Chapter 6

Marlow reasoned with his own heart. For the first time in his life it had proved rebellious. It would have its own way. It would give no account of its conduct,--why it had beat so, why it had thrilled so, why it had experienced so many changes of feeling when he saw John Ayliffe sitting beside Emily Hastings, and when Emily Hastings had risen with so joyous a smile to greet him--it would not explain at all. And now he argued the point with it systematically, with a determination to get to the bottom of the matter one way or another. He asked it, as if it had been a separate individual, if it was in love with Emily Hastings. The question was too direct, and the heart said it "rather thought not."

Was it quite sure? he asked again. The heart was silent, and seemed to be considering. Was it jealous? he inquired. "Oh dear no, not in the least."

Then why did it go on in such a strange, capricious, unaccountable way, when a good-looking, vulgar young man was seen sitting beside Emily?

The heart said it "could not tell; that it was its nature to do so."

Marlow was not to be put off. He was determined to know more, and he argued, "If it be your nature to do so, you of course do the same when you see other young men sitting by other young women." The heart was puzzled, and did not reply; and then Marlow begged a definite answer to this question. "If you were to hear to-morrow that Emily Hastings is going to be married to this youth, or to any other man, young or old, what would you do then?"

"Break!" said the heart, and Marlow asked no more questions. Knowing how dangerous it is to enter into such interrogations on horseback, when the pulse is accelerated and the nervous system all in a flutter, he had waited till he got into his own dwelling, and seated himself in his chair, that he might deal with the rebellious spirit in his breast stately, and calmly likewise; but as he came to the end of the conversation, he rose up, resolving to order a fresh horse, and ride instantly away, to confer with Sir Philip Hastings. In so doing he looked round the room. It was not very well or very fully furnished. The last proprietor before Mrs. Hazleton had not been very fond of books, and had never thought of a library. When Marlow brought his own books down he had ordered some cases to be made by a country carpenter, which fitted but did not much ornament the room. They gave it a raw, desolate aspect, and made him, by a natural projection of thought, think ill of the accommodation of the whole house, as soon as he began to entertain the idea of Emily Hastings ever becoming its mistress. Then he went on to ask himself, "What have I to offer for the treasure of her hand? What have I to offer but the hand of a very simple, undistinguished country gentleman--quite, quite unworthy of her? What have I to offer Sir Philip Hastings as an alliance worthy of even his consideration?--A good, unstained name; but no rank, and a fortune not above mediocrity. Marry! a fitting match for the heiress of the Hastings and Marshall families."

He gazed around him, and his heart fell.

A little boy, with a pair of wings on his shoulders, and the end of a bow peeping up near his neck, stood close behind Marlow, and whispered in his ear, "Never mind all that--only try."

And Marlow resolved he would try; but yet he hesitated how to do so. Should he go himself to Sir Philip? But he feared a rebuff. Should he write? No, that was cowardly. Should he tell his love to Emily first, and strive to win her affections, ere he breathed to her father? No, that would be dishonest, if he had a doubt of her father's consent. At length he made up his mind to go in person to Sir Philip, but the discussion and the consideration had been so long that it was too late to ride over that night, and the journey was put off till the following day. That day, as early as possible, he set out. He called it as early as possible, and it was early for a visit; but the moment one fears a rebuff from any lady one grows marvellously punctilious. When his horse was brought round he began to fancy that he should be too soon for Sir Philip, and he had the horse walked up and down for half an hour.

What would he have given for that half hour, when, on reaching Sir Philip's door, he found that Emily's father had gone out, and was not expected back till late in the day. Angry with himself, and a good deal disappointed, he returned to his home, which, somehow, looked far less cheerful than usual. He could take no pleasure in his books, or in his pictures, and even thought was unpleasant to him, for under the influence of expectation it became but a calculation of chances, for which he had but scanty data. One thing, indeed, he learned from the passing of that evening, which was, that home and home happiness was lost to him henceforth without Emily Hastings.

The following day saw him early in the saddle, and riding away as if some beast of the chase were before him. Indeed, man's love, when it is worth any thing, has always smack of the hunter in it. He cared not for highlands or bypaths--hedges and ditches offered small impediments. Straight across the country he went, till he approached the end of his journey; but then he suddenly pulled in his rein, and began to ask himself if he was a madman. He was passing over the Marshall property at the time, the inheritance of Emily's mother, and the thought of all that she was heir to cooled his ardor with doubt and apprehension. He would have given one half of all that he possessed that she had been a peasant-girl, that he might have lived with her upon the other.

Then he began to think of all that he should say to Sir Philip Hastings, and how he should say it; and he felt very uneasy in his mind. Then he was angry with himself for his own sensations, and tried philosophy and scolded his own heart. But philosophy and scolding had no effect; and then cantering easily through the park, he stopped at the gate of the house and dismounted.

Sir Philip was in this time; and Marlow was ushered into the little room where he sat in the morning, with the library hard by, that he might have his books at hand. But Sir Philip was not reading now; on the contrary, he was in a fit of thought; and, if one might judge by the contraction of his brow, and the drawing down of the corners of his lips, it was not a very pleasant one.

Marlow fancied that he had come at an inauspicious moment, and the first words of Sir Philip, though kind and friendly, were not at all harmonious with the feeling of love in his young visitor's heart.

"Welcome, my young friend," he said, looking up. "I have been thinking this morning over the laws and habits of different nations, ancient and modern; and would fain satisfy myself if I am right in the conclusion that we, in this land, leave too little free action to individual judgment. No man, we say, must take law in his own hands; yet how often do we break this rule--how often are we compelled to break it. If you, with a gun in your hand, saw a man at fifty or sixty paces about to murder a child or a woman, without any means of stopping the blow except by using your weapon, what would you do?"

"Shoot him on the spot," replied Marlow at once, and then added, "if I were quite certain of his intention."

"Of course--of course," replied Sir Philip. "And yet, my good friend, if you did so without witnesses--supposing the child too young to testify, or the woman sleeping at whom the blow was aimed--you would be hung for your just, wise, charitable act."

"Perhaps so," said Marlow, abruptly; "but I would do it, nevertheless."

"Right, right," replied Sir Philip, rising and shaking his hand; "right, and like yourself! There are cases when, with a clear consciousness of the rectitude of our purpose, and a strong confidence in the justice of our judgment, we must step over all human laws, be the result to ourselves what it may. Do you remember a man--one Cutter--to whom you taught a severe lesson on the very first day I had the pleasure of knowing you? I should have been undoubtedly justified, morally, and perhaps even legally also, in sending my sword through his body, when he attacked me that day. Had I done so I should have saved a valuable human life, spared the world the spectacle of a great crime, and preserved an excellent husband and father to his wife and children. That very man has murdered the game-keeper of the Earl of Selby; and being called to the spot yesterday, I had to commit him for that crime, upon evidence which left not a doubt of his guilt. I spared him when he assaulted me from a weak and unworthy feeling of compassion, although I knew the man's character, and dimly foresaw his career. I have regretted it since; but never so much as yesterday. This, of course, is no parallel case to that which I just now proposed; but the one led my mind to the other."

"Did the wretched man admit his guilt?" asked Marlow.

"He did not, and could not deny it," answered Sir Philip; "during the examination he maintained a hard, sullen silence; and only said, when I ordered his committal, that I ought not to be so hard upon him for that offence, as it was the best service he could have done me; for that he had silenced a man whose word could strip me of all I possessed."

"What could he mean?" asked Marlow, eagerly.

"Nay, I know not," replied Sir Philip, in an indifferent tone; "crushed vipers often turn to bite. The man he killed was the son of the former sexton here--an honest, good creature too, for whom I obtained his place; his murderer a reckless villain, on whose word there is no dependence. Let us give no thought to it. He has held some such language before; but it never produced a fear that my property would be lost, or even diminished. We do not hold our fee simples on the tenure of a rogue's good pleasure--why do you smile?"

"For what will seem at first sight a strange, unnatural reason for a friend to give, Sir Philip," replied Marlow, determined not to lose the opportunity; "for your own sake and for your country's, I am bound to hope that your property may never be lost or diminished; but every selfish feeling would induce me to wish it were less than it is."

Sir Philip Hastings was no reader of riddles, and he looked puzzled; but Marlow walked frankly round and took him by the hand, saying, "I have not judged it right, Sir Philip, to remain one day after I discovered what are my feelings towards your daughter, without informing you fully of their nature, that you may at once decide upon your future demeanor towards one to whom you have hitherto shown much kindness, and who would on no account abuse it. I was not at all aware of how this passion had grown upon me, till the day before yesterday, when I saw your daughter at Mrs. Hazleton's, and some accidental circumstance revealed to me the state of my own heart."

Sir Philip looked as if surprised; but after a moment's thought, he inquired, "And what says Emily, my young friend?"

"She says nothing, Sir Philip," replied Marlow; "for neither by word nor look, as far as I know, have I betrayed my own feelings towards her. I would not, between us, do so, till I had given you an opportunity of deciding, unfettered by any consideration for her, whether you would permit me to pursue my suit or not."

Sir Philip was in a reasoning mood that day, and he tortured Marlow by asking, "And would you always think it necessary, Marlow, to obtain a parent's consent, before you endeavored to gain the affection of a girl you loved?"

"Not always," replied the young man; "but I should think it always necessary to violate no confidence, Sir Philip. You have been kind to me--trusted me--had no doubt of me; and to say one word to Emily which might thwart your plans or meet your disapproval, would be to show myself unworthy of your esteem or her affection."

Sir Philip mused, and then said, as if speaking to himself, "I had some idea this might turn out so, but not so soon. I fancy, however," he continued, addressing Marlow, "that you must have betrayed your feelings more than you thought, my young friend; for yesterday I found Emily in a strange, thoughtful, abstracted mood, showing that some strong feelings were busy at her heart."

"Some other cause," said Marlow quickly; "I cannot even flatter myself that she was thinking of me. When I saw her the day before, there was a young man sitting with her and Mrs. Hazleton--John Ayliffe, I think, is his name--and I will own I thought his presence seemed to annoy her."

"John Ayliffe at Mrs. Hazleton's!" exclaimed Sir Philip, his brow growing very dark; "John Ayliffe in my daughter's society! Well might the poor child look thoughtful--and yet why should she? She knows nothing of his history. What is he like, Marlow--how does he bear himself?"

"He is certainly handsome, with fine features and a good figure," replied Marlow; "indeed, it struck me that there was some resemblance between him and yourself; but there is a want I cannot well define in his appearance, Sir Philip--in his air--in his carriage, whether still or in motion, which fixes upon him what I am accustomed to call a class-mark, and that not of the best. Depend upon it, however, that it was annoyance at being brought into society which she disliked that affected your daughter as you have mentioned. My love for her she is, and must be, ignorant of; for I stayed there but a few minutes; and before that day, I saw it not myself. And now, Sir Philip, what say you to my suit? May I--as some of your words lead me to hope--may I pursue that suit and strive to win your dear daughter's love?"

"Of course," replied Sir Philip, "of course. A vague fancy has long been floating in my brain, that it might be so some day. She is too young to marry yet; and it will be sad to part with her when the time does come; but you have my consent to seek her affection if she can give it you. She must herself decide."

"Have you considered fully," asked Marlow, "that I have neither fortune nor rank to offer her, that I am by no means----"

Sir Philip waved his hand almost impatiently. "What skills it talking of rank or wealth?" he said. "You are a gentleman by birth, education, manners. You have easy competence. My Emily will desire no more for herself, and I can desire no more for her. You will endeavor, I know, to make her happy, and will succeed, because you love her. As for myself, were I to choose out of all the men I know, you would be the man. Fortune is a good adjunct; but it is no essential. I do not promise her to you. That she must do; but if she says she will give you her hand, it shall be yours."

Marlow thanked him, with joy such as may be conceived; but Sir Philip's thoughts reverted at once to his daughter's situation at Mrs. Hazleton's. "She must stay there no longer, Marlow," he said; "I will send for her home without delay. Then you will have plenty of opportunity for the telling of your own tale to her ear, and seeing how you may speed with her; but, at all events, she must stay no longer in a house where she can meet with John Ayliffe. Mrs. Hazleton makes me marvel--a woman so proud--so refined!"

"It is but justice to say," replied Marlow, thoughtfully, "that I have some vague recollection of Mrs. Hazleton having intimated that they met that young gentleman by chance upon some expedition of pleasure. But had I not better communicate my hopes and wishes to Lady Hastings, my dear sir?"

"That is not needful," replied Emily's father, somewhat sternly; "I promise her to you, if she herself consents. My good wife will not oppose my wishes or my daughter's happiness; nor do I suffer opposition upon occasions of importance. I will tell Lady Hastings my determination myself."

Marlow was too wise to say another word, but agreed to come on the following day to dine and sleep at the hall, and took his leave for the time. It was not, indeed, without some satisfaction that he heard Sir Philip order a horse to be saddled and a man to prepare to carry a letter to Mrs. Hazleton; for doubts were rapidly possessing themselves of his mind--not in regard to Emily--but in reference to Mrs. Hazleton herself.

The letter was dispatched immediately after his departure, recalling Emily to her father's house, and announcing that the carriage would be sent for her early on the following morning. That done, Sir Philip repaired to his wife's drawing-room, and informed her that he had given his consent to his young friend Marlow's suit to their daughter. His tone was one that admitted no reply, and Lady Hastings made none; but she entered her protest quite as well, by falling into a violent fit of hysterics.

FOOTNOTES:

[L] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.

HERBERT KNOWLES.

We recently printed in the _International_ an interesting account of the "marvellous boy" Chatterton, who "perished in his pride," and the memoirs of Southey recall to us the almost as unfortunate Herbert Knowles, who died in 1817. Knowles was a poor boy of the humblest origin, without father or mother, yet with abilities sufficient to excite the attention of strangers, who subscribed 20_l._ a year towards his education, upon condition that his friends should furnish 30l. more. The boy was sent to Richmond School, Yorkshire, preparatory to his proceeding as a sizer to St. John's, but when he quitted school the friends were unable to advance another sixpence on his account. To help himself, Herbert Knowles wrote a poem, sent it to Southey with a history of his case, and asked permission to dedicate it to the Laureate. Southey, finding the poem "brimful of power and of promise," made inquiries of the schoolmaster, and received the highest character of the youth. He then answered the application of Knowles, entreated him to avoid present publication, and promised to do something better than receive his dedication. He subscribed at once 10_l._ per annum towards the failing 30_l._, and procured similar subscriptions from Mr. Rogers and the late Lord Spencer. Herbert Knowles, receiving the news of his good fortune, wrote to his protector a letter remarkable for much more than the gratitude which pervaded every line. He remembered that Kirke White had gone to the university countenanced and supported by patrons, and that to pay back the debt he owed them he wrought day and night until his delicate frame gave way, and his life became the penalty of his devotion. Herbert Knowles felt that he could not make the same desperate efforts, and deemed it his first duty to say so. "I will not deceive," he writes in his touching anxiety.

"Far be it from me to foster expectations which I feel I cannot gratify. Two years ago I came to Richmond totally ignorant of classical and mathematical literature. Out of that time, during three months and two long vacations I have made but a retrograde course. If I enter into competition for university honors I shall kill myself. Could I twine, to gratify my friends, a laurel with the cypress I would not repine; but to sacrifice the little inward peace which the wreck of passion has left behind, and relinquish every hope of future excellence and future usefulness in one wild and unavailing pursuit, were indeed a madman's act, and worthy of a madman's fate."

The poor fellow promised to do what he could, assured his friends that he would not be idle, and that if he could not reflect upon them any extraordinary credit, he would certainly do them no disgrace. Herbert Knowles had taken an accurate measure of his strength and capabilities, and soon gave proof that he spoke at the bidding of no uncertain monitor within him. Two months after his letter to Southey he was laid in his grave. The fire consumed the lamp even faster than the trembling lad suspected.

A poem by him, _The Three Tabernacles_, though perhaps familiar to most of our readers, is so beautiful that we reprint it here:

THE THREE TABERNACLES.

Methinks it is good to be here, If thou wilt let us build,--but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no: Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For see, they would pin him below To a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah! no: she forgets The charms that she wielded before; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside; And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain: Who hid, in their turns have been hid; The treasures are squandered again; And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board, But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah! no: they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above. Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve; Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve: Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear; Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah! no: for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow; Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.

There are in his works several other pieces not less remarkable for the best qualities of poetry; and they all appear to be the echoes of genuine feeling.

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

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

_Continued from page 511, vol. II._

PART SECOND--BOOK FIRST.

THE DUCHESS.

On the very day on which the marriage had been celebrated at the town of Sorrento, a man descended from a carriage that, from the dust on its wheels, seemed to have travelled far, at the town of Ceprano, situated on the frontier of the Roman States and the kingdom of Naples. People call Ceprano a city; it is, however, in fact, only a large town of the Abruzzi, very ugly and very dirty, to which leads one of the worst and most romantic roads in Italy. Ceprano would scarcely merit the traveller's notice, but for many curiosities which it contains, worthy of particular attention. These curiosities are neither the charms of nature, for the scenery is without interest, nor palaces, nor monuments. They are neither archeologic nor artistic, but the greatest of earthly rarities--curiosities of humanity. The women of Ceprano are, perhaps, the most beautiful in Italy. Their stature, their regular and noble features, their magnificent black hair, twined around their charming faces, a graceful carriage, truly antique, their picturesque costume, partaking of the characters of both modern Greece and Italy, form the most admirable and pleasant combination. The women of Ceprano display, also, a peculiar coquetry, by their graceful and bold air; they carry on their heads etruscan amphoræ, in which, like Rachel, they bring water from the spring. At the fountain, therefore, strangers assemble to admire these nymphs. The traveller of whom we speak had gone thither, according to the well established custom, while his horses were being changed. He had, however, been preceded by another man, whose strange appearance soon attracted attention. The latter was about sixty years of age, of middle height, and well made. He had been handsome, if one could judge from the purity of the lines of his features, which time had not entirely effaced. His _coiffure_ alone would have made him appear whimsical and ridiculous, had not his head been noble and distinguished. He wore powder; and locks such as once were known as _a l'aille de pigeon_, were on each side of his face. A cloak of light silk was buttoned over his breast, so as to conceal a blue coat on which a cross of Saint Louis rested, being suspended to a broad blue ribbon. Sitting between two of the prettiest girls of Ceprano, he talked to them in an Italian, very little of which they understood; for his _patois_ called forth from the volatile creatures bursts of laughter.

"Bah!" said he in French; "this is the consequence of not studying foreign tongues. I cannot turn the _indigenes_ to profit. Pity, too, when they are beautiful as these are."

"Signor, may I be your interpreter?" said the last comer, who had heard only the latter portion of the old man's words.

"Thanks, Signor," said he; "heaven has sent you to the aid of a barbarian who was pitilessly murdering the mother tongue of Tasso. Formerly," continued he, "pantomime answered to talk with women as well as language; now, however, I must explain myself in another manner. I cannot, therefore, ask you to be the interpreter of my request of these girls!"

"What, Signor, did you ask them?" said he.

"Nothing, but permission to write two signs on my tablets. A habit I imported from London, a peculiar kind of statistics to introduce some variety into the tedious stories travellers spin. I indicate the region through which I pass by a single phrase or word which recalls to me what they have most agreeable to the heart, mind, or senses. See," said he, taking a rich pocket-book on which was a prince's coronet in gold, "all Italy will occupy but two pages. Florence? _Flowers and museums._ Bologna? _Hams._ Milan? _La scala._ Leghorn? _Nothing._ Rome? _Every thing. Et cætera._ I wished to write Ceprano? _kisses_: to prove that here I touched the lips of the two prettiest women of Italy."

"If that is all," said the person to whom the old man spoke, "and for the purpose of advocating so useful a cause," said she, with a laugh, "I will procure you the pleasure you desire."

"Indeed, Signor, I do not know how I can recompense you for such a service."

"Signor, I deserve no recompense from you, as I merely advance the art of travelling, which through your exertions is about to become so attractive----"

"_Signorine_," said he to the beautiful girls of Ceprano, in the pure Roman dialect; "an old man's kiss always brings prosperity to the youthful; and this, Signor," he pointed to the old man with powdered hair, "wishes you to be happy."

The two young girls, with the most natural grace possible, offered their brows to the old man, who kissed them paternally as possible.

"I thank you, sir," said he to his interpreter. "I am indebted solely for this chapter to your politeness, and can express my pleasure only by dedicating it to you. To do so, however, it is necessary that I should know your name----"

"Write then, Ceprano, dedicated to Count Monte-Leone. But, Signor, shall not I know the name of the author of a work so interesting as that to which I have contributed?"

"The name of the writer who is indebted to you for the best chapter of his book, is the Prince de Maulear."

The Count made a brusque movement of surprise, and saluting the Prince coldly, left him. A quarter of an hour after, two carriages in different directions left Ceprano. Monte-Leone's took the road to Rome, the Prince de Maulear's that to Naples. The former, however, did not go to Rome; for, when he had come to the foot of a wooded mountain, he left the carriage, and accompanied by a man in a long cloak, who had hitherto sat in the carriage, Monte-Leone went into a thick underwood, and proceeding up a rocky path almost to the top of the mountain, went to the little town of Frenona, which is on the very brow. The night was near at hand, and the trees with their leaves, too early for the season, increased the darkness of the mountain path. Suddenly, at a distance of two hundred feet from them, a bright and sparkling light was seen approaching Monte-Leone and his companion. The Count uttered a sharp whistle, and the light went to the middle of the wood, and hurried like a will-o'-the-wisp towards the travellers. The light was a torch, borne by a man, dressed as a peasant and wrapped in a large cloak, which suffered nothing but his two sparkling eyes to be seen, which were scarcely less brilliant than the torch.

"_Buon Giorno, Signor Pignana_," said the Count to the new comer; "you see I have kept the appointment at San Paolo."

"The brothers await your excellency," said Pignana, bowing to the ground; "be pleased to follow me."

"I have come hither to do so," said the Count.

The three men continued to ascend the mountain, and after a while turned to the right and stopped in front of an old building partially in ruins. Following a path around the ruin, they came to the place where the wall was highest, and stopped in front of a door. Pignana pulled a rope. A bell sounded, and the door was opened by a man in the costume Pignana wore. The three then crossed a long paved court, and through a vestibule entered a corridor leading into a vast hall, which had been the refectory of the monastery of San Paolo. A few torches lit up the room; around a table in the centre of which were thirty men all dressed like those we have described. They arose when Monte-Leone entered, and bowed with respect. The Count took his seat and spoke thus:

"You desired, Signori, to see me once more among you, and to accede to your wish I have braved every danger; for you know that Rome and Naples make common cause against us. For a long time I have wished to see you, and been anxious to ascertain your views, by putting, as your supreme chief, two questions to you."

"Speak, Monsignore," said the _Carbonari_.

"Have the _Vente_ of all Italy," said the Count, "those of Rome, Venice, Milan, Parma, Verona, Turin, and the other principal cities of Italy, the chiefs of which I see here, ever doubted me?"

"No, Monsignore; but they have feared lest being a victim to the unhappy fate which has befallen you, it might be your intention to leave us."

"And betray you, Signori," said the Count, with bitterness; "sell you like a spy and informer?"

"_Never!_" said all the company; "Monte-Leone can be no spy."

"Thank you, Signori, for the good opinion you have of me," said the Count in an ironical tone; "why then did you demand that foolish manifestation in the theatre of San Carlo? Do you not see that I have given you sufficient pledges by risking my life at the _Venta_ of Pompeia, where I, who had every gratification that fortune could bestow on me, risked every thing by declaring myself your chief? Let me tell you, Signori, two powerful motives led me--my convictions and my father's blood, which yet calls to me for vengeance. The following is my second question:--Do the _Vente_ of Italy promise to obey my orders without giving any to me?"

"Monsignore, you in this demand perfect submission!"

"Perfect, Signori; I will make my demand more explicit. I demand obedience, to act by my orders, and never without them; to think as I do, and to be the body of an association of which I am the soul."

The _Carbonari_ were silent.

"Decide!" said the Count, taking out his watch. "I had but two hours to devote to you, to settle all, and only a few minutes remain."

The _Carbonari_ consulted together. Their conversation was animated as possible. The Count looked again at his watch, and all turned towards him.

"Your excellency," said the one who seemed to be the most important, "may rely on our faith, conscience, and trust in you. We would, though, think we exceeded our powers, and implicate the brothers who have confided in us too deeply, if we were to consent to be passive, as you wish us and the Italian _Vente_ to become.

"Then there is nothing more to be said, Signori," and Monte-Leone arose. "Perhaps I have confided too implicitly in my audacity, resolution, and the power over myself, which never has deserted me. I deceived myself, perhaps, when too proudly I fancied I could inspire you with confidence equal to my own. I thought by risking life, fortune, and all, I won the right to hold the dice myself. But you do not think thus, and I submit. Faithful to my oaths, and to our principles, I am always ready to keep and to defend them. Acting, henceforth, alone, I shall do as I please, and be accountable to myself alone. Now, Signori, adieu! I shall leave Italy, and perhaps Europe, in search of a country, the institutions of which recognize the true principles of national happiness. Wherever, though, I may be, I will be _mute as to your secrets, and devoted to your principles_. You had just now a chief in Count Monte-Leone. He is so no more, but is still your brother."

Bowing to them with that noble dignity which he never laid aside, he bade the man who had accompanied him to take a torch and lead the way. Monte-Leone descended the mountain at Frepinond, and regained the carriage that waited for him, in which he proceeded to the Eternal City. Wounded at what, when he remembered how much he had done, seemed ingratitude, he said to himself, "Henceforth Monte-Leone commands--he cannot obey."

About evening, on the night after the _Venta_ at San Paola, the Count got out of his carriage, and, as his sadness increased as he left Naples, sought to revive himself by walking. He walked through Ferentino, a little town of the Roman States, and as he passed by the church he heard the sound of the organ. Monte-Leone had a heart piously inclined, and the sentiment of religion was always aroused by the sight of the church. He went into the church, which was brilliantly lighted. A few of the faithful here and there prayed; the half tints of the light on the walls giving them the appearance of statues on tombs. Before the principal altar two persons knelt. A priest was about to unite their fate. Monte-Leone approached the altar, but the seclusion of the position of the couple as they bent to the ground before the priest, who was blessing them, made it impossible for him to distinguish their features. A strange curiosity took possession of him, for this was evidently no ordinary village marriage. The rich dress of the young woman, the noble air of the young man to whom she was about to be married, all announced one of those secret unions not contracted beneath the vaulted arches of a cathedral, but in the oratory of some palace, or the chapel of some secluded hamlet. The ceremony was over, and the newly married couple left the altar and walked down the nave to the door of the church of Ferentino, where a magnificent carriage was waiting. Just as they were about leaving the church, the bride lifted up her veil and saw a man standing near the vase of holy water. The light of the lamp fell directly on his face. The young woman, astonished, trembling and confused, felt her strength give way, and could scarcely suppress an exclamation of agony. She saw Count Monte-Leone. He also had recognized in the bridegroom the Duke of Palma, minister of police of Naples. In the new duchess he had also recognized the primadonna of San Carlo da Felina. Thus the two angels, which in his ecstatic vision at his father's tomb the Count had seen, and who appeared to contend for him--Aminta and La Felina--the two women, one of whom he adored, while he was himself adored by the other, were no longer free. Aminta had married from duty, La Felina from reason.

II.--THE FATHER.

Eight days after the meeting of the Prince de Maulear and Count Monte-Leone at Ceprano, a post-chaise, accompanied by a kind of travelling forge, entered Naples by the Roman road, and after having crossed the city at a rapid rate, the postillions cracking their whips the while, stopped at the French embassy. The powdered head of the old man appeared at the window of the chaise, and the Swiss of the embassy replied, in execrable French, to a question put to him thus:

"Monsieur, the Marquis de Maulear does not stop in the embassy. His apartments were too small for two."

The Swiss, enchanted by this reply, which he thought eminently witty, bowed to the traveller, and was about to return to his chair, when the old man again called him:

"But, my fine fellow," said he to the Helvetian, "you have not yet told me where the Marquis does live."

"The Marquis de Maulear," said the Swiss, "is in the palace of Cellamare, where he rented a pavilion near the gardens of the Villa-Reale."

"To the palace Cellamare," said the traveller to the postillion; and the latter drove off at a gallop.

After about five minutes the same powdered head appeared at the door, and the traveller said, "Hollo! postillion, stop; do you hear, rascal; pull up."

"What does your excellency, sir?" asked the postillion.

"Take my excellency to the best Hotel in Naples."

"The best is _la Vittoria_, between the bay and Villa Reale."

The postillion lied, for _le Crocelle_ was better; but at _la Vittoria_ they received two piastres a piece for travellers, and at _le Crocelle_ got nothing. The _Vittoria_, then, was the best hotel in Naples for postillions, but not for travellers. The apartments of the Marquis de Maulear, the witty Swiss had told him, were too small for two; and this information had induced him thus suddenly to change his plan. The traveller thought the Marquis might have yielded to some tender influence, and contracted a _quasi morganatique_ marriage as a prelude to more serious ties. "If that be so," said the stranger, "it would be wrong to go to the Marquis's house. I do not wish to surprise him by a simple visit which would not have the effect of a solemn interview."

The chaise stopped at _la Vittoria_. Two servants and an intendant came to the carriage, and the postillion received eight piastres for his human freight. The Marquis de Maulear had really taken his young wife to the palace of Cellamare, a portion of which was rented to wealthy strangers a few days after his marriage. The Marquis had acted decidedly in writing to his father that he had married without consulting him. Henceforth it was of no importance whether the world knew it or not; besides, the Signora Rovero and Aminta, having thought that the Prince had authorized his son to marry whomsoever he pleased, secrecy would not have seemed proper or justifiable. The Marquis, who grew every day more in love, and whose ardor continually increased as he discovered new qualities to adore in the young heart confided to him, sought to expel the terrors which he apprehended would result from his father's surprise, but was unable to satisfy himself that the latter would not be completely enraged. The Marquis possessed an honorable fortune from his deceased mother. He therefore was not at all disturbed, in a pecuniary point of view, in relation to Aminta's fate. The distress, the humiliation to which his young wife would be exposed, should she be repelled by his father and family, made him tremble whenever that idea presented itself to his mind. Aminta had perceived these clouds occasionally on the brow of her husband, but had attributed it to his apprehensions that she did not love him as much as he adored her. She had striven to restore his confidence; and with that gentle voice, never heard by any one without emotion, said, "Henri, I was frank with you, when before marriage my heart asked time to return all the passion you felt. I know I love you now, and was wrong to be so timid; for," added she, "I deprived myself of happiness by delay." Maulear clasped her in his arms and forgot his troubles, as all do who love and are loved.

