed up and concentrated into a focus expressly for the purpose. This sort of persecution was wearing us out. It was like water dropped, drop by drop, upon a stone. The whisper of shame came after us wherever we went. There was no escaping it; and I began to suspect that there must be some mark upon us by which we were known and detected. I believe there is more truth in this than most people imagine. The habit of evasion and reserve, the apprehension of being watched, and the secret consciousness of having something to conceal, doubtless give an expression to one's entire action and physiognomy which is likely to suggest unfavorable speculations. The world is apt to think ill of the man who does not look it straight in the face; and, upon the whole, perhaps the world is right.

This doom pursued us wherever we went. We tried two or three other places on the coast with the same result. Within a week we were sure to be found out, and avoided or gazed at. The sight of human beings enjoying themselves, and the right of looking on at them, were dearly purchased at such a price as this. Our spirits were beginning to give way under it; our nerves were so affected by the minute persecution which we daily endured, that when we got into strange quarters, where we were as yet unknown, we fancied that all eyes were upon us. A little more of this sort of racking suspicion, mixed with fear and rage, and I think I should have gone mad.

Astræa bore it more heroically. She was tolerably calm, and used to smile while I was glowing over with anger. I frequently felt inclined to rush upon some of the people who stared at us, and demand of them what they meant; but Astræa always checked me, and reminded me, that in these small watering-places scandal was the entire occupation--that the visitors had, in fact, nothing else to do all day long; and that if every person who was tormented by their vicious curiosity were to indulge in resentment, three-fourths of the time of the community would be wasted in endeavoring to patch up the reputations that had been torn to bits in the remaining fourth.

Notwithstanding the courage with which she set herself against the waters that were visibly closing round us on all sides, and the light, yet earnest and fearful way she talked about it, her health was rapidly declining. Her color was gone. She was growing thin; there was a slight cough hovering upon her nerves; and she had become so fanciful, that she could not bear to go out in the dusk of the evenings, although that was the only time when we could walk out at our ease.

These changes brought others. Her temper was altered; she tried to subjugate herself, but could not; a notion seemed to have taken possession of her that she was a weight upon me, and that the necessity of sharing disgrace and exclusion with her was preying upon my mind. In the first few months she was jealous of every hour I was absent from her, and used to consider it a slight, and a proof that I was becoming weary of her. Then all was new, and the gloss of novelty and enthusiasm was yet upon her feelings. Now it was totally different; she had no longer any care about herself; it was all for me. The dream of love had been dreamed out, and she had ceased to regard herself as the object of a devotion which was ready to incur shame and suffering for her sake. She had seen that delusion to an end; and, having a real fear that, being pent up continually with her, contracting the man's activity within the sphere of the woman's limited range, would make our way of life hateful to me at last, she now used to urge me to go out for long walks in the country, or to visit the reading-rooms, and keep myself _au courant_ with the events of the day. Exercise, mental and physical, was healthful for me, and she would not have me moped to death in the house. For her own part, she would say to me, she rather liked having a little time to herself; a woman has always something to do, and is never at a loss for occupation; and while I was out, she hardly missed me till I came back--she was so busy! These professions and entreaties were kindly and judiciously meant, but the difficulty was to act upon them. She could not endure solitude. She always dreaded to be left alone, and, only that it was a greater dread to her to make a prisoner of me at the risk of rendering my existence wretched, nothing could have induced her to go through the hours of misery she suffered in my absence. This conflict made her temper unequal and sometimes unreasonable; but in such a situation, what else could be expected? We were haunted by shadows that were forever falling about our path; move where we would, these dark phantoms pursued us.

Our lives were not like the lives of other people: we had no kindred, no associations, no stir in the sad stagnation of day and night. Time seemed to be mantling over us, and the breath of heaven to be becoming less and less perceptible in our dreariness. Astræa was like a person who was dying from the heart; and with all the fortitude I could bring to my help, I felt it no easy task to lift myself out of the dismal depression which occasionally seized upon me. At last we agreed that our scheme of traveling about had disappointed our expectations, and that, after all, London was the best of all places for people who sought either of the extremes of society or seclusion. And so to London we forthwith repaired.

VII.

The heart of the town, or the suburbs? The question was speedily decided in favor of a small detached house, not very far from the Regent's Park. We had the whole park for a pleasure-ground, a little scrap of verdure of our own, and an open space and airy situation to regale our lungs in. We entered upon our new locality with sensations of security we had felt nowhere else. We seemed to have left behind us the gloom and terror that had been so long dogging our footsteps. Even Astræa brightened, and grew better; her fretfulness was disappearing, and a tone of contentment and cheerfulness supervening upon it. We were each of us more free in our movements, and the dread of observation which had so long kept us in a state of perpetual alarm, was gradually passing away.

But what had become all this time of the vengeance of the dwarf? Had he abandoned his great plan of revenge? Had he thought better of it, and, finding that Astræa was immovable, addressed himself to some more sensible pursuit than that of plaguing us? I sometimes touched upon the subject to Astræa, but could not extract from her what her suspicions were. She did not like to talk about him. She seemed to be ruled by a superstitious fear of reviving the topic. It was like the old wives' adage, "Talk of the devil, and he'll appear!"

I can not exactly remember how long this lasted, or when it was that I first detected in Astræa the return of the nervousness which had in some degree abated upon our arrival in town. It could not, however, have been more than two or three months after we had taken this house, that I observed a striking change in her. Haggard lines seemed all of a sudden to have been plowed round her eyes and cheeks, and her look had become wild and unsettled. I never saw any body so completely shattered in so short a time, and the transition from comparative tranquillity to a state of excessive nervous excitement was so alarming, that I thought there must have been some cause for it beyond that of mere physical illness. I questioned her upon it, but always got the same unsatisfactory answers, ending by entreating of me not to notice her, but to let her go on in her own way. I can not recall what there was about her manner--some strangeness in the way she looked at me or spoke to me--that aroused the most painful suspicions. I confess I did not know what to suspect; but there was a mental reservation of some kind, and I was resolved to ascertain what it was. I had the utmost confidence in Astræa; love with her was the most sacred of all obligations; and she loved me sincerely--at least, she had loved me enthusiastically in the beginning. What revolutions had since taken place in her heart, I could not answer for. She had passed through a chaos in the interval that might have destroyed the capacity of loving. That there was something more in her thoughts than she had revealed, I felt sure; and the first shape my suspicions took--natural enough in our circumstances, although not the more just on that account--was a shape of jealousy. My alarm immediately flew to the defense of my pride, or, as Forrester in his cauterizing way would have called it, my selfishness; I resolved to observe her closely, and I did so some time without being able to glean any thing further.

At last the secret of her wasting frame and pallid face was suddenly divulged.

One evening, toward the close of the summer, she remained out longer and later than usual. Her walk, sometimes alone and sometimes with me, was through the more secluded parts of the park. On this occasion, the twilight was setting in, and she had not returned. With a dark and sulky apprehension brooding in my mind, I resolved to go out in search of her. We had not been confidential with each other of late; the old dreariness had come back upon us, embittered with a captiousness and acerbity which extracted all the sweets from our intercourse. A new element had found its way between us: we had thoughts which we concealed from each other: my distrust--her secret, whatever it was. This was a great evil; it filled every hour of the day with lurking jealousies on both sides, which one word would have dispelled forever.

I seized my hat, and was about to leave the house, when I heard a sudden noise at the street-door, and a flurry of agitated steps up the stairs. Immediately afterward, the door of the room was thrown violently open, and Astræa rushed in, pale and disheveled. She was evidently in a state of great alarm and consternation, and turning wildly round, beckoned me to see that the door was made fast. She could not speak, drawing her breath hysterically, like a person laboring under the effects of a serious fright.

"Tranquilize yourself, Astræa," I cried; "there is nothing to fear here. What is it? What has alarmed you?"

"It is _he_," she replied, fixing her eyes wildly upon me--"_he_ is coming."

"Who?"

"He who has been upon our track ever and ever--who has never quitted us--who never will leave us till we are dead."

I did not dare to ask in words, but I asked with my eyes if it was the dwarf she meant.

"Ay, it is he. Be calm. It is your turn now to show your strength of mind--to show whether you value the life I have devoted to you. I hoped to have concealed this from you. We have suffered enough, and I hoped to have hidden from you what I have suffered. But it is too late now. Hush! O God!--that was his voice. You do not hear it--I do! It rings through and through my brain. He is here--he has followed me. If you ever loved me--and I know you did once!--prove it to me now. Go into the next room, and promise me to stay there whatever happens. Listen; but speak not--stir not. He is on the stairs!--will you not give me your promise? Trust all to me--rely on me--be sure of me. Let go the door--he is here!"

