HARNED/WHITMAN  MISCELLANY   Newspaper clippings, Mar. 1848-Oct. 1891  (L.C. 219)
Box 4  Folder 22219 An estimated 450 clippings collected by Whitman, including
such subjects as:
1. Anecdotes, humor, maxims, unusual events
2. Animal life, birds, nature
3. Crime, justice, law
4. Diet, food, health, longevity
5. Family life, fashion, marriage, women
6. Foreign cities, customs, and lands
7. People (including Bryant, Sand, Tennyson)
8. Poems collected by Whitman
9. Recreation, resorts, travel
10. Religion
11. Short stories
12. United States (and its cities, history, politics, etc.)
13. Other subjects219 An estimated four hundred and fifty miscellaneous clippings collected
by Whitman.
Included are: anecdotes, poems, short stories, and articles on such subjects as the development 
of the West, health, literary figures, manners and customs, religion, speech,
etc.

Anecdote of the Revolution.
In the early part of the Revolutionary war
a sergeant and twelve armed men undertook
a journey through the wilderness, in
the State of New Hampshire. Their route
was remote from any settlements, and they
were under the necessity of encamping over
night in the woods. In the early part of 
the struggle for independence, the Indians
were numerous, and did not stand idle spctators
of a conflict carried on with so much
zeal and ardor by the whites. Some tribes
were friendly to out cause, while many on
our borders took part with the enemy, and
were troublesome in their kind of savage
warfare, as our people often learnt by the
woeful experience of their midnight deprations.
The leader of the above mentioned
party was well acquainted with the various 
tribes; and, from much intercourse with
them previous to the war, was not ignorant 
of the idiom, physiognomy, and dress of
each, and at the commencement of hostilities,
was informed for which party they had
raised the battle-axe.
Nothing material had happened during
the first day of this excursion; but early in
the afternoon of the second, they discovered
from an eminence, a body of Indians advancing
towards them, whose number exceeded
their own. As soon as the Americans
were perceived by their red brethren,
the latter made friendly signals, and the
parties approached each other in an amicable
manner. The Indians appeared to be
much pleased at meeting the sergeant and
his men, whom they observed they considered
as their protectors; said they belonged
to a tribe who took the hatchet in
the cause of their country, and were determined
to do all in their power to injure the
common enemy. They shook hands in
friendship, and it was, "How d'ye do pro!
how d'ye do pro!" that being their pronunciation
of the word brother. When 
they had conversed with each other some
time and exchanged a few wishes, they at
length separated and travelled different directions.
After proceeding to the distance of one
or two miles, the sergeant halted his men,
and addressed them in the following words:
"My brave companions, we must use
the utmost caution, or this night may be 
our last. Should we not make some extraordinary
exertions, to-morrow's sun will
find us sleeping to never wake. You are
surprised, comrades, at my words; and your
anxiety will not be lessoned when I inform
you that we have just passed our inveterate
enemy, who, under the mask of friendship
you have witnessed, would lull us into security, 
and by such means, in the unguarded
moments of our midnight slumber, without
any resistence, seal our fate."
The men with astonishment listened to 
this short harangue; and their surprise was
greater, as not one of them entertained the
least suspicion but that they had just encountered
friends. They all immediately 
resolved to enter into some scheme for their
mutual safety, and the destruction of their
enemies. By the proposition of their leader,
the following plan was adopted and executed.
[*2467*]

The spot chosen for the night's encampment 
was near a stream of water which
covered their rear. They felled a large
oak, before which, on the approach of night,
a brilliant fire was lighted. Each individual
cut a log of wood about the size of his 
body, rolled it nicely up in his blanket, 
placed his hat on the extremity and laid it
before the fire, that the enemy might be deceived 
and mistake it for a man. After the
number equal to the sergeant's party were
fitted out, and so artfully arranged as to appear
like so many men, the soldiers, with 
loaded muskets, placed themselves behind 
the fallen tree, by which time the shades of
evening began to close around. The fire
was supplied with fuel and kept burning
brilliantly till late at night, when it was suffered
to decline. The critical time was
now approaching when an attack might be
expected by the Indians; but the sergeant's
men rested in their places of concealment
with great anxiety until near midnight, not
perceiving any movement of the foe.
At length a tall Indian was discovered
thro' the glimmering of the fire, (which
was now getting low,) cautiously moving
towards them, making no noise, and apparently 
using every means in his power to 
conceal himself from any one about the
camp. For a time his actions showed him 
to be suspicious that a guard might be stationed
to watch any unusual appearance and
give the alarm in case of danger; but all 
appearing quiet, he ventured forward more
boldly, rested upon his toes, and was distinctly
seen to move his fingers as he numbered
each log of wood, or what he considered 
a human being quietly enjoying repose.
To satisfy himself as to the number
he counted them over a second time and
cauticiously retired. He was succeeded
by another Indian who went through the
same movements, and retired in the same
manner. Soon after the whole party, sixteen
in number, were discovered cautiously
advancing and greedily eyeing their supposed
victims. The feelings of the sergeant's
men can be better imaged than described,
when they saw the base and cruel purposes
of their enemy, who were so near that they
could scarcely be restrained from firing on
them. The plan, however, of the sergeant
was, to have his men remain silent in their
places of concealment till the muskets of
the savages were discharged, that their fire
might be more effectual, and opposition less
formidable. Their suspense was not of
long duration. The Indians in a body cautiously
advanced, till within a short distance;
they then took aim, discharged their pieces
upon inanimate logs, gave the horrid warwhoop,
and instantly rushed forward with
towahawks and scalping knives to dispatch
the living and obtain the scalps of the dead.
As soon as they had collected in close order,
the party of the sergeant with unearing 
aim discharged their pieces, not on logs of
wood, but on the perfidious savages, not one
of whom escaped destruction by the snare
into which their cowardly disposition had
led them. [*2467A*]

Anecdotes of the Popes.
A very instructive lecture on Italy and Pope
Pius IX. has been recently delivered at Brooklyn,
by Professor Cassali, which the Express 
informs us will be repeated in this city. From
a very interesting summary published in that 
paper, of the 4th instant, we extract the following
amusing anecdote:
The lecturer then went on to describe the
astonishment of the people at the election of
Pius IX., and their subsequent rejoicings
when his liberal character became known.-
A sketch of his well known reforms, and his 
resistance to Austria, were faithfully delineated,
and many interesting anecdotes illustrating
his disposition, virtues and talents, were
related. When asked by the British Ambassador
what policy he would adopt, if the Austrians
should invade the Roman States. "I
shall excommunicate them," replied the Pope;
"and if that is not enough, I will ride at the
head of my troops to meet them on the field
of battle. (The Pope had in early life held
a commission in the army.) I have already
at my command (he said) 50,000 soldiers; yet
I shall arouse all Italians and other Catholics
against the invaders, and in less than a month
you will se two millions of men under my
flag. I shall never yield, and Italy must be
free and independent."
There is a striking contrast between the
present Pope and his predecessor, Gregory,
who, as already stated, never attempted to
ameliorate the condition of his subjects. His
life was spent in inactivity and self-indulgence. 
After his death, there were found in 
his palace no less than twelve thousand bottles
of choice wines, which were sold by order of
his more abstemious successor, Pius IX., and
the money received for the sales given to the
poor.
An amusing caricature and dialogue was
got up in Rome, after the death of Gregory,
representing St. Peter and Gregory going to
Paradise. The journey being hard and tedious
for an aged man like the Pope, he complained
to St. Peter thus:
"How is it, St. Peter, that our journey is
so long? I did not know that Paradise was
so far from the Vatican." St. Peter replied,
"If you had allowed the construction of railways
and steamers in your State, we should 
have arrived long ago. But now you must
stop for a while in purgatory."
After having remained some months in
purgatory, where he met his friend O'Connell,
(the story goes,) Gregory set out with 
St. Peter again on his eternal journey. Coming
in view of Paradise, the Pope asked St.
Peter why the angels and his last predecessors
in the Papal chair did not come out to meet
him?
"Dear Gregory," replied St. Peter, "as for
the Popes, there are few of them in heaven,
and the news of your death has not yet reached
there; as it would have done, if you had
established telegraphs and granted the freedom
of the Press."
When the Saint and the Pope arrived at
the gates of Paradise, St. Peter asked Gregory
for his key, which, after some time, the
Pope found, and handed to him; but it proved
to be the key to his wine cellar.
St. Peter was admitted within the gates, but
Gregory was lost in the fog. [*2468*]
The lecturer went on to give interesting
particulars relative to the suppression of
the Jesuits, who, he stated, are arriving in the
United States in considerable numbers-and
he cautions American to beware of them.

"Hiram, my boy," said a tender father to
his son, "you must be more careful of yourself
than you are. You have not the constitution
of some." - "Can't believe it, dad
- don't believe a word on't. Golly! I've
got the constitution of a hoss. There aint
no break up not down to me. Darn it, if
I don't 'blieve I've got the Constitution of
the United States." [*2469*]Why is a snow bank like a thrifty tree?
Because it leaves in the spring.

The cause of the decline in the stage is
now attributed to the rise of omnibuses.

Woman's heart, like a citadel, will surrender,
if you will continue the seige long enough.
P. S.--A little "blowing up" now and then
will aid in your attempts.

"Jim," said Abner Phelps the other day to
his son, "Jim, you are lazy, what on earth
do you expect to do for a living?"
"Why, father, I've been thinking as how I
would be a Revolutionary pensioner."

A Country editor says--"There is a man
in this town of so strong principles, that he
will not have a clock in his house because it
strikes."

Why is a gunsmith's shop like a chicken
pie.
Because it contains fowl in pieces (fowling
pieces.)
"Come Ben don't stand on the step, push
ahead," 
"I can't--the omnibus is full."     [*2470*]
"No matter, Ben jam in (Benjamin)."

An Irishman, hearing the Spinx alluded to
in company, whispered to a friend--"Spinx,
who is he now?"
"A monster man."
"Och, Munster now! I thought he was
from Connaught," replied the Irishman not to
seem totally unacquainted with the family.

A western orator commenced his harangue
with "The important crisis which were about
to have arriven have arrover."

A fellow who married a termagant who
drove him to desperation, and finally to death,
just before dying requested to have the following
inscription upon his tomb--" Slain by a
jaw-bone!"

Boys have an unfair time of it in this world.
They get the drumsticks of the turkey at dinner,
and have to wait for the hot cakes at
breakfast till every body else is supplied; they
are snubbed when they are in spirits and told
not to make such a racket, they are sent off to
bed just in the sweet of the evening, when it
is so nice to sit by the fire and tell stories. In
a thousand ways they are put upon and robbed
of their natural rights.

When Socrates was told by a friend that
his judges had condemned him to die. "And
has not Nature," said he, "already passed the
same sentence upon them."

Why is thought like the sea? Because
its a notion.

Kindness begets kindness; ill nature produces
anger: anger hatred.

A single piece of china, before it is finished,
employs forty hands; from the the man
who pounds the flint, to the designer and 
colorer.

"The human mind," says an Italian,
"walks in England, it skips to France, it plods
and gropes in Germany, in Italy it soars."--
In the U. States it spreads.

A Consolation.--A friend of ours, who is
afflicted with temporary deafness, consoles
himself by the belief that there is nothing going
on worth hearing.


Nothing is mere ridiculous than to be serious
about trifles, and to trifle about serious
matters.

You may bribe a soldier to slay a man
with his sword, or a witness to take life by
false accusation, but you cannot make a dog
tear his benefactor.
[*2471*]

Close Farming.--"Talk about getting a
good deal out of a little piece of land!" exclaimed
Simpson; why I bought an acre of
old Mr. Ross, up at Goose Fair, planted
one acre of it with potatoes and t'other with
corn--
"I thought you said you bought only one
acre, Simpson!" remarked a listener--"how
could you plant two?"
"Very easily, sir--I stood it up on the end
and planted both sides of it.

Singular Manner of Choosing a King.
The People of Bearn, an ancient province of
the Pyrenees, in the 1183, desirous of
having a sovereign of the blood of their last
monarch, sent a deputation to his sister, to
ask for one of her twin children. The request
being granted, the deputies had their
choice--the infants, at the moment, slept.--
One had his hands closed, the other his open.
The deputies imagined they saw, in the last
attitude, an indication of a noble and generous
character. They immediately chose him;
and this monarch, in his after age, acquired
the title of Gaston, the Good.

Laconics.--The diseases of the body are
better discovered when they increase; but the
diseases of the soul grow more obscure, and
the more sick are the least insensible.
Human frailty is no excuse for criminal immorality.
Every man committing a trespass is the
prisoner of justice as soon as he has done it.