One morning, about ten o'clock, he had left her to go to the French embassy, whither he was called by important business. The young Marquise had gone into the garden of Cellamare, and sat beneath an arbor of jasmin, reading her favorite poet Tasso. Love of Maulear now interpreted these passionate mysteries, which hitherto she had not understood. Her soul, illumined by the flame enkindled in it, did not admire, as it formerly did, the form and gentle harmony of the poem alone. The meaning of the verses touched her heart, and she seemed for the first time to open this book, which is so filled with burning inspirations. The tenderness of Maulear had begun to dissipate the sad presentiments which had so long agitated her: she felt arising in her a gentle return of that deep affection she had inspired; and though she had been alone but two hours, it seemed to her that the Marquis had been absent a much longer time. Looking in the direction she expected Henri to come, she examined the burning horizon beyond the avenue of plane-trees beneath which she sat, until she saw a human form coming down it. The person who advanced walked slowly, and looked around him carefully, as if he was in search of something. For a while he examined curiously the hedge on the principal alley; nor, until he stood within a few paces of Aminta, did he see that this white figure was a woman; its graceful immobility having made him fancy it a statue. The stranger bowed to her politely as possible, and spoke to her with an air half way between respect and familiarity, impertinence and consideration. Aminta arose and recognized him, and as she did so, exhibiting a constraint and embarrassment she could not account for. The person who had spoken to Aminta was dressed so strangely, that the young woman was struck by it. Having been accustomed to all the fashions of the epoch, to the elegance of the young men who visited her mother's house, to the good taste of the Marquis de Maulear, she had never seen such a costume as that of the stranger. A coat of Prussian blue, with a straight collar and large wide skirts, enveloped a thin, delicate frame. A waistcoat of white silk, cut square in front, with two immense pockets, from one of which hung a watch, with an immense chain and multitude of seals, beating against breeches of buff cassimer, the legs of which were inserted in vast boots. A rich frill of English point lace, with ruffles to match, gave an air of magnificence to this toilet; the whole being surmounted with a powdered head-dress with open wings, like those of a sea-gull in a desperate storm. The result of all this toilette was such, that no one felt inclined to laugh, or even if the inclination arose, the noble air of which we have spoken soon repressed it. Aminta felt as Count Monte-Leone had at Ceprano, when the latter made the acquaintance of the Prince de Maulear, whom our readers have beyond doubt recognized.

"Excuse me, beautiful lady, for thus disturbing your reveries," said the Prince, bowing again to Aminta, "but I am come to visit the Marquis de Maulear, who must return ere long, as one of his servants told me. I however learned, that in addition to the pleasure of roaming through this paradise, I would find _Madame_. I could not resist the pleasure of presenting you my homage."

In the manner the Prince pronounced the word _Madame_, there was a shadow of fine irony, which Aminta could not but observe. She blushed slightly, for she thought the stranger alluded to her recent marriage; and though shocked at his familiarity, Aminta was satisfied with replying politely, that she would be happy if the visitor would remain until the Marquis de Maulear should return with her.

The Prince sat on a rustic chair, which Aminta offered him, and said, as he looked at her with admiration, "The Marquis may stay away as long as he pleases; and while with you I will not complain."

"But, Signor," said Aminta, "something of importance has brought you hither."

"No," said the visitor, "I come merely to see the Marquis; and to do so have travelled the four hundred leagues between Paris and Naples. Nothing more!"

"Ah, Signor," said Aminta, delighted, "then you love him?"

"Devotedly," continued the Prince, "though I suspect him rather of ingratitude. Do not be afraid," added he; "I believe him to be an ingrate in friendship, but not in love. _Madame_ (and he looked anxiously at her) has every charm to prevent his being so."

Any person less delicately organized than Aminta, and less impressionable, would have had no suspicion of the elegant _abandon_ which was the foundation of this compliment. By means of her instinct, however, she had guessed that there was a kind of contempt of _bon ton_ in what was said to her, altogether unbecoming in a conversation with a person of her rank and station. She replied, then, that she thought she had sufficient claims on the Marquis's love for him never to forget them ... that if such a misfortune should befall her, she would find in her heart and conscience no reason for reproaching herself, and would be able to support indifference, and be bold enough to pardon it.

"Very well, very well," said the Prince gayly. "Pretty women are always generous; they, however, are least worthy of commendation on that account, when they resemble you."

"Signor," said Aminta to the Prince, "I know not to whom I have the honor to speak. You have, however, told me you come from France, and I will thank you to tell me if men are volatile there, as I have heard."

"Signora, I do not think I slander my countrymen, when I say their hearts are not easily fixed for a long time. Were they more faithful, they would not, perhaps, be so amiable. In my time, for instance, marriage was an affair of business. One married to be married, to have an heir, to regulate one's household. That was all. If a man loved his wife three or six months it was superb. A year of constancy became ridiculous and vulgar. Then the lady would fall in love, and the husband conceived a friendship for the courtier, mousquetaire, or abbe, whom the lady patronized. The husband did not fall in love; he only looked for amusements. Sometimes chance afforded him what he needed, or he went to the opera, where the nymphs of music and dancing took charge of his superfluous funds. People talked of him for two days, and then he was forgotten. Thus gently and pleasantly the husband and wife floated down the stream of time; each keeping close to a bank, and shaking hands whenever the currents brought them together. In the business of life they were always as considerate as possible of each other, and shed some honest tears when death separated them. Sometimes in old age, when both were wearied by passion, and satiated with love, they recounted to each other their wild adventures, as sailors tell their stories of shipwrecks and the perils of their voyages. But," continued the Prince, "as there are exceptions to all rules, the exceptions were the kindly-disposed and well-regulated households, which were spoken of and laughed at. Happiness, however, avenged them. Thus, beautiful lady, people lived in other times. They do not live thus now--"

"All this I own," said Aminta, "interests me deeply."

"The devil!" said the Prince, aside, and under the impression that he was in the presence of the irregular passion of his son, "Does not morganaticism suffice?" Under this hypothesis, which made him smile with pity, he resolved to cut the foolish hope short at the roots.

"In our days all is changed--women are saints and husbands are angels--and the two are riveted together for all time. The wife is constant, the husband faithful; or, if the contrary be the case, the matter is hushed up and concealed. If public morality is satisfied, the lovers are not the losers. It is also said that unhappy marriages now are the exceptions. The chief difference is, though, that now men do before marriage what they used to do afterwards. If one finds a pleasant woman," said he, approaching Aminta, "like you, beautiful, intelligent, and I venture to say also full of talent, as you are--we swear we love her, and are really sincere. Reason, however, in the guise of matrimony, hurries to sound the knell of love. At the first peal, it escapes, and whither? The beauty we adore first weeps, and then finds consolation, or rather suffers herself to be consoled. Then, opening her wings like the butterfly, she hurries to find the pleasure she calls and expects."

The tone, rather than the language, of this conversation terrified and amazed Aminta.

The Prince observed this. "Did she love him really?" he said; and touched with this idea, he added--

"All that I say, madame, is a general remark, the application of which I make to no one, least of all to yourself."

"Signor," said Aminta, rising, "I do not understand you."

"Certainly," said the Prince, "you do not understand that one who loves you should cease to do so. That is what I had the honor to tell you just now. The Marquis, though, is very young and inexperienced. He believes in love, as men of twenty-five usually do. This explains to me the apparent rigidness of his words, and unveils the mystery of his pretended wisdom. I do not, however, wish to make a person so charming as you are desperate; and perhaps I do you a great favor in warning you against future dangers and mischances."

"Signor," said Aminta, trembling with emotion, "I cannot guess why you speak to me thus; but I perceive that you do not know me."

The Prince said, with a smile, "I speak to a charming woman, to one of earth's angels, whom some lucky mortals meet with, and who by their tenderness reveal all the pleasures and joys promised to the faithful by the houris of divine Providence."

"Signor," said Aminta, looking at the Prince with an expression in which both indignation and contempt were visible, "unused as I am to such language, though I scarcely understand it, my reason and good sense tell me you would speak thus only to the mistress of the Marquis de Maulear."

"True," said the Prince, "and I speak now to the most charming mistress imaginable."

"Me! do you speak thus to me, Signor?" said the young woman, with a painful accent. "And you thought----?"

"Who then are you, madame!" asked the old man, with surprise and terror at Aminta's tone.

"Who is she, monsieur?" said the Marquis, coming from a neighboring alley, where, pale and terrified, he had for some time been listening to this conversation, "she is my wife, the _Marquise de Maulear_!"

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of the Prince he could not have been more surprised. The blood left his face, and he supported himself against the back of his chair.

"Henri," said Aminta, "tell this man again that he has dared to insult your wife! Tell him I am yours in God's eyes, and that he has doubly outraged me in the fact that his words fell from the lips of age. Say to him, that a gentleman, if such he is, should not utter such things until assured they were neither an insult nor an outrage to her who heard them."

"Aminta," said the Marquis, "the person of whom you speak thus is----"

"Be silent, monsieur,"[N] interrupted the Prince, looking sternly at his son, "madame has not offended me, though I have her. Madame," said he, "accept my apology for a fault caused by the Marquis alone. The name you bear is entitled to the respect of all, especially to mine. I will be the last to forget it. Be pleased to leave the Marquis de Maulear and myself together for a few moments. What I have to say none must listen to. Do not be afraid," added he, when he saw the hesitation with which Aminta left; "I am no foe of the Marquis, and besides, the only weapon of old men is the tongue. Our conversation will not be long, and I will then leave the Marquis to you for ever."

Henri made a motion, the purport of which was to beseech Aminta to go. Taking a lateral alley, she disappeared.

"Monsieur," said the Prince, "you should know that my name should not be pronounced in the presence of that young woman, especially after the error which your silence has led me into in relation to her." The Prince continued, "So you are married?"

"Yes, monsieur," said Maulear, trembling like a criminal in the presence of the judge.

"Contrary to my orders, and without my consent," continued the Prince.

"Father, if any excuse be possible, you will find it in the person I have selected."

"I do not ask for justification, monsieur, but for excuse. How long did you reflect on this union before you contracted it?"

"A month," said the Marquis.

"A month is a short time to reflect on a life of remorse and regret. You know I never will forgive you."

"Never, monsieur?" asked Maulear, bowing respectfully before his father. "God himself pardons."

"I am not God, monsieur, and have neither his goodness nor his mercy. Hearken to me, and let none of my words be lost, as they are the last I shall ever speak to you. I have not concealed my principles, which were probably not firm enough in relation to morals and virtue. In these principles the people of the century in which I was born lived. I was, perhaps, badly educated, but so were all nobles then; and if they preserved their loyalty and honor, were faithful to their kings, and died for them,--if they did honor to their family, and fought well, they were forgiven for other faults. Philosophy and the progress of the age have rectified all this: whether they have improved the state of things the future must decide. I am too old to retrace my steps, and have the faults, and perhaps the virtues, of my century. There is one thing true, certain ideas I never will abandon, among which are my opinions about marriage. All this you think behind the spirit of the age, and perhaps ridiculous; but I intend to express myself fully, that you may not expect me ever to alter my opinion about your conduct. For four centuries, monsieur, there has not been a single _mesalliance_ in my family. The Dukes of Salluce, the Princes of Maulear, from whom we are sprung, were never married but with the noblest families of the world--those of France--that is the only safety for me, that was the only marriage for you. I was willing to receive as a daughter-in-law only a French woman, of noble blood--noble as our own. This you say is a prejudice--so it may be, monsieur, but it is a prejudice I will not lay aside. I was never a rigorous father to you, and I contemplated using only one of my paternal rights, that of bringing about a marriage for you to suit myself. You acted for yourself, monsieur, and must continue to do so. Adieu! Henceforth the Marquis de Maulear has no father, and the Prince no son."

The old man arose with cold and haughty dignity, preparing to leave.

"Father, do not leave me thus--for the sake of my mother, whom you loved, pause."

The Prince walked away.

"For the sake of your father, whom you adored!"

The Prince did not pause.

"Well," said the Marquis, in despair, and just then he saw Aminta at the end of the alley, "I prefer to abandon the nobility of the Maulears, which produces such obduracy, for the virtues and talent of a Rovero."

The old man had scarcely heard the last word, than he turned around and said to his son:

"Rovero! did you say Rovero? the minister of Murat?"

"There is his daughter," said Henri, pointing to Aminta.

The countenance of the Prince lost its icy coldness, and assumed an expression of deep tenderness. Drawing near to Aminta, with tears in his eyes, he said, "The daughter of Rovero?" and with increasing agitation, "Are you the daughter of Rovero?"

Looking at her for a few moments in silence, his countenance assumed an indefinable expression, and seemed to read in the countenance of the young girl an infinitude of memories and dreams. Finally, completely carried away by a feeling he could not control, he folded Aminta in his arms and clasped her to his bosom.

III.--THE MAN WITH THE MASK.

Paris, that great theatre on which, for fifty years, so much sublime and common-place republicanism, so many monarchic, imperial, constitutional, and other dramas had been represented--Paris, about the end of 1818, two years after the occurrence of the events described in the last chapter, presented a strange aspect, over which we will cast a retrospective glance for the purpose of making our story intelligible.

Louis XVIII. reigned perhaps a little more absolutely than the charter permitted. By the aggregation of power, kings and kingdoms almost always fall; and this king, who wished to govern with the restrictions on power which he had himself yielded to France, found himself in endless controversy, from the errors of his friends, his family, and his minister. Monsieur[O] was in the opposition, and with him were all the malcontents of the realm. _Monsieur_ had his creatures, and his ministers in casû, all ready to consecrate their services to the good of the country. These were the only men, said the Prince, who could rescue the restoration from the factions in arms against it. At the head of this ministry was the Count Jules de Polignac, the favorite of the ex-comte d'Artois. Next to Polignac came M. de Vitrolles, famous for his intellect and his devotion to the royal family, M. de Grosbois, and others, who had made progress in the graces and confidence of the Prince. The King at that time exhibited a decided favoritism to a certain statesman of merit and worth, the rapid fortune of whom, however, had made many persons jealous and had excited much hatred. The star of M. de Blacus, which till then had been so brilliant, began to grow pale. From these palace intrigues, from these divisions of families, arose in public affairs a species of perpetual controversy which impeded the progress of the ship of state. In the mean time, parties taking advantage of this discontent, excited every bad passion, and silently undermined the soil preparing the explosion which ultimately destroyed this feeble and disunited monarchy. The great parties were divided and subdivided into many factions opposed to each other, but, as will be seen hereafter, all striving to overturn the existing order of things--though in the end each purposed the triumph of his own cause when a general chase should have ensued. The French nation, though strong, great and powerful when its parts are united, was then composed of royalists frankly devoted to the government of the restoration of ultra royalists, more so even than the King himself--and who wished the country to retrace its steps to principles, which good sense, time, healthy reason, and especially the revolutionary tempest, had most painfully refuted. Next came the Bonapartists, who seeing themselves disinherited by a peaceful government, and deprived of the prospects of glory they had deemed their own, regretted sincerely the man of victory and his triumphs. Next came the liberals, a portion of whom were sincerely devoted to political progress, for which the country was not yet prepared--and, finally, the Jacobins, old relics of 1793, who sought to precipitate France into that abyss of horror, the very trace of which the wonderful genius of Napoleon had effaced. All these opinions, advocated by intelligent and capable men, of gifted minds, but also of turbulent and dangerous spirits, to whom agitation is the natural element--all these were secretly busy, watching their opportunity to burst upon the public attention. Paris, the head of the great French body, was all the time happy as possible, and seemed calm and flourishing. It was like those men with a smiling face, a calm and cold icy exterior, but who nurse violent passions and bitter animosities. The police at that time was under the control of a minister who was young and active, but who was often led astray; just as greyhounds, who, when almost overrunning their quarry, catch a glimpse of other prey. The multiplied and contradictory devices of the factions, therefore, led the police and its agents into difficulties of which the criminals always contrived to take advantage. For two years, plot followed plot, almost uninterruptedly; Bonapartist, liberal, ultra-royalist plots followed each other; that of Didier was the first. His object was to confide the Kingly office to a Lieutenant-General, to the Duke of Orleans. Didier sought for his confederates among the men, whom a kind of fanaticism yet attached to the exile of Saint-Helena; among the old soldiers of the valley of the Loire, and that crowd of imperial agents whom the restoration had stripped of honor and employment. He promised good titles, orders, to all, and seduced many. The plot failed from its own impotence, for the police had little to do with it. Another affair, the consequences of which to those concerned in it were great, gave increased activity to the police, and diverted it from the only circumstances which could unfold to it the true enemies of the government of Louis XVIII. This affair was known as the _Society of Patriots_ of 1816, and had as its chiefs _Pleigner_, _Carbonneau_, and _Tolleron_. They intended to ask the Emperor of Russia to grant them a constitutional King, chosen elsewhere than from the elder branch of the Bourbons. A man named Schellstein, who had been a kind of enlisting agent to the conspirators, informed M. Angles, chief of police, of their plan, and intentions, and by a sentence given July 7, 1816, _Pleigner_, _Carbonneau_, and _Tolleron_, were sentenced to have their hands cut off and to be beheaded. Three days after the sentence was executed. Finally, in 1818, a third conspiracy was pointed out to the notice of the police. This conspiracy had a more exalted character than the preceding ones, for it included the ultra-royalists, that is to say the nobles, generals, peers, and high functionaries of France.

The Morning Chronicle, June 27, 1818, published at London the following:--"There was a report at Paris, that a conspiracy had been discovered at Saint Cloud, embracing many of the ultra-royalist party. The King would abdicate, and be replaced by Monsieur."

The Times, on the 2d July, said--"The plan of the conspiracy is known. Should the King abdicate, the conspirators have resolved to treat him like Paul I. The following is the list of ministers:--General Canuel, of war; M. de Chateaubriand, of foreign affairs; M. Bruges, of the navy; M. Villele, of the interior; M. de Labourdonnaie, of the police; General Donadieu, commandant of Paris." All this was announced with an appearance of truth; for all the persons named belonged to the opposition to the King and his favorite. When, however, facts were sought for, and the proof was pointed out, all the edifice crumbled away, and there remained only a few malcontents, but no rebels were to be found. The sentence of the Royal Court of Paris, given November 3d following, declared--"Generals Canuel and Donadieu, MM. de Rieux, de Songis, de Chapdelaine, de Romilly, and Joannis, are released and declared innocent." They had been imprisoned forty days. This affair produced a most painful sensation in France, and the minister of police was reproached with great imprudence, which made many new enemies to the government, and did not add to its security. The fact was, the true criminals had been overlooked; and, like the worms which eat away the interior of a beautiful fruit without changing its form and color, they more skilfully and adroitly attacked the very heart of society when it seemed most secure and safe. The perfidious worm which was eating away at the heart of France, as it had long done those of the other European monarchies, was Carbonarism. As we said in our first chapters, the existence of this power was scarcely suspected, while in secret, by its ramifications, it ruled Europe.

A man of mind and energy, but whose mild and almost effeminate manners concealed vigor and perseverance, M. H----, at that time under the direction of M. Angles, supervised the political police of the kingdom. M. H---- was always aware of the extent of the operations of the various factions, and probably was the only man in France really alarmed at the influence which Carbonarism exerted in France and the neighboring states. Often he had made communications to the prefect, another minister, who paid attention to known parties and attached but little importance to this new foe, which was, however, the most terrible of all, and proposed to itself the object of destroying, at any risk, and received into its bosom all the operatives of this work, whatsoever might be their opinions. M. H---- had no evidence in relation to this terrible organization, nor did he know where it met. Towards the end of February, 1819, M. H---- received a letter sealed in black, and with the impression on the wax of an auger piercing the globe. The strange seal did not escape his notice. The direction was, "M. H----, for himself alone, _confidential_." The superior of the political police read the letter, which was as follows:--

"Monsieur,--A man who can do the state great service wishes to have an interview with you, and requests that you will grant him a moment's conversation to-morrow evening at nine-oclock, in your cabinet. He will be masked. He begs you to permit him to keep his mask until he shall be satisfied that he is seen by no one else. Should the strangeness of this request not permit you to accept it, place a lighted taper in your window opening on the _quai des Orfevres_ and no one will come. The writer knows that he addresses a man of courage and honor, who never is terrified by mere forms when he looks for important results. It is also known that this man, though protected by wise precautions, made necessary by the grave circumstances in which he is often placed, would be incapable of taking an advantage of those who come to him frankly and truly."

M. H---- reflected long on this letter. He hesitated not, because he was used to confidences made in terms and in manner as strange. But the conditions of the mask, so contrary to French habit, almost, in spite of himself, annoyed and troubled him. He, however, began to be inspired with the confidence which the man evidently felt himself. He therefore decided to receive him, and gave orders, that should the masked man present himself he should be admitted into his cabinet. M. H----only took a few measures of prudence, and after having examined the locks and charges of his pistols, which he always wore, and assured himself that the sound of a bell on his table would be heard at once by the attendants, waited attentively for the hour of the interview. The clock of the Palais Royal struck nine, when he was told that a masked man wished to speak to him. A few minutes after the visitor was introduced. He was tall and wrapped in a brown cloak, which he threw off when he had reached the room. He wore a costume half way between a tradesman's and prosperous workman's.

"What do you wish, Monsieur?" asked M. H----, who was sitting in his chair.

Without replying, the stranger, who was standing, pointed to two glass doors on each side of one through which he had entered, behind which were full silk curtains. M. H----understood him, and after a moment's hesitation, decided, and clapped his hands thrice. This was probably a signal well understood, for soon after a slight noise was heard in each of the rooms, and the silk curtains were slightly agitated. Then rising, M. H---- opened the two doors and shut two external ones, which doubtless communicated with two other rooms.

"Thank you, sir," said the mask, "you will not regret your confidence."

These words were pronounced with a decidedly foreign air. The man took off his mask, and M. H---- examined his features. His physiognomy was that of the south; his expression dark, and his long black hair hung over his face, and rested on his shoulders. The eyes of this man were sad and deep; and glittering beneath his dark brows, added to the ferocity of his expression. He was silent for some time, and then said, in a calm voice, to the chief of police: "I come, Monsieur, to propose a contract to you, which, when you have heard it, you can either accept or reject. An immense volcano undermines Paris; a conspiracy, or rather an immense association is about to be formed. They are not isolated enemies, scattered in small numbers, but a vast family of men, here and every where, in every man's house, and perhaps in the very bureau of the police. Among them are millions of iron-hearted and iron-nerved men, among whom are the mechanic, the day laborer, soldiers of every arm, the financier, the advocate, artist, the scholar, and the priest--every rank and condition is represented. At their head are nobles, lords, and princes; and they wish to accomplish in France what they have already done in the rest of Europe. First, they seek to abolish royalty, and to bestow on the people free and unlimited liberty. Their secret assemblies are called _Vente_. The association is called _Carbonarism_, and its members _Carbonari_."

M. H---- sprang up from his chair. Of the plot which he had been so anxious to discover, and of which he had but a vague knowledge, he was now at last to obtain a clue. In a tone exhibiting the most lively curiosity, he bade the man go on. The mask took a seat; he felt that henceforth he might treat with M. H---- as an equal.

"I am," said he, with a smile full of venom, "but an unworthy member of this important society, and come to treat with you, therefore, not in my own name--"

"In the name of whom, then, do you come?"

"There is," said the mask, "a man in Paris of high rank, of noble birth, and of great fortune, who, by means of his position and connections, which I cannot reveal, knows, and henceforth will know, all the secrets, all the plans of the Carbonari, from the obscure acts of the humblest of the brothers, to the orders given to the _Vente_ by the supreme chiefs--"

"And this man is willing to surrender his infamous associates to us?" said M. H----.

"He will; but in consideration of this immense sacrifice, he demands certain things which I am charged to communicate to you."

"Tell me," said M. H----, "what he asks."

"We will talk of that hereafter. I, however, propose to you an honest bargain, and you will not be called on to pay the price until the service shall have been performed. I therefore come to ask you not for a reward, but for one word."

"A word?"

"A word, a promise, and an oath."

"If it be compatible with my duties."

"Certainly!" said the stranger. "We conspirators are honest people enough, but we are prudent, and used to secrecy. We never make revelations without exacting a double security."

"That of honor!"

"And displaying the dagger as the certain reward of treachery."

"Stop, sir!" said M. H----, rising, and evidently enraged at the daring of the stranger. "You forget where you are; no one but myself makes threats here; assume, therefore, another tone; for sorry as I should be not to avail myself of your offers, I must, if you persist, terminate our interview at once. But," continued he, "what is required of me?"

"I have told you--an oath. Here it is. You will swear on this," and he took a crucifix from his bosom, "that neither in person, nor otherwise, will you ever attempt to discover the person in behalf of whom I treat. You will swear that when you have been informed of the facts which I shall point out to you, when you shall have received proof of the culpability of certain men, you will cause them to be arrested and give them no clue to, and make no revelation of, the means by which you acquired your information."

"But how will the man who is to furnish this information treat with us?"

"Through me alone," said the stranger, "and I will allow you to be ignorant of nothing. In a few words--I will be his interpreter--the soul of his body, the action of his thought. Here," continued he, again presenting the crucifix to M. H----," an oath for such services is not too much to ask. You do not often get information at so cheap a rate. The form of the oath will doubtless appear strange to you, but I am a native of a land where oaths are taken on the cross alone."

"So be it," said M. H----, who, as he listened to the man, reflected on the small importance of the conditions imposed on him, which did not demand that he should act against the _Vente_ or associations, until there was no doubt of their guilt. "So be it; I accept. I swear that I will never seek to ascertain of whom you are the agent, whether in person or through others." He placed his hand on the crucifix.

"_Rely then on him--rely on me_," said the stranger.

"Why do you not speak now?" said M. H----.

"_Because it is necessary to give the fruit time to ripen before we gather it_," said the mysterious stranger; and bowing to M. H----, he left.

"Well," said the chief of the political police, when he was alone, "the bargain I have made is not a rare one. Informers always have scruples at first, especially when they are men of rank;--when those of the man of whom the agent speaks are dissipated, or when by his wants and vices he is forced to draw directly on our chest, his shame will pass away, and his name will be enrolled on the list of our spies like those of M. X., the Baron de W----, the Advocate V----, the Ex-consul R----, and the Countess of Fu. This man is, then, taken in three words, what we call a SPY IN SOCIETY."

IV.--THE AMBASSADRESS.

On the twentieth of June, 1818, six months before the occurrence of the scene we have described in the preceding chapter, the greatest excitement was exhibited in a magnificent hotel in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The principal entrance of this hotel, or the Faubourg, was occupied by a crowd of workmen, who were busy in arranging a multitude of flower vases, from the court-gate to the door of the hotel. Upholsterers and florists crowded the vestibule, the stairway, and the antechambers with their flowers and carpets. The interior of the rooms on the ground floor presented a scene of a different kind of disorder. A pell-mell--a crowd of men and women were tacking down and sowing rich and sumptuous stuffs on the floors. The rooms of the lower floor of the hotel opened on one of the gardens surrounding the _Champs-Elysées_ towards the Faubourg St. Honoré. An immense ball-room was constructed in the garden. This ball-room was united to the house by richly dressed doors, cut into the windows, and, with the ground floor, formed one immense suite. The garden at this period of the year contributed in no small degree to the pleasures of the festival. The curtains at the doors of this hall could at any time be lifted up so as to permit access to this oasis of verdure. One might have thought a magic ring had transported to this corner of Paris, all the riches of the vegetation of southern climes, and might have, in imagination, strayed beneath the jasmin bowers, amid the roses and orange-groves of Italy, so delicious was the perfume which filled this garden. Its peculiar physiognomy and design, its form, manner, and even the statues, the majority of which were _chef-d'-oeuvres_ of Italian art, all proved some foreign taste had presided over its construction, and that this taste had been the passion of some elegant and distinguished man.

But now this paradise had passed into the possession of a charming woman and admirable artiste. This hotel belonged to the beautiful _Felina_, the Italian queen of song, who had deigned to descend from a throne to be the Duchess of Palma. The lofty brow which had borne so proudly the diadem of Semiramis and Junia, wore now a duchess's coronet. This was a great self-deprecation; for Europe contained a thousand duchesses, and but one _Felina_. Worse still, many duchesses would not recognize La Felina as one of the number. She was a duchess by chance; a duchess not by the grace of God, but by the grace of talent and beauty. Observe, too, that this version was the most favorable, the most amiable and polite. It was the one adopted by the intelligent, philosophic and sensible duchesses of the empire. The true duchesses, those of other days, who could not understand how any one could wear a ducal coronet without having at least three centuries of nobility, made use of all the grape of their artillery to annihilate the _singing woman_. It was whispered, but loudly enough to be heard by half a dozen persons, that La Felina, arming herself with that rigidity she kept for the Duke of Palma alone, displaying all her charms, and envying the title and fortune of the noble Neapolitan, had refused to surrender her heart without her hand;--that the poor Duke, entwined in the nets of this modern Circe, wearied of the many love-scrapes which he had undergone, made up his mind, as he could not become a lover, to become a husband. This delightful theme was so decorated by the rich imaginations of the ladies of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, that it could scarcely be recognized beneath the inlaying of the rich anecdotes to which it gave occasion; but which lacked only three essentials of merit--good sense, justice, and truth. As far as relates to good sense, we will say that the Duchess of Palma was far richer than her husband. Her talent had long procured her a brilliant income; and to renounce the stage, at the height of her reputation and glory, when every note she uttered was worth a doubloon, was to reject vast wealth, the source of which was her voice and talent. Good sense would not justify the reproach of cupidity; truth and justice would equally have rejected the charge.

_La Felina_, far from wishing to lead the Duke astray--far from wishing, as was said, to make her fortune by marrying him, had long rejected the hand of the Neapolitan minister of police when the most powerful reasons would have induced her to accept it. She married the Duke only because of the deep and irrepressible passion which animated her heart for the Count Monte-Leone. She knew the Count loved Aminta; she knew that, when at liberty, he would marry the sister of Taddeo. Anxious to contend with herself by creating new weapons to oppose the passion which devoured her, anxious to build up a new barrier between the Count and herself, and to prepare a defence for her own heart, she accepted the hand of the Duke of Palma as a rampart of duty, and, as it were, forcibly to leave a profession, the triumphs of which disgusted and offended her because she regretted having ever experienced them. These were the reasons or reasonings which led La Felina to act as she did. We shall see, at a later period, that she achieved her purpose.

The Duke of Palma having secretly married _La Felina_ in the town of Ferentino, the day Monte-Leone recognized him, took his beautiful wife to a villa he possessed on the _lago di Como_, and after sojourning there a few days, went to Naples and forced the King to accept his resignation as minister of police. The Duke was dissatisfied with Naples, for no one would forgive him for marrying the Prima-Donna. The two then came to Paris after a brief mission, during which the Duke had been obliged to leave her alone at the _lago di Como_. There they purchased the hotel of which we have spoken, and prepared to receive the court, and exhibit all the aristocratic luxury with which the Duke of Palma was so familiar. One circumstance, however, which had been entirely unforeseen, wrecked all their hopes. The best society of Paris, which is so lenient to some eccentricities, yet so rigid in its exaction of obedience to certain prejudices--the society to which, from rank and position, the Duke of Palma belonged, was rebellious. Among the nobles of the restoration there were a few exceptions, and though the persons who ventured to the Duke's were perfectly well received--though they praised in the highest degree the graces and exquisite _haut-ton_ of the Duchess, their example was not followed, and the hotel remained silent and empty. The Duke and Duchess lived alone, buried in a magnificent tomb. The cause of this neglect of the invitations of the ex-minister may be easily divined. The Duke had married La Felina, the singer, about whom there had been, and yet were, so many reports. The beautiful artiste was much wounded by this general neglect, not because she regretted the world and its pleasures, but on account of other impressions which had haunted her since she had lived alone at Como. The affront, however, recoiled on her husband, and her deep, resolute soul bitterly resented it. La Felina was an Italian, and those of that nation who receive affronts avenge them. She was not long at a loss. Her vengeance, however, could not easily be attained, for she had to do with a rich and powerful society, which had, as it were, formed a coalition to insult a woman, by rejecting her with disdain and contempt.