I made no answer, but conveying to Astræa by a searching look that it was my purpose to watch the issue, I withdrew by one door, while the dwarf entered by the other. His voice, as he approached her, sounded in my ears like the hiss of a serpent.

"I have found you, then, at last--and alone, Astræa!"

"Why do you follow me thus?" exclaimed Astræa, who stood motionless in the centre of the room, making a great effort to appear bold and calm, but shuddering in every fibre beneath.

"Why do I follow you? What should I do else?"

"Live like other men. Seek occupation--any thing, rather than plunge your own life and mine into this eternal horror."

"Have I not occupation? Am I not attending you every where? Have I not enough to do in waiting upon you from place to place?"

"Abandon that fiendish mockery, and speak like a human being. What is it you want?"

The dwarf coiled himself up at this question, as if he were distilling all the venom out of his black heart into the answer.

"Revenge! It was for my revenge I hung upon your track, showed myself to you at all times and in all places, letting you know that the destroyer was at hand, so that you might go home and blast _his_ happiness by your broken spirits and shattered nerves. I have seen it work; I see it now, in your quivering lip and emaciated hands. Where are the holiday roses now--the exulting lover--the secret blisses?"

Here, then, was poor Astræa's secret! The monster had been upon her steps wherever we went; and, as I afterward learned, used to start up suddenly before her in her solitary walks, to terrify her with threats of sleepless vengeance, knowing that her fear of consequences would prevent her from revealing to me the persecution under which she was sinking. This ghastly pursuit of us (to which we were also indebted for the scorn and obloquy we suffered) had gradually broken up Astræa's health, and made the strong mind almost weak and superstitious. But I must hasten on.

"And this," cried Astræa, "is the generosity I was to have received at your hands--this the magnanimity your friend gave you credit for!"

"There was a condition to my magnanimity which you have forgotten. Had you fulfilled that condition, I would have poured out my heart's blood at your feet, could it have made you more secure and happy. Why did you not forsake him, and trust to my generosity? No; you clung to him. You maddened me, and left me nothing but--revenge. Did you suppose he could escape me? I have no other life but this--to follow you as the executioner follows the condemned to the scaffold, and make _his_ life a curse to _him_, as he has made _mine_ to _me_. There's justice in that--call it cruel, if you please; 'tis just--just--just!"

"'Tis monstrous, and will draw down the punishment of Heaven on your head."

"Heaven will judge strictly between us. What am I? What have I to live for? You have poisoned the earth for me. Every spot where we have been together is accursed to me. I dare not look on the old haunts. I dare not seek new scenes, for my soul is lonely, and no pleasure or delight of nature can reach it. I should go mad were I not near you; it supplies me with work--something to employ me--to keep my hands from self-destruction. I weave stratagems all night, and watch my time all day, day after day, patiently, to execute them. I have but one purpose to fulfill, and when that is done, life is over. If I live long enough to drive him mad, as he has maddened me, I shall be content, and go to my grave happy. And I will do it; every hour gives me more strength. I see the end nearer and nearer--it grows upon me. I awaken to my business early; it is my first thought--my last; it never leaves me. Day after day I have watched you, and have tracked you home at last. And here it is you live--you, Astræa, whom I loved--whom I still--no, not that! You live here with him--his wife! You call yourself his wife? Ha! ha! That is good--his wife! I wonder to see you living, Astræa. I should have looked for your corpse in this room rather than the living Astræa--the proud, soaring, ambitious Astræa! Why do you not die? It would be happier for you?"

During the latter part of this speech, Astræa, who had made a great struggle throughout to sustain the attitude she had "taken" in the first instance, grew weak from terror and exhaustion, and sunk or tottered upon a chair. The inflections of voice with which these inhuman taunts were delivered, ending in a tone that came apparently, if I may so express it, laden with tears from the heart of the speaker, were so ingeniously varied and so skillfully employed, that it would have been impossible, even for an indifferent listener, to have heard them without being alternately agitated and enraged. For my part, a kind of frenzy possessed me. I restrained myself as long as I could. I tried to obey poor Astræa's injunction, for, seeing how much I had wronged her in my thoughts, and what misery she must have suffered and concealed on my account, I felt that I ought to spare her any further alarm my forbearance could avert. But the harrowing scoffs of the fiend were beyond my endurance--my self-control gave way at last, and bursting open the door of the room in which I was concealed, I rushed out upon the malignant wretch, who, to do him justice, courageously turned upon me, and met me with his eyes glaring fiercely as of old.

"Devil!" I exclaimed, "what do you do here? What do you want? Revenge? Take it--in any shape you will. Only rid me of your presence, lest I spurn you with my foot, and trample upon you."

"You should have told me," he said, turning with an air of mockery to Astræa, "that he was listening in the next room. I would have dressed my phrases accordingly."

"Again, I ask you why you come here? Answer me, or leave the room at once."

"Why do I come here? To gladden myself by looking at your wretchedness. You are worse than I am--sunk below me a thousand fathoms deep in degradation--every finger is pointed at you--you are steeped in scorn--despised and loathed. I came to see this. It makes me supremely happy."

"Go--there is the door," I cried, the blood tingling in my ears, and in the tips of my fingers. Astræa saw that the excitement was rising, and looked at me imploringly; but it was too late to attend to her scruples. The dwarf looked at the door superciliously, and almost smiled when I repeated my warning.

"You will not leave the room? Be advised. I am not responsible for what may happen after this. I am not master of myself. Go--it is the last time I will utter the word. Go--or I will kill you on the spot!"

He did not move, but looked at me wonderingly and incredulously. I rushed upon him and grappled him by the neck. Astræa sprang up, and begged of me to desist, for I was hanging over him, with my hand upon his throat.

"Let him go--let him go!" she exclaimed; "for my sake do not commit a murder. Loosen your hold--there--there--have mercy on him, for my sake--for the love of God, spare him--remember, we have injured him enough already--remember that!"

I would not loosen my hold; passion had given me the power and the cruelty of a demon. There was a brief struggle, in which I flung him heavily to the ground. I had seized his handkerchief, and twisted my hand in it--he was nearly choked--his face was growing black; but I was hardly conscious of all this, for the room was swimming round me as I knelt over him. Astræa saw the change in his color, and with a shriek of horror fell upon my arm. This action made me relax my hold. She had fainted on his body.

CONCLUSION.

Why should I dwell any longer on these painful events? Had I known then, as I afterward discovered, that the unhappy object of my wrath and hatred had, ever since the flight of Astræa, betrayed symptoms of aberration, and that the scheme of vengeance he nurtured so relentlessly, was the stratagem of a disordered brain, I should have treated him with mercy and compassion. But I was ignorant of the real condition of his mind, and dealt with him as I should have dealt with a responsible being. The violent excitement of that scene brought on a crisis, which ended in a seizure of insanity. He still lives; if that may be called living in which all memory of the past is extinguished, and the present is a mere tangled skein of day-dreams.

Astræa's health was utterly broken. It was not her physique that died, but her heart, her spirits, her self-reliance, and her hope of the future. She felt that there was nothing for her in this world but remorse. The desolation that was round her killed her. She braved it earnestly at first. Her noble heart and her true love she thought were proof against the world and its hollow scorn. Alas! for true love and noble hearts! They can not stand up alone in ice and storms. They must be out in the sun with their allies round them, like frailer loves and meaner hearts, or they will perish in their strength!

THE FEET-WASHING ON GOOD FRIDAY IN MUNICH.

I have just witnessed the ceremony of the Feet-washing, which has been announced for this month past as one of the great sights of the season. My good friend at the _Kreigs Ministerium_ kept his word faithfully about procuring tickets for us. Accordingly, Myra F. and I have seen the whole ceremony. At nine o'clock Myra was with me, and, early as it was, Madame Thekla advised us to set off to the Palace, as people were always wild about places, and if we came late, spite of our tickets, we should see nothing. The good old soul also accompanied us, on the plea that, as she was big and strong, she could push a way for us through the crowd, and keep our places by main force. She stood guard over us--the good creature!--for two mortal hours, and when the door at length was opened by a grand lacquey, had the satisfaction of seeing us step through the very first. But before this happy moment arrived, we had to wait, as I said, two hours; and leaving, therefore, the patient old lady as our representative before the little door which led into the gallery of the Hercules Hall, whither our tickets admitted us, and before which door no one but ourselves had yet presented themselves, Myra and I ranged along the queer whitewashed galleries of the old portion of the palace in which we were. Can not you see these vistas of whitewashed wall, with grim old portraits of powdered ladies and gentlemen, in hoops, ruffles, gold lace, and ermine, and framed in black frames, interspersed amid heavy wreaths and arabesques of stucco?--dazzlingly white walls, dazzlingly white arched ceilings, diminishing in long perspective! Now we came upon a strange sort of a little kitchen in the thick wall, where a quaint copper kettle, standing on the now cold hearth, told of coffee made for some royal servant some hours before; we were now before the door of some _Kammer-Jungfer_; now in the gallery with the whitewash, but without the portraits, where, opposite to every door, stood a large, white cupboard; a goodly row of them.