Somewhere in the West, a knight of the
lather and brush was performing the operation
of shaving a hoosier with a very dull razor.
"Stop," said the hoosier, "that won't do."
"What de matta, hoss?" "That razor
pulls." "Well, no matter for dat, sah. It
de handle of de razor don't brake, de baird's
bound to cum off!"

It is not polite to beg newspapers, nor is it
honest to steal them.

"I'm boarding out," as the loafer said,
when he curled up for the night on a pile of
lumber.

Love is an idea--beef a reality. The idea
you can get along without; the beef you must
have.

Water Works.--The readiest water works 
to turn on are ladies' tears; but the difficulty,
when they once begin to flow, is to stop them.
Sometimes a velvet dress will check the tremendous
rush. But occasionally it is piped on
so strong, that it is necessary to send for an
opera box, to prevent the water works flooding
the entire house.

It is mentioned, to illustrate the advantages
of advertising, that a man advertised in a
newspaper a lost pocketbook, and even before
the paper was out, he found the book--in his
pocket.
[*2471*]

"I see through it," as the woman said
when the bottom of her tub fell out.

"OCH! the darlin', how hot his little fut is,"
as Pat said when he caught the bumble bee.

In the tater patch.--A correspondent of the 
Spirit of the Times, sends the following:
On a certain occasion at a certain dramatic temple, 
where the writer formed one of the "enlightened 
audience," a farce was in the course of representation. 
A youth almost distracted was seeking, 
his lost fair one: his lady loverhad just concealed 
herself a moment before (in full view of the audience)
in "the garden," behind some canvass representations
of bushes. 
"Where, O Heavens! where has my lovely Julia 
fled?" exclaimed the actor in despairing accents 
looking around everywhere but to the right place.
A Yankee in the pit, who had hitherto been all 
attention, now exhibited symptoms of impatience, 
and, as the actor repeated his impassioned energy, 
he was answered by our excited Yankees with--
"Right behind yer, you fool, in the tater 
patch." [*2472*]
The effect of this can be better imagined than 
described--the applause was tre-mendous.

A GARDEN IN MOURNING. 
OR, THE WAY SQUIRE EASYSOUL WAS REFORMED. 

Captain Jabes Noweed is one of the very bes 
gardeners in all the regions bordering on the 
Kenebeck; and it puts this "fine old gentleman,"
in as much pain to merely cast a look at 
some gardens, as those buzzing little millers exhibit
on a summer's evening when they lose 
their wings in battling with the tapers. 

Squire Jason Easysoul lives in Jabez's neighborhood, 
but so far as gardening operations are 
concerned, it would seem that he did not profit 
much by his neighbor's good example, as 
his most prominent garden crop has usually 
been weeds. 

Many and many is the time the Captain has 
taken the Squire to do relative to his slovenly 
gardening operations, with a view and a sincere 
hope of bringing about a salutary reformation, 
but his efforts have been crowned with ill success. 

Last summer, the Squire's garden was unusually 
neglected; and when the weeds had attained 
such a growth as to almost conceal from 
view, the sickly looking vegetables, the Captain 
could not contain himself any longer, and resolved 
upon a desperate effort to bring his neighbor 
to his senses, affirming that if this last 
scheme did not work, the Squire and his garden 
might both "go to grass."

One day the Captain was marching home 
slowly from this unpleasant and to him wretched 
looking acene, with his eyes cast on the 
ground, and his hands clasped behind him, musing 
and looking for all the world as though 
something very uncommon and afflictive had 
happened, when Aunt Squiggles, attracted by 
his unusual appearance, came to the door and 
inquired--

"What's happened, Cap'n"

"Some one is dead at Squire Easysoul's, I 
suspect."

"Do tell--who can it be--never heard ony 
on'm was sick--it can't be--who told you so?' 

"No one told me so, but then I suspect such 
must be the case." [*2473*]

"Oh, lor, mortals all we be, dropping down 
like the grass--who knows whose turn'll come

next--I must go right over to the Squire's 
an console 'em."

"I saw deep mourning there as I passed."

"It must be--it must be," exclaimed the good 
lady as she turned and entered the door. 

The Captain went home, and Mrs. Squiggles 
soon spread the melancholy news all over the 
neighborhood. Great was the grief, rendered 
doubly so by the suddenness of the event, no 
one having heard that any of the Squire's family 
had been indisposed. 

In minutes several good ladies, led by 
Aunt Squiggles, were seen wending their way 
towards the Squire's, often making use of their 
linen kerchiefs to wipe away the tears. They 
entered the front yard with trembling steps, 
beating hearts, and moistened eyes. One of 
the Squire's daughters seeing the sorrow-striken 
troup approaching, and fearing that something 
dreadful must have happened in the 
neighborhood, ran to apprise her father, mother, 
and sisters, who immediately rushed to the 
door. Aunt Squiggles was surprised at findinh
them thus, and thunderstruck when they spoke, 
with one voice, and inquired what had happened. 

"Oh dear, aint it so?" exclaimed Aunt. 

"Why, what do you mean? explain yourself," 
said the Squire, his feelings wrought up to 
a high pitch for him. 

"Why, aint any of your folks dead?" said 
Aunt with a heavy sigh. 

"Dead--dead," repeated the Squire,--"Why 
who told you such a story?" 

"Captain Noweed said he expected some on 
yer was dead!"

"Captain Noweed told you he suspected some 
one of us was dead! Can it be possible!" 

"He said so--and when I asked him what 
made him suspect so, he said he saw deep 
mourning here when he passed." 

"Saw deep mourning here? What can my
good neighbor mean? Sit you down, while I go 
for the Captain for an explanation," said the 
Squire, as he put on his hat. 

Just as he stepped from the threshhold he espied 
the Captain approaching. He beckoned to 
him--invited him into the house, and in the presence 
of the anxious listeners, asked for an explanation.

"I told her I suspected some one was dead 
here, and the reason for my suspicion, and that 
was: that I saw deep mourning here!"
"Deep mourning!" said the Squire, puzzled, 
"what do your mean?"
"I mean just what I said," replied the Captain, 
firmly.
"You havn't seen any mourning about my 
premises, certainly,"
"I have, and deep mourning, too, and if you 
will come to the door, I will show it to you 
now."
"There," said the Captain, pointing to the garden, 
"don't you see deep mourning there?"
All eyes were strained to their utmost capacity,
but they couldn't see anything that looked 
like mourning. 
"Can't see it?" said the Captain, "why you 
must all be blind! Can't you see the numerous 
heavy weeds, always indicative of deep mourning!"
"Yes," said the Squire, "I can see them; but 
they won't be seen long enough to get up another 
such excitement as this, now, I tell you," and 
the way the Squire, hoe in hand, pitched into 
the deep mourning vegetables, was truly delightful 
to the Captain. 
This last scheme of the Captain's had the desired 
effect. The Squire raised a pretty good 
crop of vegetables last season, though it was late 
before he set about it; and this coming season 
he says his tutor will have to rise early, if he 
beats him.- Maine Farmer [2473 A]Fearful Scene with a Mad Dog - A part of 
our city was much excited yesterday by a Spanish 
poodle dog in a state of madness. The dog
was of a large size for the shaggy or woolly breed,
and was first seen early in the morning by Mr.
Bishop at the corner of Third and Walnut. In
his course toward Fifth street, the dog in quesion 
bit several other dogs and a boy. He jumped 
at the boy's face, but his teeth, luckily, only
penetrated the boy's cap, doing him no particular 
injury. The rabid animal passed up Fifth to the 
residence of mr. F. Ringgold, of the St. Charles,
who had just stepped from his room on to the
door step, and pulled the door to after him. At 
this instant he saw the dog coming furiously towards 
him, snapping his teeth, his eyes glaring
fire! Mr. R. commenced kicking the dog with
all his might, but his boot being of light-texture,
no permanent effect could be made on him, but
at each rebuff lie returned for a better hold. Several 
times did his teeth tear the leg of the pantaloons, 
and even the boot. This desperate encounter 
lasted for some time: we saw Mr. R. 
soon after, and before the indentation of the 
animal's teeth had disappeared from his leg. 
Leaving this combat, the animal next attacked
a boy in the street, who ran with much fury, and 
hallooed "Murder! murder!" so lustily, that the
dog gave up the chase at the end of the square.
Here he was met by a man having a revolver,
who came so near, in order to make sure of killing, 
that the dog sprang upon him, caught the 
thumb of the pistol hand in his mouth, and a terriffic 
struggle ensued, the man alternately raising 
by his thumb the dog from and returning him
to the pavement. He at last succeeded in getting
his thumb from the dog's mouth, but not until it
was horribly mangled. He gave up his pistol,
and started, full run, for the Medical College.
The alarm became general, and Mr. R. and others 
were busily engaged in finding fire-arms with
which to dispatch the infuriated beast, but as it
generally happens, none were at hand. A man
from a neighboring street came up, and discharged 
his piece, but at such a great distance as to
miss his aim altogether.
The dog now ran back Fifth to Main street,
where he was shot by some person, and the excitement, 
now general, was allayed. Such a
scene was seldom or never witnessed in our streets
before-in fact, the oldest inhabitants of our place
cannot recall a more desperate mad dog scene,
an in which the lives of so many citizens were 
endangered, and one that a horrible death stared
numbers in the face, and from which some five
or six escaped very narrowly, if, indeed, the man
whose thumb is bitten is so fortunate. -Cincinnati 
Commercial.  [*2474*]

Welsh Savings. - Three things that can never
become rusty-the money of the benevolent, the shoes
of the butcher's horse, and a woman's tongue. Three
things not easily done - to allay thirst with fire, to dry
wet with water, to please all in everything that is
done. Three things that are as good as the best- 
brown bread in famine, well water in thirst and a gray
coat in cold. Three things as good as their better-
dirty water to extinguish the fire, an ugly wife to a
blind man, and a wooden sword to a coward. Three
warnings from the grave-thou knows what I was,
thou seest what I am, remember what thou art to be.
Three things of short continuance-a lady's love, a
chop forehand a brook's flood. Three things that
ought never to be from home-the cat, the chimney,
and the housewife. Three essentials to a false story-
teller-a good memory, a bold face, and fools for an
audience. Three things seen in the peacock-the 
garb of an angel ,the walk of a thief, and the voice of 
the devil. Three things it is unwise to boast of- the
flavor of ale, the beauty of thy wife, and the contents
of thy purse. Three miseries of a man's house-a
smoky chimney, a dripping roof, and a scolding wife.
[*2475*]

Who shall wear Motley!
Saturday last was All Fool's day. Now
if it had been "kept," we doubt whether 
thousands of very worthy and honored folk 
might not, with propriety, have joined in 
the celebration. Why not? Are the fools
of earth confined to the number whom general 
consent acknowledges as such? By no 
means. Indeed, the tallest specimens of the
genus are to be found in a "respectable po-
sition" in society.
What is he who so fervidly worships the 
Dollar god-closing his heart to all beautiful 
enjoyment, the simple and the pure-
that he may possess more money, for the
vile love of money alone? He may be a 
shrewd hand at a bargain; and perhaps his
eyes are sharp enough to see the nicest
shades of profit and loss: but he never enjoys 
profit-he only accumulates. Week
after week he toils on; wrinkles are sunken
in his brow; the head and shoulders bend;
the early thought and the old generous impulses 
become ossified, as it were; and soon
his very face images the metal which he so 
adores. Ah, give him the motley!
Then that class-they pride themselves,
some of them, on being very superior and
select-who never sympathize with the suffering 
of weak and perhaps erring hearts;
who disdain to stoop and comfort the son or
daughter of poverty, because the suffering
may have been caused by the victim 's own
imprudence; who never experience that
most exquisite of pleasures, the consciousness 
of having alleviated misery, or done
good to the distressed; are they wise, or
shall we class them with-the others?
The mean man, and the wicked, are the 
greatest of all fools. For some fancied end
they forget both their own esteem and that
of all others whose opinion is worth anything. 
Give them the cap that towers high-
est.
Young ladies, who reject the hand of the 
man without money to marry money without
a man, excuse us if we suggest that you too
deserve a patch of the same varied cloth.
And ye frail vessels among men, who yield
yourselves fully up to the dominion of poisonous 
and withering appetites; why did ye 
not celebrate last Saturday. It was your
special time. 
The furious in temper, scattering in one 
moment what years cannot recall; the
squanderer, whose money leaves no sign of
good done to him; the scowler, who looks 
over on the dark side of humanity; the effeminate 
man, who developes not the use of
his manhood, (wouldn't this include old
bachelors?)-the mere voluptuary, that gets
to think women all frailness, and thus debars
himself from domestic happiness, the purest
bliss on earth; the glutton-the idler-the
sneak-the bully-the fop-the man who
don't take a newspaper, (or, taking it don't
promptly pay for it)-the politician, that 
thinks all people wrong who don't stand on
his narrow platform-Ah! give a plentiful
supply of motley to them all, for they could
truly wear it!-N.O. Crescent. [*2476*]