The renown of _La Felina_ as a singer had long excited the curiosity of Paris. Her admirable voice, her dramatic talent, her wonderful beauty, made the great artiste to be envied in every theatre in Europe. By a strange caprice, or an exaggerated distrust of her powers, the great artiste had always refused to sing in the capital, though well aware that there alone great artistic talent is baptized. Amazed at the national glory, she had never asked this sacrifice of French _cognoscenti_. Great, therefore, was the emotion of the various drawing-rooms, when it was said that a great concert would be given by the Duke of Palma, and that his Duchess La Felina would sing. The concert was for the benefit of some interesting charity; and humanity was a pretext to the high Parisian society not to visit La Felina, but to perform a great duty. How though could invitations be had? There was great difficulty, for the invitations were most limited in number. It is always the case in Paris, that as obstacles increase, the desire to overcome them also is multiplied. This was exemplified in the case of the concert. It was, however, strange that the very hotels where the ducal _artiste_ had been worst treated, where her advances had been worst received, were those to which the invitations came first. Here and there some affronts given by the noble Italians who were the intimate friends of the Duke of Palma, but they were all submitted to, so anxious was the world to enjoy the long-desired but unexpected pleasure of hearing La Felina.

This took place many months before the entertainments, the preparations for which we described at the commencement of this chapter. On the day appointed for the concert, a long file of carriages filled up the whole Faubourg St. Honoré, and stopped at the door of the hotel of the Duke of Palma. The Duchess sat in her most remote drawing-room, dressed with extreme simplicity, beautiful without adornment, and waited for the guests, whom an usher at the door of the first drawing-room announced. As each one saluted her, she arose, and thanked them for their visit. This reception, far from gratifying the majority of her guests, seemed to offend them. They fancied they had met on neutral ground, in a room appropriated to charity, and not to wait on a lady who did the honors of her own house. The latter, however, was the case. Multiplying her cares for and attention to her guests, appearing to notice neither the cold politeness of the one nor the rudeness of the other, the Duchess increased her amiability and politeness to all who approached her. The ice was broken. The men could not resist her charms, and many women followed their example. The dazzling luxury of the hotel, the admirable pictures, the majestic beauty of the Duchess, produced such an effect on this society, composed of the most illustrious persons of Paris, and of all who were famous at the epoch, that the success of La Felina was complete. The great feature of the entertainment was impatiently waited for. The concert which the Duchess had announced did not begin, and it was growing late. The artistes, it was said, had not yet come, and all were as impatient as possible, when an excellent orchestra was heard. A few young people, forgetting why they had come, and utterly reckless of the opposition they would give rise to, hurried to the great ball-room, and whiled away the time _before the concert_ in dancing.

About midnight a report was circulated among the guests that the Duchess was fatigued at the reception of so many persons, and the _habitues_ said that her efforts to make her guests happy had been so great that she would not sing, and the entertainment would conclude with a ball. Nothing could equal the vexation and anger which appeared on certain faces, and which were augmented by the fact that La Felina made no apology, but in the kindest terms thanked them for the pleasure she had received from them, and which she feared she could not enjoy again for a long time, her health demanding the most complete solitude. Thus Felina turned a concert into a ball, and forced all Paris to visit her.

The next day the journals said: "Yesterday the Duke and Duchess of Palma gave the most magnificent entertainment of the year. The _élite_ of the _faubourg_ Saint-Germain and the capital were assembled, and all retired delighted with the reception extended to them by the illustrious strangers. The Duke sent ten thousand francs to the poor of his arrondissement, to make up a subscription which could not otherwise be completed."

A few months after, the Duke was appointed ambassador of Naples to the court of France, and in honor of his sovereign's birthday prepared the magnificent entertainment which created such disorder in the _faubourg_ St. Honoré. The new position of the Duke of Palma, his diplomatic character, and the rumor of the beauty and elegance of the Duchess had silenced all complaints, and all now were anxious to be received at the Neapolitan Embassy.

A circumstance, however, of which the world was entirely ignorant, had within a few months made an altogether different woman of the Duchess, who had previously been gay and happy. An air of sadness reigned over her features, and her eyes assumed not unfrequently a wild glare, which could be removed only by tears. Some unknown sorrow had made great inroads even upon her beauty. Always kind and considerate to the Duke and those who surrounded her, she yet seemed to fulfil her requisitions of duty alone in complying with the observances of her rank. She seemed anxious to seclude herself from the world, and to seek to drown her grief in the solitude she had formerly avoided. Whether sorrow had assumed too deep an empire over her heart, or from some other cause, all were struck at the change so suddenly worked in her moral organization and in her beauty. Far, however, from making any opposition to this splendid entertainment, or exhibiting any indifference to its preparations, all were surprised to see the Duchess devote herself to it so fully. Nothing escaped her care; her refined taste neglected nothing which could contribute to the brilliancy of the entertainment. The Duke, delighted at the apparent revival of the Duchess's taste for the pleasures of the world, which she had long disdained, aided her with all his power, and spared no expense to gratify her. The invitations were numerous, and on this occasion there were no refusals; for the most noble persons were anxious to be entertained by the Neapolitan minister. The Duke hesitated only in relation to one of the many persons who were to be invited. This person was the Count Monte-Leone. The secretary who had been directed to prepare the list of persons to be invited had according to custom put down his name among the noble and distinguished Neapolitans who had called at the embassy of their country in Paris. The Duchess saw the list, and said nothing. The Duke hesitated for a long time--not that he had the least suspicion of the Duchess's sentiments towards Monte-Leone: he had attributed the presence of La Felina at the etruscan house to the consequence of an abortive masked-ball pleasantry. Besides, at the time of the arrest there were three other men in the house, and the ex-minister had almost forgotten the affair. The Count, in spite of his acquittal, was known to be an enemy of the government, and he doubted if it was proper to receive him at the embassy. One consideration alone prevented the Duke from erasing his name from the list--it was that the Count would not wish to appear at the embassy, and the Duke would thus be spared the necessity of showing any rudeness to him. The day came at last. The interior of the hotel was really fairy-like, and the rooms on the ground floor joined with the garden ball-room presented one of those magical pictures of which poets dream, but which men rarely see. The arts, luxury, comfort, opulence, and taste, all were united to produce a spectacle, which, lighted by a thousand lamps, spoke both to the mind and senses, and recalled one of those splendid palaces of _The Thousand and One Nights_, of which we have read, but which none will see.

On that day the Duchess seemed to have regained all her dazzling beauty. An observer might however have asked if the animation of this lady was not derived from a kind of feverish agitation, evident in the brilliancy of her eyes and deep red of her lips, rather than from expectation of pleasure or joy at the realization of the plans she had marked out for herself. Nine o'clock struck when the first guests were introduced. A crowd soon followed them, and the most distinguished names were heard in the saloons. The Duke d'Harcourt! the Vicompte and Mlle. Marie d'Harcourt! the Prince de Maulear! the Marquis and Marquise de Maulear! Signor Taddeo Rovero! _Il Conte_ MONTE-LEONE!

* * * * *

CORREGIO, the illustrious painter, is said to have been born and bred, and to have lived and died in extreme poverty. It is stated that he came to his death at the early age of forty, from the fatigue of carrying home a load of halfpence paid for one of his immortal works.

FOOTNOTES:

[M] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Stringer & Townsend, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.

[N] As the conversations in the rest of this book are supposed to be sometimes in French and sometimes in English, the translator will render the terms of courtesy now by _signor, signora_, and _signorina_, and again by _monsieur_, _madame_, and _mademoiselle_.

[O] The Comte d'Artois, afterwards Charles X.

TRANSFORMATION.

BY THE LATE MRS. SHELLEY.

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale, And then it set me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns; And till my ghastly tale is told This heart within me burns.

COLERIDGE'S ANCIENT MARINER.

I have heard it said, that, when any strange, supernatural, and necromantic adventure has occurred to a human being, that being, however desirous he may be to conceal the same, feels at certain periods torn up, as it were, by an intellectual earthquake, and is forced to bare the inner depths of his spirit to another. I am a witness of the truth of this. I have dearly sworn to myself never to reveal to human ears the horrors to which I once, in excess of fiendly pride, delivered myself over. The holy man who heard my confession, and reconciled me to the church, is dead. None knows that once--

Why should it not be thus? Why tell a tale of impious tempting of Providence, and soul-subduing humiliation? Why? answer me, ye who are wise in the secrets of human nature! I only know that so it is; and in spite of strong resolves--of a pride that too much masters me--of shame, and even of fear, so to render myself odious to my species--I must speak.

Genoa! my birthplace--proud city! looking upon the blue waves of the Mediterranean sea--dost thou remember me in my boyhood, when thy cliffs and promontories, thy bright sky and gay vineyards, were my world? Happy time! when to the young heart the narrow-bounded universe, which leaves, by its very limitation, free scope to the imagination, enchains our physical energies, and, sole period in our lives, innocence and enjoyment are united. Yet, who can look back to childhood, and not remember its sorrows and its harrowing fears? I was born with the most imperious, haughty, tameless spirit, with which ever mortal was gifted. I quailed before my father only; and he, generous and noble, but capricious and tyrannical, at once fostered and checked the wild impetuosity of my character, making obedience necessary, but inspiring no respect for the motives which guided his commands. To be a man, free, independent; or, in better words, insolent and domineering, was the hope and prayer of my rebel heart.

My father had one friend, a wealthy Genoese noble, who, in a political tumult, was suddenly sentenced to banishment, and his property confiscated. The Marchese Torella went into exile alone. Like my father, he was a widower: he had one child, the almost infant Juliet, who was left under my father's guardianship. I should certainly have been an unkind master to the lovely girl, but that I was forced by my position to become her protector. A variety of childish incidents all tended to one point,--to make Juliet see in me a rock of refuge; I in her, one, who must perish through the soft sensibility of her nature too rudely visited, but for my guardian care. We grew up together. The opening rose in May was not more sweet than this dear girl. An irradiation of beauty was spread over her face. Her form, her step, her voice--my heart weeps even now, to think of all of relying, gentle, loving, and pure, that was enshrined in that celestial tenement. When I was eleven and Juliet eight years of age, a cousin of mine, much older than either--he seemed to us a man--took great notice of my playmate; he called her his bride, and asked her to marry him. She refused, and he insisted, drawing her unwillingly towards him. With the countenance and emotions of a maniac I threw myself on him--I strove to draw his sword--I clung to his neck with the ferocious resolve to strangle him: he was obliged to call for assistance to disengage himself from me. On that night I led Juliet to the chapel of our house: I made her touch the sacred relics--I harrowed her child's heart, and profaned her child's lips with an oath, that she would be mine, and mine only.

Well, those days passed away. Torella returned in a few years, and became wealthier and more prosperous than ever. When I was seventeen, my father died; he had been magnificent to prodigality; Torella rejoiced that my minority would afford an opportunity for repairing my fortunes. Juliet and I had been affianced beside my father's deathbed--Torella was to be a second parent to me.

I desired to see the world, and I was indulged. I went to Florence, to Rome, to Naples; thence I passed to Toulon, and at length reached what had long been the bourne of my wishes, Paris. There was wild work in Paris then. The poor king, Charles the Sixth, now sane, now mad, now a monarch, now an abject slave, was the very mockery of humanity. The queen, the dauphin, the Duke of Burgundy, alternately friends and foes--now meeting in prodigal feasts, now shedding blood in rivalry--were blind to the miserable state of their country, and the dangers that impended over it, and gave themselves wholly up to dissolute enjoyment or savage strife. My character still followed me. I was arrogant and self-willed; I loved display, and above all, I threw all control far from me. Who could control me in Paris? My young friends were eager to foster passions which furnished them with pleasures. I was deemed handsome--I was master of every knightly accomplishment. I was disconnected with any political party. I grew a favorite with all: my presumption and arrogance was pardoned in one so young; I became a spoiled child. Who could control me? not letters and advice of Torella--only strong necessity visiting me in the abhorred shape of an empty purse. But there were means to refill this void. Acre after acre, estate after estate, I sold. My dress, my jewels, my horses and their caparisons, were almost unrivalled in gorgeous Paris, while the lands of my inheritance passed into possession of others.

The Duke of Orleans was waylaid and murdered by the Duke of Burgundy. Fear and terror possessed all Paris. The dauphin and the queen shut themselves up; every pleasure was suspended. I grew weary of this state of things, and my heart yearned for my boyhood's haunts. I was nearly a beggar, yet still I would go there, claim my bride, and rebuild my fortunes. A few happy ventures as a merchant would make me rich again. Nevertheless, I would not return in humble guise. My last act was to dispose of my remaining estate near Albaro for half its worth, for ready money. Then I despatched all kinds of artificers, arras, furniture of regal splendor, to fit up the last relic of my inheritance, my palace in Genoa. I lingered a little longer yet, ashamed at the part of the prodigal returned, which I feared I should play. I sent my horses. One matchless Spanish jennet I despatched to my promised bride; its caparisons flamed with jewels and cloth of gold. In every part I caused to be entwined the initials of Juliet and her Guido. My present found favor in hers and in her father's eyes.

Still, to return a proclaimed spendthrift, the mark of impertinent wonder, perhaps of scorn, and to encounter singly the reproaches or taunts of my fellow-citizens, was no alluring prospect. As a shield between me and censure, I invited some few of the most reckless of my comrades to accompany me; thus I went armed against the world, hiding a rankling feeling, half fear and half penitence, by bravado and an insolent display of satisfied vanity.

I arrived in Genoa. I trod the pavement of my ancestral palace. My proud step was no interpreter of my heart, for I deeply felt that, though surrounded by every luxury, I was a beggar. The first step I took in claiming Juliet must widely declare me such. I read contempt or pity in the looks of all. I fancied, so apt is conscience to imagine what it deserves, that rich and poor, young and old, all regarded me with derision. Torella came not near me. No wonder that my second father should expect a son's deference from me in waiting first on him. But, galled and stung by a sense of my follies and demerit, I strove to throw the blame on others. We kept nightly orgies in Palazzo Carega. To sleepless, riotous nights, followed listless, supine mornings. At the Ave Maria we showed our dainty persons in the streets, scoffing at the sober citizens, casting insolent glances on the shrinking women. Juliet was not among them--no, no; if she had been there, shame would have driven me away, if love had not brought me to her feet.

I grew tired of this. Suddenly I paid the Marchese a visit. He was at his villa, one among the many which deck the suburb of San Pietro d'Arena. It was the month of May--a month of May in that garden of the world--the blossoms of the fruit-trees were fading among thick, green foliage; the vines were shooting forth; the ground strewed with the fallen olive blooms; the firefly was in the myrtle hedge; heaven and earth wore a mantle of surpassing beauty. Torella welcomed me kindly, though seriously; and even his shade of displeasure soon wore away. Some resemblance to my father--some look and tone of youthful ingenuousness, lurking still in spite of my misdeeds, softened the good old man's heart. He sent for his daughter, he presented me to her as her betrothed. The chamber became hallowed by a holy light as she entered. Hers was that cherub look, those large, soft eyes, full dimpled cheeks, and mouth of infantine sweetness, that expresses the rare union of happiness and love. Admiration first possessed me; she is mine! was the second proud emotion, and my lips curled with haughty triumph. I had not been the _enfant gâté_ of the beauties of France not to have learnt the art of pleasing the soft heart of woman. If towards men I was overbearing, the deference I paid to them was the more in contrast. I commenced my courtship by the display of a thousand gallantries to Juliet, who, vowed to me from infancy, had never admitted the devotion of others; and who, though accustomed to expressions of admiration, was uninitiated in the language of lovers.

For a few days all went well. Torella never alluded to my extravagance; he treated me as a favorite son. But the time came, as we discussed the preliminaries to my union with his daughter, when this fair face of things should be overcast. A contract had been drawn up in my father's lifetime. I had rendered this, in fact, void, by having squandered the whole of the wealth which was to have been shared by Juliet and myself. Torella, in consequence, chose to consider this bond as cancelled, and proposed another, in which, though the wealth he bestowed was immeasurably increased, there were so many restrictions as to the mode of spending it, that I, who saw independence only in free career being given to my own imperious will, taunted him as taking advantage of my situation, and refused utterly to subscribe to his conditions. The old man mildly strove to recall me to reason. Roused pride became the tyrant of my thought: I listened with indignation--I repelled him with disdain.

"Juliet, thou art mine! Did we not interchange vows in our innocent childhood? are we not one in the sight of God? and shall thy cold-hearted, cold-blooded father divide us? Be generous, my love, be just; take not away a gift, last treasure of thy Guido--retract not thy vows--let us defy the world, and setting at naught the calculations of age, find in our mutual affection a refuge from every ill!"

Fiend I must have been, with such sophistry to endeavor to poison that sanctuary of holy thought and tender love. Juliet shrank from me affrighted. Her father was the best and kindest of men, and she strove to show me how, in obeying him, every good would follow. He would receive my tardy submission with warm affection, and generous pardon would follow my repentance. Profitless words for a young and gentle daughter to use to a man accustomed to make his will law, and to feel in his own heart a despot so terrible and stern, that he could yield obedience to nought save his own imperious desires! My resentment grew with resistance; my wild companions were ready to add fuel to the flame. We laid a plan to carry off Juliet. At first it appeared to be crowned with success. Midway, on our return, we were overtaken by the agonized father and his attendants. A conflict ensued. Before the city guard came to decide the victory in favor of our antagonists, two of Torella's servitors were dangerously wounded.

This portion of my history weighs most heavily with me. Changed man as I am, I abhor myself in the recollection. May none who hear this tale ever have felt as I. A horse driven to fury by a rider armed with barbed spurs, was not more a slave than I to the violent tyranny of my temper. A fiend possessed my soul, irritating it to madness. I felt the voice of conscience within me; but if I yielded to it for a brief interval, it was only to be a moment after torn, as by a whirlwind, away--borne along on the stream of desperate rage--the plaything of the storms engendered by pride. I was imprisoned, and, at the instance of Torella, set free. Again I returned to carry off both him and his child to France; which hapless country, then preyed on by freebooters and gangs of lawless soldiery, offered a grateful refuge to a criminal like me. Our plots were discovered. I was sentenced to banishment; and as my debts were already enormous, my remaining property was put in the hands of commissioners for their payment. Torella again offered his mediation, requiring only my promise not to renew my abortive attempts on himself and his daughter. I spurned his offers, and fancied that I triumphed when I was thrust out from Genoa, a solitary and penniless exile. My companions were gone: they had been dismissed the city some weeks before, and were already in France. I was alone--friendless; with nor sword at my side, nor ducat in my purse.

I wandered along the sea-shore, a whirlwind of passion possessing and tearing my soul. It was as if a live coal had been set burning in my breast. At first I meditated on what _I should do_. I would join a band of freebooters. Revenge!--the word seemed balm to me:--I hugged it--caressed it--till, like a serpent, it stung me. Then again I would abjure and despise Genoa, that little corner of the world. I would return to Paris, where so many of my friends swarmed; where my services would be eagerly accepted; where I would carve out fortune with my sword, and might, through success, make my paltry birthplace, and the false Torella, rue the day when they drove me, a new Coriolanus, from her walls. I would return to Paris--thus, on foot--a beggar--and present myself in my poverty to those I had formerly entertained sumptuously. There was gall in the mere thought of it.

The reality of things began to dawn upon my mind, bringing despair in its train. For several months I had been a prisoner: the evils of my dungeon had whipped my soul to madness, but they had subdued my corporeal frame. I was weak and wan. Torella had used a thousand artifices to administer to my comfort; I had detected and scorned them all--and I reaped the harvest of my obduracy. What was to be done?--Should I crouch before my foe, and sue for forgiveness?--Die rather ten thousand deaths!--Never should they obtain that victory! Hate--I swore eternal hate! Hate from whom?--to whom?--From a wandering outcast--to a mighty noble. I and my feelings were nothing to them: already had they forgotten one so unworthy. And Juliet!--her angel-face and sylph-like form gleamed among the clouds of my despair with vain beauty; for I had lost her--the glory and flower of the world! Another will call her his!--that smile of paradise will bless another!

Even now my heart fails within me when I recur to this rout of grim-visaged ideas. Now subdued almost to tears, now raving in my agony, still I wandered along the rocky shore, which grew at each step wilder and more desolate. Hanging rocks and hoar precipices overlooked the tideless ocean; black caverns yawned; and for ever, among the sea-worn recesses, murmured and dashed the unfruitful waters. Now my way was almost barred by an abrupt promontory, now rendered nearly impracticable by fragments fallen from the cliff. Evening was at hand, when, seaward, arose, as if on the waving of a wizard's wand, a murky web of clouds, blotting the late azure sky, and darkening and disturbing the till now placid deep. The clouds had strange fantastic shapes; and they changed, and mingled, and seemed to be driven about by a mighty spell. The waves raised their white crests; the thunder first muttered, then roared from across the waste of waters, which took a deep purple dye, flecked with foam. The spot where I stood, looked, on one side, to the wide-spread ocean; on the other, it was barred by a rugged promontory. Round this cape suddenly came, driven by the wind, a vessel. In vain the mariners tried to force a path for her to the open sea--the gale drove her on the rocks. It will perish!--all on board will perish!--would I were among them! And to my young heart the idea of death came for the first time blended with that of joy. It was an awful sight to behold that vessel struggling with her fate. Hardly could I discern the sailors, but I heard them. It was soon all over!--A rock, just covered by the tossing waves, and so unperceived, lay in wait for its prey. A crash of thunder broke over my head at the moment that, with a frightful shock, the skiff dashed upon her unseen enemy. In a brief space of time she went to pieces. There I stood in safety; and there were my fellow-creatures, battling, now hopelessly, with annihilation. Methought I saw them struggling--too truly did I hear their shrieks, conquering the barking surges in their shrill agony. The dark breakers threw hither and thither the fragments of the wreck; soon it disappeared. I had been fascinated to gaze till the end: at last I sank on my knees--I covered my face with my hands: I again looked up; something was floating on the billows towards the shore. It neared and neared. Was that a human form?--it grew more distinct; and at last a mighty wave, lifting the whole freight, lodged it upon a rock. A human being bestriding a sea-chest!--A human being!--Yet was it one? Surely never such had existed before--a misshapen dwarf, with squinting eyes, distorted features, and body deformed, till it became a horror to behold. My blood, lately warming towards a fellow-being so snatched from a watery tomb, froze in my heart. The dwarf got off his chest; he tossed his straight, straggling hair from his odious visage.

"By St. Beelzebub!" he exclaimed, "I have been well bested." He looked round, and saw me, "Oh, by the fiend! here is another ally of the mighty one. To what saint did you offer prayers, friend--if not to mine? Yet I remember you not on board."

I shrank from the monster and his blasphemy. Again he questioned me, and I muttered some inaudible reply. He continued:----

"Your voice is drowned by this dissonant roar. What a noise the big ocean makes! Schoolboys bursting from their prison are not louder than these waves set free to play. They disturb me. I will no more of their ill-timed brawling.--Silence, hoary One!--Winds, avaunt!--to your homes!--Clouds, fly to the antipodes, and leave our heaven clear!"

As he spoke, he stretched out his two long lank arms, that looked like spiders' claws, and seemed to embrace with them the expanse before him. Was it a miracle? The clouds became broken, and fled; the azure sky first peeped out, and then was spread a calm field of blue above us; the stormy gale was exchanged to the softly breathing west; the sea grew calm; the waves dwindled to riplets.

"I like obedience even in these stupid elements," said the dwarf, "How much more in the tameless mind of man! It was a well got up storm, you must allow--and all of my own making."

It was tempting Providence to interchange talk with this magician. But _Power_, in all its shapes, is venerable to man. Awe, curiosity, a clinging fascination, drew me towards him.

"Come, don't be frightened, friend," said the wretch: "I am good-humored when pleased; and something does please me in your well-proportioned body and handsome face, though you look a little woe-begone. You have suffered a land--I, a sea wreck. Perhaps I can allay the tempest of your fortunes as I did my own. Shall we be friends?"--And he held out his hand; I could not touch it. "Well, then, companions--that will do as well. And now, while I rest after the buffeting I underwent just now, tell me why, young and gallant as you seem, you wander thus alone and downcast on this wild sea-shore."

The voice of the wretch was screeching and horrid, and his contortions as he spoke were frightful to behold. Yet he did gain a kind of influence over me, which I could not master, and I told him my tale. When it was ended, he laughed long and loud; the rocks echoed back the sound; hell seemed yelling around me.

"Oh, thou cousin of Lucifer!" said he; "so thou too hast fallen through thy pride; and, though bright as the son of Morning, thou art ready to give up thy good looks, thy bride, and thy well-being, rather than submit thee to the tyranny of good. I honor thy choice, by my soul! So thou hast fled, and yield the day; and mean to starve on these rocks, and to let the birds peck out thy dead eyes, while thy enemy and thy betrothed rejoice in thy ruin. Thy pride is strangely akin to humility, methinks."

As he spoke, a thousand fanged thoughts stung me to the heart.

"What would you that I should do?" I cried.

"I!--Oh, nothing, but lie down and say your prayers before you die. But, were I you, I know the deed that should be done."

I drew near him. His supernatural powers made him an oracle in my eyes; yet a strange unearthly thrill quivered through my frame as I said--"Speak!--teach me--what act do you advise?"

"Revenge thyself, man!--humble thy enemies!--set thy foot on the old man's neck, and possess thyself of his daughter!"

"To the east and west I turn," cried I, "and see no means! Had I gold, much could I achieve; but, poor and single, I am powerless."

The dwarf had been seated on his chest as he listened to my story. Now he got off; he touched a spring; it flew open!--What a mine of wealth--of blazing jewels, beaming gold, and pale silver--was displayed therein. A mad desire to possess this treasure was born within me.

"Doubtless," I said, "one so powerful as you could do all things."

"Nay," said the monster, humbly, "I am less omnipotent than I seem. Some things I possess which you may covet; but I would give them all for a small share, or even for a loan of what is yours."

"My possessions are at your service," I replied, bitterly--"my poverty, my exile, my disgrace--I make a free gift of them all."

"Good! I thank you. Add one other thing to your gift, and my treasure is yours."

"As nothing is my sole inheritance, what besides nothing would you have?"

"Your comely face and well-made limbs."

I shivered. Would this all-powerful monster murder me? I had no dagger. I forgot to pray--but I grew pale.

"I ask for a loan, not a gift," said the frightful thing: "lend me your body for three days--you shall have mine to cage your soul the while, and, in payment, my chest. What say you to the bargain?--Three short days."

We are told that it is dangerous to hold unlawful talk; and well do I prove the same. Tamely written down, it may seem incredible that I should lend any ear to this proposition; but, in spite of his unnatural ugliness, there was something fascinating in a being whose voice could govern earth, air, and sea. I felt a keen desire to comply; for with that chest I could command the world. My only hesitation resulted from a fear that he would not be true to his bargain. Then, I thought, I shall soon die here on these lonely sands, and the limbs he covets will be mine no more:--it is worth the chance. And, besides, I knew that, by all the rules of art-magic, there were formula and oaths which none of its practisers dared break. I hesitated to reply; and he went on, now displaying his wealth, now speaking of the petty price he demanded, till it seemed madness to refuse. Thus is it; place our bark in the current of the stream, and down, over fall and cataract it is hurried; give up our conduct to the wild torrent of passion, and we are away, we know not whither.

He swore many an oath, and I adjured him by many a sacred name; till I saw this wonder of power, this ruler of the elements, shiver like an autumn leaf before my words; and as if the spirit spake unwillingly and per force within him, at last, he, with broken voice, revealed the spell whereby he might be obliged, did he wish to play me false, to render up the unlawful spoil. Our warm life-blood must mingle to make and to mar the charm.

Enough of this unholy theme. I was persuaded--the thing was done. The morrow dawned upon me as I lay upon the shingles, and I knew not my own shadow as it fell from me. I felt myself changed to a shape of horror, and cursed my easy faith and blind credulity. The chest was there--there the gold and precious stones for which I had sold the frame of flesh which nature had given me. The sight a little stilled my emotions; three days would soon be gone.

They did pass. The dwarf had supplied me with a plenteous store of food. At first I could hardly walk, so strange and out of joint were all my limbs; and my voice--it was that of the fiend. But I kept silent, and turned my face to the sun, that I might not see my shadow, and counted the hours, and ruminated on my future conduct. To bring Torella to my feet--to possess my Juliet in spite of him--all this my wealth could easily achieve. During dark night I slept, and dreamt of the accomplishment of my desires. Two suns had set--the third dawned. I was agitated, fearful. Oh, expectation, what a frightful thing art thou, when kindled more by fear than hope! How dost thou twist thyself round the heart, torturing its pulsations! How dost thou dart unknown pangs all through our feeble mechanism, now seeming to shiver us like broken glass, to nothingness--now giving us a fresh strength, which can _do_ nothing, and so torments us by a sensation, such as the strong man must feel who cannot break his fetters, though they bend in his grasp. Slowly paced the bright, bright orb up the eastern sky; long it lingered in the zenith, and still more slowly wandered down the west; it touched the horizon's verge--it was lost! Its glories were on the summits of the cliff--they grew dun and gray. The evening star shone bright. He will soon be here.

He came not!--By the living heavens, he came not!--and night dragged out its weary length, and, in its decaying age, "day began to grizzle its dark hair;" and the sun rose again on the most miserable wretch that ever upbraided its light. Three days thus I passed. The jewels and the gold--oh, how I abhorred them!

Well, well--I will not blacken these pages with demoniac ravings. All too terrible were the thoughts, the raging tumult of ideas that filled my soul. At the end of that time I slept; I had not before since the third sunset; and I dreamt that I was at Juliet's feet, and she smiled, and then she shrieked--for she saw my transformation--and again she smiled, for still her beautiful lover knelt before her. But it was not I--it was he, the fiend, arrayed in my limbs, speaking with my voice, winning her with my looks of love. I strove to warn her, but my tongue refused its office; I strove to tear him from her, but I was rooted to the ground--I awoke with the agony. There were the solitary hoar precipices--there the plashing sea, the quiet strand, and the blue sky over all. What did it mean? was my dream but a mirror of the truth? was he wooing and winning my betrothed? I would on the instant back to Genoa--but I was banished. I laughed--the dwarfs yell burst from my lips--_I_ banished! Oh, no! they had not exiled the foul limbs I wore; I might with these enter, without fear of incurring the threatened penalty of death, my own, my native city.

I began to walk towards Genoa. I was somewhat accustomed to my distorted limbs; none were ever so ill-adapted for a straightforward movement; it was with infinite difficulty that I proceeded. Then, too, I desired to avoid all the hamlets strewed here and there on the sea-beach, for I was unwilling to make a display of my hideousness. I was not quite sure that, if seen, the mere boys would not stone me to death as I passed, for a monster: some ungentle salutations I did receive from the few peasants or fishermen I chanced to meet. But it was dark night before I approached Genoa. The weather was so balmy and sweet that it struck me that the Marchese and his daughter would very probably have quitted the city for their country retreat. It was from Villa Torella that I had attempted to carry off Juliet; I had spent many an hour reconnoitring the spot, and knew each inch of ground in its vicinity. It was beautifully situated, embosomed in trees, on the margin of a stream. As I drew near, it became evident that my conjecture was right; nay, moreover, that the hours were being then devoted to feasting and merriment. For the house was lighted up; strains of soft and gay music were wafted towards me by the breeze. My heart sank within me. Such was the generous kindness of Torella's heart that I felt sure that he would not have indulged in public manifestations of rejoicing just after my unfortunate banishment, but for a cause I dared not dwell upon.