Once we found ourselves below stairs and in one of the courts. There, on passing through the door-way, you stood on a sort of terrace, above your head a ceiling rich with ponderous wreaths of fruit and flowers, and other stucco ornaments of the same style, which probably had once been gilt, and with fading frescoes of gods, goddesses, and Cupids!

This old part of the Royal Palace of Munich is quite a little town. We discovered also a little tiny chapel, now quite forgotten in the glory of Hess's frescoes, and the beauty of the new _Hof-Kapelle_. To-day this old chapel was open, hung with black cloth, and illuminated with numberless waxen tapers, and the altar verdant with shrubs and plants, placed upon the altar steps. There was, however, a remarkably mouldy, cold smell in the place; but I suppose the royal procession visited this old chapel as well as the new one, on its way to the Hercules Hall. This _cortège_, with the king and his brother walking beneath a splendid canopy, and attended priests and courtiers, went, I believe, wandering about a considerable time, to the edification of the populace, out of all this, excepting from hearsay, I can not speak, having considered it as the wiser thing for us to return to Madame Thekla and our door, rather than await it.

The Hercules Hall is rather small; and certainly more ugly than beautiful, with numbers of old-fashioned chandeliers hanging from the ceiling; a gallery at each end supported by marble pillars, with a row of tall windows on either side; a dark, inlaid floor of some brown wood; but with no sign whatever of Hercules to be seen. Suffice it to say, that having noticed all this at a glance, we observed, in the centre of the hall, a small altar covered with white linen, and bearing upon it golden candlesticks, a missal bound in crimson velvet, a vailed crucifix, and a golden ewer standing in a golden dish. On one side of the altar rose a tall reading-desk, draped with sulphur-colored cloth, upon which lay a large open book: a row of low, crimson stools stood along the hall, opposite the altar; on the other side, across the windows, ran a white and very long ottoman, raised upon a high step covered with crimson cloth, and chairs of state were arranged at either end of the hall below the galleries. The arrival of people below was gradual, although our gallery and the gallery opposite had been crowded for hours. We at length had the pleasure of seeing something commence.

The door at the further end opened, and in streamed a crowd. Then tottered in ancient representations of the twelve "apostles," clothed in long violet robes, bound round the waist with white bands striped with red, and with violet caps on their heads: on they tottered, supported on either side by some poor relative, an old peasant-woman, a stalwart man in a black velvet jacket, and bright black boots reaching to the knee, or by a young, buxom girl in her holiday costume of bright apron and gay bodice. On they come, feeble, wrinkled, with white locks falling on their violet apparel, with palsied hands resting on the strong arms that supported them--the oldest being a hundred and one, the youngest eighty-seven years old! My eyes swam with sudden tears. There was a deal of trouble in mounting them upon their long snowy throne; that crimson step was a great mountain for their feeble feet and stiff knees to climb. But at last they were all seated, their poor friends standing behind them. A man in black marshaled them like little school-children; he saw that all sat properly, and then began pulling off a black shoe and stocking from the right foot of each. There, with drooped heads and folded withered hands, they sat meekly expectant. A group of twelve little girls, in lilac print frocks and silver swallow-tailed caps, headed by an old woman in similar lilac and silver costume, took its place to the right of the old men in a little knot; they were twelve orphans who are clothed and educated by the queen, and who receive a present on this day.

The hall at the further end was by this time filled with bright uniforms--blue, scarlet, white, and green. In front were seen King Max and his brothers, also in their uniforms; numbers of ladies and children; and choristers in white robes, who flitted, cloud-like, into a small raised seat, set apart for them in a dark corner behind the uniforms. A bevy of priests in gold, violet, blue, and black robes, with burning tapers and swinging censers, enter; prostrate themselves before the king of Bavaria, and before the King of Hosts, as typified to them on the altar; they chant, murmur, and prostrate themselves again and again. Incense fills the hall with its warm, odorous breath. They present open books to the king and princes. And now the king, ungirding his sword, which is received by an attendant gentleman, approaches the oldest "apostle;" he receives the golden ewer, as it is handed from one brother to another; he bends himself over the old foot; he drops a few drops of water upon it; he receives a snowy napkin from the princes, and lays it daintily over the honored foot; he again bows over the second, and so on, through the whole twelve; a priest, with a cloth bound round his loins, finishing the drying of the feet. A different scene must that have been in Jerusalem, some eighteen hundred years ago!

And now the king, with a gracious smile, hangs round the patient neck of each old man a blue and white purse, containing a small sum of money. The priests retire; the altar and reading-desk are removed. Six tables, covered with snowy cloths, upon each two napkins, two small metal drinking-cups, and two sets of knives, forks, and spoons, are carried in, and joined into one long table, placed before the crimson step. In the mean time the man in black has put on the twelve stockings and the twelve shoes, and, with much ado, has helped down the twelve "apostles," who now sit upon the step as a seat. Enter twelve footmen, in blue and white liveries, each bearing a tray, covered with a white cloth, upon which smoke six different meats, in white wooden bowls; a green soup--remember it is _green Thursday_--two baked fish; two brown somethings; a delicious-looking pudding; bright green spinach, upon which repose a couple of tempting eggs, and a heap of stewed prunes. Each footman, with his tray, is followed by a fellow-footman, carrying a large bottle of golden-hued wine, and a huge, dark, rich looking roll on silver waiters. The twelve footmen, with the trays, suddenly veer round, and stand in a line opposite to the table, and each opposite to an "apostle;" the twelve trays held before them, with their seventy-two bowls, all forming a kind of pattern--soup, fishes, spinach; soup, fishes, spinach; pudding, prunes, brown meats; puddings, prunes, brown meats--all down the room. Behind stand the other footmen, with their twelve bottles of wine and their twelve rolls. I can assure you that, seen from the gallery above, the effect was considerably comic.

A priest, attended by two court-pages, who carry tall burning tapers, steps forth in front of the trays and footmen, and chants a blessing. The king and his brothers again approach the "apostles;" the choristers burst forth into a glorious chant, till the whole hall is filled with melody, and the king receives the dishes from his brothers, and places them before the old men. Again I felt a thrill rush through me; it is so graceful--though it be but a mere form, a mere shadow of the true sentiment of love--any gentle act of kindness from the strong to the weak, from the powerful to the very poor. As the king bowed himself before the feeble old man of a hundred--though I knew it to be but a mere ceremony--it was impossible not to recognize a poetical idea.

It took a long time before the seventy and two meats were all placed on the table, and then it took a very long time before the palsied old hands could convey the soup to the old lips; some were too feeble, and were fed by the man in black. It was curious to notice the different ways in which the poor old fellows received the food from the king; some slightly bowed their heads; others sat stolidly; others seemed sunk in stupor.

The Court soon retired, and twelve new baskets were brought by servants, into which the five bowls of untasted food were placed; these, together with the napkin, knife, fork, spoon and mug, bottle of wine, and bread, are carried away by the old men; or, more properly speaking, are carried away for them by their attendant relatives. Many of the poor old fellows--I see by a printed paper which was distributed about, and which contains a list of their names and ages--come from great distances; they are chosen as being the oldest poor men in Bavaria. One only is out of Munich, and he is ninety-three.

We went down into the hall to have a nearer view of the "apostles;" but, so very decrepit did the greater number appear, on a close inspection; their faces so sad and vacant; there was such a trembling eagerness after the food in the baskets, now hidden from their sight; such a shouting into their deaf ears; such a guiding of feeble steps and blinded, blear eyes; that I wished we had avoided this painful part of the spectacle.

A PEDESTRIAN IN HOLLAND.