Going to Congress.-Going into a Western
member's room the other day, and seeing
him with his coat off in the middle of his apartment, 
up to his middle in documents and
speeches, and letters, laboring lustily with
his franiting pen, I alluded to his press of private 
business. "Stranger," said he, "I never 
came to Congress before, and I never want
to come again. I tell you, that this office of
member of Congress is not what it is cracked
up to be. I calculated to have a good time
here this winter, after racing all over my district, 
and making 500 stump speeches in
order to get elected. But, the fact is, you can 
see the way I enjoy myself. It is what I
call having the enjoyments horribly. Why,
sir, I never began to work in this way before
in my life." "Well sir, I replied, the honor
of the station undoubtedly compensate you
for all your labors." The honors be bursted,
all I wish is, that I was out of the scrape. I
asked, "How comes on the loan bill in your
branch?" "Oh, they are spouting away,
spouting away, sir, and here I am franking
the speeches. The Lord only knows what is
in them." "And the Ten Regiment Bill?"-
"I know nothing about it, and don't want to.
Look at them are letters," pointing to a two
bushel basket of private correspondence-
"not one half of them answered! look at 
the speeches. The Lord only knows what is 
in them."  "And the Ten Regiment Bill?"-
"I know nothing about it, and don't want to.
Look at them are letters," pointing to a two
bushel basket of private correspondence-
"not one half of them answered! look at 
these speeches, not a quarter of them franked. 
What attention can I give to loan bills
and regiment bills? Sir, I must attend to my
constituents." And we left him to his labor. 
Our impression is, that it takes all Saturday
and Sunday too, to bring up the franking and 
letter writing business of the week, for the
members seldom get out to church.- Cor. of
Boston Courier. [*2477*]

A Painful Sight,-To see young men lounging
about month after month, neither working nor desiring 
to work; while-perhaps poor parents-are
toiling from morning till night, to support and 
save them from disgrace which their own thoughtlessness 
and laziness is fast bringing upon them.-
But how many such sights are to be seen in every
community! How many are found who have not
the sense of shame, which is necessary to force
them off the lounger's seat, but enough of that false
pride which will not allow them to take hold of
employment if it does not happen to be genteel and
profitable! Alas! the fate of such is sealed; they
will go down to the grave unloved, unmourned,
and soon to be forgotten by all. [*2479*]

The Pawnbroker's Window.- There is more
philosophy of life to be learned at a pawnbroker's 
window than in all the libraries in the
world. The maxims and dogmas which wise
men have chronicled disturb the mind for a
moment, as the breeze ruffles the surface of
the deep, still stream, and passes away; but
there is something in the melancholy grouping
of a pawnbroker's window which like a record 
of ruin, sinks into the heart. The household 
goods, the cherished relics, the sacred
possessions affection bestowed, or eyes now
closed in death had once looked upon as their,
own, are here as it were profaned; the association 
of dear old times are here violated; the
family hearth is here outraged; the ties of love;
kindred, rank, all that the heart clings to, are
broken here. It is a sad picture, for, in spite 
of all the glittering show, its associations are 
sombre. There hangs the watch, the old chased 
repeater, that hung above the head of a dying 
parent when bestowing his trembling blessing 
on the poor outcast who parted with it for
bread; the widow's wedding-ring is there, the 
pledge of love of one now dead, the only relic
of the heart's fondest memories; silver that
graced the holiday feast; the gilt-framed miniature 
that used to hang over the quiet mantle
shelf; the flute, the favorite of a dead son surrendered 
by a starving mother to procure food
for her remaining offspring; the locket that
held a father's hair; or, gloomier still, the 
dress, the very covering of the poor, is there,
waving like the flag of wretchedness and misery. 
It is a strange, sad sight, to those who
feel alright. There are more touching memorials 
to be seen at a pawnbroker's window
than in all the monuments in Westminster
Abbey. [*2478*]

A hint to amusement denouncers.
There are people who would say, "Labor is not
all; we do not object to the cessation of labor-a
mere provision for bodily ends; but we fear the
lightness and vanity of what you call recreation."
Do these people take heed of the swiftness of
thought-of the impatience of thought? What
will the great mass of men be thinking of, if they
are taught to shun amusements and the thoughts
of amusement. If any sensuality is left open to
them, they will think of that; if not sensuality, 
then avarice or ferocity. People who have had
nothing else 'o amuse them, have been very apt
to indulge themselves in the excitement of persecuting 
their fellow-creatures. Our nation, the
northern part of it especially, is given to believe
in the sovereign efficacy of dullness. To be sure,
dullness and solid vice are apt to go hand in 
hand; but then, according to our notions, dullness
is in itself so good a thing. Now, if ever a people 
require to be amused, it is we sad-hearted Anglo-Saxons. 
Heavy eaters, hard thinkers, often
given up to a peculiar melancholy of our own.
with a climate that, for months together, would
frown away mirth if it could-many of us with
very gloomy thoughts about our hereafter-if ever 
there were a people who should avoid increasing 
their dullness by all work and no play, we are
that people. "They took their pleasures sadly,"
says Froissart, "after their fashion." We need
not ask of what nation Froissart was speaking.-
Friends in Council. [*2480*]