The country people were all alive and flocking about; it became necessary that I should study to conceal myself; and yet I longed to address some one, or to hear others discourse, or in any way to gain intelligence of what was really going on. At length, entering the walks that were in immediate vicinity to the mansion, I found one dark enough to veil my excessive frightfulness; and yet others as well as I were loitering in its shade. I soon gathered all I wanted to know--all that first made my very heart die with horror, and then boil with indignation. To-morrow Juliet was to be given to the penitent, reformed, beloved Guido--to-morrow my bride was to pledge her vows to a fiend from hell! And I did this!--my accursed pride--my demoniac violence and wicked self-idolatry had caused this act. For if I had acted as the wretch who had stolen my form had acted--if, with a mien at once yielding and dignified, I had presented myself to Torella, saying, I have done wrong, forgive me; I am unworthy of your angel-child, but permit me to claim her hereafter, when my altered conduct shall manifest that I abjure my vices, and endeavor to become in some sort worthy of her; I go to serve against the infidels; and when my zeal for religion and my true penitence for the past shall appear to you to cancel my crimes, permit me again to call myself your son. Thus had he spoken; and the penitent was welcomed even as the prodigal son of scripture: the fatted calf was killed for him; and he, still pursuing the same path, displayed such open-hearted regret for his follies, so humble a concession of all his rights, and so ardent a resolve to reacquire them by a life of contrition and virtue, that he quickly conquered the kind old man; and full pardon, and the gift of his lovely child, followed in swift succession.

Oh! had an angel from paradise whispered to me to act thus! But now, what would be the innocent Juliet's fate? Would God permit the foul union--or, some prodigy destroying it, link the dishonored name of Carega with the worst of crimes? To-morrow, at dawn, they were to be married: there was but one way to prevent this--to meet mine enemy, and to enforce the ratification of our agreement. I felt that this could only be done by a mortal struggle. I had no sword--if indeed my distorted arms could wield a soldier's weapon--but I had a dagger, and in that lay my every hope. There was no time for pondering or balancing nicely the question: I might die in the attempt; but besides the burning jealousy and despair of my own heart, honor, mere humanity, demanded that I should fall rather than not destroy the machinations of the fiend.

The guests departed--the lights began to disappear; it was evident that the inhabitants of the villa were seeking repose. I hid myself among the trees--the garden grew desert--the gates were closed--I wandered round and came under a window--ah! well did I know the same!--a soft twilight glimmered in the room--the curtains were half withdrawn. It was the temple of innocence and beauty. Its magnificence was tempered, as it were, by the slight disarrangements occasioned by its being dwelt in, and all the objects scattered around displayed the taste of her who hallowed it by her presence. I saw her enter with a quick light step--I saw her approach the window--she drew back the curtain yet further, and looked out into the night. Its breezy freshness played among her ringlets, and wafted them from the transparent marble of her brow. She clasped her hands, she raised her eyes to heaven. I heard her voice. Guido! she softly murmured, Mine own Guido! and then, as if overcome by the fulness of her own heart, she sank on her knees:--her upraised eyes--her negligent but graceful attitude--the beaming thankfulness that lighted up her face--oh, these are tame words! Heart of mine, thou imagest ever, though thou canst not portray, the celestial beauty of that child of light and love.

I heard a step--a quick firm step along the shady avenue. Soon I saw a cavalier, richly dressed, young, and, methought, graceful to look on, advance. I hid myself yet closer. The youth approached; he paused beneath the window. She arose, and again looking out she saw him, and said--I cannot, no, at this distant time I cannot record her terms of soft silver tenderness; to me they were spoken, but they were replied to by him.

"I will not go," he cried: "here where you have been, where your memory glides like some heaven-visiting ghost, I will pass the long hours till we meet, never, my Juliet, again, day or night, to part. But do thou, my love, retire; the cold morn and fitful breeze will make thy cheek pale, and fill with languor thy love-lighted eyes. Ah, sweetest! could I press one kiss upon them, I could, methinks, repose."

And then he approached still nearer, and methought he was about to clamber into her chamber. I had hesitated, not to terrify her; now I was no longer master of myself. I rushed forward--I threw myself on him--I tore him away--I cried, "O loathsome and foul-shaped wretch!"

I need not repeat epithets, all tending, as it appeared, to rail at a person I at present feel some partiality for. A shriek rose from Juliet's lips. I neither heard nor saw--I _felt_ only mine enemy, whose throat I grasped, and my dagger's hilt; he struggled, but could not escape; at length hoarsely he breathed these words: "Do!--strike home! destroy this body--you will still live; may your life be long and merry!"

The descending dagger was arrested at the word, and he, feeling my hold relax, extricated himself and drew his sword, while the uproar in the house, and flying of torches from one room to the other, showed that soon we should be separated--and I--oh! far better die; so that he did not survive, I cared not. In the midst of my frenzy there was much calculation:--fall I might, and so that he did not survive, I cared not for the death-blow I might deal against myself. While still, therefore, he thought I paused, and while I saw the villanous resolve to take advantage of my hesitation, in the sudden thrust he made at me, I threw myself on his sword, and at the same moment plunged my dagger, with a true desperate aim, in his side. We fell together, rolling over each other, and the tide of blood that flowed from the gaping wound of each mingled on the grass. More I know not--I fainted.

Again I returned to life: weak almost to death, I found myself stretched upon a bed--Juliet was kneeling beside it. Strange! my first broken request was for a mirror. I was so wan and ghastly, that my poor girl hesitated, as she told me afterwards; but, by the mass! I thought myself a right proper youth when I saw the dear reflection of my own well-known features. I confess it is a weakness, but I avow it, I do entertain a considerable affection for the countenance and limbs I behold, whenever I look at a glass; and have more mirrors in my house, and consult them oftener than any beauty in Venice. Before you too much condemn me, permit me to say that no one better knows than I the value of his own body; no one, probably, except myself, ever having had it stolen from him.

Incoherently I at first talked of the dwarf and his crimes, and reproached Juliet for her too easy admission of his love. She thought me raving, as well she might, and yet it was some time before I could prevail on myself to admit that the Guido whose penitence had won her back for me was myself; and while I cursed bitterly the monstrous dwarf, and blest the well-directed blow that had deprived him of life, I suddenly checked myself when I heard her say--Amen! knowing that him whom she reviled was my very self. A little reflection taught me silence--a little practice enabled me to speak of that frightful night without any very excessive blunder. The wound I had given myself was no mockery of one--it was long before I recovered--and as the benevolent and generous Torella sat beside me talking such wisdom as might win friends to repentance, and mine own dear Juliet hovered near me, administering to my wants, and cheering me by her smiles, the work of my bodily cure and mental reform went on together. I have never, indeed, wholly, recovered my strength--my cheek is paler since--my person a little bent. Juliet sometimes ventures to allude bitterly to the malice that caused this change, but I kiss her on the moment, and tell her all is for the best. I am a fonder and more faithful husband--and true is this--but for that wound, never had I called her mine.

I did not revisit the sea-shore, nor seek for the fiend's treasure; yet, while I ponder on the past, I often think, and my confessor was not backward in favoring the idea, that it might be a good rather than an evil spirit, sent by my guardian angel, to show me the folly and misery of pride. So well at least did I learn this lesson, roughly taught as I was, that I am known now by all my friends and fellow-citizens by the name of Guido il Cortese.

From the North British Review

PHILIP DODDRIDGE, AND SOME OF HIS FRIENDS.

In the ornithological gallery of the British Museum is suspended the portrait of an extinct lawyer, Sir John Doddridge, the first of the name who procured any distinction to his old Devonian family. Persons skilful in physiognomy have detected a resemblance betwixt King James's solicitor-general and his only famous namesake. But although it is difficult to identify the sphery figure of the judge with the slim consumptive preacher, and still more difficult to light up with pensive benevolence the convivial countenance in which official gravity and constitutional gruffiness have only yielded to good cheer; yet, it would appear, that for some of his mental features the divine was indebted to his learned ancestor. Sir John was a bookworm and a scholar; and for a great period of his life a man of mighty industry. His ruling passion went with him to the grave; for he chose to be buried in Exeter Cathedral, at the threshold of its library. His nephew was the rector of Shepperton in Middlesex; but at the Restoration, as he kept a conscience, he lost his living. In the troubles of the Civil War, the judge's estate of two thousand a year had also been lost out of the family, and the ejected minister was glad to rear his son as a London apprentice, who became, on the twenty-sixth of June, 1702, the father of Philip Doddridge.

The child's first lessons were out of a pictorial Bible, occasionally found in the old houses of England and Holland. The chimney of the room where he and his mother usually sat, was adorned with a series of Dutch tiles, representing the chief events of scriptural story. In bright blue, on a ground of glistering white, were represented the serpent in the tree, Adam delving outside the gate of Paradise, Noah building his great ship, Elisha'a bears devouring the naughty children, and all the outstanding incidents of holy writ. And when the frost made the fire burn clear, and little Philip was snug in the arm-chair beside his mother, it was endless joy to hear the stories that lurked in the painted porcelain. That mother could not foresee the outgoings of her early lesson; but when the tiny boy had become a famous divine, and was publishing his Family Expositor, he could not forget the nursery Bible in the chimney tiles. At ten years of age he was sent to the school at Kingston, which his grandfather Baumann had taught long ago; and here his sweet disposition, and alacrity for learning drew much love around him--a love which he soon inspired in the school at St. Albans, whither his father subsequently removed him. But whilst busy there with his Greek and Latin, his heart was sorely wrung by the successive tidings of the death of either parent. His father was willing to indulge a wish he had now begun to cherish, and had left money enough to enable the young student to complete his preparations for the Christian ministry. Of this provision a self-constituted guardian got hold, and embarked it in his own sinking business. His failure soon followed, and ingulfed the little fortune of his ward; and, as the hereditary plate of the thrifty householders was sold along with the bankrupt's effects, if he had ever felt the pride of being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, the poor scholar must have felt some pathos in seeing both spoon and tankard in the broker's inventory.

A securer heritage, however, than parental savings, is parental faith and piety. Daniel Doddridge and his wife had sought for their child first of all the kingdom of heaven, and God gave it now. Under the ministry of Rev. Samuel Clarke of St. Alban's, his mind had become more and more impressed with the beauty of holiness, and the blessedness of a religious life; and, on the other hand, that kind-hearted pastor took a deepening interest in his amiable and intelligent orphan hearer. Finding that he had declined the generous offer of the Duchess of Bedford, to maintain him at either University, provided he would enter the established church, Dr. Clarke applied to his own and his father's friends, and procured a sufficient sum to send him to a dissenting academy at Kibworth, in Leicestershire, then conducted by an able tutor, whose work on Jewish antiquities still retains considerable value--the Rev. David Jennings.

To trace Philip Doddridge's early career would be a labor of some amusement and much instruction. And we are not without abundant materials. No man is responsible for his remote descendants. Sir John Doddridge, judge of the Court of King's Bench, would have blushed to think that his great-grandnephew was to be a Puritan preacher. With more reason might Dr. Doddridge have blushed to think that his great-grandson was to be a coxcomb. But so it has proved. Twenty years ago Mr. John Doddridge Humphreys gave to the world five octavos of his ancestor's correspondence, which, on the whole, we deem the most eminent instance, in modern times, of editorial incompetency. But the book contains many curiosities to reward the dust-sifting historian. And were it not our object to hasten on and sketch the ministerial model to which our last number alluded, we could cheerfully halt for half an hour, and entertain our readers and ourselves with the sweepings of Dr. Doddridge's Kibworth study.

Suffice it to say that the protégé of the good Dr. Clarke rewarded his patron's kindness. His classical attainments were far above the usual University standard, and he read with avidity the English philosophers from Bacon down to Shaftesbury. He early exhibited that hopeful propensity--the noble avarice of books. In his first half-yearly account of nine pounds are entries for "King's Inquiry," and an interleaved New Testament; and a guinea presented by a rich fellow-student, is invested in "Scott's Christian Life." Nor was he less diligent in perusing the stores of the Academy Library. In six months we find him reading sixty volumes; and some of them as solid as Patrick's Exposition and Tillotson's Sermons. With such avidity for information, professional and miscellaneous, and with a style which was always elastic and easy, and with brilliant talent constantly gleaming over the surface of unruffled temper and warm affections, it is not wonderful that his friends hoped and desired for him high distinction; but it evinces unusual and precocious attainments, that, when he had scarcely reached majority, he should have been invited to succeed Mr. Jennings as pastor at Kibworth, and that whilst still a young man he should have been urged by his ministerial brethren to combine with his pastorate the responsible duties of a college tutor....

From such a catastrophe the hand of God saved Philip Doddridge. In 1729 he was removed to Northampton, and from that period may be dated the consolidation of his character, and the commencement of a new and noble career. The anguish of spirit occasioned by parting with a much-loved people, and the solemn consciousness of entering on a more arduous sphere, both tended to make him thoughtful, and that thoughtfulness was deepened by a dangerous sickness. Nor in this sobering discipline must we leave out of view one painful but salutary element--a mortified affection. Mr. Doddridge had been living as a boarder in the house of his predecessor's widow, and her only child--the little girl whom he had found amusement in teaching an occasional lesson, was now nearly grown up, and had grown up so brilliant and engaging, that the soft heart of the tutor was terribly smitten. The charms of Clio and Sabrina, and every former flame, were merged in the rising glories of Clarinda--as by a classical apotheosis Miss Kitty was now known to his entranced imagination; and in every vision of future enjoyment Clarinda was the beatific angel. But when he decided in favor of Northampton, Miss Jennings showed a will of her own, and absolutely refused to go with him. To the romantic lover the disappointment was all the more severe, because he had made so sure of the young lady's affection; nor was it mitigated by the mode in which Miss Jennings conveyed her declinature. However, her scorn, if not an excellent oil, was a very good eyesalve. It disenchanted her admirer, and made him wonder how a reverend divine could ever fancy a spoiled child, who had scarcely matured into a petulant girl. And as the mirage melted, and Clarinda again resolved into Kitty, other realities began to show themselves in a sedater and truer light to the awakened dreamer. As an excuse for an attachment at which Doddridge himself soon learned to smile, it is fair to add that love was in this instance prophetic. Clarinda turned out a remarkable woman. She married an eminent dissenting minister, and became the mother of Dr. John Aiken and Mrs. Barbauld, and in her granddaughter, Lucy Aiken, her matrimonial name still survives; so that the curious in such matters may speculate how far the instructions of Doddridge contributed to produce the "Universal Biography," "Evenings at Home," and "Memoirs of the Courts of the Stuarts."

His biographers do not mark it, but his arrival at Northampton is the real date of Doddridge's memorable ministry. He then woke up to the full import of his high calling, and never went to sleep again. The sickness, the wounded spirit, the altered scene, and we may add seclusion from the society of formal religionists, had each its wholesome influence; and, finding how much was required of him as a pastor and a tutor, he set to work with the concentration and energy of a startled man, and the first true rest he took was twenty years after, when he turned aside to die.

Glorying in such names as Goodwin, and Charnock, and Owen, it was the ambition of the early Nonconformists of England to perpetuate among themselves a learned ministry. But the stern exclusiveness of the English Universities rendered the attainment of this object very difficult. It may be questioned whether it is right in any established church to inflict ignorance as a punishment on those dissenting from it. If intended as a vindictive visitation, it is a very fearful one, and reminds us painfully of those tyrants who used to extinguish the eyes of rebellious subjects. And if designed as a reformatory process, we question its efficiency. The zero of ignorance is unbelief, and its _minus_ scale marks errors. You cannot make dissenters so ignorant thereby to make them Christians; and, even though you made them savages, they might still remain seceders. However, this was the policy of the English establishment in the days of Doddridge. By withholding education from dissenters, they sought either to reclaim them, or to be revenged upon them; and had this policy succeeded, the dissenting pulpits would soon have been filled with fanatics, and the pews with superstitious sectaries. But, much to their honor, the Nonconformists taxed themselves heavily in order to procure elsewhere the light which Oxford and Cambridge refused. Academies were opened in various places, and, among others selected for the office of tutor, his talents recommended Mr. Doddridge. A large house was taken in the town of Northampton, and the business of instruction had begun, when Dr. Reynolds, the diocesan chancellor, instituted a prosecution, in the ecclesiastical courts, on the ground that the Academy was not licensed by the bishop. The affair gave Dr. Doddridge much trouble, but he had a powerful friend in the Earl of Halifax. That nobleman represented the matter to King George the Second, and conformably to his own declaration, "That in his reign there should be no persecution for conscience' sake," his majesty sent a message to Dr. Reynolds, which put an end to the process.

Freed from this peril, the institution advanced in a career of uninterrupted prosperity. Not only was it the resort of aspirants to the dissenting ministry, but wealthy dissenters were glad to secure its advantages for sons whom they were training to business or to the learned professions. And latterly, attracted by the reputation of its head, pupils came from Scotland and from Holland; and, in one case at least, we find a clergyman of the Church of England selecting it as the best seminary for a son whom he designed for the established ministry. Among our own compatriots educated there, we find the names of the Earl of Dunmore, Ferguson of Kilkerran, Professor Gilbert Robinson, and another Edinburgh professor, James Robertson, famous in the annals of his Hebrew-loving family.

With an average attendance of forty young men, mostly residing under his own roof, this Academy would have furnished abundant occupation to any ordinary teacher; and although usually relieved of elementary drudgery by his assistant, the main burden of instruction fell on Doddridge himself. He taught algebra, geometry, natural philosophy, geography, logic, and metaphysics. He prelected on the Greek and Latin classics, and at morning worship the Bible was read in Hebrew. Such of his pupils as desired it were initiated in French; and besides an extensive course of Jewish Antiquities and Church History, they were carried through a history of philosophy on the basis of Buddæus. To all of which must be added the main staple of the curriculum, a series of two hundred and fifty theological lectures, arranged, like Stapfer's, on the demonstrative principle, and each proposition following its predecessor with a sort of mathematical precision. Enormous as was the labor of preparing so many systems, and arranging anew materials so multifarious, it was still a labor of love. A clear and easy apprehension enabled him to amass knowledge with a rapidity which few have ever rivalled, and a constitutional orderliness of mind rendered him perpetual master of all his acquisitions; and, like most _millionaires_ in the world of knowledge, his avidity of acquirement was accompanied by an equal delight in imparting his treasures. When the essential ingredients of his course were completed, he relieved his memory of its redundant stores, by giving lectures on rhetoric and belles-lettres, on the microscope, and on the anatomy of the human frame; and there is one feature of his method which we would especially commemorate, as we fear that it still remains an original without a copy. Sometimes he conducted the students into the library, and gave a lecture on its contents. Going over it case by case, and row by row, he pointed out the most important authors, and indicated their characteristic excellences, and fixed the mental association by striking or amusing anecdotes. Would not such bibliographical lectures be a boon to all our students? To them a large library is often a labyrinth without a clue--a mighty maze--a dusty chaos. And might not the learned keepers of our great collections give lectures which would at once be entertaining and edifying on those rarities, printed and manuscript, of which they are the favored guardians, but of which their shelves are in the fair way to become not the dormitory alone, but the sepulchre? Nor was it to the mere intellectual culture of his pupils that Dr. Doddridge directed his labors. His academy was a church within a church; and not content with the ministrations which its members shared in common with his stated congregation, this indefatigable man took the pains to prepare and preach many occasional sermons to the students. These, and his formal addresses, as well as his personal interviews, had such an effect, that out of the two hundred young men who came under his instructions, seventy made their first public profession of Christianity during their sojourn at Northampton....

Whilst in labors for his students and his people thus abundant, Doddridge was secretly engaged on a task which he intended for the Church at large. Ever since his first initiation into the Bible story, as he studied the Dutch tiles on his mother's knee, that book had been the nucleus round which all his vast reading and information revolved and arranged itself; and he early formed the purpose of doing something effectual for its illustration. Element by element the plan of the "Family Expositor" evolved, and he set to work on a New Testament Commentary, which should at once instruct the uninformed, edify the devout, and facilitate the studies of the learned. Happy is the man who has a "magnum opus" on hand! Be it an "Excursion" poem, or a Southey's "Portugal," or a Neandrine "Church History,"--to the fond projector there is no end of congenial occupation, and, provided he never completes it, there will be no break in the blissful illusion. Whenever he walks abroad, he picks up some dainty herb for his growthful Pegasus; or, we should rather say, some new bricks for his posthumous pyramid. And wherever he goes he is flattered by perceiving that his book is the very desideratum for which the world is unwittingly waiting; and in his sleeve he smiles benevolently to think how happy mankind will be as soon as he vouchsafes his epic or his story. It is delightful to us to think of all the joys with which, for twenty years, that Expositor filled the dear mind of Dr. Doddridge; how one felicitous rendering was suggested after another; how a bright solution of a textual difficulty would rouse him an hour before his usual, and set the study fire a blazing at four o'clock of a winter's morning; and then how beautiful the first quarto looked as it arrived with its laid sheets and snowy margins! We see him setting out to spend a week's holiday at St. Albans, or with the Honorable Mrs. Scawen at Maidwell, and packing the "apparatus criticus" into the spacious saddle-bags; and we enjoy the prelibation with which Dr. Clarke and a few cherished friends are favored. We sympathize in his dismay when word arrives that Dr. Guyse has forestalled his design, and we are comforted when the doctor's chariot lumbers on, and no longer stops the way. We are even glad at the appalling accident which set on fire the manuscript of the concluding volume, charring its edges, and bathing it all in molten wax: for we know how exulting would be the thanks for its deliverance. We can even fancy the pious hope dawning in the writer's mind, that it might prove a blessing to the princess to whom it was inscribed; and we can excuse him if, with bashful disallowance, he still believed the fervid praises of Fordyce and Warburton, or tried to extract an atom of intelligent commendation from the stately compliments of bishops. But far be it from us to insinuate that the chief value of the Expositor was the pleasure with which it supplied the author. If not so minutely erudite as some later works which have profited by German research, its learning is still sufficient to shed honor on the writer, and, on a community debarred from colleges; and there must be original thinking in a book which is by some regarded as the source of Paley's "Horæ Paulinæ." But, next to its Practical Observations, its chief excellence is its Paraphrase. There the sense of the sacred writers is rescued from the haze of too familiar words, and is transfused into language not only fresh and expressive, but congenial and devout; and whilst difficulties are fairly and earnestly dealt with, instead of a dry grammarian or a one-sided polemic, the reader constantly feels that he is in the company of a saint and a scholar. And although we could name interpreters more profound, and analysts more subtle, we know not any who has proceeded through the whole New Testament with so much candor, or who has brought to its elucidation truer taste and holier feeling. He lived to complete the manuscript, and to see three volumes published. He was cheered to witness its acceptance with all the churches; and to those who love his memory, it is a welcome thought to think in how many myriads of closets and family circles its author when dead has spoken. And as his death in a foreign land forfeited the insurance by which he had somewhat provided for his family, we confess to a certain comfort in knowing that the loss was replaced by this literary legacy. But the great source of complacency is, that He to whom the work was consecrated had a favor for it, and has given it the greatest honor that a human book can have--making it extensively the means of explaining and endearing the book of God.

Whilst this great undertaking was slowly advancing, the author was from time to time induced to give to the world a sermon or a practical treatise. Several of these maintain a considerable circulation down to the present day; but of them all the most permanent and precious is "The Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul." The publication of this work was urged upon him by Dr. Isaac Watts, with whom it had long been a cherished project to prepare a manual which should contain within itself a complete course of practical piety, from the first dawn of earnest thought to the full development of Christian character, But when exhaustion and decay admonished Dr. Watts that his work was done, he transferred to his like-minded friend his favorite scheme; and, sorely begrudging the interruption of his Commentary, Doddridge compiled this volume. It is not faultless. A more predominant exhibition of the Gospel remedy would have been more apostolic; and it would have prevented an evil which some have experienced in reading it, who have entangled themselves in its technical details, and who, in their anxiety to keep the track of the Rise and Progress, have forgotten that after all the grand object is to reach the Cross. But, with every reasonable abatement, it is the best book of the eighteenth century; and, tried by the test of usefulness, we doubt if its equal has since appeared. Rendered into the leading languages of Europe, it has been read by few without impression, and in the case of vast numbers that impression has been enduring. What adds greatly to its importance, and to the reward of its glorified writer--many of those whom it has impressed were master minds, and destined in their turn to be the means of impressing others. As in the instance of Wilberforce, this little book was to be in their minds the germ of other influential books, or of sermons; and, like the lamp at which many torches and tapers are lighted, none can tell how far its rays have travelled in the persons and labors of those whose Christianity it first enkindled.

But what was the secret of Dr. Doddridge's great success? He had not the rhetoric of Bates, the imagination of Bunyan, nor the massive theology of Owen; and yet his preaching and his publications were as useful as theirs. So far as we can find it out, let us briefly indicate where his great strength lay.

As already hinted, we attach considerable importance to his clear and orderly mind. He was an excellent teacher. At a glance he saw every thing which could simplify his subject, and he had self-denial sufficient to forego those good things which would only encumber it. Hence, like his college lectures, his sermons were continuous and straightforward, and his hearers had the comfort of accompanying him to a goal which they and he constantly kept in view. It was his plan not only to divide his discourses, but to enunciate the divisions again and again, till they were fully imprinted on the memory; and although such a method would impart a fatal stiffness to many compositions, in his manipulation it only added clearness to his meaning, and precision to his proofs. Dr. Doddridge's was not the simplicity of happy illustration. In his writings you meet few of those apt allusions which play over every line of Bunyan, like the slant beams of evening on the winking lids of the ocean; nor can you gather out of his writings such anecdotes as, like garnet in some Highland mountain, sparkle in every page of Brooks and Flavel. Nor was it the simplicity of homely language. It was not the terse and self-commending Saxon, of which Latimer in one age, and Swift in another, and Cobbett in our own, have been the mighty masters, and through it the masters of their English fellows. But it was the simplicity of clear conception and orderly arrangement. A text or topic may be compared to a goodly apartment still empty; and which will be very differently garnished according as you move into it piece by piece the furniture from a similar chamber, or pour in pell-mell the contents of a lumber attic. Most minds can appreciate order, and to the majority of hearers it is a greater treat than ministers always imagine, to get some obscure matter made plain, or some confused subject cleared up. With this treat Doddridge's readers and hearers were constantly indulged. Whether they were things new or old, from the orderly compartments of his memory he fetched the argument or the quotation which the moment wanted. He knew his own mind, and told it in his own way, and was always natural, arresting, instructive. And even if, in giving them forth, they should cancel the ticket-marks--the numerals by which they identify and arrange their own materials, authors and orators who wish to convince and to edify must strive in the first place to be orderly. To this must be added a certain pathetic affectionateness, by which all his productions are pervaded.

Leaving the tutor, the pastor, the author, it is time that we return to the man; and might we draw a full-length portrait, our readers would share our affection. That may not be, and therefore we shall only indicate a few features. His industry, as has been inferred, was enormous; in the end it became an excess, and crushed a feeble constitution into an early grave. His letters alone were an extensive authorship. With such friends as Bishop Warburton and Archbishop Secker, with Isaac Watts and Nathaniel Lardner, with his spiritual father, the venerable Clarke, and with his fervent and tender-hearted brother, Barker, it was worth while to maintain a frequent correspondence; but many of his epistolizers had little right to tax a man like Doddridge. Those were the cruel days of dear posts and "private opportunities;" and a letter needed to contain matter enough to fill a little pamphlet; and when some cosy country clergyman, who could sleep twelve hours in the twenty-four, or some self-contained dowager, who had no charge but her maid and her lap-dog, insisted on long missives from the busiest and greatest of their friends, they forgot that a sermon had to be laid aside, or a chapter of the Exposition suspended in their favor; or that a man, who had seldom leisure to talk to his children, must sit up an extra hour to talk to them. And yet, amidst the pressure of overwhelming toil, his vivacity seldom flagged, and his politeness never. Perhaps the severest thing he ever said was an impromptu on a shallow-pated student who was unfolding a scheme for flying to the moon:--

And will Volatio leave this world so soon, To fly to his own native seat, the moon? 'Twill stand, however, in some little stead, That he sets out with such an empty head.

But his wit was usually as mild as his dispositions; and it was seldom that he answered a fool according to his folly. His very essence was his kindness and charity; and one of the worst faults laid to his charge is a perilous sort of catholicity. The dissenters never liked his dealings with the Church of England; and both Episcopalians and Presbyterians have regretted his intimacy with avowed or suspected Arians. Bishop Warburton reproached him for editing Hervey's Meditations, and Nathaniel Neal warned him of the contempt he was incurring amongst many by associating with "honest crazy Whitefield;" whilst the "rational dissenters," represented by Dr. Kippis, have regretted that his superior intelligence was never cast into the Socinian scale. Judging from his early letters, this latter consummation was at one time far from unlikely; but the older and more earnest he grew, the more definite became his creed, and the more intense his affinity for spiritual Christianity. In ecclesiastical polity he never was a partisan, and for piety his attraction was always more powerful than for mere theology. But in that essential element of vital Christianity, a profound and adoring attachment to the Saviour of men, the orthodoxy of Doddridge was never gainsaid. Had any one intercepted a packet of his letters, and found one addressed to Whitefield and another to Wesley; one to the Archbishop of Canterbury and another to Dr. Webster of Edinburgh; one to Henry Baker, F.R.S., describing a five-legged limb and similar prodigies; and another to the Countess of Huntingdon or Joseph Williams, the Kidderminster manufacturer, on some rare phasis of spiritual experience; he might have been at a loss to devise a sufficient theory for such a miscellaneous man. And yet he had a theory. As he writes to his wife, "I do not merely talk of it, but I feel it at my heart, that the only important end of life, and the greatest happiness to be expected in it, consists in seeking in all things to please God, attempting all the good we can." And from the post-office could the querist have returned to the great house at the top of the town, and spent a day in the study, the parlor, and the lecture-room, he would have found that after all there was a true unity amidst these several forthgoings. Like Northampton itself, which marches with more counties than any other shire in England, his tastes were various and his heart was large, and consequently his borderline was long. And yet Northampton has a surface and a solid content, as well as a circumference; and amidst all his complaisance and all his versatility, Doddridge had a mind and a calling of his own.

The heart of Doddridge was just recovering from the wound which the faithless Kitty had inflicted, when he formed the acquaintance of Mercy Maris. Come of gentle blood, her dark eyes and raven hair and brunette complexion were true to their Norman pedigree; and her refined and vivacious mind was only too well betokened in the mantling cheek, and the brilliant expression, and the light movements of a delicate and sensitive frame. When one so fascinating was good and gifted besides, what wonder that Doddridge fell in love? and what wonder that he deemed the twenty-second of December (1730) the brightest of days, when it gave him such a help-meet? Neither of them had ever cause to rue it; and it is fine to read the correspondence which passed between them, showing them youthful lovers to the last. When away from home the good doctor had to write constantly to apprise Mercy that he was still "pure well;" and in these epistles he records with Pepysian minuteness every incident which was likely to be important at home; how Mr. Scawen had taken him to see the House of Commons, and how Lady Abney carried him out in her coach to Newington; how soon his wrist-bands got soiled in the smoke of London, and how his horse had fallen into Mr. Coward's well at Walthamstow; and how he had gone a fishing "with extraordinary success, for he had pulled a minnow out of the water, though it made shift to get away." They also contain sundry consultations and references on the subject of fans and damasks, white and blue. And from one of them we are comforted to find that the Northampton carrier was conveying a "harlequin dog" as a present from Kitty's husband to the wife of Kitty's old admirer--showing, as is abundantly evinced in other ways, how good an after-crop of friendship may grow on the stubble fields where love was long since shorn. But our pages are not worthy that we should transfer into them the better things with which these letters abound. Nor must we stop to sketch the domestic group which soon gathered round the paternal table--the son and three daughters who were destined, along with their mother, to survive for nearly half a century their bright Northampton home, and, along with the fond father's image, to recall his first and darling child--the little Tetsy whom "every body loved, because Tetsy loved every body."

SIR JAMES STONEHOUSE.