While pacing along to Meppel, I made up my mind at all events to visit Ommerschans; instead, therefore, of halting on reaching the town about sunset, I left the main thoroughfare for a by-road, which, as usual, formed the towing-path of a canal. With the aid of a countryman going in the same direction, I passed for several miles through by-ways, and soon after dusk arrived at De Wyk. Almost the first house in the village was a _herbergje_; but there being no room, I went further, and presently came to another--one of the long, low edifices which appear to be peculiar to the rural districts in the northern provinces, the same roof sheltering quadrupeds and bipeds. On opening the door, I found myself in a large kitchen, dimly lighted by a single candle standing on a table, round which sat a dozen rustics finishing their supper. Each one laid down his spoon, and stared at me vigorously, and for some time my question--"Kan ik hier overnachten?" ("Can I pass the night here?") remained unanswered: sundry ejaculations alone were uttered. By and by, both a mistress and maid appeared to minister to my needs, and tea and eggs were quickly in preparation. Meanwhile, the men at the table were making me the subject of discussion among themselves, and eying me with curious looks. At length one of them asked me whence I came, and why I was there; which queries were answered to their satisfaction, when another rejoined,

"And so mynheer comes from Fredericksoord, and is going to Ommerschans?"--an observation which elicited a grunt of approval from the whole company.

"But how does mynheer find his way?" inquired the first speaker.

"That is not very difficult. With a map in his pocket, and a tongue in his head, a man may go all over the world."

"Ja, that is good; but it is not easy sometimes to know which turning to take. What does mynheer do then?"

"I generally get to know the direction of the place I want to go to before starting, and then steer my way by the sun or wind; and seldom fail to arrive, as you may see by my being here."

This explanation sufficed them for a time as a topic for further discussion, and left me free to attend to my personal wants, which were in the imperative mood. Before long, however, one of them began again by asking, "What has mynheer to sell?"

"Nothing: my knapsack contains only articles for my own use." Here a brief confabulation followed, and I began to fancy the Dutchmen not less expert in gathering information than the New Englanders, when the question came.

"Mynheer travels, then, for his own pleasure?"

"Why not?"

"Ah, mynheer says why not; but when one travels for pleasure, he must have so much money in hand;" and, as he said this, the speaker tapped significantly the palm of one of his hands with the fingers of the other.

Whether it was that they voted such journeyings an unwholesome extravagance, or that their ideas were all exhausted, the group said no more; and shortly afterward kicking off their stained and clumsy sabots, they retired, without any further process of undressing, to their sleeping-lairs. Some crept into a loft, others into beds contrived, as berths in a ship, in recesses in the walls of the kitchen, two into each; and before I had finished my tea, a concert of snores was going on, where the bass certainly had the best of it.

I have often found that a fatiguing walk on a hot day takes away all relish for ordinary food: the appetite seems to demand some novelty--and it was with no small pleasure that I accepted the landlady's offer to add a plate of _framboose_ (raspberries) to my repast; their cool and agreeable flavor rendered them even more refreshing than the tea.

In the intervals of talking and eating I had taken a survey of the apartment, as far as it was illuminated by the solitary candle: it was one that carried you back a century or two. The large hearth projected several feet into the room, overhung by a canopy near the ceiling of equal dimensions; and the top and back being lined with glazed white, blue, and brown tiles, glistened as the light fell upon them from the turf fire, and presented a cheerful aspect. A wooden screen fixed at one side kept off draughts of air, and formed a snug corner for cold evenings. The tables and chairs had been fabricated in the days when timber was cheap, and strength was more considered than elegance. They had little to fear from contact with the uneven paved floor. A goodly array of bright polished cooking utensils hung upon the walls, and in racks overhead a store of bacon and salt provisions, and bags and bundles of dried herbs. Although rude in its appointments, and coarse in its accommodations, the dwelling betrayed no marks of poverty; it was perhaps up to the standard of the neighborhood, and in accordance with the thrift that considers saving better than spending. The greatest discomfort--to me at least--was the close, overpowering smell of cattle which pervaded the whole place, and made you long for an inspiration of purer air. From my seat I could see into an adjoining apartment, similar, but better in character to the one described: this was to be my _slaap-kamer_. I requested to have the window left partly open all night, and immediately a look of suspicion came over the old woman's face as she answered,

"Neen, mynheer, neen; best not to have the window open; thieves will come in."

"Surely," I replied, "there are no thieves in this little village?"

"Ah, but there were some thieves at Meppel last week."

The landlady's apprehensions seemed so painful to her, that I ceased to press the question, and followed her into the room, where she assured me I should find the air sufficiently respirable, and bade me _goede nacht_.

In this room there were several wall-recesses, as in the other, but cleaner and better fitted up. A bedstead at one corner, behind a narrow screen extending a few feet from the door, was intended for me; the sheets and coverlids, though coarse, were clean. Three wardrobes or presses stood against the walls, so richly dark and antique in appearance, and of such tasteful workmanship, that you at once knew the date to be assigned to their manufacture, probably about the time that the Prince of Orange fell beneath Geraart's pistol-shot; at all events, when, instead of working by contract, artificers interfused a portion of their own spirit into the productions of their skill. The chairs, by their dimensions, had been clearly intended for the past generations, who wore the broad skirts at which we so often smile in prints of old costumes. The projection of the largest articles of furniture produced sundry picturesque effects of light and shade, relieved and diversified by the rows of polished pewter dishes ranged on racks against the wall alternately with dishes of rare old china, that would have gladdened the eyes of a virtuoso. There were rows of spoons, also, of shining, solid pewter, all betokening resources of substantial comfort, and assisting to give effect to a picture which fully occupied my attention while undressing.

The hostess, when she went out, had not closed the door; this I cared little about, as it afforded some facility for circulation of air; but her remark touching the thieves made me take the precaution to place my watch and purse under the pillow, leaving such loose florins as were in my pocket for any prowler who might think it worth while to pay me a visit, that, finding some booty, he might there cease his search for more. I left the candle burning on the table, and soon afterward the girl came in and wished me a _goede nacht_ as she carried it away.

Presently all became still in the house, and as weariness softens the hardest bed, I was soon asleep, notwithstanding the annoyance from certain insects, which were neither bugs nor fleas, that came crawling over me. I had lain thus in quiet repose for two or three hours, when I was disturbed by a light shining in the room, and half-raising my eyelids, I saw a tall figure clothed in white, holding a candle in its hand, and gazing stealthily at me from behind the screen at the foot of the bed. I did not start up or cry out, for a sufficient reason--I was too drowsy. The figure withdrew; the room again became dark; I turned round, and slept soundly until morning.

I was up soon after five, being desirous to recommence my walk before the heat came on, and, it need scarcely be said, found all my property as I had left it. The old presses looked not less imposing than in the faintly-illuminated gloom some hours previously; and I could see in the daylight several articles which had then escaped my notice. Among them was the _groote bijbel_, a portly folio in black letter, and in good condition. How many suffering hearts had found support and consolation in those ancient pages! When I went into the next room, the laborers had taken their breakfast, and gone to their work, and the old lady sat near the window mending stockings. She saluted me by inquiring if I had _wel geslaapt_, and what I would take for breakfast. I chose raspberries with milk and bread, and highly enjoyed the fresh-gathered fruit that looked so tempting, coated with its early bloom. It was the most acceptable breakfast of any which I ate in Holland. The hostess chatted on various topics: in one of my replies, I chanced to mention the large Bible which I had seen in the other room--"Ah," she said, "it is the best of books: what should we do without it?" I then told her that a little Bible was part of the contents of my knapsack, and on hearing this her manner at once changed; the suspicion disappeared, and the benevolent demeanor resumed its place. My request of the night before concerning the window had made her very anxious; she had, it seemed, been led to regard me as a suspicious character--as one likely to let in a confederate, or to decamp myself surreptitiously. From this I at once understood it was she who, clad in white, and holding a candle, had come into my room during the night; perhaps to see whether her guest were lying still as an honest traveler ought. We became, however, very excellent friends, and I regretted not having time to stay two or three days, to get a little further insight into village life, and the pursuits and resources of its inhabitants: but that could not be. I was somewhat surprised on asking, "_Hoe veel betalen?_" (How much to pay?) at the cheapness of my lodging and entertainment: the charge was only eighteen stivers. I handed a florin to the old lady, with an intimation that the two stivers' change might go to the maid for her alacrity in raspberry plucking, on which she replied, "_Dank voor haar_," with much emphasis. Then holding out her hand, after assisting to place my knapsack in position, she bade me good-by, with many wishes for a prosperous journey.