'Punch' on Snobs.
When I was taking the waters at Bagnigge 
Wells, and living at the Imperial Hotel 
there, there used to sit opposite me at
breakfast, for a short time, a Snob so insufferable 
that I felt I should never get any 
benefit of the waters so long as he remained. 
His name was Lieutenant-Colonel 
Snobby, of a certain dragoon regiment.
He wore japanned boots and moustachios:
he lisped, drawled, and left the "r's" out of 
his words: he was always flourishing about,
and smoothing his lacquered whiskers with
a huge flaming bandanna, that filled the
room with an odor of musk so stifling that
I determined to do battle with that Snob,
and that either he or I should quit the inn.
I first began harmless conversations with
him; frightening him exceedingly, for he did
not know what to do when so attacked, and
had never the slightest notion that anybody
would take such a liberty with him as to
speak first; then I handed him the paper;
then, as he would take no notice of these
advances, I used to look him in the face
steadily and-and use my fork in the light
of a tooth-pick. After two mornings of this
practice, he could bear it no longer, and
fairly quitted the place. [*2481*]Past Coach Companions.
Our names were not asked, but our coun-
try; every one got a name after some re-
markable man or woman there, and thus
we formed a circle of celebrated persona-
ges. I, as a Dane, was called Thorvald-
sen; my neighbor, a young Englisman,
Shakspeare. The student himself could
not be less than Claudius; but with our 
three opposite neighbors he was somewhat
perplexed. One was a young girl, about
eighteen years of age, who accompanied
her uncle, an old apothecary, from Bruns-
wick; he was at last obliged to call her
Miss Mumme, and the uncle, Henry Love.
But the last of the passengers were quite
anonymous, as we could not find any fa-
mous characters in that otherwise salt-pro-
ducing town, Lyneborg, whence she came.
She was, therefore, a step-child; and it ap-
peared as if she had often been treated as
such, for she smiled with a strange sadness,
when we could not find a name for her in
the society. This circumstance caused me
to regard her more particularly. She was
about fifty years of age, had brown skin, 
and some traces of the small-pox; but there lay something interesting in her dark eye-
something deeply sad, even when she smi-
led. We heard that she kept a school for
young girls in Lyneborg, lived quietly there
in a small house, and had now, for the first
time, but only for a few days, been in Ham-
burg. I scarcely heard her speak a word
the whole way; but she smiled kindly at 
our jests, and looked good-naturedly happy
at the young girl, every time she laughed
heartily at what was said.
In the midst of us chatterers she was the 
most interesting to me, on account of her 
silence. As we rolled into Lyneborg's nar-
row streets, where the houses stood in the 
moonlight, so old, and, with their pointed
gables, so cloister-like,  I heard her speak for the first time: 2482
"Now I am at home!" said she.
We alighted; the old apothecary offered 
her his arm to conduct her home-it was
close bu-and the rest accompanied her. It
was about eleven o'clock; everything was
so still in this strange old town; its houses,
with pointed gables, bow windows, and out
buildings round about, looked singular in
the bright moonlight. The watchman had 
a large rattle, which he made pretty free use 
of-sang his verse-and rattled again.
"Welcome home, Miss!" said he, in the
midst of his song; she nodded, and men-
tinned his name as she went up the high
stone steps:-here she lived. I saw her nod
her farewell, and disappear behind the door.
-Rambles, &c., by Hans Christian An-
dersen.
Beware of Evil.-Let no man say, when
he thinks of the drunkard, broken in health and
spoiled of intellect, "I can never so fall." He
thought as little of falling in his earliest years.
The promise of his youth was bright as
yours; and even after he began his downward
course he was as unsuspicious as the firmest
around him, and would have repelled as indig-
nantly, the admonition to beware of intemper-
ance. The danger of this vice lies in its al-
most imperceptible approach. Few who per-
ish by it know it by its first accesses. Youth
does not suspect drunkenness in the sparkling
beverage, which quickens all its susceptibilities
of joy. The invalid does not see it in the cor-
dial which gives new tone to its debilitated or-
gans. The man of thought and genius detects
no palsying poison, in the draught which seems
a spring of inspiration to intellect and imagi-
nation. The lover of social pleasure little
dreams that the glass that animates conversa-
tion will ever be drunk in solitude, and will
sink him too low for the intercourse in which
he now delights. Intemperance comes with a 
noiseless step and binds its first cords with a 
touch too light to be felt. This truth of mourn-
ful experience should be treasured up by all,
and should influence the arrangements and hab-
its of social and domestic life in every class of
the community.-Dr. Channing 2483
A Damper.- I remember when I sported 
my first long-tailed coat-'twas the spring I
was sixteen. Well do I recollect my visit
to my grandmother, in my new fit-out.-
"How I'll surprise her," thought I, "with 
my new coat," as I approached the house
with a full pulse, and with a pride which
would not fall in comparison with that of a
young king just crowned.
"Why, is that you!" exclaimed the good
woman, peering through her specs, as I en-
tired the house, with such an air as if I
swayed an empire; "wall, I never!-I hard-
ly know ye-what's altered you so amazing-
ly?"
Whereupon, the good lady took off her 
specs, and having wiped them nicely with a 
corner of her apron, adjusted them upon her
nose again, and then commenced a search-
ing review of me and my habiliments.
"Well, grandmother," said I, "and how
do you like the looks of my new rig?"
"You youngsters," returned the good wo-
man, "when you get on your first long-tail-
ed coats, always remind me of our little 
roosters when they sport their first tail-
feathers!"
I was done-sold completely. A few mo-
ments before, I wouldn't have taken one
farthing less than ten thousand dollars for
my feelings. But, alas! alas! after such a
remark from such a source, I verily believe
that, at that moment, I would have sold my-
self, clothes and all, for eighteen and three 
quarter cents. [Boston Bee. 2484
An Incident.
Yesterday morning, whilst coming up Char-
tres street, we saw an old Irish immigrant who
had his wife upon his back. The old man had 
on a frieze coat and a pair of coarse corduroy,
pantaloons, and a hat that was very much dilap-
idated-his features were wrinkled by time, and
his grey hair showed that he was near the edge
of death.-Still he had a sturdy step, and as he
walked along with his pale, decrepid burden,
there was not one who saw him who did not ho-
nor him.
The poor old couple had come from the most
beautiful, but most oppressed land on earth, to
the land of freedom. Bidding the shamrock
adieu forever, they had sought the banner of the 
"stars and stripes," and prayed that their aged
bones might be deposited under its folds. Theirs
was the long farewell to poor old Ireland-the
thousand thoughts that were conjured up by
memory, as the last landmark was hidden from
the eye-the long tedious voyage-the sick-
ness of the aged wife, and their arrival, poor
and almost heartbroken, in the land of the strangers.
There was no kindly one to welcome them-
no sou to grasp them by the hand-no daughter
to kiss her aged mother's cheek! The old wo-
man, who was very ill, threw her withered arms 
around her husband's neck, and like a Chevalier
in soul as he was, he bore her to the Charity
Hospital. Out upon those who jeer at poverty. 
The old Irishman, who carried his sick wife upon
his back, in our estimation, is one of Nature's
noblemen. [N. O. Delta. 2485
The Elk Runners.
The following extraordinary relation is
strictly true. Major John Doughterty, the 
"Kentuckian" mentioned, is still living in
Clay county, Missouri, which he has re-
presented in the Legislature, besides hav-
ing fulled the important post of Indian
Agent. He was famous in his youth,
among the prairie and mountain men, as
a hunter of extraordinary skill and endu-
rance. We should like, of all things to 
hear his own statement of an adventure,
which is certainly among the most mar-
vellous ever heard out of the pages of fiction
-if indeed fiction has any thing that will
compare with it.
In the year 1818, the Missouri Fur
Company had a post just below Council
Bluffs, named Fort Lisa, after the gentle-
man who established it. There was much
competition in the trade at that time, and
it was a great point to select the very best
men for Runners.
Mr. Lisa had with him a young Ken-
tuckian named D_, a fine daring fel-
low, with a frame of iron, the speed of the 
ostrich, and the endurance of the camel.-
He was fortunate, moreover, in the reten-
tion of a half breed called Mal Boeuf, who
not withstanding his name, (bad beef) was
considered of no less merit than D-,
and between the two men, consequently, a
keen rivalry existed. D- had tra-
velled on foot from the Blackbird Hills to
Fort Lisa, a distance of ninety miles in 
thirteen hours!-Mal Boeuf also boasted
some astonishing feats of "bottom," and
both were stationed at the fort during the
time we speak of, for the purpose of pro-
viding venison. 2486
One evening in July, the weather was 
extremely warm, the grass high, and the 
post unfurnished with meat; the two men
were playing at cards, when their employer
came up, reproaching them with their ne-
gligence, and ordered them to start the first
thing in the morning on a hunt. Obedience
was promised, of course, but their game
continued, each moment growing more
desperate, the spirit of rivalry pervading
their hearts in every thing, till finally
morning broke as the half breed declared
himself to be broken. They fell asleep on 
the spot, and the sun was well up when
Mr. Lisa, informed of the case, again ap-
proached-in no pleasant humor, it may 
be supposed-until the delinquents fully
aroused and a little alarmed, took their guns
and started for Papilion Creek, on the edge
of the prairie, about five miles off. They
then discovered a gang of elk, when the
Kentuckian suggested a plan of approach
which would enable them to get a good 
shot. The half breed, rankling at his com-
pinions triumph the night previous, very
sulkily observed-
"I don't kilk elk with my gun, but with my knife."
The pluck of the other was aroused in an
instant; rightly interpreting the vaunt as
a challenge to a trial of speed and bottom, 
and on his saying proudly, that what his 
companion could do, he could do also, both
hung their guns in a tree, and, approaching
the band as near as possible, they suddenly
raised the Indian yell, which has a most 
paralyzing effect on the animals.
Off the creatures went across a low
prairie, a few miles in width, leaving their 
pursuers far behind, but steadily the latter
continued their pace nevertheless. They
reached the bluff-ascended-crossed-de
scended-one resolve uppermost in their
minds, "never to say fail." League after
league the chase and race continued, the 
men panting like hounds, cooling their
mouths in crossing an occasional "branch"
by throwing up the water with their palms:
but still unpausing , until, approaching Elk
Horn River, a distance of twenty miles, by
mutual agreement they took a circuit witn
an increase of speed, got ahead of the elk
and actually prevented them from crossing.
Leagues and leagues, upon a new track, the
chase continued, the animals by this time
so exhausted by heat, thirst, and above all
fright-for the hunters had incessantly sent
forth their yells, in this as much a stream
of mutual defiance as an artifice of the chase
that they scarcely exceeded their pursuers
in speed; the latter foaming and maddened
with excitement, redoubled their efforts,
until the elk; reaching a prairie pond the
hunters at their heels, plunged despairingly
in, lay down and abandoned themselves,
heedless of all else, to the gratification of
their thirst. The frantic rivals, knife in 
hand, dashed in after their prey, began the 
work of slaughter pausing not till they had
butchered sixteen elk, dragged them from
the water, and cut up and prepared the meat
for transportation to the fort, whither they 
had to return for horses.
Had the race ended? No! for victory or 
death was the inward determination, and
as yet neither had given way. Off dashed
again the indomitable half breed, and at his
side the unyielding Kentuckian. Ridge and
hollow, stream and timber, (no yelling
now) in desperate silence, was left behind.
the sun was sinking-blind, staggering
on they went-they reached the fort-hag-
gard, wild and voiceless, as from the fires
of the savage, the "gauntlet" of fiends. A
crowd gathered around the exhausted men
who had arrived together, and now lay
fainting, still side by side, a long time, be-
fore they were enabled, by signs and whis-
pers, to tell they had run down sixteen
elk, and yet could not say which was the
best man. 2486
This feat brought upon D- an affec-
tion of the lungs, nor did he recover his
strength for several years. He is still alive
-a quiet and influential citizen.
Mal Boeuf became very dissipated, and 
died in a short time. 2486A
Our informant tells us that he has made 
an examination of the country forming the
race track, and they, without exaggeration,
must have run seventy-five miles, between
the hours of eight in the morning and seven
in the afternoonHumor of the late Thomas Hood.
   Mrs. Gardner is a widow, devoted to the cultivation
of flowers in her door yard garden, who has
the peculiarity of identifying herself with each variety.
Hood, standing at the little gate, compliments
her on the appearance of her carnations; to
which she replies:
   "Yes, I've a stronger blow than any one in this 
place, and as to sweetness, no one can come nigh to
me. Would you like to walk in and smell me?"
   "Accepting the polite invitation, I stepped in
through the little wicket, and in another moment
was rapturously snuffing at her stocks, and the flower
with a sanguinary name. From the walls I
turned off to a rose bush, remarking, that there was
a very fine show of buds."
   "Yes, but I want sun to make me burst. You
should have seen me last June, sir, when I was in
my full bloom. None of your wishy washy pale
sorts--{this was a fling at the white rose next door]
--none of your Provincials or pale pinks. There is
no maiden blushes about me. I'm the regular old
red cabbage."
   And she was right; for, after all, that hearty,
glowing, fragrant rose, is the best of the species; the
queen of flowers, with a ruddy enbonpoint, reminding
one of the goddesses of Reubens.
   "And there's my American creeper. Miss Sharp
pretends to creep, but for bless ye! before she gets
up to her first floor window, I shall be running all
over the roof of the villa. You see I am over the
portico already."
   While this conversation is going on, a deaf bachelor
neighbor, who has a garden of his own, passes
by, but Mrs. Gardiner hails him in a loud voice, and
addresses him in her customary figurative language:
   "Well, and how are you, Mr. Burrell, after them
east winds?"
   "Very bad, very bad," replied Mr. Burrell, thinking
only of his rheumatics.
   "And so am I," said Mrs. Gardiner, remembering
nothing but her blight. "I'm thinking of trying
tobacco water and a squiringe."
   "Is that good for it," asked Mr. B. with a tone of
doubt and surprise."
   "So they say, and you must mix it strong and
squirt it as hard as you can over the affected parts."
   "What, my lower limbs?"
   "Yes, and your upper ones, too, wherever you're
maggotty."             [*2487*]
   "Oh!" grunted the old gentleman, "you mena
vermin."
   "As for me, I'm swarming? And Miss sharp is
was than I am," bawled Mrs. Gardiner.
   "The more's the pity," said the old gentleman,
"we shall have no apples and pears."
   "No, not to signify. How's your peaches?"
   "Why they set kindly enough, ma'am, but they
all dropped off in the last frosty nights."
   "Ah, it aint the frost," roared Mrs. G. you have
got down to the gravel--I know you have--you look
so rusty and scrubby."
   "I wish you good morning, ma'am," said the little
old bachelor, turning very red in the face and making
rather a precipitate retreat from the dwarf wall
--as who wouldn't, thus attacked at once in his person
and his peach trees.
   "To be sure the was dreadful unproductive," the
widow said, "but a good sort of body, and ten
times pleasanter than her next door neighbor at
Number Ten, who would keep coming over her
wall, till she cut off his pumpkins."
    She now led me round the house to her  "back,"
where she showed me her grass plot, wishing she
was greener, and asking me if she ought not to have
a roll. She next led me off to her vegetables, halting
at last at her peas, some few rows of blue Prussians,
which she had probably obtained from Waterloo,
they were so long in coming up.
   "Backard, ain't I?"
   "Yes, rather."
   "Worry, but Miss Sharp is backerder than me.
She's hardly put of the ground yet and please God,
in another fortnight I shall want sticking."
   There was something so irresistably comic in this
last equivoque, that I was forced to slur over a
laugh as a sneeze, and then contrived to ask her if
she had no assistance in her labors?
   "What, a gardener? Never? I did once have
a daily jobber, and he jobbed away all my dahlies,
I declare I could have cried?--But's very hard to
think your'e a valuable bulb, and when summer
comes, you're nothing but a stick and label."
   "Very provoking indeed!"             [*2487-A*]
   "Talk of transplanting! they do nothing but
transplant you from one house to another, till you
don't know where you are. There I was thinking I
was safe and sound in my own bed, and all the
while I was in Mrs. Jones's. It is scandalous!"