The family physician was Dr. Stonehouse. He had come to Northampton an infidel, and had written an attack on the Christian evidence, which was sufficiently clever to run through three editions, when the perusal of Dr. Doddridge's "Christianity Founded on Argument" revolutionized all his opinions. He not only retracted his skeptical publication, but became an ornament to the faith which once he destroyed. To the liberal mind of Doddridge it was no mortification, at least he never showed it, that his son in the faith preferred the Church of England, and waited on another ministry. The pious and accomplished physician became more and more the bosom friend of the magnanimous and unselfish divine, and, in conjunction, they planned and executed many works of usefulness, of which the greatest was the Northampton Infirmary. At last Dr. Stonehouse exchanged his profession for the Christian ministry, and became the rector of Great and Little Cheverell, in Wiltshire. Belonging to a good family, and possessing superior powers, his preaching attracted many hearers in his own domain of Bath and Bristol, and, like his once popular publications, was productive of much good. He used to tell two lessons of elocution which he had one day received from Garrick, at the close of the service. "What particular business had you to do to-day when the duty was over?" asked the actor. "None." "Why," said Garrick, "I thought you must from the hurry in which you entered the desk. Nothing can be more indecent than to see a clergyman set about sacred service as if he were a tradesman, and wanted to get through it as soon as possible. But what books might those be which you had in the desk before you?" "Only the Bible and Prayer-Book," replied the preacher. "_Only_ the Bible and Prayer-Book," rejoined the player. "Why, you tossed them about, and turned the leaves as carelessly as if they were a day-book and ledger." And by the reproof of the British Roscius the doctor greatly profited; for, even among the pump-room exquisites, he was admired for the perfect grace and propriety of his pulpit manner. Perhaps he studied it too carefully, at least he studied it till he became aware of it, and talked too much about it. His old age was rather egotistical. He had become rich and a baronet, and, as the friend of Hannah More, a star in the constellation "Virgo." And he loved to transcribe the laudatory notes in which dignitaries acknowledged presentation copies of his three-penny tracts. And he gave forth oracles which would have been more impressive had they been less querulous. But with all these foibles, Sir James was a man of undoubted piety, and it may well excuse a little communicativeness when we remember that of the generation he had served so well, few survived to speak his praise. At all events, there was one benefactor whom he never forgot; and the chirrup of the old Cicada softened into something very soft and tender every time he mentioned the name of Doddridge.

COLONEL GARDINER.

Amongst the visitors at their father's house, at first to the children more formidable than the doctor, and by and by the most revered all, was a Scotch cavalry officer. With his Hessian boots, and their tremendous spurs, sustaining the grandeur of his scarlet coat and powdered queue, there was something to youthful imaginations very awful in the tall and stately hussar; and that awe was nowise abated when they got courage to look on his high forehead which overhung gray eyes and weather-beaten cheeks, and when they marked his firm and dauntless air. And then it was terrible to think how many battles he had fought, and how in one of them a bullet had gone quite through his neck, and he had lain a whole night among the slain. But there was a deeper mystery still. He had been a very bad man once, it would appear, and now he was very good; and he had seen a vision; and altogether, with his strong Scotch voice, and his sword, and his wonderful story, the most solemn visitant was this grave and lofty soldier. But they saw how their father loved him, and they saw how he loved their father. As he sat so erect in the square corner-seat of the chapel, they could notice how his stern look would soften, and how his firm lip would quiver, and how a happy tear would roll down his deep-lined face; and they heard him as he sang so joyfully the closing hymn, and they came to feel that the colonel must indeed be very good. At last, after a long absence, he came to see their father, and staid three days, and he was looking very sick and very old. And the last night, before he went away their father preached a sermon in the house, and his text was, "I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him and honour him." And the colonel went away, and their father went with him, and gave him a long convoy; and many letters went and came. But at last there was war in Scotland. There was a rebellion, and there were battles; and then the gloomy news arrived. There had been a battle close to the very house of Bankton, and the king's soldiers had run away, and the brave Colonel Gardiner would not run, but fought to the very last, and alas for the Lady Frances!--he was stricken down and slain, scarce a mile from his own mansion door.

JAMES HERVEY.

Near Northampton stands the little parish church of Weston Favel. Its young minister was one of Doddridge's dearest friends. He was a tall and spectral-looking man, dying daily; and, like so many in that district, was a debtor to his distinguished neighbor. After he became minister of his hereditary parish, and when he was preaching with more earnestness than light, he was one day acting on a favorite medical prescription of that period, and accompanying a ploughman along the furrow in order to smell the fresh earth. The ploughman was a pious man, and attended the Castle-Hill Meeting; and the young parish minister asked him, "What do you think the hardest thing in religion?" The ploughman respectfully returned the question, excusing himself, as an ignorant man; and the minister said, "I think the hardest thing in religion is to deny sinful self;" and, expatiating some time on its difficulties, asked if any thing could be harder? "No, sir, except it be to deny righteous self." At the moment the minister thought his parishioner a strange fellow, or a fool; but he never forgot the answer, and was soon a convert to the ploughman's creed. James Hervey had a mind of uncommon gorgeousness. His thoughts all marched to a stately music, and were arrayed in the richest superlatives. Nor was it affectation. It was the necessity of his ideal nature, and was a merciful compensation for his scanty powers of outward enjoyment. As he sat in his little parlor watching the saucepan, in which his dinner of gruel was simmering, and filled up the moments with his microscope, or a page of the Astro-Theology, in his tour of the universe he soon forgot the pains and miseries of his corporeal residence. To him "Nature was Christian;" and after his own soul had drunk in all the joy of the Gospel, it became his favorite employment to read in the fields and the firmament. One product of these researches was his famous "Meditations." They were in fact a sort of Astro and Physico-Evangelism, and, as their popularity was amazing, they must have contributed extensively to the cause of Christianity. They were followed by "Theron and Aspasio"--a series of Dialogues and Letters on the most important points of personal religion, in which, after the example of Cicero, solid instruction is conveyed amidst the charms of landscape, and the amenities of friendly intercourse. This latter work is memorable as one of the first attempts to popularize systematic divinity; and it should undeceive those who deem dulness the test of truth, when they find the theology of Vitringa and Witsius enshrined in one of our finest prose poems. It was hailed with especial rapture by the Seceders of Scotland, who recognized "the Marrow" in this lordly dish, and were justly proud of their unexpected apostle. Many of them, that is, many of the few who achieved the feat of a London journey, arranged to take Weston on their way, and eschewing the Ram Inn and the adjacent Academy, they turned in to Aspasio's lowly parsonage. Here they found a "reed shaking in the wind:"--a panting invalid nursed by his tender mother and sister; and when the Sabbath came, James Erskine, or Dr. Pattison, or whoever the pilgrim might be, saw a great contrast to his own teeming meeting-house in the little flock that assembled in the little church of Weston Favel. But that flock hung with up-looking affection on the moveless attitude and faint accents of their emaciated pastor, and with Scotch-like alacrity turned up and marked in their Bibles every text which he quoted; and though they could not report the usual accessories of clerical fame--the melodious voice, and graceful elocution, and gazing throng--the visitors carried away "a thread of the mantle," and long cherished as a sacred remembrance, the hours spent with this Elijah before he went over Jordan. Others paid him the compliment of copying his style; and both among the Evangelical preachers of the Scotch Establishment and its Secession, the "Meditations" became a frequent model. A few imitators were very successful; for their spirit and genius were kindred; but the tendency of most of them was to make the world despise themselves, and weary of their unoffending idol. Little children prefer red sugar-plums to white, and always think it the best "content" which is drunk from a painted cup; but when the dispensation of content and sugar-plums has yielded to maturer age, the man takes his coffee and his cracknel without observing the pattern of the pottery. And, unfortunately, it was to this that the Herveyites directed their chief attention, and hungry people have long since tired of their flowery truisms and mellifluous inanities; and, partly from impatience of the copyists, the reading republic has nearly ostracized the glowing and gifted original.

OTHER FRIENDS.

Gladly would we introduce the reader to a few others of Dr. Doddridge's friends; such as Dr. Clarke, his constant adviser and considerate friend, whose work on "The Promises" still holds its place in our religious literature; Gilbert West, whose catholic piety and elegant taste found in Doddridge a congenial friend; Dr. Watts, who so shortly preceded him to that better country, of which on earth they were among the brightest citizens; Bishop Warburton, who in a life-long correspondence with so mild a friend, carefully cushioned his formidable claws, and became the lion playing with the lamb; and William Coward, Esq., with cramps in his legs, and crotchets in his head--the rich London merchant who was constantly changing his will, but who at last, by what Robert Baillie would have termed the "canny conveyance" of Watts and Doddridge, did bequeath twenty thousand pounds towards founding a dissenting college. At each of these and several others we would have wished to glance; for we hold that biography is only like a cabinet specimen when it merely presents the man himself, and that to know him truly he must be seen _in situ_ and surrounded with his friends; especially a man like Doddridge, whose affectionate and absorptive nature imbibed so much from those around him. But perhaps enough has been already said to aid the reader's fancy.

The sole survivor of twenty children, and with such a weakly frame, the wonder is that, amidst incessant toil, Doddridge held out so long. Temperance, elasticity of spirits, and the hand of God upheld him. At last, in December, 1750, preaching the funeral sermon of Dr. Clarke, at St. Albans, he caught a cold which he could never cure. Visits to London and the waters of Bristol had no beneficial effect; and, in the fall of the following year, he was advised to try a voyage to Lisbon. His kind friend, Bishop Warburton, here interfered, and procured for his dissenting brother a favor which deserves to be held in lasting memorial. He applied at the London Post-office, and, through his influence, it was arranged that the captain's room in the packet should be put at the invalid's disposal. Accordingly, on the thirtieth of September, accompanied by his anxious wife and a servant, he sailed from Falmouth; and, revived by the soft breezes and the ship's stormless progress, he sat in his easy-chair in the cabin, enjoying the brightest thoughts of all his life. "Such transporting views of the heavenly world is my Father now indulging me with, as no words can express," was his frequent exclamation to the tender partner of his voyage. And when the ship was gliding up the Tagus, and Lisbon with its groves and gardens and sunny towers stood before them, so animating was the spectacle, that affection hoped he might yet recover. The hope was an illusion. Bad symptoms soon came on; and the chief advantage of the change was, that it perhaps rendered dissolution more easy. On the twenty-sixth of October, 1751, he ceased from his labors, and soon after was laid in the burying-ground of the English factory. The Lisbon earthquake soon followed; but his grave remains to this day, and, like Henry Martyn's at Tocat, is to the Christian traveller a little spot of holy ground.

A hundred years have passed away since then; but there is much of Doddridge still on earth. The "Life of Colonel Gardiner" is still one of the best-known biographies; and, with Dr. Brown, we incline to think that, as a manual for ministers, there has yet appeared no memoir superior to his own. The Family Expositor has undergone that disintegrating process to which all bulky books are liable, and many of its happiest illustrations now circulate as things of course in the current popular criticism; and though his memory does not receive the due acknowledgment, the church derives the benefit. The singers of the Scotch Paraphrases and of other hymn collections are often unwitting singers of the words of Doddridge; and the thousands who quote the lines--

Live while you live, the epicure would say, &c.,

are repeating the epigram which Philip Doddridge wrote, and which Samuel Johnson pronounced the happiest in our language. And if the "Rise and Progress" shall ever be superseded by a modern work, we can only wish its successor equal usefulness; however great its merits we can scarcely promise that it will keep as far ahead of all competitors for a hundred years as the original work has done. Had Doddridge lived a little longer, missionary movements would have been sooner originated by the British churches; but he lived long enough to be the father of the Book Society. And though Coward College is now absorbed in a more extensive erection, the founders of St. John's Wood College should rear a statue to Doddridge, as the man who gave the mightiest impulse to the work of rearing an educated Nonconformist ministry in England.

From Leigh Hunt's Journal.

LORD THURLOW, AND HIS TERRIBLE SWEARING.

Lord Thurlow, once Lord High Chancellor of England, Keeper of the Conscience of George the Third, &c., was a tall, dark, harsh-featured, deep-voiced, beetle-browed man, of strong natural abilities, little conscience, and no delicacy. Having discovered, in the outset of life, that the generality of the world were more affected by manner than matter, he indulged a natural inclination to huffing and arrogance, by acting systematically upon it to that end; and, in a worldly point of view, he succeeded to perfection; with this drawback--which always accompanies false pretensions of the kind--that, knowing to what extent they were false, his mind was kept in a proportionate state of irritability and dissatisfaction; so that his success, after all, was only that of a man who prospers by parading an infirmity. With good intention as a judge in ordinary cases, he had sufficient patience neither to study nor to listen. As a statesman, he was actuated wholly by personal feelings of ambition and rivalry; and as keeper of the Royal Conscience, he presented an aspect of ludicrous inconsistency, discreditable to both parties; for he openly kept a mistress, while his master professed to be a pattern of chastity and decorum. But he had face for any thing. Seeing that airs of independence would turn to good account, even in the royal closet, provided he was servile at heart, he sometimes, with great cunning, huffed the King himself; and he did as much with the Prince of Wales, and with the like success. What he really could have done best, had his industry equalled his acuteness, and his ambition been less towards the side of pomp and power, would have been something in literary and metaphysical criticism, as may be seen in his letters to Cowper and others. What he became most famous for doing, was swearing.

We must here advertise our fair readers (in case any of them should be doing us the honor of reading this article aloud), that we are going to give some specimens of the swearing of this solemn and illustrious person; so that, if they do not regard the words in the same childish, meaningless, and nonsensical light that we do ourselves (for reasons that we shall give presently), and therefore cannot comfortably frame their lovely and innocent lips to utter them (which, indeed, custom will hardly allow us to expect), they had better hand over the passages to the nearest male friend that happens to be with them, and get him to read or to _initialize_ them instead. As to ourselves (for reasons also to be presently given), we shall write the words at full length, out of sheer sense of their nothingness; only premising, that such was not the opinion entertained of them by this tremendous Lord Chancellor, or by the age in which he lived; otherwise he would not have resorted to them as clenches for his thunderbolts, neither would his contemporaries have given them to the reading world under those mitigated and whispering forms of initials and hyphens, which have come down to our own times, and which are intended to impress their audacity by intimating their guilt.

"_Damns_ have had their day," says the man in the "Rivals." So they have; and so we would have the reader think, and treat them accordingly; that is to say, as things of no account, one way or the other. But such was not the case when the dramatist wrote; and therefore Lord Thurlow was renowned as a swearer, even in a swearing age. It was his ambition to be considered a swearer. He took to it, as a lad does, who wishes to show that he has arrived at man's estate. Every thing with the judge was "damned bad" or "damned good," damned hot or cold, damned stupid, &c. It was his epithet, his adjective, his participle, his sign of positive and superlative, his argument, his judgment. He could not have got on without it. To deprive Thurlow of his "damn" would have been to shave his eyebrows, or to turn his growl to a whisper.

"Lamenting," says Lord Campbell, "the great difficulty he had in disposing of a high legal situation, he described himself as long hesitating between the intemperance of A. and the corruption of B., but finally preferring the man of bad temper. Afraid lest he should have been supposed to have admitted the existence of pure moral worth, he added, 'Not but that there was a d----d deal of corruption in A.'s intemperance.' Happening to be at the British Museum, viewing the Townley Marbles, when a person came in and announced the death of Mr. Pitt, Thurlow was heard to say, 'a d----d good hand at turning a period!' and no more.

"The following anecdote (continues his lordship) was related by Lord Eldon:--

"After dinner, one day, when nobody was present but Lord Kenyon and myself, Lord Thurlow said, 'Taffy,[P] I decided a cause this morning, and I saw from Scott's face he doubted whether I was right.' Thurlow then stated his view of the case, and Kenyon instantly said, 'Your decision was quite right.' 'What say you to that?' asked the Chancellor. I said, 'I did not presume to form a judgment upon a case in which they both agreed. But I think a fact has not been mentioned, which may be material.' I was about to state the fact, and my reasons. Kenyon, however, broke in upon me, and, with some warmth, stated that I was always so obstinate, there was no dealing with me. 'Nay,' interposed Thurlow, 'that's not fair. You, Taffy, are obstinate, and give no reasons; you, Jack Scott, are obstinate, too; but then you give your reasons, and d----d bad ones they are!'"

* * * * *

"In Thurlow's time, the habit of profane swearing was unhappily so common, that Bishop Horsley, and other right reverend prelates, are said not to have been entirely exempt from it; but Thurlow indulged in it to a degree that admits of no excuse. I have been told by an old gentleman, who was standing behind the woolsack at the time that Sir Ilay Campbell, then Lord Advocate, arguing a Scotch appeal to the bar in a very tedious manner, said, 'I will noo, my lords, proceed to my seevent pownt.' 'I'll be d----d if you do,' cried Lord Thurlow, so as to be heard by all present; 'this house is adjourned till Monday next,' and off he scampered. Sir James Mansfield, Lord Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, used to relate that, while he and several other legal characters were dining with Lord Chancellor Thurlow, his lordship happening to swear at his Swiss valet, when retiring from the room, the man returned, just put his head in, and exclaimed, 'I von't be d----d for you, Milor;' which caused the noble host and all his guests to burst out into a roar of laughter. From another valet he received a still more cutting retort. Having scolded this meek man for some time without receiving any answer, he concluded by saying, 'I wish you were in hell.' The terrified valet at last exclaimed, 'I wish I was, my lord! I wish I was!'

"Sir Thomas Davenport, a great _nisi prius_ leader, had been intimate with Thurlow, and long flattered himself with the hopes of succeeding to some valuable appointment in the law; but, several good things passing by, he lost his patience and temper along with them. At last he addressed this laconic application to his patron: 'The Chief Justiceship of Chester is vacant; am I to have it?' and received the following laconic answer--'No! by God! Kenyon shall have it.'

"Having once got into a dispute with a bishop respecting a living, of which the Great Seal had the alternate presentation, the bishop's secretary called upon him, and said, 'My lord of ---- sends his compliments to your lordship, and believes that the next turn to present to ---- belongs to his lordship.' _Chancellor._--'Give my compliments to his lordship, and tell him that I will see him d----d first before he shall present.' _Secretary._--'This, my lord, is a very unpleasant message to deliver to a bishop.' 'You are right, it is so, therefore tell the bishop that _I_ will be damned first before he shall present.'"[Q]

Lord Campbell concludes his records of the Chancellor's _jusjuration_ (if we may coin a word for a precedent so extraordinary), by frankly extracting into his pages the whole of a long damnatory ode, which was put into the judge's mouth by the authors of the once-famous collection of libels called _Criticisms on the Rolliad_, and _Probationary Odes for the Laureateship_,--the precursor, and very witty precursor, though flagrantly coarse and personal, of the _Anti-Jacobin Magazine_ and the _Rejected Addresses_. They were on the Whig side of politics, and are understood to have been the production of Dr. Lawrence, a civilian, and George Ellis, the author of several elegant works connected with poetry and romance. We shall notice the book further when we come to speak of Mr. Ellis himself. Lord Thurlow is made to contribute one of the Probationary Odes; and he does it in so abundant and complete a style, that bold as our "innocence" makes us in this particular, yet not having the legal warrant of the biographer, we really have not the courage to bring it in as evidence. The reader, however, may guess of what sort of stuff it is composed, when he hears that it begins with the comprehensive line,

"Damnation seize ye all;"

and ends with the following pleasing and particular couplet:--

"Damn them beyond what mortal tongue can tell; Confound, sink, plunge them all, to deepest, blackest hell."

After this, it will hardly be a climax to add, that Peter Pindar said of this Keeper of the King's Conscience, with great felicity, that he "swore his prayers."

We have been thus particular on the subject of Lord Thurlow's swearing, partly because it is the main point of his lordship's character with posterity, but chiefly that we might show what has already been intimated; namely, what a nothing such talk has become, and what high time it is to treat it as it deserves, and give it no longer in typography those implied awful significances, those under-breaths and intensifications of initials and hyphens, which make it pretend to have a meaning, and are the main cause why it survives. The word _damned_ in Lord Thurlow's mouth, for all its emphasis and effect, had as little meaning as the word _blest_, or the word _conscience_. It has equally little meaning in any body's. It no more signifies what it was originally intended to signify, than the word "cursed" means _anathematized_, or the word "pontificate" means _bridge-making_. This is the natural death of oaths in any tremendous sense of the words, or in any sense at all. They become things of "sound and fury, signifying nothing." Who that utters the word "zounds," imagines that he is speaking of such awful and inconceivable things as "God's wounds," though literally he is doing so? Or what honest farmer, who ejaculates "Please the pigs" (such extraordinary things do reform and vicissitude bring together!) supposes that his Protestant soul is propitiating the _Pyx_, or Holy Sacrament box, of the Roman Catholic Church? Yet time was, when the innocent word "zounds" was written with the same culpatory dashes and hyphens as the "damns that have had their day;" and "pigs," we suppose, were exenterated in like manner: suggested only by their heads and tails,--the first letter and the last. We happen to be no swearers ourselves, so that we are speaking a good word for no custom of our own; though, we confess, that when we come to an oath as a trait of character, in biography or in fiction, we are no more in the habit of balking it, than we are of ignoring any other harmless ejaculation; and therefore, by reason of its very nonsense and nothingness, we like to see it written plainly out as if it _were_ nothing, instead of being mystified into a more nonsensical importance. We have known better men than ourselves who have sworn; and we have known worse; but with none of them had the word any meaning, nor has it any, ever, except in the pulpit; where it is a pity (as many an excellent clergyman has thought) that it is heard at all. Treat it lightly elsewhere, as an expletive and a mere way of speaking, and it will come to nothing as it deserves, and follow the obsolete "plagues" and "murrains" of our ancestors.

The only persons who profess to swear to any purpose, are the Roman Catholics; and they, indeed, may well be said to swear "terribly"--or rather they would do so, if any poor set of human creatures, fallible by the necessity of their natures, could of a surety know what is infallible, and be commissioned by a writing on the sun or moon to let us hear it. Lord Thurlow, with all his damns, and his big voice, and his power of imprisonment to boot, was a babe of grace compared with the Roman Catholic Bishop of Rochester who thundered forth the famous excommunication which the Protestant chapter-clerk of that city gave to the author of _Tristram Shandy_ to put in his book; to the immortal honor of said Protestant, and disgrace of the unalterable and infallible Roman Catholic Churchmen; who, when delivered from their bonds, and complimented on partaking of the progress and civilization common to the rest of the world, take the first opportunity for showing us we are mistaken, and crying damnation to their deliverers.

We shall not repeat the document alluded to, lest we should be thought to give the light matter of which we have been treating, a tone of too much importance. Suffice it to say, that when all the powers, and angels, and very virgins of heaven are called upon by the excommunication to "curse" and "damn" the object of it limb by limb (literally so), his eyes, his brains, and his heart (how unlike fair human readers, who doubt whether the very word "damn" should be uttered), good Uncle Toby interposes one of those world-famous pleasantries which have shaken the old Vatican beyond recovery.

"'Our armies swore terribly in Flanders,' cried my Uncle Toby; 'but nothing to this. For my own part, I could not have the heart to curse my dog so.'"

FOOTNOTES:

[P] Thurlow politely calls Kenyon _Taffy_, because the latter was a Welshman. _Scott_ is Lord Eldon himself.

[Q] _Lives of the Chancellors._ Second Series. Vol. v. pp. 644, 664.

From Chambers' Edinbourgh Journal.

THE LAST OF THE FIDDLERS.

A VILLAGE TALE.

BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH.

The midnight silence of the village is broken by unusual clattering sounds--a horse comes galloping along at the top of his speed, his rider crying aloud, "Fire--fire! Help, ho! Fire!" Away he rides straight to the church, and presently the alarm-bell is heard pealing from the steeple.

It is no easy matter to arouse the harvest folks, after a hard day's work, from their first sound sleep: there they lie, stretched as unconsciously as the corn in the fields which they have reaped in the sweat of their brow. But wake they must--there is no help for it. The stable-boys are the first on the alert--every one anxious to win the reward which, time out of mind, has been given to the person, who, on the occasion of a fire, is the first to reach the engine-house with harnessed horses. Here and there a light is seen at a cottage lattice--a window is opened--the men come running out of doors with their coats half drawn on, or in their shirt sleeves. The villagers all collect about the market-house, and the cry is heard on all sides, "Where is it? Where is the fire?"

"In Eibingen."

Question and answer were alike unneeded, for in the distance, behind the dark pine-forest, the whole sky was illumined with a bright-red glow, in the stillness of the night, like the glow of the setting sun; while every now and then a shower of sparks rose into the air, as if shot out from a blast-furnace.

The night was still and calm, and the stars shone peacefully on the silent earth.

The horses are speedily put to the fire-engine, the buckets placed in a row, a couple of torches lighted, and the torch-bearers stand ready on either side holding on to the engine, which is instantly covered with men.

"Quick! out with another pair of horses! two can't draw such a load!"--"Down with the torches!"--"No, no; they're all right--'tis the old way!"--"Drive off, for Heaven's sake--quick!"

Such-like exclamations resounded on all sides. Let us follow the crowd.

The engine, with its heavy load, now rolls out of the village, and through the peaceful fields and meadows: the fruit-trees by the roadside seem to dance past in the flickering light; and soon the crowd hurry, helter-skelter, through the forest. The birds are awakened from sleep, and fly about in affright, and can scarcely find their way back to their warm nests. The forest is at length passed, and down below, in the valley, lies the hamlet, brightly illumined as at noon-day, while shrieks and the alarm-bell are heard, as if the flames had found a voice.

See! what is yonder white, ghost-like form, in a fluttering dress, on the skirts of the forest? The wheels creak, and rattle along the stony road--no sounds can be distinguished in the confusion. Away! help! away!

The folks are now seen flying from the village with their goods and chattels--children in their bare shirts and with naked feet--carrying off beds and chairs, pots and pans. Has the fire spread so fearfully, or is this all the effect of fright?

"Where's the fire?"

"At Hans the Fiddler's."

And the driver lashed his horses, and every man seemed to press forward with increased ardor to fly to the succor.

As they approached the spot, it was clearly impossible to save the burning cottage; and all efforts were therefore directed to prevent the flames extending to the adjoining houses. Just then every body was busied in trying to save a horse and two cows from the shed; but the animals, terrified by the fire, would not quit the spot, until their eyes were bandaged, and they were driven out by force.

"Where's old Hans?" was the cry on all sides.

"Burnt in his bed to a certainty," said some. Others declared that he had escaped. Nobody knew the truth.

The old fiddler had neither child nor kinsfolk, and yet all the people grieved for him; and those who had come from the villages round about reproached the inhabitants for not having looked after the fate of the poor fellow. Presently it was reported that he had been seen in Urban the smith's barn; another said that he was sitting up in the church crying and moaning--the first time he had been there without his fiddle. But neither in the barn nor in the church was old Hans to be found, and again it was declared that he had been burnt to death in his house, and that his groans had actually been heard; but, it was added, all too late to save him, for the flames had already burst through the roof, and the glass of the windows was sent flying across the road.

The day was just beginning to dawn when all danger of the fire spreading was past; and leaving the smouldering ruins, the folks from a distance set out on their return.

A strange apparition was now seen coming down the mountain-side, as if out of the gray mists of morning. In a cart drawn by two oxen sat a haggard figure, dressed in his bare shirt, and his shoulders wrapped in a horse-cloth. The morning breeze played in the long white locks of the old man, whose wan features were framed, as it were, by a short, bristly, snow-white beard. In his hands he clutched a fiddle and fiddlestick. It was old Hans, the village fiddler. Some of the lads had found him at the edge of the forest, on the spot where we had caught a glimpse of him, looking like a ghostly apparition, as we rattled past with the engine. There he was found standing in his shirt, and holding his fiddle in both his hands pressed tightly to his breast.

As they drew near the village, he took his fiddle and played his favorite waltz. Every eye was turned on the strange-looking man, and all welcomed his return, as if he had risen from the grave.

"Give me a drink!" he exclaimed to the first person who held out a hand to him. "I'm burnt up with thirst!"

A glass of water was brought him.

"Bah!" cried the old man; "'twere a sin to quench such a thirst as mine with water; bring me some wine! Or has the horrid red cock drunk up all my wine too?"

And again he fell to fiddling lustily, until they arrived at the spot of the fire. He got down from the cart, and entered a neighbor's cottage. All the folks pressed up to the old fiddler, tendering words of comfort, and promising that they would all help him to rebuild his cottage.

"No, no!" replied Hans; "'tis all well. I have no home--I'm one of the cuckoo tribe that has no resting-place of its own, and only now and then slips into the swallow's nest. For the short time I have to live, I shall have no trouble in finding quarters wherever I go. I can now climb up into a tree again, and look down upon the world in which I have no longer any thing to call my own. Ay, ay, 'twas wrong in me ever to have had any thing of my own except my precious little fiddle here!"

No objection was raised to the reasoning of the strange old man, and the country-folks from a distance went their ways home with the satisfaction of knowing that the old fiddler was still alive and well. Hans properly belonged to the whole country round about: his loss would have been a public one: much as if the old linden-tree on the Landeck Hill close by had been thrown down unexpectedly in the night Hans was as merry as a grig when Caspar the smith gave him an old shirt, the carpenter Joseph a pair of breeches--and so on. "Well, to be sure, folks may now say that I carry the whole village on my back!" said he; and he gave to each article of dress the name of the donor. "A coat indeed like this, which a friend has worn nicely smooth for one, fits to a T. I was never at my ease in a new coat; and you know I used always to go to the church, and rub the sleeves in the wax that dropped from the holy tapers, to make them comfortable and fit for wear. But this time I'm saved the trouble, and I'm for all the world like a new-born babe who is fitted with clothes without measuring. Ay, ay, you may laugh; but 'tis a fact--I'm new-born."

And in truth it quite seemed so with the old man: the wild merriment of former years, which had slumbered for a while, all burst out anew.

A fellow just now entered who had been active in extinguishing the fire, and having his hand in the work, had been at the same time no less actively engaged in quenching a certain internal fire--and in truth, as was plain to be seen, more than was needed. On seeing him, the old fiddler cried out, "By Jove, how I envy the fellow's jollity!" All the folks laughed; but presently the merriment was interrupted by the entrance of the magistrate with his notary, come to investigate the cause of the fire, and take an inventory of the damage.

Old Hans openly confessed his fault. He had the odd peculiarity of carrying about him, in all his pockets, a little box of lucifer matches, in order never to be at a loss when he wanted to light his pipe. Whenever any one called on him, and wherever he went, his fingers were almost unconsciously playing with the matches. Often and often he was heard to exclaim, "Provoking enough! that these matches should come into fashion just as I am going off the stage. Look! a light in the twinkling of an eye! Only think of all the time I've lost in the course of my life in striking a light with the old flint and steel,--days, weeks, ay, years!"

The fire had, to all appearances, originated with this child's play of the old man, and the magistrate said with regret that he must inflict the legal penalty for his carelessness. "However, at all events 'tis well 'tis no worse," he added; "you are in truth the last of the fiddlers; in our dull, plodding times, you are a relic of the past--of a merry, careless age. 'Twould have been a grievous thing if you had come to such a miserable end."

"Look ye, your worship, I ought to have been a parson," said Hans; "and I should have preached to the folks after this fashion:--'Don't set too much store on life, and it can't hurt you; look on every thing as foolery, and then you'll be cleverer than all the rest. If the world was always merry--if folks did nothing but work and dance, there would be no need of schoolmasters--no need of learning to write and read--no parsons--and (by your worship's pardon) no magistrates. The whole world is a big fiddle--the strings are tuned--Fortune plays upon them; but some one is wanted to be constantly screwing up the strings; and this is a job for the parson and magistrate. There's nothing but turning and screwing, and turning and scraping, and the dance never begins.'"

The fiddler's tongue went running on in this way, until his worship at length took a friendly leave of him. We shall, however, remain, and tell the reader something of the history of this strange character.