It was a pleasant morning, with a bright sky and a hot sun, and a feeling of exhilaration came over me as I left the close, sickening smell of the house for the free and fresh air outside. The aspect of the country was again different from that which I had already traversed. Willows, so plentiful in the southern provinces, are rare on the dry heath-lands of the north, while small plantations, and woods of birch, beech, and oak are frequently met with. At times the route led along narrow, winding lanes, between tangled hedges and overhanging trees, where the shade and coolness made you feel the contrast the greater on emerging upon the unsheltered and unfenced fields. Before long, I came to another village, where the houses were built at random around a real village green, such as you may see in some parts of Berkshire or Hampshire, with tall umbrageous trees springing from the soft turf, and old folk lounging, and children playing in their shadow. The post, which visits the towns of Holland every day throughout the year, comes to such villages as this two or three times a week, and thus keeps up its communications with the great social world around. In another particular they are well provided for--the means of instruction. Here, at one end of the green, stood the schoolhouse, built of brick, well lighted, and in good condition, decidedly the best building in the place. Indeed I do not remember to have seen a shabby schoolhouse in Holland. It was too early to see the scholars at their duties, but I looked in at the windows, and saw that the interior was perfectly clean and well-ordered; fitted with desks, closets, and shelves, with piles of books placed ready for use on the latter, and maps hanging on the walls. How I wished for a six months' holiday, to be able to linger at will among these out-of-the-world communities, or wherever any thing more particularly engaged my attention! Something to inform the mind or instruct the heart is to be given or received wherever there are human beings. Soon after passing the village, the road terminated suddenly on a part of the wild heath, where the sand for nearly a mile on all sides lay bare, gleaming palely in the sun, and no sign of a track visible in any direction. For a few minutes I stood completely at fault, but at last bent my steps toward some scattered trees in the distance. The deserts of Africa can hardly be more dreary or trying to the wayfarer than that mile of sand was to me. On reaching the trees, I again found a lane leading through cultivated grounds; now a patch of grass, then barley, or wheat, or potatoes, or buckwheat--the delicate blossoms of the latter scenting the whole atmosphere, and alive with "innumerable bees." While standing still to listen to their labor-inspired hum, I heard the cuckoo telling his cheerful name to the neighborhood, although past the middle of July. Then followed homely farms, standing a little off the road, the homestead surrounded by rows of trees, somewhat after the fashion of Normandy; and in one corner of the inclosure the never-failing structure--four tall poles, erected in a parallelogram, with a square thatched roof fitted upon them, sloping down on each side to form a central point. The poles pass through the corners of this roof, which thus can be made to slide up and down, according as the produce stored beneath it is increased or diminished. Such a contrivance would perhaps be useful to small farmers in England, when straitened for room in their barns. Now and then I caught glimpses of haymakers working far off on a meadow patch, and more than once the signs of tillage disappeared, and there was the broad black heath under my feet, and stretching away to the horizon, here and there intersected by a series of drains, cut smooth and deep in the sandy soil, inclosing some acres of the barren expanse--the preliminaries of cultivation. Then would come a mile or so of woodland, with the thinnings and loppings of the trees cut into lengths, and piled in stacks ready for the market, as I had seen on the wharfs at Rotterdam, where firewood sells at eleven cents the bundle. A party of woodcutters, with their wives and children, were encamped at the entrance of a cross-road, disturbing the general stillness by the sound of their voices and implements. The men and women were alike tall and stout--remarkable specimens of the well-developed population of the province, and reminding you of the peasantry in Westmoreland. The stacks which they had set up were so long and high as to resemble a street with little alleys between, where the children played while their fathers chopped and sawed, and their mothers tied the bundles, or tended the fire over which the round pot swung with the breakfast. They called out a friendly "Good-day, mynheer," as I passed.

As the day advanced, it became oppressively hot; not a drop of drinkable water was any where to be seen. I went to a cottage near the road to ask for a draught, when a pitcherful was given to me that looked like pale coffee, and was vapid and unrefreshing. The occupants of the cottage told me that they were always obliged to strain it before drinking, to free it from the fibres of turf held in suspension. These people, their child, and their house were positively dirty, and looked comfortless: the pigs lay in one corner of the kitchen, and the domestic utensils stood about in apparently habitual disorder. They, however, were kind in their manner, and wished me to sit down for a time and rest.

Besides these and the woodcutters, I scarcely met a soul during the walk, which lasted nearly four hours, by which time I came to the outskirts of Ommerschans. I went into the tavern that stood at the extremity of the long straight road leading through the centre of the colony, where, after half-an-hour's rest, ten minutes' sleep, and a cup of tea, I felt able to go and present myself to the director.

THE LAST PRIESTESS OF PELE.

My erratic habits have led me through a variety of climes and scenes, and, on two occasions, to the distant regions of Polynesia, even to the shores of Hawaii, memorable as the death-scene of our famous navigator, Cook. Hawaii is the principal of the Sandwich Islands, a group not exceeded in interest by any which stud the broad bosom of the Pacific. Their local situation, advantageous for purposes of commerce, is highly important; but these remote shores present various subjects of interest besides geographical position. The primitive race who inhabit them, so long and totally isolated from the rest of the world, the enchanting beauty of their scenery, the luxurious productions of their salubrious climate, indicative of peace and plenty, furnish subjects worthy of investigation; while, strangely contrasted with these bounties of nature, is the awful sublimity of their volcanic mountains, that too often burst forth into eruptions which spread frightful devastation over scenes glowing with beauty, particularly the volcano of Kiranea, probably the largest in the world. Even the first view of this island struck me as remarkable, for it looks like congeries of mountains on one common base, heaving their huge cones to the height of fourteen or sixteen thousand feet above the level of the sea, while the lower grounds, every where irregular, were covered with trees and with the richest verdure. We were hospitably received by a native chief. An Englishman who had long resided on the island acted as interpreter, and by this means, as well as some knowledge which we had acquired of the Polynesian language during a visit to Tahiti, my brother officers and I made arrangements for a visit to the great volcano. It is well I should here remind the reader of an event which proved to be an influential epoch in the history of the people we were now among--the abolition of their ancient and cruel system of idolatry, which was effected in the year 1819, by a king whose natural good sense had enabled him to perceive its absurdity and ill-consequences; so that when, some months after, a few missionaries arrived from America with the philanthropic intention of introducing the blessings of Christianity among them, they found, by what was unquestionably a providential interposition, the nation without any religion, released from the trammels of their ancient superstitions, and, so far, prepared to receive the truths which they were come to proclaim. These missionaries had been settled in the islands a few years when my visit took place, and had many converts.

The volcano we were desirous of seeing was thirty miles from the place of our landing, and we set out for it on the following day, attended by some of the natives, and also by the English settler, to act as interpreter. The commencement of our journey seemed auspicious, leading through a wood, where trees afforded a grateful shade from the heat of a tropical sun, while gorgeous birds fluttered among their boughs, or regaled us with the melody of their songs. The fragrant gardenia, and other beautiful flowers, so highly prized in our own country as hot-house plants, profusely adorned our path. But too soon the scene began to change. By degrees, trees, shrubs, and flowers disappeared--all traces of vegetation, except an occasional oasis. We were traversing a tract of lava that looked like an inland sea, over which the wand of an enchanter had suddenly waved while it was agitated by violent undulations, and turned it into stone. Not only were the swells and hollows distinctly marked, but the surface of the billows seemed covered by a smaller ripple. Our passage over this petrified ocean was most laborious, owing to the heat of the sun, the reflection of its light from the lava, and also the unevenness of the way, which was as slippery as glass.

Just as day declined, we hailed with pleasure the residence of a chief, where we were to pass the night, our friend at the harbor having commissioned our attendants to introduce us as strangers in need of the owner's hospitality, which was readily accorded. Our host and his establishment evinced that advancement toward civilization was not limited to the coast. His dwelling was divided into separate apartments by screens of native cloth, and we were ushered into a large, airy, reception-room, where we reposed our weary limbs on a divan covered with mats, which extended the whole length of the apartment. A feast was prepared for our entertainment; but I refrain from an account of the baked dogs, hogs, and other dainties which adorned the board. During the repast, a native bard sang, in a monotonous but sweet voice, "the deeds of the days of other years," accompanying himself by beating a little drum formed of a beautifully stained calabash; and then a group of dancers were introduced for our amusement. But nothing interested me so much as our host, who sat next to me at supper, performing the duties of hospitality with an intuitive good-breeding and tact which I thought quite a sufficient substitute for the conventional usages of European society. He was, in common with all the aristocratic race of Hawaii, tall, well-formed, with fine, muscular limbs, and a commanding air; his complexion clear olive, and his handsome features wore an open and intelligent expression. To my surprise, he spoke very tolerable English; this was accounted for by long intimacy with our friend the interpreter, and with the missionaries, who, since their settlement in the island, had taught him to read. I was glad when he announced his intention of accompanying us to the volcano, our journey to which we recommenced the following morning. A toilsome one it proved, but Toleho, the young chief, stuck close to me, and from such snatches of conversation as I could hold with him, while we scrambled over masses of vitrified lava and basaltic blocks jumbled together in wild confusion, the interest I had felt in him at first sight was considerably increased. At length we reached the great plain of the volcano, and the mountain of Mauna Loa burst upon our view in all its magnificence, like an immense dome, of a bronze color, rising from a plain twenty miles in breadth; its head was covered with snow, the effect of which is peculiar when beheld under a tropical sun.