A CHAPTER ON RATTLESNAKES.
-------
BY WM. J. SNELLING
-----
   Naturalists enumerate four varieties of rattlesnakes;
we have seen but three. First the crotalus
horridus, or great common rattlesnake;
next, another like him in color, fangs, rattles,
every thing, in short, but shape, being much
shorter and thicker. Of this species, we never
saw but one, and that we killed. Lastly, the
Massissauga rattlesnake, black, about eighteen
inches long, and never heard of exceeding two
feet, whereas the largest kind attains five, perhaps
more; we have heard of longer ones, but
never saw them. One transported to the garden 
of the Dey of Algiers is said to have attained
ten feet. The Massissauga rattlesnakes abounded
about the Falls of Nigara: perhaps does
so still.
   Though we have dissected and seen dissected
a great number of rattlesnakes, we are unable
to say whether they are viviparous. We 
never saw a gravid female.                 [*2488*]
   The venomn of the rattlesnake in contained
in two glands, at the bases of the fangs, in the
upper jaw. The fangs are very slender, crooked
and hollow half way from the base. They
fit into sheaths in the lower jaw and are of no
use in mastication. They are not firmly fixed
and are easily extracted by holding out a rag to
the animal when irritated. He hooks on and
cannot readily disengage himself, when they are
torn out with a twitch, as one pulls out a small
fish from the water. The snake then becomes
harmless as any other serpent and may as safely
be handled. When the animal is about to sterike
he throws himself into a coil and sounds his alarm.
His body swells, his colors brighten and
his eyes shine with preternatural lustre.--His
head flattens, his jaws are thrown backword so
as to form one plane.
   He does not strike forward, as a bird would
peck--with that motion: the curve of his fangs
would strike first--he throws and hooks himself
upon his victim. In striking, the fangs are
pressed upon the glands at their roots, and the
venom is forced outward through the tubes into
the wounds. The fangs retain their venom for
years after they are extracted.
   The rattlesnake is easily avoided when first
seen or heard, for he is a slow, clumsy serpent
never attacks unless irritated or alarmed, and
will always get out of man's way if suffered.--
He cannot leap his full length; he strikes only
by leaps, and he is obliged to coil himself for
each spring. He never pursues more than a few
feet; anda slight blow with a small stick suffices
to kill or disable him.
   The courage of the crotalus is indomiable,
his fight inextinguishable. He gives place to
man, indeed, but not with alactricity of fear; he
retires slowly and turns at the first indication of
active hostility, as who should say. "I don't
want to hurt you, but, if you will have it, take ti.
Numbers make no difference to him. If you
come upon him swimming the Mississippi (as
we have seen hundreds of rattlesnakes do in the
spring floods) he gives yon your boast a wide
5irth but if you pursue, he boards you boldly.--
he fights to the last and springs at the hand that
touches him even after his head is off. When
hemmed in and teased, he turns upon himself
and dies by his own fangs, as the scorpion is 
said to do.
   It is said, we know not with what reason the
crotalus does not acquire his first rattle unti
the fourth year of his age, and that he increases
their number by one yealy. We have heardl
of rattlesnakes with thirty-six rattles, but never
saw one with more than fourteen. We have seen
an infant crotalus, too, nor more than six inches
long quite as spiteful and much more lively then
his father and mother, and he had the rudiment
of a rattle. It is said that rattlesnakes have a
mortal antipathy to the ash tree, that they will
pass through gre rather than over its leaves, and
that the Indians wear wreaths of the same about
their ancles, as a safeguard against them. We
will answer for it that the Indians do no such
thing, and that we have seen rattlesnakes under
ash trees, unconcerned among the fallen
leaves. It is said, too, that swines eat them alive
and sustain no injury from their bites. Cannot
say--never saw a hog fed with rattlesnakes; never
knew any body to breed the latter.
   The bite of the crotalus is not necessarily
mortal; it seldom proves so to the Indians. From
whatever cause it be they seldom if ever die of
rattlesnakes, through somethines bitten by them.
Neither is death from the rattlesnake necessarily
speedy when it does ensue. In the summer of
182- we saw an Indian boy who had been bitten
at the Redwind's village, on the Upper Mississipi,
a famous locality of the crotalus. The
wound was in the calf of the leg not recent; the
flesh had sloughed away two inches round it
leaving the bone bare, and the lad was wasted
to a skeleton. Nevertheless, his case did not
look by any means desperate, and we thought,
thatamputation would have savedhim even then.
This was the only case of bite of a rattlesnake
on a human being that we witnessed during upwards
of eleven years that we sojourned ina
rattlesnakes country. We heard of many other
indeed, and saw the scars.
   We have reason to believe that the bite of this
serpent in either of the limbs may always be
cured in the following manner. Tie a ligature
above the wound immediately, and another below
it, tight enough to stop the circulation. Then
cut out the wounded part, boldly; as well die
by bleeding as by poison. Then let some person
suck the wound with all his might fearing nothing;
for the venom is innocuous taken internally.
We have seen several who were said to have
been saved in this way, and we believe it was
said truly.
   We believe, contrary to the belief universale
that the warning note of the rattlesnake is no
made with his tail, but in his threat. His nois
is not ringing but an acute, continuous hum
without vibration, like that of the locust, whic
the horny excresence at his tail is in no wise ad
pted the produce. This is a lifeelss appe ndage,
no way connected with, or under the control
tha nervous system. Nothing like the same 
sound can be made with it when severed from
the animal. Popular opinion proves nothing; if
a cat had a similar superfluity, it would vulgarly
be believed that she purred with her tail.--
Besides, the rattle is not necessary to the noise,
or the noise to the rattle. Another serpent, a
eostenant of the region of the crotalus, makes
precisely the same noise without rattles, fangs
or venom. This is the bull or pine snak, as it is
called in the nortswest, a harmless serpent, axactly
resembling the rattlesnake, save in the particulars
above excepted. Heard in the grass,
and the tail hidden in it, it is invariably taken 
for the crotalus.
   The rattlesnake preys on small birds and
quadrupeds, which it swallows whole. It is
never seen north of the forty-fifth degree of latitude.
It lies torpid in the winter. It climbs trees,
how, we do not know, and cannot guess, but we
have seen it in the branches. It seldom harms 
human beings. It is said that deer kill it by
jumping upon and cutting it to pieces with their
sharp hoofs. The Indians never harm it, but,
on the contrary, pay it religous honors and offer
it tobacco smoke, by way of incinse. As food,
it is worthless, being tough, inspid, and uller of
small bones than a shad.
   [*2488*]   --------------------------------
   We were much amused a few days since with
a little boy upon whom his mother was inflicing
personal chantisement--"Give me two or
three licks more, mother--I don't think I can behave
yet." The Boston transcript is to be 
responsible fort his story.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
                 MOTIONLESS WING FLIGHT.
                                      ------------
Prof. Lancaster's Study of the Translation
      of Birds--He Sees in it the Solution of
      the Problem of Perpetual Motion.
New York Sun.
   BUFFALO, Aug. 21.--The distinguished delegates
in attendance at the convention of
the American Association for the Advancement
of Science are greatly agitated over
the remarkable discoveries of Prof. Isaac
Lancaster, one of their number, who declares
in his paper read before the section
of mechanical science and engineering that
he has thoroughly digested the heretofore
perplexing problem of perpetual motion.
He has done this by watching the flight of
birds in circling fixed wings, and says he 
has models in his possession of a most wonderful
nature. Some of the savants who
heard him talk consulted together and came
to the conclusion that he had made most
wonderful discoveries or else was an able
and accomplished liar. they, therefore, decided
to offer a purse of $50 for the best
paper on the subject for next year, provided
he would bring his models before them and
make them do what he says they will. This
he has agreed to do on Monday next. In his
talk on this subject Prof. Lancaster said:
   "The flight of birds has never been completely
explained by reference to known
mechanical laws. The work done in their
translation must be sufficient to prevent the
gravitating force of the bird's mass from
carrying it to the ground, and also to overcome
the resistance of the air to their passage
through it. Muscular effort in wing
motion is not competent to the tasks in all
cases while soaring. A motionless wing
flight presents a complete mystery. It is a
thankless task to inquire with any nicety
into the ability of flapping, while the largest
and heaviest birds habitually translate
themselves with no wing motion whatever.
It occurred tome thirty years ago that the
mechanical world was entirely at fault in
this matter, and that the activities in progress
were not what they were supposed to
be.           [*2489*]
   "In 1876 I went to the Gulf coast of South
Florida, below Tampa Bay, and resided
there for five years, continuously engaged
in this matter. From Tampa Bay to the
Keys
soaring birds are found in profusion.
These consist of buzzards, frigate birds (or
man-of-war birds), various cranes, among
which are found sandhill cranes, gannets,
eagles, pelicans, gulls, herons, and others
of less importance. The buzzards would
habitually rest in the sea breeze, along the
inner or bay coasts, between thirty and
fifty feet above the water, facing the wind,
for hours at a time on motionless wings.
They were birds of four to six pounds
weight, with an equal number of square
feet of wing surface. I watched a score of
them on one occasion for fourteen consecutive
hours, during which time not a dozen
flaps were made for each bird.
The frigate bird had greater
power of translating than any others on the
coast. Their movements were simply marvelous,
as though they were endowed with
powers of magic. I have seen them move
on fixed wings against a southeastern tempest
of wind, certainly of not less than eighty
miles an hour, with a velocity which I
judged to be equal to that of the wind itself.
A closer stand of observation being desirable,
recourse was had to the arts of mimicry,
and, procuring la sheet of light cotton fabric,
sufficiently large to entirely envelop any
person, it was painted a mixture of green
and brown shade to resemble the top of a
pine tree. This disguising dress proved to
be an admirable device, and it was used on
many occasions in various localities on the
coast in the vicinity of the roosting and
breeding places of the birds. "
   So much for premise. Now comes Prof.
Lancaster's wonderful experiments. He
says:   "If a bird can float indefinitely in calm 
air without using muscular exertion, being
for mechanical purposes, as rigid as a board, 
then a board or metal body of the right
share and position ought to be able to do
the same thing. In construction it must 
preserve the essential features of the bird's
wind. It must have the under surface
rough to motion from rear to front, and
smooth from front to rear. It must have 
the front ledge on the under side. It must
have the elastic feather tips, and be longer
than it is wide, and, if it closely imitates 
the birds, it must have from one to three
pounds weight for each square foot of surface. 
I constructed floating planea which, 
for lack of a better name, I have
termed effigies. They would draw into 
the breeze from the hand and simulate the
soaring birds perfectly moving on horizontal 
lines' or on any inclination to a vertical. 
They would float in the best winds,
with neither ledge, rough front surface, nor
rear curve, if very nicely adjusted, but one 
of this construction I never induced to pass
beyond the limits of vision, as the equilibrium 
was so very delicate that a little
inequality in the wind current would capsize
it. With the addition of a serrated front
surface and ledge they would float in any
reasonably steady breeze. By using a pendant 
of fine shot and a double bag, with a 
neck so constructed that the shot would fall
in a few seconds from the upper to the 
lower bag, inclining the plane as it did so,
continuous motion in calm air can be obtained. 
I have floated the planes from the
lantern of Egmout lighthouse, 150 feet
high, and they might be still floating provided
that no storm had been encountered 
by them.
   "But the interesting device illustrative of
the case which I was enabled to make consisted
of a balanced arm rotating in a horizontal
plane, after the manner of a turned
stile or children's merry-go-round. The
frigate birds can be seen any calm day over
the lower Florida coasts, going round and
round in their interminable circles on fixed
wings the whole day long. Then a plane of
the weight and dimensions and position of a 
frigate bird ought to move in the same manner
 if similarly placed. Not being able to
try the experiment a mile high in free air, I
did the next best thing, and tried it on the
surface of the earth at an elevation of about
six feet. The rotating arm was made as
light as possible, its only functions being a 
directive one. At first a diameter of eighteen
feet was used, with planes fourteen by thirty
inches. I was engaged for two or three 
months on the device without success. It
would not imitate the birds and move continuously. 
I found at length that on account
of the more rapid motion of the outer ends of
the planes than of the inner ends, the outer
ends would climb the inclination faster than
the inner, thus crowding the air away in the 
lateral motion. To remedy this defect the
planes were made winding, so as to make
the inclination of the inner end steeper.
This was a great advantage, but I did not
get a rotary motion. I was confident of some 
error in the construction, but could not at 
that time locate it. It, however, occurred 
to me that I had never observed a soaring
bird swing in circles less than 100 feet in
diameter. I made a haphazard trial by extending 
the arms to a diameter of 94 feet
and a plane about 24 by 12 feet, and had a
splendid success in the first trial. It would 
only operate in calm air, but one one occasion 
it traveled for three days without halting. 
In this afternoon of the third day a 
slight breeze stopped it. It would move 
around at once in still air whenever started."
   In conclusion, Prof. Lancaster said the 
whole field is open to science, now that his
discoveries have for the first time been made
public.  14 89 A

latter part of
Jan. 1854
                   -------------------------
                Column for the Carions.
   PIGEON ROOST--HUNTER'S PARADISE.--In
Franklin county, Indians, north of the town of
Brookville, the pigeons congregate now-a-nights
in prodigious numbers. The woods, over a space
of ten miles in length by five in breadth, are
nightly filled by countless multitudes of these 
birds, that light upon the branches and pile up-
on each other in such enormous masses, that the
stoutest limbs give way, killing in their fall
thousands of their destroyers. Mornings and
evenings the air is darkened by swarms of myriads 
upon myriads of pigeons. The flocks are
miles in extent, and sweep over the heavens like
thunder clouds. The roar of the innumerable
wings during the hours of arrival and departure 
at the root, is tremendous. The ground in the 
vicinity of the roost is covered in places to the 
depth of several inches, by pigeon guano. Hundreds
of hogs are engaged in devouring the birds
which are killed by various casualties. The
people in that vicinity are tired of shooting
among the aerial hosts.
   A person who desires to kill a few thousand 
in the course of a night, takes his gun and ammunition, 
enters the roost, sits down and fires as 
often as he can load, directly upward, and his 
game tumbles down around him. It has been remarked, 
facetiously perhaps, that some sportsmen
have been overwhelmed and nearly crushed in the
fall of birds following a shot. 2490 
   A genuine sportsman would not enjoy such 
murderous operations as these, but men who are
fond of shedding blood--even if it be the of
bird--should snatch their guns, take the stage
and away to the roost.