It is now nearly thirty years since the old man first made his appearance in the village, just at the time when the new church was consecrated. When he first came among the villagers, he played for three days and three nights almost incessantly the maddest tunes. Superstitious folks muttered one to another that it must be Old Nick himself who could draw such spirit and life from the instrument, as never to let any one have rest or quiet any more than he seemed to require it himself. During the whole of this time he scarcely ate a morsel, and only drank--but in potent draughts--during the pauses. Often it seemed as if he did not stir a finger, but merely laid the fiddlestick on the strings, and magic sounds instantly came out of them, while the fiddle-bow hopped up and down of itself.

Hey-day! there was a merrymaking and piece of work in the large dancing-room of the "Sun." Once, during a pause, the hostess, a buxom portly widow, cried out, "Hold hard, fiddler; do stop--the cattle are all quarrelling with you, and will starve if you don't let the lads and girls go home and feed them. If you've no pity on us folks, do for goodness' sake stop your fiddling for the sake of the poor dumb creatures."

"Just so!" cried the fiddler; "here you can see how man is the noblest animal on the face of the earth; man alone can dance--ay, dance in couples. Hark ye, hostess, if you'll dance a turn with me, I'll stop my fiddlestick for a whole hour."

The musician jumped off the table. All the by-standers pressed the hostess, till at length she consented to dance. She clasped her partner tight round the waist, whilst he kept hold of his fiddle, drawing from it sounds never before heard; and in this comical manner, playing and dancing, they performed their evolutions in the circle of spectators; and at length, with a brilliant scrape of his bow, he concluded, embraced the hostess, and gave her a bouncing kiss, receiving in return a no less hearty box on the ear. Both were given and taken in fun and good temper.

From that time forward the fiddler was domiciled under the shade of the "Sun." There he nestled himself quietly, and whenever any merrymaking was going on in the country round-about, Hans was sure to be there with his fiddle; but he always returned home regularly; and there was not a village nor a house far and wide around, in which there was more dancing, than in the hostelry of the portly landlady of the "Sun."

The fiddler comported himself in the house as if he belonged to it; he served the guests (never taking any part in out-of-doors work), entertained the customers as they dropped in, played a hand at cards occasionally, and was never at a loss in praising a fresh tap. "We've just opened a new cask of wine--only taste, and say if there's not music in wine, and something divine!" Touching every thing that concerned the household, he invariably used the authoritative and familiar _we_:-"_We_ have a cellar fit for a king;" "_Our_ house lies in every one's way;" and so forth.

Hans and his little fiddle, as a matter of course, were at every village-gathering and festivity; and the people of the country round-about could never dissociate in their thoughts the "Sun" inn and Hans the fiddler. But possibly the hostess considered the matter in a different light. At the conclusion of the harvest merrymaking she took heart and said--"Hans, you must know I've a liking for you; you pay for what you eat; but wouldn't you like for once to try living under another roof? What say you?"

Hans protested that he was well enough off in his present quarters, and that he felt no disposition to neglect the old proverb of "Let well alone." The landlady was silent.

Weeks went over, and at length she began again--"Hans, you wouldn't do any thing to injure me?"

"Not for the world!"

"Look ye--'tis only on account of the folks hereabouts. I would not bother you, but you know there's a talk----You can come back again after a month or two, and you'll be sure to find my door open to you."

"Nay, nay, I'll not go away, and then I shall not want to come back."

"No joking, Hans--I'm in earnest--you must go."

"Well, there's one way to force me: go up into my room, pack my things into a bundle, and throw them into the road; otherwise I promise you I'll not budge from the spot."

"You're a downright good-for-nothing fellow, and that's the truth; but what am I to do with you?"

"Marry me!"

The answer to this was another box on the ear; but this time it was administered much more gently than at the dance. As soon as the landlady's back was turned, Hans took his fiddle and struck up a lively tune.

From time to time the hostess of the "Sun" recurred to the subject of Hans's removal, urging him to go; but his answer was always ready--always the same--"_Marry me!_"

One day in conversation she told him that the police would be sure soon to interfere and forbid his remaining longer, as he had no proper certificate; and so forth. Hans answered not a word, but cocking his hat knowingly on the left side, he whistled a merry tune, and set out for the castle of the count, distant a few miles. The village at that time belonged to the Count von S----.

That evening, as the landlady was standing by the kitchen fire, her cheeks glowing with the reflection from the hearth, Hans entered, and without moving a muscle of his face, handed to her a paper, and said, "Look ye, there's our marriage-license; the count dispenses with publishing the bans. This is Friday--Sunday is our wedding-day!'

"What do you say, you saucy fellow? I hope"----

"Hollo, Mr. Schoolmaster!" interrupted Hans, as he saw that worthy functionary passing the window just at that instant "Do step in here, and read this paper."

Hans held the landlady tight by the arm, while the schoolmaster read the document, and at the conclusion tendered his congratulations and good wishes.

"Well, well--with all my heart!" said the landlady at length. "Since 'tis to be so, to tell the truth I've long had a liking for you, Hans; but 'twas only on account of the prate and gossip"----

"Sunday morning then?"

"Ay, ay--you rogue."

A merry scene was that, when on the following Sunday morning Hans the Fiddler--or, to give him his proper style, Johann Grubenmüller--paraded to church by the side of his betrothed, fiddling the wedding-march, partly for his self-gratification, partly to give the ceremony a certain solemn hilarity. For a short space he deposited his instrument on the baptismal font; but the ceremony being ended, he shouldered it again, struck up an unusually brisk tune, and played so marvellously, that the folks were fairly dying with laughter.

Ever since that time Hans resided in the village, and that is as much as to say that mirth and jollity abode there. For some years past, however, Hans was often subject to fits of dejection, for the authorities had decreed that there should be no more dancing without the special permission of the magistrate. Trumpets and other wind-instruments supplanted the fiddle, and our friend Hans could no longer play his merry jigs, except to the children under the old oak-tree, until his reverence, in the exercise of his clerical powers, forbade even this amusement, as prejudicial to sound school discipline.

Hans lost his wife just three years ago, with whom he had lived in uninterrupted harmony. Brightly and joyously as he had looked on life at the outset of his career, its close seemed often clouded, sad, and burthensome, more than he was himself aware. "A man ought not to grow so old!" he often repeated--an expression which escaped from a long train of thought that was passing unconsciously in the old man's mind, in which he acknowledged to himself that young limbs and the vigor of youth properly belonged to the careless life of a wandering musician. "The hay does not grow as sweet as it did thirty years ago!" he stoutly maintained.

The new village magistrate, who had a peculiarly kind feeling towards old Hans, set about devising means of securing him from want for the rest of his days. The sum (no inconsiderable one) for which the house was insured in the fire-office was by law not payable in full until another house should be built in its place. It happened that the parish had for a long time been looking out for a spot on which to erect a new schoolhouse in the village, and at the suggestion of the worthy magistrate the authorities now bought from Hans the ground on which his cottage had stood, with all that remained upon it. But the old man did not wish to be paid any sum down, and an annuity was settled on him instead, amply sufficient to provide for all his wants. This plan quite took his fancy; he chuckled at the thought (as he expressed it) that he was eating himself up, and draining the glass to the last drop.

Hans, moreover, was now permitted again to play to the children under the village oak on a summer evening. Thus he lived quite a new life; and his former spirit seemed in some measure to return. In the summer, when the building of the new schoolhouse was commenced, old Hans was riveted to the spot as if by magic; there he sat upon the timbers, or on a pile of stones, watching the digging and hammering with fixed attention. Early in the morning, when the builders went to their work they always found Hans already on the spot. At breakfast and noon, when the men stopped work to take their meals, which were brought them by their wives and children, old Hans found himself seated in the midst of the circle, and played to them as they ate and talked. Many of the villagers came and joined the party; and the whole was one continued scene of merriment. Hans often said that he never before knew his own importance, for he seemed to be wanted everywhere--whether folks danced or rested, his fiddle had its part to play: and music could turn the thinnest potato-broth into a savory feast.

But an unforeseen misfortune awaited our friend Hans, of which the worthy magistrate, notwithstanding his kindness to the old man, was unintentionally the cause. His worship came one day, accompanied by a young man, who had all the look of a genius: the latter stood for some minutes, with his arms folded, gazing at Hans, who was busy fiddling to the workpeople at their dinner.

"There stands the last of the fiddlers, of whom I told you," said the magistrate; "I want you to paint him--he is the only relic of old times whom we have left."

The artist complied. At first old Hans resisted the operation stoutly, but he was at length won over by the persuasion of his worship, and allowed the artist to take his likeness. With trembling impatience he sat before the easel, wanting every instant to jump up and see what the man was about. But this the artist would not allow, and promised to show him the picture when it was finished. Day after day old Hans had to sit to the artist, in this state of wonder and suspense, and when at noon he played to the workmen at their meals, his tunes were slow and heavy, and had lost all their former vivacity and spirit.

At length the picture was finished, and Hans was allowed to see himself on canvas. At the first glance he started back in affright, crying out like one mad, "Donner and Blitz!--the rascal has stolen me!"

From that day forward, when the artist had gone away, and taken the picture with him, old Hans was quite changed: he went about the village, talking to himself, and was often heard to mutter, "Nailed up to the wall--stolen! Hans has his eyes open day and night, looking down from the wall--never sleeps, nor eats, nor drinks. Stolen!--the thief!" Seldom could a sensible word be drawn from him; but he played the wildest tunes on his fiddle, and every now and then would stop and laugh, exclaiming, as if gazing at something, "Ha, ha! you old fellow there, nailed up to the wall, with your fiddle; you can't play--you are the wrong one--here he sits!"

On one occasion the spirit of the old man burst out again: it was the day when the gayly-decked fir bush was stuck upon the finished gable of the new schoolhouse.[R] The carpenters and masons came, dressed in their Sunday clothes, preceded by a band of music, to fetch "the master." The old fiddler, Hans, was the whole day long in high spirits--brisk and gay as in his best years. He sang, drank, and played till late into the night, and in the morning he was found, with his fiddle-bow in his hand, dead in his bed....

Many of the villagers fancy, in the stillness of the night, when the clock strikes twelve, that they hear a sound in the schoolhouse, like the sweetest tones of a fiddle. Some say that it is old Hans's instrument, which he bequeathed to the schoolhouse, and which plays by itself. Others declare that the tones which Hans played _into_ the wood and stones, when the house was building, come _out_ of them again in the night. Be this as it may, the children are taught all the new rational methods of instruction, in a building which is still haunted by the ghost of the last fiddler.

* * * * *

GEORGE III. gave Lord Eldon a seal, containing a figure of Religion looking up to Heaven, and of Justice with no bandage over her eyes, his Majesty remarking at the same time, that Justice should be bold enough to look the world in the face. The motto of the seal was _His dirige te. Quere._ Would not this be a more appropriate inscription for the spout of a tea-pot than for the seal of a Lord Chancellor.

FOOTNOTES:

[R] This custom is prettily related in Auerbach's story of 'Ivo.'

From Dickens' Household Words.

A BIOGRAPHY OF A BAD SHILLING.

I believe I may state with confidence that my parents were respectable, notwithstanding that one belonged to the law--being the zinc door-plate of a solicitor. The other was a pewter flagon residing at a very excellent hotel, and moving in distinguished society; for it assisted almost daily at convivial parties in the Temple. It fell a victim at last to a person belonging to the lower orders, who seized it, one fine morning, while hanging upon some railings to dry, and conveyed it to a Jew, who--I blush to record the insult offered to a respected member of my family--melted it down. My first mentioned parent--the zinc plate--was not enabled to move much in society, owing to its very close connection with the street door. It occupied, however, a very conspicuous position in a leading thoroughfare, and was the means of diffusing more useful instruction, perhaps, than many a quarto, for it informed the running as well as the reading public, that Messrs. Snapples and Son resided within, and that their office hours were from ten till four. In order to become my progenitor it fell a victim to dishonest practices. A "fast" man unscrewed it one night, and bore it off in triumph to his chambers. Here it was included by "the boy" among his numerous "perquisites," and, by an easy transition, soon found its way to the Hebrew gentleman above mentioned.

The first meeting between my parents took place in the melting-pot of this ingenious person, and the result of their subsequent union was mutually advantageous. The one gained by the alliance that strength and solidity which is not possessed by even the purest pewter; while to the solid qualities of the other were added a whiteness and brilliancy that unadulterated zinc could never display.

From the Jew, my parents were transferred--mysteriously and by night--to an obscure individual in an obscure quarter of the metropolis, when, in secrecy and silence, I was _cast_, to use an appropriate metaphor, upon the world.

How shall I describe my first impression of existence? how portray my agony when I became aware _what I was_--when I understood my mission upon earth? The reader, who has possibly never felt himself to be what Mr. Carlyle calls a "sham," or a "solemnly constituted imposter," can have no notion of my sufferings!

These, however, were endured only in my early and unsophisticated youth. Since then, habitual intercourse with the best society has relieved me from the embarrassing appendage of a conscience. My long career upon town--in the course of which I have been bitten, and rung, and subjected to the most humiliating tests--has blunted my sensibilities, while it has taken off the sharpness of my edges; and, like the counterfeits of humanity, whose lead may be seen emulating silver at every turn, my only desire is--not to be worthy of passing, but simply--to pass.

My impression of the world, on first becoming conscious of existence, was, that it was about fifteen feet in length, very dirty, and had a damp, unwholesome smell; my notions of mankind were, that it shaved only once a fortnight; that it had coarse, misshapen features; a hideous leer; that it abjured soap, as a habit; and lived habitually in its shirt-sleeves. Such, indeed, was the aspect of the apartment in which I first saw the light, and such the appearance of the professional gentleman who ushered me into existence.

I may add that the room was fortified, as if to sustain a siege. Not only was the door itself lined with iron, but it was strengthened by ponderous wooden beams, placed upright, and across, and in every possible direction. This formidable exhibition of precautions against danger was quite alarming.

I had not been long brought into this "narrow world" before a low and peculiar tap, from the outside of the door, met my ear. My master paused, as if alarmed, and seemed on the point of sweeping me and several of my companions (who had been by this time mysteriously ushered into existence) into some place of safety. Reassured, however, by a second tapping, of more marked peculiarity, he commenced the elaborate process of unfastening the door. This having been accomplished, and the entrance left to the guardianship only of a massive chain, a mysterious watchword was exchanged with some person outside who was presently admitted.

"Hollo! there's two on you?" cried my master, as a hard, elderly animal entered, followed somewhat timidly by a younger one of mild and modest aspect.

"A green 'un as I have took under my arm," said Mr. Blinks (which I presently understood to be the name of the elder one), "and werry deserving he promises to be. He's just come out of the stone-pitcher, without having done nothing to entitle him to have gone in. This was it: a fellow out at Highbury Barn collared him, for lifting snow from some railings, where it was a hanging to dry. Young Innocence had never dreamt of any thing of the kind--bein' a walking on his way to the work'us--but beaks being proverbially otherwise than fly, he got six weeks on it. In the 'Ouse o' Correction, however, he met some knowing blades, who put him up to the time of day, and he'll soon be as wide-awake as any on 'em. This morning he brought me a pocket-book, and in it eigh--ty pound flimsies. As he is a young hand, I encouraged him by giving him three pun' ten for the lot--it's runnin' a risk, but I done it. As it is, I shall have to send 'em all over to 'Amburg. Howsomever, he's got to take one pund in home made: bein' out of it myself, I have brought him to you."

"You're here at the nick o' time," said my master, "I've just finished a new batch--"

And he pointed to the glittering heap in which I felt myself--with the diffidence of youth--to be unpleasantly conspicuous.

"I've been explaining to young Youthful that it's the reg'lar thing, when he sells his swag to gents in my way of business, to take part of it in this here coin." Here he took _me_ up from the heap, and as he did so I felt as if I were growing black between his fingers, and having my prospects in life very much damaged.

"And is all this bad money?" said the youth, curiously gazing, as I thought, at me alone, and not taking the slightest notice of the rest of my companions.

"Hush, hush, young Youthful," said Mr. Blinks, "no offence to the home coinage. In all human affairs, every thing is as good as it looks."

"I could not tell them from the good--from those made by government, I should say"--hastily added the boy.

I felt myself leaping up with vanity, and chinking against my companions at these words. It was plain I was fast losing the innocence of youth. In justice to myself, however, I am bound to say that I have, in the course of my subsequent experience, seen many of the lords and masters of the creation behave much more absurdly under the influence of flattery.

"Well, we must put you up to the means of finding out the real turtle from the mock," said my master. "It's difficult to tell by the ring. Silver, if it's at all cracked--as lots of money is--don't ring no better than pewter; besides, people can't try every blessed bit o' tin they get in that way; some folks is offended if they do, and some ain't got no counter. As for the color, I defy any body to tell the difference. And as for the figgers on the side, wot's your dodge? Why, wen a piece o' money's give to you, look to the hedges, and feel 'em too with your finger. When they ain't quite perfect, ten to one but they're bad 'uns. You see, the way it's done is this--I suppose I may put the young 'un up to a thing or two more?" added Mr. Blinks, pausing.

My master, who had during the above conversation lighted a short pipe, and devoted himself with considerable assiduity to a pewter pot--which he looked at with a technical eye, as if mentally casting it into crown pieces,--now nodded assent. He was not of an imaginative or philosophic turn, like Mr. Blinks. He saw none of the sentiment of his business, but pursued it on a system of matter of fact, because he profited by it. This difference between the producer and the middle-man may be continually observed elsewhere.

"You see," continued Mr. Blinks, "that these here '_bobs_'"--by which he meant shillings--"is composed of a mixter of two metals--pewter and zinc. In coorse these is first prigged raw, and sold to gents in my line of bis'ness, who either manufacters them themselves, or sells 'em to gents as does. Now, if the manufacturer is only in a small way of bis'ness, and is of a mean natur, he merely casts his money in plaster of Paris moulds. But for nobby gents like our friend here (my master here nodded approvingly over his pipe), this sort of thing won't pay--too much trouble and not enough profit. All the top-sawyers in the manufactur is scientific men. By means of what they calls a galwanic battery a cast is made of that partiklar coin selected for himitation. From this here cast, which you see, that there die is made, and from that there die impressions is struck off on plates of the metal prepared for the purpose. Now, unfortunately, we ain't got the whole of the masheenery of the Government institootion _yet_ at our disposal, though it's our intention for to bribe the Master of the Mint (in imitation coin) some of these days to put us up to it all--so you see we're obliged to stamp the two sides of this here shilling, for instance (taking _me_ up again as he spoke), upon different plates of metal, jining of 'em together afterwards. Then comes the _milling_ round the hedges. This we do with a file; and it is the himperfection of that 'ere as is continually a preying upon our minds. Any one who's up to the bis'ness can tell whether the article's geniwine or not, by a looking at the hedge; for it can't be expected that a file will cut as reg'lar as a masheen. This is reely the great drawback upon our purfession."

Here Mr. Blinks, overcome by the complicated character of his subject, subsided into a fit of abstraction, during which he took a copious pull at my master's porter.

Whether suggested by the onslaught upon his beer, or by a general sense of impending business, my master now began to show symptoms of impatience. Knocking the ashes out of his pipe, he asked "how many bob his friend wanted?"

The arrangement was soon concluded. Mr. Blinks filled a bag which he carried with the manufacture of my master, and paid over twenty of the shillings to his _protégé_. Of this twenty, _I_ was one. As I passed into the youth's hand I could feel it tremble, as I own mine would have done had I been possessed of that appendage.

My new master then quitted the house in company with Mr. Blinks, whom he left at the corner of the street--an obscure thoroughfare in Westminster. His rapid steps speedily brought him to the southern bank of the "fair and silvery Thames," as a poet who once possessed me (only for half an hour) described that uncleanly river, in some verses which I met in the pocket of his pantaloons. Diving into a narrow street, obviously, from the steepness of its descent, built upon arches, he knocked at a house of all the unpromising rest the least promising in aspect. A wretched hag opened the door, past whom the youth glided, in an absent and agitated manner; and, having ascended several flights of a narrow and precipitate staircase, opened the door of an apartment on the top story.

The room was low, and ill-ventilated. A fire burnt in the grate, and a small candle flickered on the table. Beside the grate, sat an old man sleeping on a chair; beside the table, and bending over the flickering light, sat a young girl engaged in sewing. My master was welcomed, for he had been absent, it seemed, for two months. During that time he had, he said, earned some money; and he had come to share it with his father and sister.

I led a quiet life with my companions, in my master's pocket, for more than a week. At the end of that time, the stock of good money was nearly exhausted, although it had on more than one occasion been judiciously mixed with a neighbor or two of mine. Want, however, did not leave us long at rest. Under pretence of going away again to get "work," my master--leaving several of my friends to take their chance, in administering to the necessities of his father and sister--went away. I remained to be "smashed" (passed) by my master.

"Where are you going so fast, that you don't recognize old friends" were the words addressed to the youth by a passer-by, as he was crossing, at a violent pace, the nearest bridge, in the direction of the Middlesex bank.

The speaker was a young gentleman, aged about twenty, not ill-looking, but with features exhibiting that peculiar expression of cunning, which is popularly described as "knowing." He was arrayed in what the police reports in the newspapers call "the height of fashion,"--that is to say, he had travestied the style of the most daring dandies of last year. He wore no gloves; but the bloated rubicundity of his hands was relieved by a profusion of rings, which--even without the cigar in his mouth--were quite sufficient to establish his claims to gentility.

Edward, my master, returned the civilities of the stranger, and, turning back with him, they agreed to "go somewhere."

"Have a weed," said Mr. Bethnal, producing a well-filled cigar-case. There was no resisting. Edward took one.

"Where shall we go?" he said.

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Mr. Bethnal, who looked as if experiencing a novel sensation--he evidently had an idea. "I tell you what--we'll go and blow a cloud with Joe, the pigeon-fancier. He lives only a short distance off, not far from the abbey; I want to see him on business, so we shall kill two birds. He's one of us, you know."

I now learned that Mr. Bethnal was a new acquaintance, picked up under circumstances (as a member of Parliament, to whom I once belonged, used to say in the House) to which it is unnecessary further to allude.

"I was glad to hear of your luck, by-the-by," said the gentleman in question, not noticing his companion's wish to avoid the subject. "I heard of it from Old Blinks. Smashing's the thing, if one's a presentable cove. You'd do deuced well in it. You've only to get nobby togs and you'll do."

Mr. Joe, it appeared, in addition to his ornithological occupations, kept a small shop for the sale of coals and potatoes; he was also, in a very small way, a timber merchant; for several bundles of firewood were piled in pyramids in his shed.

Mr. Bethnal's business with him was soon dispatched; although not until after the latter had been assured by his friend, that Edward was "of the right sort," with the qualification that he was "rather green at present;" and he was taken into Mr. Joe's confidence, and also into Mr. Joe's up-stairs sanctum.

In answer to a request from Mr. Bethnal, in a jargon to me then unintelligible, Mr. Joe produced from some mysterious depository at the top of the house, a heavy canvas bag, which he emptied on the table, discovering a heap of shillings and half-crowns, which, by a sympathetic instinct, I immediately detected to be of my own species.

"What do you think of these?" said Mr. Bethnal to his young friend.

Edward expressed some astonishment that Mr. Joe should be in the line.

"Why, bless your eyes," said that gentleman, "you don't suppose I gets my livelihood out of the shed down stairs, nor the pigeons neither. You see, these things are only dodges. If I lived here like a gentleman--that is to say, without a occupation--the p'lese would soon be down upon me. They'd be obleeged to take notice on me. As it is, I comes the respectable tradesman, who's above suspicion--and the pigeons helps on the business wonderful."

"How is that?"

"Why, I keeps my materials--the pewter, and all that--on the roof, in order to be out o' the way, in case of a surprise. If I was often seed upon the roof, a-looking after such-like matters, inquisitive eyes would be on the look out. The pigeons is a capital blind. I'm believed to be devoted to my pigeons, out o' which I takes care it should be thought I makes a little fortun--and that makes a man respected. As for the pigeon and coal and 'tatur business, them's dodges. Gives a opportoonity of bringing in queer-looking sackfuls o' things, which otherwise would compel the _'spots'_--as we calls the p'lese--to come down on us."

"Compel them!--but surely they come down whenever they've a suspicion?"

"You needn't a' told me he was green," said Mr. Joe to his elder acquaintance, as he glanced at the youth with an air of pity. "In the first place, we takes care to keep the vork-shop almost impregnable; so that, if they attempts a surprise, we has lots o' time to get the things out o' the way. In the next, if it comes to the scratch--which is a matter of almost life and death to us--we stands no nonsense."

Mr. Joe pointed to an iron crowbar, which stood in the chimney-corner.

"I ses nothing to criminate friends, you know," he added significantly to Mr. Bethnal, "but _you_ remember wot Sergeant Higsley got?"

Mr. Bethnal nodded assent, and Mr. Joe volunteered for the benefit and instruction of Edward an account of the demise and funeral of the late Mr. Sergeant Higsley. That official having been promoted, was ambitious of being designated, in the newspapers, "active and intelligent," and gave information against a gang of coiners; "Wot wos the consequence?" continued the narrator. "Somehow or another, that p'leseman was never more heered on. One fine night he went on his beat; he didn't show at the next muster; and it was s'posed he'd bolted. Every inquiry was made, and the 'mysterious disappearance of a p'leseman,' got into the noospapers. Howsomnever, _he_ never got any wheres."

"And what became of him?"

Mr. Joe then proceeded to take a long puff at his pipe, and winking at his initiated friend, proceeded to narrate how that the injured gang dealt in eggs.

"What has that to do with it?"

"Why you see eggs is not always eggs." Mr. Pouter then went on to state that one night a long deal chest left the premises of the coiners, marked outside, 'eggs,' for exportation. "They were duly shipped, a member of the firm being on board. The passage was rough, the box was on deck, and somehow or other, somebody tumbled it overboard."

"But what has this to do with the missing policeman?"

"The chest was six feet long, and----,"

Here Mr. Bethnal became uneasy.

"Vell," said the host, "the firm's broke up, and is past peaching up, only it shows you, my green 'un, what we _can_ do."

I was shaken in my master's pocket by the violence of the dread which Mr. Joe's story had occasioned him.

Mr. Bethnal, with the philosophy which was habitual to him, puffed away at his pipe.

"The fact o' the matter is," said Mr. Joe, who was growing garrulous on an obviously pet subject, "that we aint afeerd o' the p'lese in this neighborhood, not a hap'orth; _we_ know how to manage them." He then related an anecdote of another policeman, who had been formerly in his own line of business. This gentleman being, as he observed, "fly" to all the secret signs of the craft, obtained an interview with a friend of his for the purpose of purchasing a hundred shillings. A package was produced and exchanged for their proper price in currency, but on the policeman taking his prize to the station house to lay the information, he discovered that he had been outwitted. The rouleau contained a hundred good farthings, for each of which he had paid two pence half-penny.

"Then, what is the bad money generally worth?" asked Edward, interrupting the speaker.

"As a general rule," was the answer, "our sort is worth about one-fifth part o' the wallie it represents. So, a sovereign--(though we aint got much to do with gold here--that's made for the most part in Brummagem)--a 'Brum' sovereign may be bought for about four-and-six; a bad crown piece for a good bob; a half-crown for about fippence; a bob for two pence half-penny, and so on. As for the sixpennys and fourpennys, we don't make many on 'em, their wallie bein' too insignificant." Mr. Joe then proceeded with some further remarks for the benefit of his protégé:----

"You see you need have no fear o' passing this here money if you're a respectable-looking cove. If a gentleman is discovered at any think o' the kind, it's always laid to a mistake; the shopman knocks under, and the gentleman gives a good piece o' money with a grin. And that's how it is that so much o' our mannyfactur gets smashed all over the country."

The visitors having been somewhat bored, apparently, during the latter portion of their host's remarks, soon after took their departure. The rum-and-water which Mr. Joe's liberality had supplied, effectually removed Edward's scruples; and on his way back he expressed himself in high terms in favor of "smashing," considered as a profession.

"O' course," was the reply of his experienced companion. "It aint once in a thousand times that a fellow's nailed. You shall make your first trial to-night. You've the needful in your pocket, hav'n't you? Come, here's a shop--I want a cigar."

Edward appeared to hesitate; but Mr. Joe's rum-and-water asserted itself, and into the shop they both marched.

Mr. Bethnal, with an air of most imposing nonchalance, took up a cigar from one of the covered cases on the counter, put it in his mouth, and helped himself to a light. Edward, not so composedly, followed his example.

"How much."

"Sixpence."

The next instant the youth had drawn me from his pocket, received sixpence in change, and walked out of the shop, leaving me under the guardianship of a new master.

I did not remain long with the tobacconist: he passed me next day to a gentleman, who was as innocent as himself as to my real character. It happened that I slipped into a corner of this gentleman's pocket, and remained there for several weeks--he, apparently, unaware of my existence. At length he discovered me, and one day I found myself, in company with a _good_ half-crown, exchanged for a pair of gloves, at a respectable-looking shop. After the purchaser had left, the assistant looked at me suspiciously, and was going to call back my late owner, but it was too late. Taking me then to his master, he asked if I was not bad.

"It don't look very good," was the answer. "Give it to me, and take care to be more careful for the future."

I was slipped into the waistcoat pocket of the proprietor, who immediately seemed to forget all about the occurrence.

That same night, immediately on the shop being closed, the shopkeeper walked out, having changed his elegant costume for garments of a coarser and less conspicuous description, and hailing a cab, requested to be driven to the same street in Westminster in which I first saw the light. To my astonishment, he entered the shop of my first master: how well I remembered the place, and the coarse countenance of its proprietor! Ascending to the top of the house, we entered the room, to which the reader has been already introduced,--the scene of so much secret toil.

A long conversation, in a very low tone, now took place between the pair, from which I gleaned some interesting particulars. I discovered that the respectable gentleman who now possessed me was the coiner's partner,--his being the "issue" department, which his trade transactions, and unimpeachable character, enabled him to undertake very effectively.

"Let your next batch be made as perfectly as possible,"--I heard him say to his partner. "The last seems to have gone very well: I have heard of only a few detections, and one of those was at my own shop to-day. One of my fellows made the discovery, but not until after the purchaser left the shop."

"That, you see, will 'appen now and then," was the answer; "but think o' the number on 'em as is about, and how sharp some people is getting--thanks to them noospapers, as is always a interfering with wot don't concern 'em. There's now so much of our metal about, that it's almost impossible to get change for a suff'rin nowhere without getting some on it. Every body's a-taking of it every day; and as for them that's detected, they're made only by the common chaps as aint got our masheenery,"--and he glanced proudly at his well-mounted galvanic battery. "All I wish is, that we could find some dodge for milling the edges better--it takes as much time now as all the rest of the work put together. Howsomever, I've sold no end on 'em in Whitechapel and other places, since I saw you. And as for this here neighborhood, there's scarcely a shop where they don't deal in the article more or less."

"Well," said Mr. Niggle's (which, I learned from his emblazoned door-posts was the name of my respectable master), "be as careful about these as you can. I am afraid it's through some of our money that that young girl has been found out."

"Wot, the young 'ooman as has been remanded so often at the p'lese court?"

"The same. I shall know all about it to-morrow. She is to be tried at the Old Bailey, and I am on the jury, as it happens."

Mr. Niggles then departed to his suburban villa, and passed the remainder of the evening as became so respectable a man.

The next morning he was early at business; and, in his capacity of citizen, did not neglect his duties in the court, where he arrived exactly two minutes before any of the other jurymen.

When the prisoner was placed in the dock, I saw at once that she was the sister of my first possessor. She had attempted to pass two bad shillings at a grocer's shop. She had denied all knowledge that the money was bad, but was notwithstanding arrested, examined, and was committed for trial. Here, at the Old Bailey, the case was soon dispatched. The evidence was given in breathless haste; the judge summed up in about six words, and the jury found the girl guilty. Her sentence was, however, a very short imprisonment.