Nearly overcome with heat and fatigue, we sat down to rest. Through the fissures of the rocks, there grew an abundance of small bushes bearing fruit of a pleasant flavor, which we eagerly gathered to allay our thirst. To this some of the natives objected, asserting that the berries belonged to Pele, the goddess of the volcano, who would be much incensed by our eating them, until some had been thrown into the crater as a propitiatory oblation. The English settler who accompanied us, set about proving the absurdity of their fears, and, while the point was being discussed, I observed that Toleho, who was seated with me apart from the others, was quietly refreshing himself with the forbidden fruit. I inquired why he also did not fear the wrath of the formidable goddess?

"Toleho knows better," he replied. "Toleho knows that there is but one God; without His leave, the volcano can not hurt us. He looketh on the earth, and it trembleth; he toucheth the hills, and they smoke."

I now learned from him that, under the instruction of the missionaries, he had been led to embrace the truths of Christianity.

"I have lately avowed this conviction," he said; "and were I to remain in this country, would do my utmost to promote a knowledge of the Bible among my friends and people."

"And have you any idea of leaving this country?" I inquired, with surprise.

"Alas! yes, I _must_ leave it," he replied, in a voice and with a look of such deep dejection, that I understood it to be a subject of too distressing a nature for further interrogatories, and we spoke about other matters until the party was sufficiently rested to proceed to the crater of Kiranea. I expected that we were for this purpose to ascend the mountain which stood before us in such majestic beauty, and, undaunted by the magnitude of the task, I longed to climb its stupendous sides, and to inhale the pure atmosphere at its summit, so that it was with a feeling of disappointment I heard myself called upon to behold the crater upon the very plain to which we had already attained. At first view, it seemed to be nothing but a huge black pit, totally different from all we had imagined. There were no jets of fire, nothing but a body of black smoke, rising high to the clear blue heavens, and then spreading widely over the hemisphere. We journeyed onward, till we found ourselves on the edge of a steep precipice inclosing a sunken plain, in the middle of which was the crater. Our guides led to a part of the precipice where descent was practicable, and, with some falls and bruises, we all reached the basin beneath, which sounded hollow under our tread, giving evidence, by smoking fissures here and there, of subterranean burnings. As we advanced, the impression of vastness and grandeur increased at every step; but, when we stopped at the edge of the great crater, the sight was appalling. There we stood, mute with astonishment and awe, transfixed like statues, our eyes riveted on the abyss below, a vast flood of burning matter rolling to and fro in a state of frightful ebullition. I know not how long we thus gazed, in speechless wonder; but the natives had, meanwhile, employed themselves in constructing, of branches of trees, ferns, and rushes, which, nourished by the moisture of vapors, grew in chasms of lava, huts to shelter us during the night, now fast approaching, and to them we were glad to repair, when our emotion had somewhat subsided. The attendants now cooked our supper in a crevice from which steam issued, and, after doing ample justice to their labors in this volcanic _cuisine_, I again walked to the edge of the crater, accompanied by Toleho.

It was now quite dark, and truly it has been said, that what is wonderful in the day becomes ten times more so at night. Now was the time for viewing the volcano in all its magnificence. We seated ourselves at a height of four or five hundred feet, directly over that lake of fire: its cherry-colored waves were rolling below, with billows crested and broken into sheets and spray of fire, like waters when the hurricane sweeps them over a reef of rocks. There was a low murmuring noise, and occasionally masses of red-hot matter were ejected seventy feet into the air, which fell back into the lake with a hissing sound. My companion, though accustomed from childhood to these wonders, seemed fully to participate in my feelings. He evidently possessed a soul susceptible of the sublime and beautiful and the scene on which we gazed was associated in his mind, as I afterward learned, with early and endearing recollections. He was gratified by my admiration of it, and this congeniality of taste soon led him to treat me with the confidence of an old friend. Presuming upon this, I ventured to recur to the hint he had dropped that morning of an intention to quit his native island, inquiring whether his profession of Christianity had subjected him to any kind of persecution? He told me in reply, that Hawaiian converts were nearly exempted from this ordeal of sincerity by the edict which had abolished idolatry before the missionaries' arrival. "But," he added, with intense feeling, "Toleho found the change hard, notwithstanding. No fear of Pele; even were there any such, what could that cruel goddess do to one who trusted in Jesus? But Pele's priestess--the last she will ever have, but the loveliest, the dearest of women--it was _that_ Toleho found so hard." My expression of sympathy elicited his full confidence, and, in a conversation which followed, interrupted as our colloquial intercourse necessarily was by our imperfect acquaintance with each other's language, I became possessed of an outline of Toleho's previous history, which subsequent information enabled me to fill up, as I shall now give it in detail.

The young Hawaiian chief had, when a child, been betrothed to the hereditary priestess of Pele, the Goddess of Fire, supposed to inhabit the volcano of Kiranea. Whether this redoubtable deity be in any way related to Bel, the Oriental god of the same terrible element, greater scholars and antiquarians than I am must determine; but it seems to me that the similarity of the names is a curious coincidence, which would be not an uninteresting subject of investigation. The young priestess was the only child of the khan, or steward of Pele, an office of honor and emolument, his duty being to provide materials for the sacrifices, such as cloth, hogs, fowls, and fruit, with which he was abundantly furnished by her worshipers. The young lovers were constant companions during their childhood, and were linked together by the endearing bonds of early affection, which grew with their growth, and strengthened with their strength. It appeared that the devotion of Toleho had never been so ardently rendered to the imaginary goddess as to her beautiful young priestess, for his natural acuteness often led him to skeptical conclusions when he considered the national system of theology; nor had his superior mind long dwelt upon such subjects, when, in the words of a poet who has well described a somewhat similar case,[9]

[9] J. Montgomery, in the "Pelican Island."

"The gods whom his deluded countrymen Acknowledged, were no gods to him; he scorn'd The impotence of skill that carved such figures, And pitied the fatuity of those Who saw not in the abortions of their hands, The abortions of their minds."

It was, in truth, interesting to trace the history of

"This dark, endungeon'd spirit roused, And struggling into glorious liberty."

Emancipated from the trammels of superstition, you will not wonder to hear that his mind joyfully received the truths which God has revealed to mankind, when, after the arrival of the missionaries, he had an opportunity of hearing them: and I had reason to believe, that not only was his understanding enlightened, but his heart deeply imbued with the spirit of the gospel. Toleho's first wish was, to lead her he loved to the joy and peace in believing which he now experienced. After a rumor of the young chief's apostasy from the religion of his fathers had gone forth, on returning one day from a visit to the missionary station, he hastened to the dwelling of the khan.

Oani was seated under the shade of a large eugenia tree, where she had often before awaited his arrival, but she did not now spring forward to meet him; her eyes were no longer lit up with joy when she beheld his approach, and, after one look, expressive of deep sorrow, were turned away. Toleho eagerly inquired if any misfortune had occurred? Was her father ill?

She burst into tears, and replied, "No--I weep because Oani must not love Toleho any longer."

He soon discovered that his change had awakened in the breast of the khan feelings of opposition beyond any he had anticipated. Ancestral pride--the office of khan being hereditary--early prejudices, strengthened by time and self-interest, often too influential over the actions of those who possess a better faith, exercised combined power on the old man's mind. Perhaps he was also stimulated by the more generous and romantic sentiment with which we are inclined to regard the decay of what has been hallowed by antiquity; and he stigmatized those who forsook the ancient idolatries as meanly subservient to the will of the great, endeavoring to imbue the mind of his daughter with similar feelings.