   BOB-A-LINK'S SONG.--Some one, describing
the saucy behavior of a Bob-a-Link, after
he had taken an unsuccessful shot at him,
puts the song in words as follows--and a
very accurate report it is.
   "Ha, ha, ha--don't you wish you could?
Click bang! Wasn't I off in season? Hiti-ka-ding. 
Put in more--powder. Chikadee,
de, do. You had better shoot with a shovel. 
Ha, ha, ha. You can't come it.--
Didn't you think you had me? but you 
didn't, though. Call again to-morrow--always
find me at home. Chickadee--tip, 
wheet. Never felt so well in my life.--
Don't you feel cheap? Ha, ha, ha. Ripsidady. 
Catch a bob-a-link asleep. Zitikawheet. 
You are the greatest fool I ever
saw. Licka-te-split. Give my respects to
your aunt. How's your ma? Takes me.
Hip! zip! rattlebang. Ha, ha, ha. Go to
the devil. Skeet!" 2491

                         -----------------
                       Chinese Quack.
   How this gentleman's travels has puzzled 
me; I have met the same man at a distance
of more than a hundred miles; I presume
he must always  keep to the canal country.
His paraphernalia occult a large space; he 
is peculiar in many things; he wears no
tail, but makes up for it with the dirt he 
carries. The whole fraternity have the
same idiotic look which characterizes the
Budhist priest, whom they much resemble
in appearance. He displays the jaws and
bones of the tiger, elephant, shark, whale,
in short of almost all animals; diseased livers,
tumours, &c.; sea-weeds, gigantic funguses,
in short everything that is horrible
and disagreeable. If he succeed in decoying
a patient, he, besides supplying medicines,
punctures or inserts hot needles into
the diseased parts or burns moxa upon it,
chaunting all the time amid the fumes of
incense and candles. Before leaving he
loads the patient with medicines of a very
harmless nature for a trifling sum, and pays
the most profound respect and attention to
all suggestions or questions from the crowd.
---Forbes's China.
                         -----------------
                Music of the Nightingale.
   But the nightingale, another of my airy
creatures, breathes such sweet, loud music,
out of her little instrumental throat, that it
might make mankind to think miracles are
not ceased. He that, at midnight, should
hear, as I have very often, the clear airs,
the sweet descants, the natural rising and
falling, the doubling and redoubling of her 
voice, might well be lifted above earth, and
say, Lord! what music hast thou provided
for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest
bad men such music on earth---Izaak
Walton. 2492

                   The Study of Nature.
   In the study of Nature we observe phenomena
which are in accordance with certain laws,
which, by observation, we judge to be fixed; so
that we know how to classify them and what
principle to attribute them to. We go on quite
satisfactorily for a while, till, all at once, we
meet face to face with a fact which none of our
laws will account for.
   We would suppose that in chemistry a combination
of the same ingredients, in the same proportions,
would produce the same result. But
facts negative what seems so plain. Many
substances, difering widely, as the diamond and
charcoal are examples of discrepancy between
fact and apparent law. But we need not be discouraged,
nor throw away our theory. A further 
research into nature will discover other, deeper,
laws. The imponderable fluids, such as electricity
galvanism, heat, &c., possess powerful
influences in chemical arrangements. These
operate with great modifying power in the arrangement
of particles. The chrystalization of 
the salts, if permitted to go on under a low. temperature,
will take on a certain form; but when
heat is applied, so as to accelerate the process,
the atoms come together into forms quite different.
   And these remarks are not confined to the
realm of matter; they obtain in the higher regions
of mind, and spirit. At one time, physiology
and phrenology furnish solutions for all 
problems of human character which a limited
observation and experience suggest to us; but
presently, as we take a wider, deeper range of 
explanation, we encounter facts by which we
are non pleased, Soon up steps human magnetism,
neurology, &c., and open doors which
let us deeper into the mysteries of mental and 
spiritual philosophy. We never need stop in
awe of obstacles. Every new difficulty demands
more laborious research, and intenser
application- and this will surely be rewarded 
by knowledge which will explain all.---Boston
Chronotype. 2493WOODSTOWN, N. J., TUESDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1877.

            The Lotus.
                  -----
   We are indebted to the editor of
the Children's Friend, Mary Y.
Hough, for the loan of the above illustration.
As we have in our
Woodstown pond an acre probably
of these Old World lilies, we thought
it appropriate to print a picture of
them in the REGISTER. Asa Gray,
in his "Lessons in Botany," gives
the following description:
   "NELUMBIUM, Juss. Nelumbo.
Sacred Bean. The only genus of
the suborder. (Nelumbo is the
Ceylonese name of the East Indian
species, the pink-flowered N. speciosum.)
N. LUTEUM, Willd. (Yellow
Nelumbo, or Water Chinquepin)
Corolla pale yellow: anothers tipped
with a slender hooked appendage.
--Waters of the Western and
Southern States; rare in the Middle
States: introduced into the
Delaware below Philadelphia. Near
Woodstown and Sussex county, N.
J. Big Sodus Bay, L. Ontario, and
in the Connecticut near Lyme;
perhaps introduced there by the
aborigines. June--Aug.-- Leaves
usually raised high out of the water,
circular in outline, with the
centre depressed or cupped, 1°-2°
in diameter. Flower 5'-10' broad.
Tubers farinaceous and edible.
Seeds also eatable. Embryo like
that of Nymphæa on a large scale.
Cotyledons thick and fleshy, enclosing
a plumule of 1 or 2 well formed
young leaves, enclosed in a delicate
stipule-like sheath."

   This flower is a peculiar favorite
with the poets. Shelley, in the
"Witch of the Atlas," refers to this
sacred flower of the Nile:

But her choice sport was in the hours of sleep,
   To glide adown old Nilus, when he threads
Egypt and Ethiopia, from the steep\
   Of utmost Arume, until he spreads,
Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep,
   His waters on the plain: and crested heads
Of cities and proud temples gleam amid,
And many a vapor-belted pyramid.

By Mœris and the Mareotid lakes,
   Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber
         floors;
Where naked boys, bridling tame water snakes,
   Or charioteering ghastly alligatorsl.
Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes
   Of those huge forms:--within the brazen
         doors
Of the great Labyrinth slept bot boy and
         beast,
Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast.

And where, within the surface of the river,
   The shadows of the massy temples lie,
And never are erased--but tremble ever
   Like things which every cloud can doom to
         die,
Through LOTUS-paven canals, and wheresoever
   The works of man pierced that serenest sky
With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 'twas her
         delight
To wander in the shadow of the night,

With motion, like the spirit of that wind
   Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light
         feet
Past through the peopled haunts ofhuman
         kind,
   Scattering sweet visions from her presence
         sweet,
Through fane and palace-court and labyrinth
         mined
   With many a dark and subterranean street
Under the Nile; through chambers high and
         deep
She past, observing mortals in their sleep.

   So much for the ancient home of
the Lotus. The following lines,
from Tennyson's poem "The Lotus
Eaters," will show the legendary notion
regarding the sleep-inducing
qualities of this flower of song:

How sweet it were, hearing the downward
      stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the
      height;
To hear each other's whisper'd speech;
Eating the Lotus day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy
to muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heap'd over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust shut in an urn of
      brass.
      *             *            *             *
The Lotus blooms below the barren peak:
The Lotus blows by every winding creek:
All day the wind breathes low with mellower
      tone:
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow
      Lotus-dust is blown.

   An excellent illustrated article id
n
the Children's Friend for 10th mo.,
on "The Lotus," we give entire:
   The singular beauty and usefulness
of the large water-lily, called
the Lotus, have in all ages attracted
to it extraordinary interest; and
combined with the fables of the 
Egyptians, the Hindoos and the
Chinese, have exalted it in the East
to honors almost divine.
   It was held sacred by the ancient
Egyptians. Representations of it
were sculptured upon the monuments; 
the sun was seen rising from
it, and, Osiris and other deities sat
upon it or were crowned with it.
   In India and Ceylon, the flower 
is held very sacred. When princes
enter the idol temple, they have
this flower in their hands, and when
the priests sit in silent thought, it
is placed in a vase before them. It
is related that a native, upon entering
Sir William Jones' study, seeing
flowers of this beautiful plant lying
upon the table for examination,
prostrated himself before them.
   The Sanscrit name of the flower
is Padma, and by that name it is
usually known in Buddhist countries.
The words Om Mani Padma
houm! "Oh, Jewel (Precious One)
in (on) the Lotus, Amen!" form
the most frequent pray of millions
of mankind. "These six syllables
which the Lamas (Buddhist priest)
repeat," says Koeppen, in his work
on Lamaism, "form, of all the 
prayers of the earth, the prayer that
is most frequently repeated, written
and printed. they form the only
prayer which the common Mongols
and Tibetans know; they are the
first words that the stammering
child learns, and are the last sighs
of the dying. The traveler murmurs
them upon his journey; the
herdsman by his flock; the wife
in her daily work; the monk in his 
devotions. One meets with them
everywhere, wherever Lamaism has
established itself--on flags, rocks,
trees, walls, stone monuments, utensils,
strips of paper, and so forth.
they are the essence of all religion,
of all wisdom and revelation; they
are the way of salvation and the entrance
to holiness."
     The Buddhists of China and Japan
also greatly venerate the flower
and associate it with all the leading
deities, who are represented in the
temples as seated upon it.
   The power attributed to the Lotus
is in nothing more marked than
in its imagined helpfulness to the
souls of the deceased. It figures in
Chinese paintings of the punishment
of the dead. In these pictures the
deceased are represented as suffering
tortures of various kinds. By
their children, however, such valuable
gifts are offered as to induce
Kwanyin, the Goddess of Mercy, to
appear upon the scene, and cast the
Lotus upon the miserable sufferers.
This at once ends their punishment
and the evil spirits are unable to
torment their victims any more!
Such pictures are shown by the
Buddhist priest to move the compassion,
terrify the consciences, and
open the purses of the friends of the
dead.
   But, notwithstanding the sacredness
in which the Lotus is held, and
the fables and superstitions which
are associated with it, many of the
Chinese largely cultivate it. The
fragrant blossoms reach a diameter
of ten inches, and find a ready sale.
The seeds or beans are eaten as they
are, or are ground and made into
cakes; the fleshy stems supply a
popular nourishing vegetable; while
the fivers of the leaf stalks serve for
lampwicks.
   The ancient Egyptian also largely
cultivated the Lotus on the waters
of the Nile, the beans, the
   [*2495*]

stems and even the roots being extensively 
used for food. The seeds
of the plant were enclosed in balls
of clay or mud, mixed with chopped
straw, and cast into the Nile.
In due season the beautiful petals
appeared, shortly followed by buds,
flowers and seeds. From which
practice the inspired writer enforces
the duty of seld-denying zeal and
saith: "Cast thy bread upon the
waters, for thou shalt find after
many days."

Bursts of Eloquence.
 One of our exchange papers has gathered up 
thefollowing "bursts of eloquence":
"Your honor sits high upon the adorable se[?]t
of justice, like the Asiutic rock of Gibraltar;
while the eternal steams of Justice, like the 
cadaverous clouds of the valley, flow meandering
at your feet."
 This reminds me of the commencement of a 
speech of a lawyer in New Jersey:-- "Your honors 
do not sit there like murble statues, to ne
wafted about by every idle breeze."
 Another Wstern orator commenced his harrangue 
with--"The important crisis which were 
about to have arriven, have arroven"2496
 Another. "The Court will please to observe
that the gentleman from the East has given
them a very learned speech. He has Roumed
with old Romulous; Soaked with old Socrates;
Ripped with old Euripides, end Cauted with old
Canth[?]rides,---but what, your honor, what does
he know about the laws of Wisconsin?"
 A young lawyer in one of our own courts
commenced a defence as follows:---"May it
ple,se your honor, the Deluge has passed over 
the earth.  The Ark has rested upon the mountain
and the Rainbow of justice shines as beautifully 
upon my colored client as it does upon 
any one in the court, including the jury."
 Love, Revenge, and Suicide.---In the year 
1780, a young London merchant, having 
won the affections of a lovely girl, also obtained
the consent of her father, to whom
she was an only child, The old gentleman 
had a siingularfancy that they should be married 
at the same village church where his 
own happy union took place; and being a
sufferer from the gout, he placed the young 
lady under the charge of her aunt; and the
happy [?], making his own valet, set out on 
[?] [?] to Westmoreland. Soon after
their arrival at that place, a letter full of transport
was dispatchedtp the father; the wedding
had first taken place, the bride had been
pronounced by the old vi[?]ar to be nearly as
handsome as her mother, and although the
bridegroom wore no "shoulder-knots, open
sleeve, or pantaloons!" he might still compete 
with the bridegroom of earliertimes in 
appearance. After the ceremony, the happy 
couple took a walk in the vicar's garden, and
the valet, aware that they would soon leave 
the placefor their further destination, went
into the refreshment room of the inn, and 
knowing that his master had drawn 
the charge from his pistols the night before, and
that the state of the roads required every
precaution, took this opportunity of  re-loading
them. Upon their return from the stroll,
the young couple went into this room, and
the gentleman, seeing his pistols laying where 
he had left them the night before, and being
sure that he had unloaded them , took up one
of them and presented it at his fair bride, saying,
with the most becoming flattery, "Now,
maiden, repent of all those cruelties you have
been guilty towards me, my sleepless nights,
my days of anxious hope; I will revenge myself!
 Fair tyrant, you shalt die, with all 
your instruments of torture about you, and 
that enchanting smile, those killing ringlets!"
 "Pray, do not suffer me to linger,"said the 
confiding girl, laughing merrily at his agreeable
nonsense. "Fire!"
 He did so, and shot her dead! Who can 
paint his horror? After a pause he ung the
bell---his servant entered, and his master locking 
the door, said in a singularly marked
voice, "William,dod you load those pistols?"
The unfortunate wrench, horrified at what he 
saw, mechanically answered, "Yes." His
master instantly shot him dead with the undischarged 
pistol. After this, in a state of 
insanity, we must hope, he wrote an exact account
of the occurrence to the bereaved father,
and concluded by telling him, that two
hours ago he was made the happiest man
alive, but that now, as the object of his love
lay dead and his life, by falling on his sword,
if his heart did not break before he could
complete his intention. This sad epistle being
finished, he put an end to his life. The
body of poor William, whose fatal carefulness
had led to so sad a catastrophe, was int[?]rred
in the village churchyard, and the corses of 
the lovers, attended by the half-bewildered
aunt, were brought to London, and privately
laid in one grave, in the parish where the 
now wretched father had once lived a happy 
and a prosperous man. 2497  