It was my fortune to pass subsequently into the possession of many persons, from whom I learnt some particulars of the afterlife of this family. The father survived his daughter's conviction only a few days. The son was detained in custody; and as soon as his identity became established, charges were brought against him which led to his being transported. As for his sister--I was once, for a few hours, in a family where there was a governess of her name. I had no opportunity of knowing more; but--as her own nature would probably save her from the influences to which she must have been subjected in jail--it is but just to suppose, that some person might have been found to brave the opinion of society, and to yield to one so gentle, what the law calls "the benefit of a doubt."

The changes which I underwent in the course of a few months were many and various--now rattling carelessly in a cash-box; now loose in the pocket of some careless young fellow, who passed me at a theatre; then, perhaps, tied up carefully in the corner of a handkerchief, having become the sole stock-in-hand of some timid young girl. Once I was given by a father as a "tip" or present to his little boy; when, I need scarcely add, I found myself ignominiously spent in hard-bake ten minutes afterwards. On another occasion, I was (in company with a sixpence) handed to a poor woman, in payment for the making of a dozen shirts. In this case I was so fortunate as to sustain an entire family, who were on the verge of starvation. Soon afterwards, I formed one of seven, the sole stock of a poor artist, who contrived to live upon my six companions for many days. He had reserved me until the last--I believe because I was the brightest and best-looking of the whole; and when he was at last induced to change me, for some coarse description of food, to his and my own horror, I was discovered!

The poor fellow was driven from the shop; but the tradesman, I am bound to say, did not treat me with the indignity that I expected. On the contrary, he thought my appearance so deceitful, that he did not scruple to pass me next day, as part of change for a sovereign.

Soon after this, somebody dropped me on the pavement, where, however, I remained but a short time. I was picked up by a child, who ran instinctively into a shop for the purpose of making an investment in figs. But, coins of my class had been plentiful in that neighborhood, and the grocer was a sagacious man. The result was, that the child went figless away, and that I--my edges curl as I record the humiliating fact--was nailed to the counter as an example to others. Here my career ended, and my biography closes.

A SUPPLY OF COCKED HATS.

In new work entitled _A Voyage to the Mauritius and Back_, just published in London, we find the following capital story, from which it is apparent that the Chatham-street auction system, even if indigenous, is not peculiar to New-York. The subject of the joke was an Indian officer at the Cape, on leave of absence, and an inmate of the boarding-house where the writer was living.

"The most singular character which Cape Town presented was a Major Holder, of the Bombay Army. In dress he was entirely unique. He wore invariably a short red shell jacket, thrown open, with a white waistcoat, and short but large white trousers, cotton stockings, and shoes; on his head a cocked-hat, with an upright red and white feather, the whole surmounted by a green silk umbrella, held painfully aloft to clear the feather: to this may be added a shirt-collar which acted almost as a pair of blinders on either side. In person he was ample, but somewhat shapeless; and he had a vast oblong face, which neither laughed nor showed any sign of animation whatever. The history of the Major's cocked-hat was as follows. Strolling into an auction at Bombay, he was rather taken with the reasonable price of a cocked-hat, which the flippant auctioneer was recommending with all his ingenuity. 'Going for six rupees--must be sold to pay the creditors. No advance upon six? Shall we say siccas?' In an evil hour the Major bid for the hat, left his address, and returned to his quarters, the happy possessor of a 'bargain.' Seated at breakfast the next morning, a procession is observed approaching the house; four men carrying a large packing-case slung to a pole, and headed by a half-caste, with a small paper in his hand.

"'Major Holder, sar, brought you the cocked-hats, sir; all sound and good, sar; wish live long to wear out, sar. Here leel' bill, which feel obleege you pay, sar.' Whereupon he puts into the hands of the astounded commander a document, headed 'Major Thomas Holder, of H.E.I.C.'s ---- Regt., Dr. to estate of ---- and Co., bankrupts, for seventy-two cocked-hats, purchased at auction,' &c., &c., &c.

"It was in vain that the Major remonstrated after he understood the predicament in which he was placed; in vain he appealed to the auctioneer--to the company present; it was too good a joke, and they would have given it against him under almost any circumstances.

"Major Holder was a rigid economist; he had almost a mind which admitted but one idea at a time, and, indeed, not very often that. He was possessed of six dozen of cocked-hats, and they must be worn out. Being mostly in command of his own regiment, he had unlimited choice as to his own head-dress; so he commenced the task at once. From thenceforth all other hats or caps were to him matters of history. At the economical rate of two hats a year, he might safely calculate upon being much advanced in life before the case was exhausted. True, there were drawbacks: he was much consulted about auctions by his friends; many inquiries made of him on that point; bills of auction, and especially any thing relating to cocked-hats, forwarded to him by the kind attention of acquaintance; and a question very currently put to him by the ensigns was 'Tom, how are you off for hats?'

"The interest taken in the Major's hats was far from dying, even after the lapse of years: the less likely to do so, indeed, from the circumstance of their forming epochs in history; as, 'Such a one got leave in Tom's fourth hat;' or, 'I hope to be off before Tom changes his hat;' or, 'I'll make you a bet that Jack's married before another hat's gone.' When this individual arrived at the Cape he was understood to be in his fifteenth hat: but there occurred some confusion in the Major's chronology; for it was understood that, owing to the practical jokes played there, no less than three hats were expended during the short month of his stay. To correct this, he adopted the plan of sitting upon his hat at dinner; but as he wore no tails to his jacket, and left the feather protruding behind, it had to a stranger the appearance of being a natural appendage to his person."

BUYING DONKEYS AT SMITHFIELD.

One of the brothers Mayhew is publishing in London, (and the Harpers are reprinting it in New-York) a serial work under the title of _London Labor and London Poor_, similar in design to the sketches of trades and occupations a year or two ago printed in the _Tribune_. It is in as lively a vein as may be, but such an anatomy is unavoidably sometimes repulsive. The authors perhaps endanger the designed effect of their performance by attempting to invest it with the attractions of quaintness and humor. We quote from the second part the following description of coster-mongers in the Smithfield market:

"The donkeys standing for sale are ranged in a long line on both sides of the race course, their white velvety noses resting on the wooden rail they are tied to. Many of them wear their blinkers and head-harness, and others are ornamented with ribands fastened in their halters. The lookers-on lean against this railing, and chat with the boys at the donkeys' heads, or with the men who stand behind them, and keep continually hitting and shouting at the poor still beasts, to make them prance. Sometimes a party of two or three will be seen closely examining one of these 'Jerusalem ponies,' passing their hands down his legs or quietly looking on, while the proprietor's ash stick descends on the patient brute's back, making a dull hollow sound. As you walk in front of a long line of donkeys, the lads seize the animals by their nostrils and show their large teeth, asking if you 'want a hass, sir,' and all warranting the creature to be 'five years old next buff-day.' Dealers are quarrelling among themselves, down-crying each other's goods. 'A hearty man,' shouted one proprietor, pointing to his rival's stock, 'could eat three sich donkeys as yourn at a meal!' One fellow, standing behind his steed, shouts as he strikes, 'Here's the real Britannia metal;' whilst another asks, 'Who's for the pride of the market?' and then proceeds to flip 'the pride' with the whip till she clears away the mob with her kickings. Here, standing by its mother, will be a shaggy little colt, with a group of ragged boys fondling it and lifting it in their arms from the ground.

"During all this the shouts of the drivers and runners fill the air, as they rush past each other on the race course. Now a tall fellow, dragging a donkey after him, runs by, crying, as he charges in amongst the mob, 'Hulloa! hulloa! Hi! hi!' his mate, with his long coat-tails flying in the wind, hurrying after him and roaring, between his blows, 'Keem up!'"

From the Leader.

TO LAYARD, DISCOVERER OF BABYLON AND NINEVEH.

No harps, no choral voices, may enforce, The words I utter. Thebes and Elis heard Those harps, those voices, whence high men rose higher; And nations crowned the singer who crowned _them_. His days are over. Better men than his Live among _us_: and must they live unsung Because deaf ears flap round them? or because Gold lies along the shallows of the world, And vile hands gather it? My song shall rise, Although none heed or hear it: rise it shall, And swell along the wastes of Nineveh And Babylon, until it reach to thee, Layard! who raisest cities from the dust, Who driest Lethe up amid her shades, And pourest a fresh stream on arid sands, And rescuest thrones and nations, fanes and gods, From conquering Time: he sees thee, and turns back. The weak and slow Power pushes past the wise, And lifts them up in triumph to her ear: They, to keep firm the seat, sit with flat palms Upon the cushion, nor look once beyond To cheer thee on thy road. In vain are won The spoils; another carries them away; The stranger seeks them in another land, Torn piecemeal from thee. But no stealthy step Can intercept thy glory. Cyrus raised His head on ruins: he of Macedon Crumbled them, with their dreamer, into dust: God gave thee power above them, far above; Power to raise up those whom they overthrew, Power to show mortals that the kings they serve Swallow each other, like the shapeless forms, And unsubstantial, which pursue pursued In every drop of water, and devour Devoured, perpetual round the crystal globe.[S]

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

FOOTNOTES:

[S] Seen through a solar microscope.

From Household Words.

PHYSIOLOGY OF INTEMPERANCE.

"One glass more," exclaimed mine host of the Garter. "A bumper at parting! No true knight ever went away without 'the stirrup-cup.'"

"Good," cried a merry-faced guest; "but the Age of Chivalry is gone, and that of water-drinkers and teetotallers has succeeded. Temperance societies have been imported from America, and grog nearly thrown overboard by the British Navy."

"Very properly so," observed a Clergyman who sat at the table. "The accidents which occur from drunkenness on board ship may be so disastrous on the high seas, and the punishment necessary to suppress this vice is so revolting, that the most experienced naval officers have recommended the allowance of grog, served both to officers and men in our Navy, to be reduced one-half. In America, as well as in our own Merchant Service, vessels sail out of harbor on the Temperance principle; not a particle of spirits is allowed on board; and the men throughout the voyage are reported to continue healthy and able-bodied. Tea is an excellent substitute; many of our old seamen prefer it to grog."

"That may be," exclaimed the merry-faced guest. "Horses have been brought to eat oysters; and on the Coromandel coast, Bishop Heber says, they get fat when fed on fish. Sheep have been trained up, during a voyage, to eat animal food, and refused, when put ashore, to crop the dewy greensward. When honest Jack renounces his grog, and, after reefing topsails in a gale of wind, goes below deck to swill down a domestic dish of tea, after the fashion of Dr. Samuel Johnson at Mrs. Thrale's, I greatly fear the character of our British seamen will degenerate. In the glorious days of Lord Nelson, the observation almost passed into a proverb, that the man who loved his grog always made the best sailor. Besides, in rough and stormy weather, when men have perhaps been splicing the mainbrace, and exposed to the midnight cold and damp, the stimulus of grog is surely necessary to support, if not restore, the vital energy?"

"Not in the least," rejoined the clergyman. "Severe labor, even at sea, is better sustained without alcoholic liquors; and the depressing effects of exposure to cold and wet weather best counteracted by a hot mess of cocoa or coffee served with biscuit or the usual allowance of meat. In fact, I have lately read, with considerable satisfaction, a prize essay by an accomplished physician, in which he proves that alcohol acts as a poison on the nervous system, and that we can dispense entirely with the use of stimulants."

"Not exactly so," observed a physician, who was of the party. "Life itself exists only by stimulation; the air we breathe, the food we eat, the desires and emotions which excite the mind to activity, are all so many forms of physical and mental stimuli. If the atmosphere were deprived of its oxygen, the blood would cease to acquire those stimulating properties which excite the action of the heart, and sustain the circulation; and if the daily food of men were deprived of certain necessary stimulating adjuncts, the digestive organs would no longer recruit the strength, and the wear and tear of the body. Nay, strange as it may appear, that common article in domestic cookery, salt, is a natural and universal stimulant to the digestive organs of all warm-blooded animals. This is strikingly exemplified by the fact, that animals, in their wild state, will traverse, instinctively, immense tracts of country in pursuit of it; for example, to the salt-pans of Africa and America; and it is a curious circumstance that one of the ill effects produced by withholding this stimulant from the human body is the generation of worms. The ancient laws of Holland condemned men, as a severe punishment, to be fed on bread unmixed with salt; and the effect was horrible; for these wretched criminals are reported to have been devoured by worms, engendered in their own stomach. Now, I look upon alcohol to be, under certain circumstances, as healthful and proper a stimulant to the digestive organs as salt, when taken in moderation, whether in the form of malt liquor, wine, or spirits and water. When taken to excess, it may act upon the nervous system as a poison; but the most harmless solids or fluids may, by being taken to excess, be rendered poisonous. Indeed, it has been truly observed, that 'medicines differ from poisons, only in their doses.' Alcoholic stimulants, artificially and excessively imbibed, are, doubtless, deleterious."

"The subject," observed the host, filling his glass, and passing the bottle, "is a curious one. The port before us, at all events, is not poison, and I confess, that so ignorant am I of these matters, that I would like to know something about this alcohol which is so much spoken of."

"The explanation is not difficult," answered the Doctor. "Alcohol is simply derived by fermentation, or distillation, from substances or fluids containing sugar; in other words, the matter of sugar, when subjected to a certain temperature, undergoes a change, and the elements of which the sugar was previously composed enter into a new combination, which constitutes the fluid named Alcohol, or Spirits of Wine. Raymand Lully, the alchemist, (thirteenth century,) is said to have given it the name of Alcohol; but the art of obtaining it was, in that age of darkness and superstition, kept a profound mystery. When it became more known, physicians prescribed it only as a medicine, and imagined that it had the important property of prolonging life, upon which account they designated it 'Aqua Vitæ,' or the 'Water of life,' and the French, to this day, call their Cognac _'Eau de Vie_.'"

"It is a remarkable circumstance," observed the Clergyman, filling his glass, "that there is hardly any nation, however rude and destitute of invention, that has not succeeded in discovering some composition of an intoxicating nature; and it would appear, that nearly all the herbs, and roots, and fruits on the face of the earth have been, in some way or other, sacrificed on the shrine of Bacchus. All the different grains destined for the support of man; corn of every description; esculent roots, potatoes, carrots, turnips; grass itself, as in Kamtschatka; apples, pears, cherries, and even the delicious juice of the peach, have been pressed into this service; nay, so inexhaustible appear to be the resources of art, that a vinous spirit has been obtained by distillation from milk itself."

"Milk!" cried the merry-faced guest. "Can alcohol be obtained from mother's milk?"

"Very probably," continued the Clergyman. "The Tartars and Calmucks obtain a vinous spirit from the distillation of mares' and cows' milk; and, as far as I can recollect, the process consists in allowing the milk first to remain in untanned skins, sewed together, until it sours and thickens. This they agitate until a thick cream appears on the surface, which they give to their guests, and then, from the skimmed milk that remains, they draw off the spirits."

"Exactly so," observed the Doctor, "but it is worthy of notice, that a Russian chemist discovered that if this milk were deprived of its butter and cheese, the whey, although it contains the whole of the sugar of milk, will not undergo vinous fermentation."

"These facts," observed the host, "are interesting, but they are more curious than useful. The alcohol, I presume, from whatever source it be derived, is chemically the same thing; how, then, does it happen that some wines, containing precisely the same quantity of alcohol, intoxicate more speedily than others?"

"The reason," explained the Doctor, "is simply this. We must regard all wines, even the very wine we are drinking, not as a simple mixture, but as a compound holding the matter of sugar, mucilaginous, and extractive principles contained in the grape juice, in intimate combination with the alcohol. Accordingly, the more quickly the real spirit is set free from this combination, the more rapidly are intoxicating effects produced; and this is the reason why wines containing the same quantity of alcohol have different intoxicating powers. Thus, champagne intoxicates very quickly. Now this wine contains comparatively only a small quantity of alcohol; but this escapes from the froth, or bubbles of carbonic acid gas, as it reaches the surface, carrying along with it all the aroma which is so agreeable to the taste. The liquor in the glass then becomes vapid. This has been clearly proved. The froth of champagne has been collected under a glass bell, and condensed by surrounding the vessel with ice; the alcohol has then been found condensed within the glass. The object, therefore, of icing champagne--or rather, the effect produced by this operation--is to repress its tendency to effervesce, whereby a smaller quantity of alcohol is taken with each glass. Wines containing the same quantity of alcohol accordingly differ in their effects; nay, it is not to the alcohol only they contain that certain obnoxious effects are to be attributed, for, as Dr. Paris clearly shows, when they contain an excess of certain acids, a suppressed fermentation takes place in the stomach itself, which will cause flatulency and a great variety of unpleasant symptoms. In fact, a fluid load remains in the stomach, to undergo a slow and painful form of digestion."

"But, in whatever shape you introduce it," remarked the host, "whether disguised as wine, or in the form of brandy, whiskey, or gin-and-water, it matters not--I wish to have a clear idea of the immediate effects of alcohol upon the living system."

"Well!" said the Doctor, "it can very easily be described. When you swallow a glass--let us say of brandy-and-water--the stimulating liquid, upon entering into the stomach, excites the blood-vessels and nerves of its internal lining coat, which causes an increased flow of blood and nervous energy to this part. The consequence is, that the internal membrane of the stomach becomes highly reddened and injected, just as if inflammation had already been produced by the presence of the stimulant. Thus far you probably follow me:--but this is not all--the vessels thus excited have an absorbing power; they suck up (as it were) and carry directly into the stream of the circulation a portion (at all events) of the alcohol which thus irritates them. The result is, that alcohol is thus mixed with the blood and brought into immediate contact with the minute structure of all the different organs of the body."

"But how," asked the merry-faced guest, "can this be known? Who ever saw into the stomach of a living man?"

"Strange as it may appear to you, that has been done, and all the circumstances connected with the digestion of solids and fluids in the stomach have been very accurately observed. It happened, in the year 1822, that a young Canadian, named Alexis St. Martin, was accidentally wounded by the discharge of a musket, which carried away a portion of his ribs, perforating and exposing the interior of the stomach. After the poor fellow had undergone much suffering, all the injured parts became sound, excepting the perforation into the stomach, which remained some two and a half inches in circumference; and upon this unfortunate individual his physician, Dr. Beaumont, when he was sufficiently well, made a series of very careful observations, which have determined a great variety of important points connected with the physiology of digestion. Fluids introduced into the stomach rapidly disappeared, being taken up by these vessels and carried into the system. We cannot, therefore, be surprised to hear that so subtile and penetrating a fluid as alcohol should very speedily find its way into all the tissues of the body. Its presence may be smelt in the breath of persons addicted to spirituous liquors, as well as in their secretions generally."

"But to what do you attribute the noxious effects of alcohol, allowing it to be thus carried by direct absorption into the circulation?" asked the host.

"To the excess of carbon," answered the Doctor, "which is thus introduced into the system; and explains why the liver, in hard drinkers, is generally found diseased."

"How so?" inquired the host. "I have heard of the 'gin liver.'"

"It is well known that a long residence in India," interposed the Clergyman, "will give rise to enlargement and induration of this organ."

"And for the same reason," answered the Doctor, "the liver acts as a substitute for the lungs--just as the skin acts vicariously for the kidneys."

"Not a word of this do I understand," said the merry-faced guest.

"Well, then," continued the Doctor, "I will endeavor to explain it. By a wonderful provision of nature, which appears to come under the law of compensation, when one organ, by reason of decay, is unable to perform its functions, another undertakes its functions, and, to a certain extent, supplies its place. You all know that blind people acquire a preternatural delicacy in the sense of touch, which did not escape the philosophical observation of Wordsworth, who speaks of

"A watchful heart, Still couchant--an inevitable ear; And an eye practised like the blind man's touch."

"Now, it is the office of the vessels of the skin to throw off by perspiration the watery parts of the blood; the kidneys do the same; and under a great variety of circumstances which must be familiar to all, these organs frequently act vicariously for one another. The office of the liver, and the lungs also, is in like manner to throw off carbon from the system, and when during a residence in a tropical climate the lungs are unable, from the state of the atmosphere, to perform their functions, the liver acting vicariously for this organ is stimulated to undue activity, and becomes consequently diseased. Applying these remarks to the spirit drinker, it is obvious that the excess of carbon introduced into the system by alcohol is thrown upon the liver, and by stimulating it to undue activity produces a state of inflammation."

"This I understand," observed the Clergyman, "but how does it act upon the brain? Does the alcohol itself actually become absorbed, and enter into the substance of the brain?"

"The effect of an excess of carbon, in the blood-vessels of the brain, is to produce sleep and stupor; hence the drunkard breathes thick, and snores spasmodically, and after this state, ends in confirmed apoplexy and death--just as dogs become insensible when held over the Grotto del Cane, in Italy, where they inhale this deleterious gas. But in addition to this it has been clearly proved, that alcohol does enter into the substance of the brain, for it has been detected by the smell, upon examining the brain of persons who have died drunk; besides which, alcohol, after having been introduced by way of experiment, into the body of a living dog, has afterwards been procured absolutely as alcohol by distillation from the substance of the brain. It is so subtile a fluid that Liebig says it permeates every tissue of the body."

"But how do you explain the circumstance that death sometimes happens suddenly after drinking spirits," asked the host, "before there can be time for absorption to take place?"

"I remember, not many years ago," interrupted the merry-faced guest, "a water-man, in attendance at the cab-stand at the top of the Haymarket, for a bribe of five shillings, tossed off a bottle of gin, upon which he dropped down insensible, and soon died."

"This may clearly be accounted for," observed the Doctor. "The stomach, as I premised, is plentifully supplied with nerves, and is connected with one of the great nervous centres in the body, so that a sudden impression produced upon these nerves, by the introduction of a quantity of such stimulus, gives a shock to the whole nervous system, which completely overpowers it. From the centre to the circumference it acts like a stroke of lightning, and the death is often instantaneous. A draught of iced water taken when the system has been overheated by exertion, by dancing or otherwise, has been known to be immediately fatal. The physiological action--or rather the 'shock' upon the nervous system, is in both cases the same--violent mental emotion will in like manner suspend the action of the heart and produce instant death. These are the terrors of alcohol, when drank to excess; but the health of the habitual tippler is sure to be undermined; his hands become tremulous, he is unsteady in his gait, his complexion becomes sallow, and all his mental faculties gradually impaired."

"To what, may I ask," inquired the merry-faced guest, "do you attribute the circumstance of the trembling hand recovering its steadiness, after taking a glass of spirits in the morning after a debauch; 'hair of the dog,' as it is called, 'that bit overnight?'"

"Action and reaction is the great law of the animal economy," replied the Doctor; "over stimulation will always produce a corresponding degree of depression; when, therefore, the nervous system has been over-excited by alcoholic liquors, the usual amount of nervous energy which is necessary to give tone to the muscular system is wanting, and then a stimulus gives a fillip to the nervous centres, which restores the nervous powers to the extremities. When this state of things, however, has been permitted to go on, and the brain has been frequently brought under alcoholic influence, its structure becomes affected, and a slow and very insidious inflammation takes place, which terminates in a softening of its substance. This mischief may proceed for a considerable period without being suspected, but on a sudden _delirium tremens_ may supervene, which will terminate, perhaps, in paralysis--perhaps death!"

"To what, Doctor," inquired the Clergyman, "do you attribute the mental pleasures of intoxication? Can this be explained upon physiological principles?"

"Easily, I think," answered the Doctor. "All inebriating agents have a two-fold action--as I have already pointed out--first, on the circulation; and secondly, on the nervous system. There can be no doubt that the mind becomes endowed with increased energy when the circulation through the brain is moderately quickened. This has been proved by observation. The case has been reported of a person who having lost by disease a part of the skull and its investments, a corresponding portion of brain was open to inspection. In a state of dreamless sleep the brain lay motionless within the skull; but when dreams occurred, as reported by the patient, then the quantity of blood was observed to flow with increased rapidity, causing the brain to move and protrude out of the skull. When perfectly awake, and engaged in active thought, then the blood again was sent with increased force to the brain, and the protrusion was still greater. Under all circumstances, increased circulation through the brain gives rise to mental excitement, and sometimes to an unusual lucidity of ideas. It is observed in the early stages of fever, and even in the dying--and this accounts for the clearing up of the mind which sometimes occurs in the last moments of life--what is called familiarly 'the lightening before death.'"

"That," observed the Clergyman, "is a very curious circumstance, which I firmly believe; and you account for this, if I understand your meaning, by explaining that the blood which no longer circulates in the extremities, which may have become cold, flows with increased impetus through the brain."

"Exactly so," replied the Doctor; "and upon this very principle, the rapidity of ideas, and the pleasurable mental excitement attending that temporary state of intellectual exaltation, depends on the increased rapidity of the flow of blood through the brain; but when this becomes carried to too great an extent, and the rapidity of the current disturbs the healthy condition of the brain, then the manifestations of the mind necessarily become impaired, the ideas are no longer under the control of the reasoning faculty, and the bodily organs, usually under the dominion of the will, no longer obey its mandates. This I believe to be the true theory of mental intoxication."

"But there are many circumstances," observed the host, "which may accelerate or retard this excitement."

"Certainly," continued the Doctor; "persons who join the social board already elated with some good news, or cause of unusual happiness; persons who talk much, and excite themselves in argument, are apt to become affected more speedily than those who hold themselves in the midst of the convivial scene sedate and taciturn. The mind, in fact, may exercise a considerable power of resistance against inebriation; for which reason, persons in the society of their superiors, under circumstances which render it necessary they should maintain the appearance of being always well conducted, drink with impunity more than they otherwise could, if they did not impose upon themselves this consciousness of self-government. We also observe the influence of the mind, in controlling, and, indeed, putting an end to a fit of intoxication, by making, doubtless, an impression on the heart and causation, when a sense of danger, or a piece of good or bad news, suddenly communicated, sobers a person on a sudden."

"I have heard," observed the merry-faced guest, "that moving about--changing from one seat into another--will check the effects of liquor; and I have known persons who have left a social party perfectly sober, become suddenly tipsy in the open air. How is this to be explained?"

"Precisely on the same principle," answered the Doctor, "upon leaving an overheated room, on your returning homewards, you expose yourself to an atmosphere many degrees below that you have just left. The cold checks the circulation on the surface of the body; the blood is driven inwards; it accumulates, consequently, in the internal organs; and sometimes its pressure is such on the brain, as to produce on a sudden the very last stage of intoxication. The limbs refuse to support their burthen, and the person falls down in a state of profound insensibility."

"I have recently," said the host, "read in the Police Reports several cases of this description; and imagined that some narcotic drug must have been mixed with the liquor drank by such persons. Adulterations of some sort must go on to a frightful extent in gin-palaces."

"Not by any means," answered the Doctor, "to the extent you suppose. It is said that the spirit dealer makes his whisky or gin bead by adding a little turpentine to it. Well! what then? Turpentine is a very healthy diuretic. It is given to infants to kill worms in very large doses. Then, again, vitriol is spoken of; but so strong is sulphuric acid, that it would clearly render these spirits quite unpalatable. I do not affirm that the art of adulteration may not occasionally be had recourse to, even with criminal intentions, for such cases have been brought under the notice of the authorities; but I do not believe the practice is so general as some persons suppose. I apprehend dilution is a more general means of fraud."

"It has often occurred to me," said the Clergyman, "that our municipal regulations ought, on this subject, be much improved. Our Excise officers enter the cellars of the wholesale and retail spirit-dealers, only to gauge the strength of the spirit, and to ascertain how much it may be overproof, which alone regulates the Government duty; but for the sake of the public health I would go further than this. If a butcher be found selling unhealthy meat; a fishmonger, bad fish; or a baker cheat in the weight of bread, they severally have their goods confiscated, and are fined; and so far the public is protected. But the authorities seem not to care what description of poison is sold across the counter of gin-palaces--an evil which may easily be remedied. I would put the licensed victualler on the same level with the butcher and fishmonger: and if he were found selling adulterated spirits, and the charge were proved against him by the same having been fairly analyzed, he, too, should be liable to be fined, or even lose his license. The public health is, upon this point, at present, utterly unprotected."

"Some such measure," observed the host, "might be advantageously adopted; but I confess that I do not advocate the prohibition principle; instead of preaching a Crusade against the use of any particular article, whether of necessity or comfort, let us educate the people, and improve their social condition by inculcating sound moral principles; they will soon learn that habits of industry and temperance can alone insure them and their children happiness and prosperity; and in so doing you will teach a sound, practical permanent lesson."

"But," interrupted the Clergyman, "if we continue the conversation longer, we shall ourselves become transgressors; the 'stirrup-cup' is drained; much remains doubtless to be said respecting the evils, physical and moral, which arise from intemperance; but let us now adjourn."

"With all my heart!" exclaimed the host, "and now, 'to all and each, a fair good night.'"

From "Rambles beyond Railways;" by W. Wilkie Collins, author of "Antonina."

MINING UNDER THE SEA.

In complete mining equipment, with candles stuck by lumps of clay to their felt hats, the travellers have painfully descended by perpendicular ladders and along dripping-wet rock passages, fathoms down into pitchy darkness; the miner who guides them calls a halt.

We are now four hundred yards out under the bottom of the sea, and twenty fathoms or a hundred and twenty feet below the sea level. Coast-trade vessels are sailing over our heads. Two hundred and forty feet beneath us men are at work; and there are galleries deeper yet even below that. The extraordinary position down the face of the cliff, of the engines and other works on the surface at Botallack, is now explained. The mine is not excavated like other mines under the land, but under the sea.

Having communicated these particulars, the miner next tells us to keep strict silence and listen. We obey him, sitting speechless and motionless. If the reader could only have beheld us now, dressed in our copper-colored garments, huddled close together in a mere cleft of subterranean rock, with flame burning on our heads and darkness enveloping our limbs, he must certainly have imagined, without any violent stretch of fancy, that he was looking down upon a conclave of gnomes.

After listening for a few moments, a distant unearthly noise becomes faintly audible,--a long, low, mysterious moaning, that never changes, that is felt on the ear as well as heard by it; a sound that might proceed from some incalculable distance, from some far invisible height; a sound unlike any thing that is heard on the upper ground in the free air of heaven; a sound so sublimely mournful and still, so ghostly and impressive when listened to in the subterranean recesses of the earth, that we continue instinctively to hold our peace, as if enchanted by it, and think not of communicating to each other the strange awe and astonishment which it has inspired in us both from the very first.

At last the miner speaks again, and tells us that what we hear is the sound of the surf lashing the rocks a hundred and twenty feet above us, and of the waves that are breaking on the beach beyond. The tide is now at the flow, and the sea is in no extraordinary state of agitation: so the sound is low and distant just at this period. But when storms are at their height, when the ocean hurls mountain after mountain of water on the cliffs, then the noise is terrific; the roaring heard down here in the mine is so inexpressibly fierce and awful that the boldest men at work are afraid to continue their labor; all ascend to the surface to breathe the upper air and stand on the firm earth; dreading, though no such catastrophe has ever happened yet, that the sea will break in on them if they remain in the caverns below.

Hearing this, we get up to look at the rock above us. We are able to stand upright in the position we now occupy; and, flaring our candles hither and thither in the darkness, can see the bright pure copper streaking the dark ceiling of the gallery in every direction. Lumps of ooze, of the most lustrous green color, traversed by a natural network of thin red veins of iron, appear here and there in large irregular patches, over which water is dripping slowly and incessantly in certain places. This is the salt water percolating through invisible crannies in the rock. On stormy days it spirts out furiously in thin continuous streams. Just over our heads we observe a wooden plug of the thickness of a man's leg; there is a hole here, and the plug is all that we have to keep out the sea.