Poor Oani had neither ability nor inclination for controversial disquisitions. When her lover tried to lay before her the truths which had influenced him to the change she deplored, a knowledge of which would enable her to appreciate his motives, she would only weep, and say, "Toleho, I am sad--sleep has gone from me, and my food has lost its sweetness. If you do not worship Pele, her priestess must try not to love you. No more may I sing for you when you are weary; no more gather summer fruits to refresh you; nor bind sweet flowers in a chaplet for your brow."

When the chief remarked, that by her embracing Christianity these objections to their union would be obviated, her only answer was, "Could I leave my father? _He_ never will forsake Pele. Could I--the only light of his eyes--the last flower left to gladden the winter of his life--could I leave his old age desolate?"

The separation of these Polynesian lovers was now inevitable, and it was a sore trial, for they were fondly attached. It was at this era of their story that I became acquainted with the young chief, and great was the interest with which I listened to his simple narration, heightened, probably, by the extraordinary circumstances under which I heard it, seated together as we were, at midnight, upon the brink of the fiery abyss, contemplating a scene so stupendous, so "horribly beautiful," that probably no other in this world can compete with it.

I could now understand the cause of poor Toleho's intended expatriation. Oani would probably be given to another. Could he bear to witness it? to see her miserable? No; he would quit the scenes of his happy days, and, far away from objects which might agitate his mind, and interfere with duty, would spend his life in the service of Him who had graciously "called him from darkness to light." His friends at the mission-house had already arranged the matter with a captain, who would give him a passage in his ship to the American States, where he was to use every exertion in his power for the purpose of awakening an interest in the cause of the Polynesian mission. Toleho then informed me, that on the following morning would take place a great annual feast in honor of Pele, designed to deprecate the wrath of the volcanic goddess, and secure the country from earthquakes or inundations of lava, at which, of course, the khan and the young priestess would preside. This would afford him an opportunity of once more beholding the latter before he left the islands--the last time he could ever hope to do so; and, for the purpose of enjoying this melancholy pleasure, he had joined our party to the volcano.

We now returned to the hut, and I went to repose, rejoicing that I should have an occasion of witnessing some of the idolatrous rites of the natives before their final abolition.

Next morning, while my companions prepared to examine the various natural phenomena of the place, I put myself under the guidance of my new friend, who took me across the lava plain to the heiau, or temple, dedicated to Pele, an inclosure, with several stone idols standing in the midst of it. Votaries had already assembled around the shrine, adorning these frightful images with wreaths of flowers; and innumerable offerings were laid before them. As the devotees continued to arrive, my companion stood, watching every new comer, with an expression of anxiety and agitation. At length the sound of music was heard, and a procession approached, for which the crowd opened an avenue to the temple. At its head was an old man, attired in what I supposed were the pontifical robes, leading by the hand a young female. Over their heads was borne a canopy, and they were followed by a train of attendants, each carrying a staff of state, ornamented with polished tortoise-shell, the upper ends being of feathers. The sage was the khan, and his companion the priestess of Pele, whose beauty, I soon perceived had not been exaggerated in her lover's glowing description. Never had I beheld a form of more exquisite symmetry, set off by the simple elegance of the native costume--a robe of white cloth confined round the waist with a cincture of flowers; her head-dress was only "an od'rous chaplet of sweet summer buds," binding her dark tresses; while round her neck, arms, and slender ankles, were wreaths of the snowy and fragrant gardenia. The features of this young creature were faultless, but wore an expression of thoughtful abstraction, strikingly contrasted with those of the persons who surrounded and gazed upon her, all, even the old khan's, evincing a state of excitement.

After some ceremonies had been performed in the temple, the various contributions of the people were taken to the volcano, to be presented to the goddess. Thither the procession moved, and Toleho and I followed in the crowd. Arrived at the crater, the khan made an oration in praise of Pele, deploring the national apostasy from her worship, until wrought up to a state of great excitement, in which his auditors seemed to participate, except the beautiful priestess, who, standing on the verge of the gulf, still wore her look of calm dejection, while she received small specimens of the various offerings from the votaries, and threw them into the volcano, saying, in a voice of peculiar sweetness, "Accept these offerings, Pele. Restrain thy wrath, and pour not the floods of vengeance over our land. Save us, O Pele?"

Toleho darted from the crowd, and stood beside her. His stately form was drawn up to its full height; from his shoulders hung a splendid mantle of green and scarlet feathers; his right arm was extended, and in it he held a small book.

"Oani! beloved Oani!" he exclaimed; "call not upon Pele to save you. There is but one Saviour, and to know Him is life."

"Recreant," cried the khan, "you have forsaken the great goddess yourself, and you would now draw away her priestess."

"Khan, and thou beloved Oani, listen," the chief replied, in a solemn tone. "If there be such a deity as Pele, is she worthy of your adoration? Is she not ever busy in works of mischief--destroying the people, devastating our hills, and filling up our fruitful valleys with floods of lava? Are they not cruel gods, who even require human sacrifices? Could such beings have created that bright pure sky over our heads, or that glorious sun which sends light and heat to ripen our corn and our fruit? No! The Creator of all must be good, as well as great--an object of love as well as of fear. Friends, countrymen, this book can tell you of Him."

This seemed to make some impression on the people, but the khan was even more exasperated than before.

"Traitor," he cried, "would you persuade us to disown our gods, while we stand gazing on their terrible abode? They dwell in yonder fiery lake; behold their houses!" pointing to the black conical craters which rose here and there above the waves. "Do you not hear the roaring and crackling of the flames? That is the music to which they dance; and in yonder red surge they often play, sporting in its rolling billows. Pele is a great goddess; acknowledge her power, Toleho, and Oani--her priestess, the playmate of your childhood, the betrothed of your youth--shall be yours, for she pines in secret for her loved one. Reject Pele, and part with Oani forever."

As he said this, a bright smile lit up the countenance of the young priestess, as if hope had suddenly revived in her bosom. She turned toward her lover with a look of imploring affection, laying her small hands on his arm, and said, "Toleho will not leave me; we may love one another still."

He made a movement as if instinctively about to clasp her to his breast, but seemed, with a strong effort, to resist the impulse; a convulsive motion passed over his manly features; his strong frame trembled; and, in a voice half-choked by contending feelings, he said, "Oani, I must--I must leave you. There is but one God, and Him only will I serve. Beloved maiden, trust to Him--not to senseless idols."

She withdrew her hands, and clasped them together in mute despair. Her father exclaimed, "Heed him not. Great is the power of Pele. My daughter, you are her priestess; and, though you flung yourself from that shelving rock on which you stand, into the gulf below, Pele could save you." He was now in a state of frenzy. "She could and she _would_ save you; _prove_ to them her power."

"I will, I will," cried the unfortunate girl. "And I want her not to save me if she can. Toleho forsakes me, and I wish not for life."

Ere the outstretched hand of her lover could prevent it, she had turned and sprung down the precipice.

A yell of horror burst from the crowd, and there was a general rush toward the spot, so great, that for several minutes I could not approach it. Minutes of intense anxiety they were. I heard one voice exclaim, "He will perish--Toleho--the pride of Hawaiian chiefs."

"No," cried another, "he has almost reached the spot where she lies."

An interval of silence followed. The people evidently watched some critical event in breathless suspense. Then there was a shout of joy--Toleho and his loved one were both in safety. There was, as I afterward learned, a crag projecting from the wall-faced cliff over which the young priestess had flung herself; on that spot she had fallen, the elasticity of some shrubs and herbs with which it was covered preserving her from any serious injury. Toleho, with wonderful presence of mind and activity, had succeeded in descending to that place, and, by means of a kind of ropes flung to him from the summit, re-ascended, and, pale as death, but still firm and composed, had laid his almost senseless burden in the arms of her father.

The scene which followed would be difficult to describe. When, after some time, a flood of tears had relieved the old khan, and enabled him to speak, he tried to express gratitude to the deliverer of his daughter, but could not say much. "Toleho," he cried, "you have saved her life. We can not forsake the gods to whom our ancestors have been priests for hundreds of years, to learn the religion of strangers who come from distant lands whence originate the winds, but can not Oani minister to Pele, and still be your wife?"

Here was a trying offer to my poor friend. Again Oani turned on him that bright smile, that beseeching look, which were hard to be withstood; but, though there were symptoms of yielding, of a violent internal struggle, he soon regained composure, and said, "It must not, can not be--it is forbidden here," holding up the book. "Farewell, Oani. Never will I forget you. I go to distant lands, but I will love you still. Keep this book: in it are the words of life. In our happy days, I was teaching you to read. Get some other teacher, and, for Toleho's sake, learn all this book teaches, and we may yet meet where there is no sorrow."