EXTRAORDINARY CASE.---In the year 1799,
a young l[?]d 18 or 19 years of age, residing in 
the western part of the State, was arrested
with two others on a charge of stealing a
grindstone from a man in this town, and carried
b[?]f[?]re a justice of the peace, who fined
each of them one dollar. The young man referred 
to declared his innocence of the crime,
and appealed to the Court of Common Pleas; 
but, before the sitting of the Court was induced
to settle the matter, rather than be arrainged
as a thief, the justice giving him to 
umberstand that no record would be made of
the case, and that it would probably never be
thought of. It was [?]ubsequently well ascertained
that the lad was in fact entirely innocent,
another boy having acknowledged that he
himself commited the offence. The young 
man grew up and has everinceresided in the
same town sustaining a most exemplary character.
He has held several offices of trust
and responsibility, has served many times as 
juror, and has been a worthy member of Congregational 
Church for thirty years.
 A few weeks since, having brought an action 
of debt against one of his neighbors, it 
became necessary for him to m[[?]ke  an oath to
his account; but being about to take the oath
to the utter attonishment of the gentleman
and all present, the record of the conviction 
before the justice nf the peace, allu[?]ed to 
above, was produced, and read by the opposing 
party, into whose hand it had by some
means come, after the death of the justice.
Here was an old gentleman , sixty-six years of
age, who had, from his boyhood, deservedly 
enjoyed the reputation of an honest and virtuous
citizen, hald up to the community as a
convicted felon, and deprived of the rights of
citizenship, for an offence which, if he were
really guilty, was commited nearly half century
ago! We can hardly conceive of the degree
of meanness and malignity which could
prompt such a proceeding. In this state of 
the matter application was made recently, to 
the Executive, for a restoration of his civil
rights to desc[?]nd to the grave with this stigma
resting on him---and upon the testimony of his
excellent character for more than fourty years,
during the whole od which time one of the 
witnesses had known him, his rights were 
promptly restored.---Salem (Mass.) Register. 2498

[?]  The Greensborough (Als.0 Patriot gives the following 
melancholy circoumstance which occured at one of their
co[?]rts :--''Mascal Jester was in jail, awaiting his trial upon an
indictment for assault and battery upon his wife. The cases had
all been disposed of but his, and the sheriff was sent to bring
him to the bar.  In a few minutes he returned, with the sad
news that the prisoner had hanged himself tp a grate of his
cell, and had already taken passage with that grim ferryman 
that poets write of, to be impleaded before the tribunal 'which
judgeth alike the proud and lowly.' Poor man! in a fit of
intoxication he had savagely beaten his wife, and some of his 
heartless acquaintances had called upon him in prison, and, to
mock his misery, had falsely told him that his wife was dead.
Under this impression, no doubt, he died.  Can they sleep
quietly when they think of it ?'' 2499
[?]  The  Washington Star gives an account of a 
horse-tamer in that city, who appears to posses as singular 
power as the one so fully describedin Good's ''Book of Nature.''
The name of this man is Robinson, and he bails from
Kentucky. The only means that he uses to effect his purpose
is a small drum; and after coaxing the animal for a short time,
he will commence beating his drum, when the wildest unbroken 
colt that was ever brought from his na[?]ive plains will
follow him as tame as a pet lam[?].  Several extraurdinary fests
in taming horses are relsted of this man, whose success is very 
great.  He had no diffle[/]ity, as it appeared, in placing the bridie
over a horse unaccustomed to it, and likewise quite easy to
mount a horse that has never before had been ridden.

 
                   ------------------------------------------------
  HINTS ON DIET.---The means of preserving 
health are more plain and simple than
those of restoring it.
  Quacks and self-made doctors often 'pour
drugs,' of which they know little, into bodies
of which they know less.
  Great eaters never live long.  A voracious
appetite is a sign of disease, or of a 
as is generally supposed,--Hitchcock.
  A large number--perhaps a majority--
of the standard works of English literature,
were composed of men whose circumstances 
compelled them to adopt a very spare diet,
and probably this is one of their superiority.
--Ib.
  There is nothing more ridiculous than to 
see tender, hysterical and vaporish people,
complaining, and yet perpetually cramming,
crying out they are ready to sink in the
ground, and faint away, and yet gobbling
down the richest and strongest food and
highest cordials, to oppress and overlay
them quite.--Dr. Cheyne.
  More nourishment and strength are impared 
by six ounces of well digested food,
than by sixteen imperfectly [?].
  2500

              HOW TO LIVE
                        ----
    BY ROBERT J. CULVERWELL, M.D.
                        ----
  Dissipation--late hours.--Dissipation, of
all kinds, is ont of the question--late hours
abominable.  The fascinating excitement
of billiards, cards, and dice, are cruel destroyers 
of health and content, in a sensitive
and delicately consituted individual.  It is 
impossible to dis-sociate drink, smoking,
and anxiety as accompaniments.
''Licentionsness, and wine, and gaming sh[?]n,
Do what you will you cannot be undone;
Happy's the man that sees this whilst he's young.''
  An invalid ought always to be in bed by
ten o;clock, and up at six or seven--then
his morning stroll--breakfast--business or
leisure--lunch--occupation or walk--dinner--
ease, relaxation--amusement, exhilaration--
rest--and then for the next morning.
  Early Rising.--No one can form am idea 
of the great advantage of being out and about
by sunrise, exept those who practice
it; and few can practice it but those who 
retire early.  If a man can escape to bed at
ten, he may rise in the summer at four, five 
or six, when he has the best part of the day
at his command.  A ride, drive, or walk,
till eight or nine, is most delicious--the atmosphere
is fresh, and unincumbered with
smoke.  The sky is usually cloudless--the
sun shines forth fully and yet mildly upon
[?]s, the great heat of midday being in result 
of accumulation  as well as solar altitude 
and position--the breeze is fragrant to
inhale, passing playfully about us, loaded
with the odor and harmony of the living universe.
                                                                 2501
The chirr[?]p of the sparrow, the trill of
the lark, the blackbird's whistle and the
twittering pf the many winged flutterers,
possess a poesy, for words difficult to express,
the silcence also from the bustling
clamor of man, or a wakeful city, draws
forth feelings of homage, gratitude, and enjoyment,
which form, ceremony, and set-devotion
often fail to command.  These feelings
are in store, more or less, whether we 
bid the day good morrow on a metropolitan 
bridge, a suburban field, or a county hill,
but the [?] and ecstasy increases with the 
distance from town.  I could rhapsodise 
myself into the belief that I was scribbling 
under the influence of what i advocate, and
far from the world of business, at the bare
thought of it, instead of being seated in a
four-wailed room, with only a window prospect
of dirty-coloured brick walls and red
chimney-tops; but the hours I have for 
years past stolen from the drowsy morning 
doze, and the continuance of such s practice 
as long as I hope to command the
means, would reconcile me to live in a cellar 
the rest of the day for the enjoyment of
such a privilage. . . . . . . The morning ride
or walk is preferable for healthy purposes
to any other part of the [?]ay.  The exercise
strengtbens the body and no less the mind
---it fortifies one against the mystifications 
and drudgery of the coming day, and it materially 
lengthens life, and gives energy and 
hope for the morrow.  What a contrast on
a six o'clock summer's morning to contemplate 
from the hill-top animate and bustling 
nature, to the sweltering and sleeping 
in a close room, covered to the nose in
sheets and quilts, hemmed in by drawn curtains
in a darkened chamber, resembling 
more a sepulchre for the dead than an abode
for one living and sensible. Country
people have no excuse for lying in bed.
  I am not an advocate for a man to worry 
himself to death, nor to live always in a
hurry---a certain amount of rest and sleep
is indispensable.  It is ridiculous for a man 
who goes to bed at one or two in the morning,
to attempt to rise at four or five for the
delight of an early stroll--it would spoil him
for the remainder of the day.  Early rising
is only compatible with moderste and early
people--greatfeeders want much sleep and
rest; but although they gain one enjoyment
of an hour in the twenty-four  by stomach
gluttony, they lose many in sloth and oblivion.
 When once the habits of early rising 
and moderate feeding be acquired, they
will be found so delightful that it will be a
great sacrifice to abandon them.    2501
  
  



Signs of [He????.]
Perhaps there is no living writer on medical
subjects who enjoys a higher reputation for
keen observation than Professor T. Laycock, of
Edinburgh. The following are some of his
opinions delivered in a recent lecture respecting
the outward signs of sound health, and indications 
of long life: 
1. The skin should be healthy; this is indicated
by a freedom from dry scurfiness, both of
the skin and scalp; a certain suppleness, the 
result of due secretion of sebaceous fluid; a 
firmness of texture equally removed from 
transparent thinness and coarse thickness; a
freedom from chronic congestions, patches of 
varicose vessels, or any skin diseases, whether 
parasitic or diathetic.  2. The skin products, 
whether appendages –- as hair, nails and teeth –- 
or secretions, as the pigmentary, sebaceous or
perspiratory, should be normal and healthy. 
The expressions of the eye should be free form 
peevishness or irritability, for these often 
mark a tendency to shortness of life; there
should be no arcus seniles, or infiltration of the
lower eyelid, or marked vascularity of the upper 
lid. The complexion may be of any temperament,
but should be good of the kind; there
should be no signs of unhealthy blood, as a peculiar 
pallor, or icteric tint, or duskiness of a 
sounds, enduring constitution is to be found in
the character of the hair and teeth. Persons
tending to longevity have usually sound, well
channelled, well set teeth, continuing free from 
decay until old age, and their hair is thick, not
soon gray, nor falling early. In such persons 
the general powers are vigorous, and it is only 
some visceral disease or acute fever that shortens
life. If to the signs of good health you can 
add good conduct, and the fact of longevity
being hereditary in the family, the individual 
has a good chance of long life.
The appearance of the patient may be fallacious 
as to the formation and deposit of fat, 
whether in the cavities or the adipose tissues.
This occurring beyond the healthy mean is not
a mark of strength, but of degeneracy. It constitutes
the popular sign of advancing age in
the "decreasing leg and increasing belly" of
Shakespeare; and an early or excessive fat
deposit is not infrequently indicative or premature
old age. Scrofulous children and 
youth are apt to be very fat before tuberculosis
comes on; very fat men or women rarely 
reach sixty, and all the fat infantile monsters
die early. Polysarcia, as this fatty condition is
termed, is to be distinguished from atheroma, 
which is fatty degeneration, limited to the arterial
tissues, and also from fatty deposit in the
muscles. It is a general mode of degeneration 
of nutrition arising from constitutional tendencies, 
often hereditary, and apt to show itself at 
epochs of evolution or decline, especially of
the sexual glads. Another commonly received
sign of a good constitution is a clear, florid 
complexion, and it may be received as such, 
with reservations. But it not infrequently is 
the sign of a dangerous tendency to serious diseases
of the heart and blood vessels, and to 
rheumatic affections in persons otherwise of a 
vigorous habit, and should never be accepted
as a good sign without cautious inquiry, more
especially into the morbid tendencies as to the 
nervous system. 
2502

Exposure to the Sun. There are few points
which seem less generally understood, or more 
clearly proved, than the fact that exposure to the
sun, without exercise sufficient to create free perspiration,
will produce illness; and that the same 
exposure to the sun, with sufficient exercise, will
not produce illness. Let any man sleep in the
sun, he will awake perspiring, and very ill; perhaps
he will die. Let the same man dig in the sun 
for the same length of time, and he will perspire
ten times as much, and be quite well. The fact is, 
that not only the direct rays of the sun, but the
heat of the atmosphere, produce and abundance of bile,
and powerful exercise alone will carry off that bile. 
[Popular Errors Explained. 
2503