Immense wealth of metal is contained in the roof of this gallery, throughout its whole length; but it remains, and will always remain, untouched: the miners dare not take it, for it is part, and a great part, of the rock which forms their only protection against the sea, and which has been so far worked away here that its thickness is limited to an average of three feet only between the water and the gallery in which we now stand. No one knows what might be the consequence of another day's labor with the pick-axe on any part of it. This information is rather startling when communicated at the depth of four hundred and twenty feet under ground. We should decidedly have preferred to receive it in the counting-house. It makes us pause for an instant, to the miner's infinite amusement, in the very act of knocking away about an inch of ore from the rock, as a memento of Botallack. Having, however, ventured, on reflection, to assume the responsibility of weakening our defence against the sea by the length and breadth of an inch, we secure our piece of copper, and next proceed to discuss the propriety of descending two hundred and forty feet more of ladders, for the sake of visiting that part of the mine where the men are at work.

Two or three causes concur to make us doubt the wisdom of going lower. There is a hot, moist, sickly vapor, floating about as, which becomes more oppressive every moment; we are already perspiring at every pore, as we were told we should, and our hands, faces, jackets, and trousers, are all more or less covered with a mixture of mud, tallow, and iron-drippings, which we can feel and smell much more acutely than is exactly desirable. We ask the miner what there is to see lower down. He replies, nothing but men breaking ore with pickaxes: the galleries of the mine are alike, however deep they may go; when you have seen one, you have seen all.

The answer decides us: we determine to get back to the surface.

From Tait's Magazine.

THE COSTUME OF THE FUTURE.

Our business is with male attire, and it would be ungallant to introduce, merely in a parenthesis, the subject of ladies' dress, or we might pause to congratulate them and ourselves upon the very reasonable and natural costume which they have enjoyed for some time. The portraits of the present day are not disfigured by the towering head-gear, the long waists and hoops against which Reynolds had to contend, nor by the greater variety of hideous fashions, including the no-waist, the tight clinging skirt, the enormous bows of hair, and the balloon or leg-of-mutton sleeves, which at various periods interfered with the highest efforts of Lawrence. The present dress differs slightly from that of the best ages; and Vandyke or Lely, if summoned to paint the fair ladies of the Court of Queen Victoria, would find little they could wish to alter in the arrangement of their costume. But what would they say to the gentlemen?

They would miss the rich materials, the variety of color and of make, and the flowing outlines to which they were accustomed, and would find, instead of them every body going about in a plain, uniform, close-fitting garb, admitting of no variety of color or make, and not presenting a single line or contour upon which they could look with pleasure. They might not be much gratified by learning the superior economy of modern fashions: they might say that, putting rich materials and delicate hues aside, it is possible to contrive a picturesque dress out of the most simple fabrics. Beauty and expense are by no means of necessity associated in dress. When Oliver Goldsmith, after spending more than would pay a modern gentleman's tailor's bill for a couple of years, upon a single coat of cherry-colored velvet, had the misfortune to stain it in a conspicuous place, he was obliged to go on wearing it, and always to hold his hat (in this instance of some use) before the fatal grease-spot. He could not afford to have another new coat, and yet this expensive and unfortunate piece of finery was every bit as ugly, if not more so, than the plain black or invisible-green cloth coat of this age. The long shoes, pointed toes, and other grotesque fashions of the middle ages, must all of them have been expensive; and it was by inefficient sumptuary laws that it was attempted to put them down. The draperies which we admire on an Etruscan vase were of the coarsest woollen: and the possession of silken stuffs in abundance has not tended to make the Chinese national dress better than what we know it to be.

Of coats, the frock is better than the evening or dress-coat. It fulfils the purpose of a garment more completely, and when buttoned up is capable of protecting the chest. The triangular opening in front of the coat and waistcoat is, however, an absurdity. It leaves unprotected from cold and wet the very part which most requires protection. Pictorially, the regularly-defined patch of white seen through it is always offensive; but its whiteness has one merit, if it really be white. The exposure of part of the linen worn under the tailor's portion of the man's dress makes attention to its condition necessary; and perhaps has contributed to the greater personal cleanliness which obtains among a coat-wearing than among a blouse-wearing population. Cleanliness is very truly reputed to be next to godliness, and it may be worth while making some sacrifice of convenience and taste for the sake of it: it belongs to morals rather than to æsthetics, and should accordingly take precedence of any thing appertaining only to the latter.

The tail or dress coat is evidently derived from the frock, or from something like the frock, by turning back the skirts. Remains of this process may be seen in the buttons which, without serving any useful purpose, still continue to decorate the coat-tails in many military uniforms, and in servants' liveries, and in those which, without being so remarkable, still adhere to the tails of an ordinary dress-coat. This arrangement may be noticed very distinctly in the well-known portraits of Charles XII. of Sweden, in which the white livery is seen buttoned back upon the blue cloth which forms the outer side of the coat skirts.

The tail-coat is certainly the worst of the two, whether for utility or for appearance; and so thought George IV., whose opinion, however, in matters of taste, was not in general good for much. This king, in his latter days, carried his aversion to it so far as to banish it entirely from his back, and from his presence for a time, during which he, and the persons immediately about him, wore a kind of frock coat in evening dress. But the public did not follow the royal lead, and the swallow-tails still flutter behind the wearer of an evening coat.

Waistcoats do not call for much reprobation, except in the matter of the already-mentioned white triangle, in which they err in company with the coats. But a good long waistcoat, buttoned up to the throat, is a very useful and unexceptionable piece of attire. A few years ago, people wore them of all kinds of color, and of all kinds of stuffs, silks, and velvet; now, however, black is your only wear, with perhaps an occasional license to assume the white waistcoat, which was once associated with that exceedingly frivolous and now evanescent party who were called 'Young England.'

Trousers are so sensible and convenient a portion of attire that little can be said against them. It is a form of covering for the legs well fitted for the inhabitants of a cold and variable climate, and hardly differs from what may be seen on the figures of the Gauls on Trajan's Column, and other monuments of antiquity. In practical convenience, they far surpass their shorter rivals, which also require continuation by stockings to complete the purpose of clothing the leg. Buttons at the knee are a great nuisance, and probably were what chiefly contributed to the melancholy determination of a certain gentleman in the last century, who found his existence insupportable, and put an end to it with his own hand. Life, he said, was made up of nothing but buttoning and unbuttoning; and so he shot himself one morning in his dressing-gown and slippers, before the intolerable burden of the day commenced.

Trousers are great levellers. The legs of Achilles and of Thersites would share the same fate in them, and both would in modern London be as well entitled to the epithet of "well-trousered," as the former alone was to that of 'well-greaved' before Troy. Probably the majority of mankind are but too well content with this result, as there are few who could emulate Mr. Cruikshanks in James Smith's song of names, who

"----stepped into ten thousand a year By showing his leg to an heiress;"

and the trouser is therefore likely to be a permanent article in the wardrobe, so that its continued existence must be taken as a datum or postulate in any discussion upon vestimentary reform. This, it must be allowed, makes any reform to a very picturesque costume out of the question; for not only is the loose trouser itself hostile to the fit display of the lower limbs, but it interferes with the use of any such dress as the military habit of the Romans, or the Highland kilt, or the short tunic with which we are familiar on the stage in costumed plays, where no particular accuracy as to place or time is affected. The effect of the combination may often be noticed in the dress of little boys, who may be seen wearing trousers under such a tunic, reaching to the knee or a little above it. The horizontal line which terminates the lower part of the kilt is seen in immediate contrast with, and at right angles to the almost perpendicular lines of the trousers, which produces a most disagreeable appearance; although it is well adapted, by the contrast of a straight line with the graceful curves of the legs, to set them off to advantage when uncovered.

Flowing robes after the classical or eastern fashion are of course not to be thought of. They would be mightily out of place in railroad carriages, or in omnibuses, or in walking the streets on muddy days. Modern habits of activity and personal independence require the dress to be tolerably succinct and unvoluminous; but some change in the right direction has been lately made by the introduction of what are called paletots, and other coats of various transitional forms between them and the shooting-jacket proper. In these a good deal of the stiffness and angularity of the regulation frock coat is got rid of, and they admit of adaptation to different statures and sizes. They have much comfort and convenience to recommend them, and it would be a great point gained if they were altogether adopted, and the frock-coat, which still asserts a claim to be considered more correct, were quietly given up.

It may be matter only of custom and association, or it may also depend upon some deeper considerations, but the result of much observation is, that with the ordinary out-of-door costume of the present day, as worn in cities, nothing goes so well as the black hat. There is an ugliness and a stiffness about it which is congruous with the ugliness and stiffness of every thing else. Its very height and straight sides tend to carry the eye upwards, in conformity with the indication of the principal lines in the lower part of the dress. It is like a steeple upon a Gothic tower, and repeats the perpendicular tendencies of what is below it, instead of contradicting them by the introduction of a horizontal element. Certainly, no kind of cap goes well with it: the traveller who has not unpacked his hat, and continues to wear in the streets what served him on the road, or the Turk, European in all but his red fez, cut but a sorry and mongrel figure among the shining beavers around them, which retain their place as necessary evils under the existing order of things.

Once, however, escape from the town, and see how every one gets rid of his regular coat, and of his chimney-pot. The man of business in his rural retreat, the lawyer in vacation, the lounger at the sea-side, have all discarded them. Emancipation from the coat and hat is synonymous with leisure, enjoyment, and freedom from the formal trammels of public and civic life. The most staid and reverend personages may now be seen disporting themselves in divers jackets, and in that Wide-awake which a few years since was confined to the sportsman or his slang imitator. Surely this universal consent of mankind must be accepted as an omen of the future; and when the looser and more sensible garments now worn in the country, shall be established as the usual dress of the towns also, they will be accompanied by the soft and wide-leaved hat of felt, which already goes along with them wherever they are tolerated.

From the Athenæum.

LIFE IN PERSIA, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

Prince Alexis Soltykoff, a Russian, who published in Paris last year his _Travels in India_, has just given to the world from the same city a volume of _Novels in Persia_. In both works we find the same charm of simplicity in the narrative, the same truth and spirit in the drawings, and, we may add, what some people would call the same deficiencies--that is to say, the same absence of got-up learning and bookmaking art. There are no historical, geological, or philological treatises pressed into their pages, no statistical calculations, not one quotation from other people's books, not a single word about Darius, Sapor, or Khosroes!

Prince Soltykoff has not followed the too commonly adopted recipe for writing a book of travels. He has not on his return home read every body else's book on the same subject,--and then condensed his readings into one volume, bristling with erudition and stuck full of learned notes which, ten to one, are either not read at all or read in the wrong place. As to notes--there are not two to each volume. Satisfied with having said nothing that is not true, and with having related nothing that he has not seen, he feels no misgivings or regret at leaving much unsaid. Of all the information which can be acquired without leaving one's fireside in London or St. Petersburg he gives not a word, but the valuable testimony of the eyewitness he records in a series of drawings in which Eastern life is 'taken in the fact' with a truth and liveliness of touch rarely found in an amateur pencil. The letter-press is a secondary part of the work,--merely to render the drawings intelligible; and we are convinced that if the author could have imagined a more unpretending title for his book than the one given, he would have selected it. Indeed, the word _book_ is scarcely an appropriate one to use on this occasion; and we may compare the pleasure which we have derived in perusing Prince Soltykoff's travels both in Persia and in India to that afforded by the inspection of the album of an intelligent traveller who should enliven the exhibition by his agreeable and instructive conversation.

The travels in India took place between the years 1841 and 1846, while those in Persia were accomplished as far back as 1838. We are not told why the publication has been so long delayed, and can account for it only by supposing that the fashion which has lately brought before the public in the capacity of authors so many subjects of the Czar, was not in 1838 so prevalent at St. Petersburg. Be that as it may, a picture of the Eastern world in its immobility can brave a lapse of time which would prove fatal to the likeness of any portraiture of European society. The following sketch, for instance, is likely to be as true now, as when it was written:--

"After three months' stay at Teheran, I was heartily tired of it and of Persia altogether. The manner of living is fearfully monotonous. A stranger, debarred from female society, and deprived of all the diversions of European cities, can scarcely find employment for his day. I had hired for six _toumans_ a month (the touman is worth about ten shillings) one of the prettiest houses of the town in the quarter named Gazbine-Dervazé. The air, it is true, circulated as freely through it as in the open street, but the climate is so mild and the weather was so fine that this could scarcely be considered an objection. The house consisted of two stories of several rooms with two terraces to each. Those of the upper story overlooked the town, which, in spite of its dulness, had a certain air of activity. Two rows of windows--the lower closed with wooden shutters and the upper one formed of colored glass,--gave light to the principal room, of which the walls were white as snow. I took advantage of two niches to place therein two complete Persian armors which I had procured with inconceivable trouble, for no one can imagine the numberless and tedious difficulties which impede every kind of transaction. For the most trifling purchase one hundred toumans are spoken of as a hundred roubles in Russia. Besides, punctuality is a virtue unknown in Persia, and this alone would suffice to make the country odious to foreigners. If you charge a tradesman with want of faith, he replies gravely that 'his nose has burned with regret'--a strange expression of repentance certainly! Indeed, the habit of falsehood is so inveterate among Persians of this class--and I may even say of all classes--that when they happen by chance to keep their word they never fail to claim a reward as though they had performed a most rare and meritorious act. Having examined all the rare but rather heterogeneous articles which compose the royal treasury, we went to see the king's second son (the eldest was at Tauris), to whom Count Simonitsch had to pay a farewell visit. We found the little prince in the audience chamber, seated on the floor on a cachmere, and propped by several large bolsters covered with pink muslin. He was a delicate sickly child of four or five years old, with an unmeaning countenance, a pale face, insignificant and rather flattened features, and red hair, or rather, I should say, with his hair dyed of a deep red. He was dressed in a shawl caftan lined with fur, and wore on his little black cap a diamond aigrette. We sat down in front of him on the carpet;--Mirza-Massoud, the minister for foreign affairs, and two or three other dignitaries who were present at the interview, remained standing. _Démàhi schoumà tschogh est?_ that is to say, 'Is your nose very fat?' inquired Count Simonitsch. This extraordinary form of speech universally used by well-bred persons in Persia, seems to indicate that they ascribe considerable hygienic importance to that feature. All my researches to discover the origin and symbolical meaning of this courtesy have proved in vain; I have never obtained a satisfactory explanation to my questions on this head: all I can say is, that the hackneyed forms of salutation in use among European nations have since seemed to me far less absurd than they formerly did."

We have no doubt that even should Prince Keikhobade-Mirza have departed this life, another original might be found for the following picture of a Persian prince in reduced circumstances:

"On my return home I found an Armenian merchant waiting for me who seemed somewhat less of a rogue than his brethren. He had brought me a _Sipehr_ (shield) in delicately wrought steel, ornamented with inscriptions and arabesques, inlaid in gold; it belonged, he said, to Prince Mohammed-Veli-Mirza, and he demanded a sum of thirty-six toumans (about eighteen pounds), which I gave without hesitation. It was not dear at that price. This Mohammed-Veli-Mirza, one of the numerous sons of the late Fet-Ali-Schah, had been, if I mistake not, governor of Schiraz. His reputation, as well as that of his brother Keikhobade-Mirza, (indeed, I might say of all his brothers), was so well established in the country, that the Armenian begged I would not consider the bargain as concluded until he had paid the money into the prince's hands, lest he should wish to recede from his word. You know, he said, that these _Schahzadès_ have no scruples in these matters,--that they are all _tamamkharab_, that is to say, bad characters--_kharab_, meaning a thing that is bad--decayed, dilapidated. Fortunately the fears of the prudent Armenian were not realized; for a wonder, Mohammed-Veli-Mirza was contented with the sum he had first asked, and the _Sipehr_ was added to my collection. A few days later I received a deputation from Prince Keikhobade-Mirza, offering me a similar shield as a present. In the first impulse of my gratitude I hastened to present my thanks to the generous donor. His house was the abode of poverty; his appearance was noble and dignified, and his countenance very handsome, although he squinted. The portrait of his royal father, the late Fet-Ali-Schah, hung in the room, and I was struck with the resemblance between father and son. The full-length portrait of my gracious host was there also--in the full dress of a prince of the blood holding a shield. Keikhobade-Mirza, whose gracious and cordial reception touched me the more on account of the evident poverty of his household, pointed to this latter portrait,--saying that in his father's lifetime he was, as I could see, his _selictar_, or royal shield-bearer, and enjoyed a brilliant station, but that now he was fallen; adding that he had sent me the shield which he had inherited--the same which I saw represented in the picture--knowing that I had been looking out for curious arms at the bazaar. I was profuse in my expressions of gratitude, although thanks in Persia denote a man of mean station, and though my Persian servant, who had accompanied me, was making signs to me to stop. 'It is a mere trifle,' said the Prince, 'and I hope to find some other articles more worthy your acceptance, for my only desire is to be agreeable to you.' The morrow brought me his _Nazir_, or steward, to ask for three hundred _toumans_ (150_l._); and as I seemed in no hurry to give them, he sent for his shield back again. Some time afterwards, he came to see me, and asked why I had returned it. 'You sent for it by your nazir,' I said. 'My nazir,' he replied, (although the man was present and looking on with an ambiguous smile,) 'is a rogue and a storyteller; give me a hundred toumans and I will let you have the shield, which indeed is yours. I begged you to accept it as well as every thing else I may possess.' And so the matter ended."

The foregoing picture of Oriental munificence can scarcely be more disenchanting than the sight of the sketch of Mohammed-Schah which Prince Soltykoff had the honor to take. The large head, the heavy inexpressive features, the clumsy frame, are sad dream dispellers; and were it not for the redeeming Persian cap, the "Centre of the World" might be mistaken for a grocer of the Rue St. Denis in a shawl dressing-gown. On grand occasions the appearance of the Schah must be still more incongruous, if we are to believe the description which the author gives of the state dress preserved in the royal treasury. One can scarcely fancy a gouty Centre of the World attired in a European uniform of _blue cloth_, with the facings embroidered in diamonds, ruby buttons, and epaulets formed of immense emeralds, to which are attached fringes of large pearls. We translate a description of a last sitting, and of the exchange of courtesies between the royal model and the amateur artist; it may serve to reconcile some of our readers to the rather monotonous form in which royal munificence is usually displayed in European courts. When compared to a lame horse, a gold snuff-box appears--if not an ingenious--at least a convenient present:

"On the 31st of January I went for the last time to the Palace to take leave of the Schah, and make another portrait of him.... He proposed at first to sit for his profile, but as I objected on the score of its being less interesting:--'Well, well, he said, 'as you wish; you understand the thing better than I do.' He then resumed his conversation with the courtiers, who were ranged in a row at the other end of the room,--sounding my praises in Turkish in the most exaggerated terms, according to the rules of Persian politeness, and remarking among other things how difficult it was to catch an exact likeness so quickly--doubtless to set me at my ease, for he saw I was hurrying in my task. To all these remarks the courtiers merely replied: '_Bêli_, _bêli_, yes, yes,' in a monotonous and inexpressive tone. The Schah seemed much surprised to learn that I was to leave Teheran the following day. He inquired what motive induced me to leave Persia so soon. I replied, that I was eager to join my family and friends, to inform them of the favors I had received at the hands of His Majesty. For these latter words the interpreter substituted the words 'Centre of the World.' I added, that I intended returning to Teheran with my brother in the course of the following year, at which the Prince of course appeared delighted--'Return soon,' he said, 'you will always be welcome at my court.' Then turning to Mirza-Massoud, his Minister for Foreign Affairs, who had accompanied me:--I have known many Franks,' he remarked, 'but none who pleased me as much as this one.' This phrase, it must be said, loses somewhat of its effect when it is known that the good Prince never failed to address it to every stranger who presented himself. He next inquired of the Minister for Foreign Affairs if the presents he intended for me were ready, and particularly recommended that they should not be worth less than three hundred toumans. I then took leave of His Majesty, backing out of the room as well as I could, while he continued to bestow on me his smiles and gracious words. The next day, on my way to the Russian Embassy, I met four of the King's servants, slowly leading in great ceremony a tall, lame, bay horse. Before they accosted me to tell me so, I had guessed that it was intended for me. I had not had time to take on a fitting air for the occasion before my groom, who was walking beside my horse, began to abuse the Schah's people in most lively terms, refusing to admit such a sorry jade into my stables. In spite of my opposition to so rude an action, and my exclamations in bad Turkish, the Persians returned to the Palace stables, where they chose another horse, which they brought me direct to the Embassy. My groom was not more inclined to receive it than the first, nor to listen to my remonstrances, and those of a dragoman of the Embassy, whose aid I had invoked in order to declare that I accepted the royal gift with due respect. All was useless; the quarrel proceeded,--my squire insisting on performing his duty in spite of myself, and only interrupting himself to make me understand that he was acting in my interest. The Schah's servants at last, reduced to silence by the observations of so zealous a follower, departed once more with their horse to submit the affair to the Prime Minister, who was to decide in his wisdom whether the animal was or was not worthy of being offered to me. A mixture of cleverness and cunning, with an almost childish naïveté, seemed to me a striking feature in the Persian character. Hadji-Mirza-Agassi pronounced the steed to be to a certain degree valuable, and requested me to excuse it,--for the present a better could not be offered,--adding, that on my return I should receive a magnificent one."

Prince Soltykoff's remarks generally relate more to the habits and indications of character observable among those whom he visits than to any material objects or physical sensations. The notions entertained of politeness in Persia seem especially to have struck him, as our readers may have seen by the extracts which we have given. We will give one more illustrating the same subject. It has often been said that a knowledge of foreign countries is apt to make us better satisfied with our own, and we have shown how an experience of Oriental gifts may restore the oft-derided snuff-box to honor. Who knows whether even saucy children may not in future be more patiently endured by our readers after the following anecdote. For our own part, we know of no "dear little pickle" whom we would not prefer to this very well-behaved Persian boy:

"Three days afterwards I was at Gazbine, installed in the house of a certain Scherif-Khan, and received in his absence by his four sons, who were all dressed alike, and the eldest of whom was barely eleven. In the midst of the ruins of the town--all Persian towns indeed are mere abominable ruins of mud walls--I considered myself fortunate in obtaining a room and a fire-place. One of the walls of the apartment to which I was conducted consisted of small bits of colored glass, checkered at regular intervals with small squares of wood, for glass is both rare and expensive in Persia. As, however, the greater part of the colored glass was broken, and the wind came rushing through the holes and crevices, I was half frozen and nearly stifled with smoke, until an end was put to my sufferings by stopping the holes and nailing some felt on the doors. The children of the house came, under the guidance of a sort of servant who filled the office of tutor, to pay me a visit, and seated themselves on the floor. The second, who was about ten, and who by right of his mother's superior rank was to inherit all the paternal titles and wealth, inquired after my health; and on my asking him in my turn how he felt, replied with a very stiff little air, 'that in my presence every body must feel satisfied.' I then offered him some cakes, requesting to know if they were to his liking.--'All you offer is very good,' he said, 'and all you eat must be excellent.' I had a cap on my head, and another lay on the table; I questioned him on the value which he attached to the two articles, and asked which he preferred. 'Both are superb,' he replied, 'but the one you prefer is undoubtedly the best.' After this piquant specimen of the civility of the country, it may be supposed that I was not sorry to end the conference, and to get rid of such an excessively well bred child. I took care, however, to send a cup of tea to his mother, who, the tutor informed me, was young and pretty, and lived in the house with three other wives of Scherif-Khan. She found it so much to her liking that she sent to beg for a pound of it."

One word more: Oehlenschläger used to complain that when he wrote in Danish he wrote for two hundred readers; Russians are very much in the same case, and Prince Soltykoff, like all his countrymen who desire to have a public, has been obliged to have recourse to a foreign language. But the misfortune is so easily and gracefully borne, that we can scarcely find pity for it. The drawings are well lithographed by French artists. Our neighbors are much fonder of lithographic illustrations than we are, and, it must be admitted, excel us in that branch of art. We have noticed especially the lithographs executed by M. Trayer, a young artist, who is also a painter of promise.

From Leigh Hunt's Journal.

DUELLING TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO.

SIR THOMAS DUTTON AND SIR HATTON CHEEK.

BY THOMAS CARLYLE.

Peace here, if possible; skins were not made for mere slitting and slashing! You that are for war, cannot you go abroad, and fight the Papist Spaniards? Over in the Netherlands there is always fighting enough. You that are of ruffling humor, gather your truculent ruffians together; make yourselves colonels over them; go to the Netherlands, and fight your bellyful!

Which accordingly many do, earning deathless war-laurels for the moment; and have done, and will continue doing, in those generations. Our gallant Veres, Earl of Oxford and the others, it has long been their way; gallant Cecil, to be called Earl of Wimbledon; gallant Sir John Burroughs, gallant Sir Hatton Cheek,--it is still their way. Deathless military renowns are gathered there in this manner; deathless for the moment. Did not Ben Jonson, in his young hard days, bear arms very manfully as a private soldado there? Ben, who now writes learned plays and court-masks as Poet Laureate, served manfully with pike and sword there, for his groat a day with rations. And once when a Spanish soldier came strutting forward between the lines, flourishing his weapon, and defying all persons in general--Ben stept forth, as I hear; fenced that braggart Spaniard, since no other would do it; and ended by soon slitting him in two, and so silencing him! Ben's war-tuck, to judge by the flourish of his pen, must have had a very dangerous stroke in it.

"Swashbuckler age," we said; but the expression was incorrect, except as a figure. Bucklers went out fifty years ago, "about the twentieth of Queen Elizabeth"; men do not now swash with them, or fight in that way. Iron armor has mostly gone out, except in mere pictures of soldiers; King James said, It was an excellent invention; you could get no harm, and neither could you do any in it. Bucklers, either for horse or foot, are quite gone. Yet old Mr. Stowe, good chronicler, can recollect when every gentleman had his buckler; and at length every serving man and city dandy. Smithfield--still a waste field, full of puddles in wet weather,--was in those days full of buckler duels, every Sunday and holiday in the dry season; and was called Ruffian's Rig, or some such name.

A man, in those days, bought his buckler, of gilt leather and wood, at the haberdasher's; "hung it over his back, by a strap fastened to the pommel of his sword in front." Elegant men showed what taste, or sense of poetic beauty, was in them by the fashion of their buckler. With Spanish beaver, with starched ruff, and elegant Spanish cloak, with elegant buckler hanging at his back, a man, if his moustachios and boots were in good order, stepped forth with some satisfaction. Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard; a decidedly truculent-looking figure. Jostle him in the street thoroughfares, accidentally splash his boots as you pass--by heaven the buckler gets upon his arm, the sword flashes in his fist, with oaths enough; and you too being ready, there is a noise! Clink, clank, death and fury; all persons gathering round, and new quarrels springing from this one! And Dogberry comes up with the town guard? And the shopkeepers hastily close their shops? Nay, it is hardly necessary, says Mr. Howe; these buckler fights amount only to noise, for most part; the jingle of iron against tin and painted leather. Ruffling swashers strutting along with big oaths and whiskers, delight to pick a quarrel; but the rule is you do not thrust, you do not strike below the waist; and it was oftenest a dry duel--mere noise, as of working tinsmiths, with profane swearing! Empty vaporing bullyrooks and braggarts, they encumber the thoroughfares mainly. Dogberry and Verges ought to apprehend them. I have seen, in Smithfield, on a dry holiday, "thirty of them on a side," fighting and hammering as if for life; and was not at the pains to look at them, the blockheads; their noise as the mere beating of old kettles to me!

The truth is, serving-men themselves, and city apprentices had got reckless, and the duels, no death following, ceased to be sublime. About fifty years ago, serious men took to fighting with rapiers, and the buckler fell away. Holles, in Sherwood, as we saw, fought with rapier, and he soon spoiled Markham. Rapier and dagger especially; that is a more silent duel, but a terribly serious one! Perhaps the reader will like to take a view of one such serious duel in those days, and therewith close this desultory chapter.

It was at the siege of Juliers, in the Netherlands wars, of the year 1609; we give the date, for wars are perpetual, or nearly so, in the Netherlands. At one of the storm parties of the siege of Juliers, the gallant Sir Hatton Cheek, above alluded to, a superior officer of the English force which fights there under my Lord Cecil, that shall be Wimbledon; the gallant Sir Hatton, I say, being of hot temper, superior officer, and the service a storm-party on some bastion or demilune, speaks sharp word of command to Sir Thomas Dutton, who also is probably of hot temper in this hot moment. Sharp word of command to Dutton; and the movement not proceeding rightly, sharp word of rebuke. To which Dutton, with kindled voice, answers something sharp; is answered still more sharply with voice high flaming;--whereat Dutton suddenly holds in; says merely, "He is under military duty here, but perhaps will not always be so;" and rushing forward, does his order silently, the best he can. His order done, Dutton straightway lays down his commission; packs up, that night, and returns to England.

Sir Hatton Cheek prosecutes his work at the siege of Juliers; gallantly assists at the taking of Juliers, triumphant over all the bastions, and half-moons there; but hears withal that Dutton is at home in England, defaming him as a choleric tyrant and so forth. Dreadful news, which brings some biliary attack on the gallant man, and reduces him to a bed of sickness. Hardly recovered, he dispatches message to Dutton, That he shall request to have the pleasure of his company, with arms and seconds ready, on some neutral ground,--Calais sands for instance,--at an early day, if convenient. Convenient; yes, as dinner to the hungry! answers Dutton; and time, place, and circumstances are rapidly enough agreed upon.

And so, on Calais sands, on a winter morning of the year 1609, this is what we see most authentically, through the lapse of dim Time. Two gentlemen stript to the shirt and waistband; in two hands of each a rapier and dagger clutched; their looks sufficiently serious! The seconds, having stript, equipt, and fairly overhauled and certified them, are just about retiring from the measured fate-circle, not without indignation that _they_ are forbidden to fight. Two gentlemen in this alarming posture; of whom the Universe knows, has known, and will know nothing, except that they were of choleric humor, and assisted in the Netherlands wars! They are evidently English human creatures, in the height of silent fury and measured circuit of fate; whom we here audibly name once more, Sir Hatton Cheek, Sir Thomas Dutton, knights both, soldadoes both. Ill-fated English human creatures, what horrible confusion of the pit is this?

Dutton, though in suppressed rage, the seconds about to withdraw, will explain some things if a word were granted, "No words," says the other; "stand on your guard!" brandishing his rapier, grasping harder his dagger. Dutton, now silent too, is on his guard. Good heavens! after some brief flourishing and flashing,--the gleam of the swift clear steel playing madly in one's eyes,--they, at the first pass, plunge home on one another; home, with beak and claws; home to the very heart! Cheek's rapier is through Dutton's throat from before, and his dagger is through it from behind,--the windpipe miraculously missed; and, in the same instant, Dutton's rapier is through Cheek's body from before, his dagger through his back from behind,--lungs and life _not_ missed; and the seconds have to advance, "pull out the four bloody weapons," disengage that hell-embrace of theirs. This is serious enough! Cheek reels, his life fast-flowing; but still rushes rabid on Dutton, who merely parries, skips, till Cheek reels down, dead in his rage. "He had a bloody burial there that morning," says my ancient friend. He will assist no more in the Netherlands or other wars.

Such scene does history disclose, as in sunbeams, as in blazing hell-fire, on Calais sands, in the raw winter morning; then drops the blanket of centuries, of everlasting night, over it, and passes on elsewhither. Gallant Sir Hatton Cheek lies buried there, and Cecil of Wimbledon, son of Burleigh, will have to seek another superior officer. What became of the living Dutton afterwards, I have never to this moment had the least hint.

From Blackwood's Magazine

MY NOVEL:

OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

_Continued from page 550, Vol. II._