One embrace, and he darted away. I followed with difficulty, keeping by his side, as rapidly and silently he walked to the place where we had agreed to meet our companions.

In a few days, we sailed from Hawaii, but not before we had seen the young Hawaiian chief bid adieu to his native land, and sail for America.

Years passed away. Constant change of scene and variety of events had nearly obliterated from my memory the story of the priestess and her lover, when my wanderings once more brought me among the Polynesian islands, and again to the shores of Hawaii. We were to remain but for a few days, and, having visited the great volcano before, I now directed my steps to the next object of interest in the neighborhood, what my informant called "the Cascade of the Rainbow." This is a waterfall in the river Wairuku, and surpassed in beauty all my anticipations. The water, projected from a rock over a hundred feet in height, falls into a circular basin, as smooth as a mirror, except where the stream plunges in, and from its bright bosom reflects the enchanting scenery which surrounds it; while trees and shrubs, laden with blossoms of various hues, adorn its banks. Nor was the poetical appellation of this romantic valley inappropriate, for, on the silver spray flung up by the fall of waters, "an Iris sat" in its variegated beauty. "What a spot to spend the evening of one's days in after a life of turmoil," I exclaimed. "But probably, I have been anticipated in this idea, as there is, I see, a cottage beyond that green lawn, and a tasteful, picturesque edifice it appears." I walked toward it, and the neatness and comfort of every thing were a new proof of the wonderful improvement which I had already observed among the islanders, arising from the spread of Christianity and civilization. The lady of the mansion, holding by one hand a child who walked at her side, while with the other she supported a baby in her arms, advanced to meet and invite me in. She had, to a high degree, the air of dignity, I had almost said of graceful elegance, which characterizes the aristocracy of the island; and, when she bade me welcome, the tones of her voice and the contour of her features seemed familiar. "Oani!" thought I; "Oani, a wife and a mother. Poor Toleho! So much for woman's constancy." But I wronged her--I wronged that sex who, if inferior in other things, surpass us in depth and unchangeableness of affection. We entered the sitting-room; her husband rose to receive me--it was Toleho.

After the departure of the chief, Oani had found no comfort in any thing but in trying to fulfill his last request. One of the missionaries assisted her, and she was soon able to read the Testament, which had been his parting gift. Conviction of its truth, and a profession of Christianity followed, in which she was uninfluenced by interested motives, as she had not the most remote hope of ever seeing Toleho again, but the missionaries, who held communication with him through the American Society, informed him of the change, and he returned to Hawaii, and claimed her as his own. I found them a loving and happy pair, and left them so.

A SPANISH BULL FIGHT.

One day Don Philippe insisted upon taking us to witness a bull-fight, which was about to take place, and which it was reported, the queen herself was expected to attend. This was a spectacle we had never yet beheld, and our curiosity was therefore aroused to the highest possible pitch of excitement. Visions of blood floated before our fancy, and flashing steel gleamed across our sight. Anxiety stood on tip-toe, and the moments flew slowly by, until the wished-for hour arrived. We left the business of securing seats in the arena to Philippe, who, by early application, succeeded in obtaining for us as eligible positions for witnessing the spectacle as we could reasonably desire. The critical moment was now at hand, our hearts almost leaped from our mouths, so deeply were we excited in contemplation of the sanguinary event. At length the trumpets sounded, and forthwith entered, in martial array, the entire body of combatants, gayly dressed, and presenting together a most striking and brilliant effect. Marching to the opposite side of the ring, they respectfully bowed to the appointed authorities, and then took their places, in complete readiness for action. At a given signal, a small iron gate was suddenly opened, and in an instant a furious bull bounded frantically into the arena; and then, as if petrified with astonishment at the wonderful scene around him, he stood motionless for a few seconds, staring wildly at the immense assembly, and pawing vehemently the ground beneath his feet. It was a solemn and critical moment, and I can truly say that I never before experienced such an intense degree of curiosity and interest. My feelings were wound up to the highest pitch of excitement, and I can scarcely believe that even that terrible human tragedy, a bloody gladiatorial scene, could have affected me more deeply. The compressed fury of the bull lasted but an instant: suddenly his glaring eye caught the sight of a red flag, which one of the _chulos_, or foot combatants, had waved before him, and immediately he rushed after his nimble adversary, who evaded his pursuit by jumping skillfully over the lower inclosure of the ring. The herculean animal, thus balked in his rage, next plunged desperately toward one of the _picadores_, or mounted horsemen, who calmly and fearlessly awaited his approach, and then turned off his attack by the masterly management of his long and steel-capped pike. Thwarted once more in his purpose, he became still more frantic than before, while his low and suppressed roar, expressive of the concentrated passion and rage which burned within him, sounded like distant thunder to my ears. Half closing his eyes, and lowering his formidable horns, he darted again at one of the picadores, and with such tremendous power, that he completely unhorsed him. Then shouts of applause from the spectators filled the arena: "Bravo toro!" "Viva toro!" and other exclamations of encouragement for the bull broke from every mouth. The picador lost no time in springing to his feet and re-mounting his horse, which, however, could scarcely stand, so weak was the poor creature from the stream of blood issuing from the deep wound in his breast. As soon as the enraged bull, whose attention had been purposely withdrawn by the chulos, beheld his former adversary now crimsoned with gore, he rushed at him with the most terrific fury, and, thrusting his horns savagely into the lower part of the tottering animal, he almost raised him from his feet, and so lacerated and tore open his abdomen, that his bowels gushed out upon the ground. Unable any longer to sustain himself, the pitiable animal fell down in the awful agonies of death, and in a few moments expired. Two other horses shortly shared the same miserable fate, and their mangled bodies were lying covered with blood, in the centre of the arena. The bull himself was now becoming perceptibly exhausted, and his own end was drawing nigh. For the purpose of stimulating and arousing into momentary action his rapidly-waning strength, the assailants on foot attacked him with barbed darts, called _banderillos_, which they thrust with skill into each side of his brawny neck. Sometimes these little javelins are charged with a prepared powder, which explodes the instant that the sharp steel sinks into the flesh. The torture thus produced drives the wretched animal to the extreme of madness, who bellows and bounds in his agony, as if endued with the energy of a new life.

On the present occasion, the arrows used were not of an explosive character, yet they served scarcely less effectually to enrage the furious monster. But hark! the last trumpet is sounding the awful death-knell of the warrior-beast. The ring becomes instantly cleared, and the foaming animal stands motionless and alone, sole monarch of the arena. But the fiat has gone forth, and the doom of death is impending over him. The _matador_ enters the ring by a secret door, and after bowing to the president, and throwing down his cap in token of respect, slowly and deliberately approaches his terrific adversary, who stands as if enchained to the spot by a consciousness of the fearful destiny that awaits him. The matador, undismayed by the ferocious aspect of the bull, cautiously advances, with his eyes fixed firmly and magnetically upon him; a bright Toledo blade glistens in his right hand, while in his left he carries the _muleta_, or crimson flag, with which to exasperate the declining spirit of his foe. An intense stillness reigns throughout the vast assemblage, the most critical point of the tragedy is at hand, and every glance is riveted upon the person and movements of the matador. A single fatal thrust may launch him into eternity, yet no expression of fear escapes him; cool, and self-possessed, he stands before his victim, studious of every motion, and ready to take advantage of any chance.

It is this wonderful display of skill and bravery that fascinates the attention of a Spanish audience, and not the shedding of blood or the sufferings of the animal, which are as much lost sight of in the excitement of the moment as the gasping of a fish or the quivering of a worm upon the hook is disregarded by the humane disciple of Izaak Walton. The bull and matador, as motionless as if carved in marble, present a fearfully artistic effect. At length, like an electric flash, the polished steel of the matador flies in the air, and descends with tremendous force into the neck of the doomed animal, burying itself in the flesh, even up to the hilt. The blow is well made, and from the mouth of the bull a torrent of blood gushes forth in a crimson stream; he staggers, drops on his knees, recovers himself for an instant, and then falls dead at the feet of his conqueror, amid the tumultuous plaudits of the excited throng of spectators.

Such is a slight sketch of a Spanish bull-fight. The impression made upon our minds by the first representation was so deeply tinctured with horror that we resolved never to attend another, though it is but fair to state that this good resolution, like many others we have made in our lives, was eventually overcome by temptations.

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.[10]