Extent of Human Life.
We notice in one of the New York papers a
brief report of a lecture delivered recently in 
that city by Professor Mason, on the economy 
of individual life, from which we are able to select
some interesting facts in relation to the average
extent of human life. This of course has
varied at different periods of the world, and 
still varies in different countries under the influence
of education, morals, food, and other circumstances.
As any instance of the variation alluded to,
we may remark that in the sixteenth century
the average extent of life in Geneva, Switzerland,
was so remarkably low as nine years, 
which the professor attributed to epidemical 
diseases, bad food, bad dwellings, and continual
warfare. The learned men of that country, 
however, directed their attention to these causes
of premature death; and under their care
a system so perfect has been established that
the inhabitants of Geneva now live to a greater
age than those of any other city on the globe.
Similar changes have taken place in Great
Britain since; by means of improvements in
science, the average human life has been elevated
from seventeen to fifty years. The 
scripture give the score years and ten as the
limit of human existence, and Professor Mason
contends that whenever the medical jurisprudence
of a country can, as in England and this 
country, enlarge the average duration to fifty 
years, the remaining twenty of the scriptural 
limit are generally cut off by intemperance and
hereditary disease. 
In Mexico, the average of human life is only
fifteen years, which circumstance alone is sufficient 
to show the vast difference existing between 
the moral and physical condition of that
people and our own.
2504

Happiness Essentialto Long Life. 
Longevity and happiness, if not invariably, are
generally coincident. If there may be happiness
without longevity, the converse is not possible;
there cannot be longevity without happiness. –
Unless the state of the body be that of tolerable
health, and the state of mind that of tolerable
enjoyment, long life is unattainable; these
physical and mental conditions no longer existing, 
the desire of life, and the power of retaining it, 
cease together. An advanced term of life, and
decripitude, are commonly conceived to be synonymous;
the extension of life is vulgarly suppose
to be the protraction of the portion of infirmity 
and suffering, that period which is characterized 
by a progressive diminution of the power
of sensation, and a consequent and proportionate
loss of the power of enjoyment, the "sans
teeth, sans eyes, sans everything." But this is 
so far from being true, that is is not within the 
compass of human power to contract, in any 
sensible degrees, the period of of old age, properly so
called, that is the age of decrepitude. In this 
stage of existence, the physical changes that 
successively that place, clog, day by day, the 
vital machinery, until it can so longer play. In
a space of time, fixed within narrow limits, the 
flame of life must then inevitably expire, for the 
processes that feel it fail. But though, when 
fully come, the term old age cannot be extended, 
the coming of the term may be postponed.
To the preceding state an indefinite number 
of years may be added. And this is a fact
of the deepest interest to human nature. –– Philosophy
of Health, by Dr. Southwood Smith. 

Matter and Mind.
Man at the age of twenty retrains not a particle 
of the matter in which his mind was enveloped 
when he was born. At the age of eighty
he is conscious of being the same individual he
he was as far back as his memory can go; therefore
his conscious identity cannot be said to
consist of the changeable matter, as the mind
remains the same under all these mutations. 
When the frame becomes cold, stiff, and motionless, 
the circulation of the blood ceases, and the
body is consigned to the earth by insects into a 
thousand other forms of matter. What then
becomes of the mind when the particle by which
[?] was identified are dispersed? This [formsmat???]
[?] of conjecture for the moralist, the anatomist
[?] physiologist. 
2505

The Chest and Lungs.
Without good air, and enough of it, of
course, disease follows, and consumption
winds up the scene; and surely there cannot
be enough of good air in lungs that are
stayed and pent up in a small malformed
chest. The great preventative of consumption 
is to be found in a large chest with free
breathing. Sitting or standing in a stooping
posture contracts the muscles of the 
chest and makes it small. This is a subject
of interest to us all – especially in our 
southern latitude, and amongst a people
where so many work in-doors over tables
and benches. The following from Dr. 
Fitch's Lectures we have found in the papers, 
and give it a place in the hope that 
those who would avoid consumption will 
learn by it how to avoid the causes of it:
[Neal.
"Those is easy circumstances, or who 
pursue sedentary employment within doors, 
generally use their lungs but very little – 
breathe very little air into the chest, and 
thus, independently of bad positions, contract 
a wretchedly narrow small chest, and 
lay the foundation for the loss of all health
an beauty. All this can be perfectly obviated 
by paying a little attention to the manner
of breathing. Recollect that the lungs
are like a bladder in their structure, and
can be stretched to double their ordinary 
since, with perfect safety, giving a noble 
chest, and perfect immunity from consumption. 
The agent – and all the agent required
– is the common air we breathe; supposing,
however, that no obstacles exist, 
external to the chest, such as lacing, or tying 
it around with stays, or tight dresses, or
having the shoulders lay upon it, as I have 
before described. 
On rising from bed in the morning,
place yourself in an erect position, your chest 
thrown back and shoulders entirely off the 
chest; now inhale or in all the air you
can, so as to fill the chest at the very bottom
of it, so that no more air can be got in; now
hold your breath, and throw your arms off 
behind, holding in your breath as long as 
you can; again fill your chest and walk
about holding in your breath as long as possible. 
Repeat these long breaths as many 
times as you please. Done in a cold room
in much better, and will act much more powerfully
in expanding the chest. Always, when
expanding the chest with air, throw the head
back, so as to lift up the breast bone, and
bend the whole bust backward from the 
waist. You may in this manner expand 
the chest a thousand times a day if you like.
On going out-doors in the cold air, inhale
all the air you can, and hold it in as long as
possible; stand or sit perfectly fret whilst
walking or riding through the street, along
the road, in field or gardens. Practice this 
mode of expanding the chest. Do not stoop
forward at all, but suck in all the air you
can, throwing the head and neck backwards 
and holding in the air as long as possible.
By this exercise you will often at one check 
a cough, or a disposition to cough. The
chest may also be fully expanded whilst lying
in bed. 
Exercising the check in this manner, it
will soon become very flexible and very expansible,
and will enlarge its capacity and 
the size of its lungs, so as to hold, in a few
weeks, double its usual quantity of air, while
externally it will measure from one to six
inches larger in its circumference. Should
you not have full strength to enlarge the 
chest in this way, then use an inhaling tube.
The inhaling tube will greatly assist you in 
expanding the chest, if you are weak or not. 
The chest should be treated in this way during 
your whole lives. Should you become 
invalids, from any cause, keep you chest
expanded by long breaths and the inhaling
tube, and continue to breathe a little cold
fresh air daily, by having it drawn from out 
of doors, by leather or tin pipes, or in any 
other way you please.
While forming a fine chest, and after it
is formed, great care is requisite to establish 
perfectly correct positions, so that the
chest shall not be contracted, and all your
effort counteracted by bad positions. If 
your positions are habitually bad, in spite of
all you can otherwise do, they will be more 
or less contracted. The rule with you should 
be, and the rule of health is, to keep the bottom 
of the breastbone, as far out from the 
backbone as possible. To effect this, the 
chest must be perfectly straight, and thrown 
a little backwards from the waist at all 
times.
The small of the back is made flexible, 
but the hip joints are the points at which to
stoop either backward for forward. The
joints are ball and socket joints, like a swivel
in some degree. The truck of the body
may bend forward as much as you please,
for all useful purposes, and the chest and the 
whole spine, and neck, be kept perfectly
straight. Hence, no lady should ever make
a table of her hip, either for sewing, reading
or writing, or any occupation whatever.–
Let all these, and all the works you do, be arranged
on a table before you, and that table 
be raised to the armpits, or as high as possible, 
so as to keep the chest perfectly
straight. 
A little practice will make this infinitely 
more agreeable than to stoop, whilst little or
no fatigue will be experienced at your occupations 
compared to what is experiences
whilst stooping, or from habitual stooping. 
The weight of the shoulders will thus be 
kept off the chest, which is one of the grand
causes of fatigue from manual labor. You
will thus entirely prevent the mark or servitude
being impressed upon your person, in 
a pair of round stooping shoulders and flat
contracted chest."
2506ATLANTIC CITY AS A HEALTH RESORT.--
A prominent railway official having addressed
a note to Dr. Wm. V. Keating of
this city, soliciting his views as to the
healthfulness and other advantages of Atlantic
City, as a resort for invalids, Dr.
Keating gives a very interesting and valuable
response, from which we take these
paragraphs:
Some fifteen years since I visited Atlantic
City, and with many others I was struck
with the peculiarity of its position, the distinctive
characteristics of its climate, the
singular dryness of its atmosphere, rendering
it in many respects one of the most
lovely, salubrious climates I have ever
visited. From careful observations made
for several consecutive years, I have noticed
that during the months of June, July,
August and September, the prevailing wind
at Atlantic City is south by west.
Situated in a cove, with large area of
dry, sandy and thinly-timbered land to
the southwest, it seems as if the prevailing
sea-breeze lost much of its humidity 
passing over this thickly-wooded and sandy
country, with now fresh water to counteract
its effects before reaching the town. The
same condition exists also in reference to
the northeast winds, which, then they prevail,
I have noticed, are much less keen
asn much less humid than with us, lasting
sometimes forty-eight hours at the
shore, without bringing a drop of rain,
whilst at the same time the same wind is
attended with great dampness and heavy rains in our city and its environs.
This peculiarly characteristic dryness of
the atmosphere and of the sea breezes.
however it may be accounted for, is patent
to all who have ever sojourned at Atlantic
City, and is the distinctive feature of the
place to which I attribute its great advantage
over every other sea-bathing place on
the coats. The time will come when some
more exact and satisfactory explanation
will be given at the phenomenon which I
now claim as affording to invalids all the
invigoration from a sea-shore residence
without the usually accompanying humidity
so aggravating to many diseases.
This remarkable dryness of climate, resembling
of Nice, on the Mediterranean,
than any seacoast I have ever visited, is the
characteristic co the climate of Atlantic
City, which affords relief and cure to all
cases of rheumatic fever and arthritis, even
in the most acute stages. I know many
instances in which invalids, after having
recourse, without benefit, to the various
mineral waters and baths in the country,
have been entirely cured by a summer
sojourn.
I have ventures to send patients there in
the height of an attack of rheumatic gout
in the months of May and June, who have
had complete amelioration of all their
symptoms within forty-eight hours of their
residence, provided they located themselves
as near the ocean as possible, so as to avoid
the land breezes. To another class of cases
also I am convinced that Atlantic City offers
relief, if not positive cure, which cannot
be obtained on any other portion of our
seacoast. I allude to those trying and refractory 
cases of chronic bronchitis, laryngitis.
incident tuberculosis and scrofula. I
must add that in the last two years I have
been in the habit of sending patients, even
in the more advanced stages of tuberculosis
and scrofula, with marked benefit.
All medical men are familiar with the
fact that the above class of cases can seldom
venture upon a sojourn at the seaside,
on account of the dampness, the distinctive
feature of such a location, a peculiar condition
most apt to aggravate the diseases
in question, and considered by some of our
best observes as one of the atmospheric
conditions most to be feared by those threaened 
with pulmonary complaints. In this
respect, again, Atlantic City offers a stiking
analogy with Nice, where it is well
known, all the invalids of Europe (affected
with chest diseases) flock for a winter's resort.
2507
In regard to the various forms of nervous
affections, however, Dr. Keating believes
that they are rather aggravated by the excessive
dryness of the atmosphere.
He suggest the the railway should be 
extended further along eh shore, to accomodate
the increasing population; that a
spacious sanitarium should be built for the
poor convalescents of our city hospitals,
and that the water supply and drainage of
the city should receive attention.

CORN MEAL CAKES.--Excellent breakfast
cakes can be made in the following manner:
Mix two quarts of corn meal, at night, with
water, and a little yeast and salt, and make it
just thing enough to stir easy. In the morning
stir in three or four eggs and a little saleratus,
and a cup of sour milk, so as to leave it thin
enough to por out of a pan; bake three quarters
of an hour, and you will have light, rich,
honey-comb cakes.
2508

A FEW persons can be accommodated with
board during the Summer months 12 miles east of Stroudsburg.
Monroe County, Pa.: pure running water, fresh mountain air, delightful
climate, and first-class home accomodations. Address D. M. HOLMES,
Resaca, Monroe County. Pa.     2509

PENN MANSION, ATLANTIC CITY, N. J., is
open with good improvements. Near the hot
sea water baths. E. CANBY, Proprietress [?]     2510

HYGENIA HOUSE,
Collins' Beach, Delaware,
IS NOW OPEN.
Among all the many places of Summer Resort
wishing easy reach of the city of Philadelphia, none
can be found superior by families and those who desire
quiet enjoyment than the Hygenia House, upon the
Delaware Bay--a fact attested by its popularity for
years. Looking directly upon the Bay from amid its
shade trees, it presents the advantages of salt water
bathing, boating and fishing, in addition to other enjoyable
features..
I reached from Arch Street Wharf, by the steamer
"Pilot Bay" daily at 7.45 a. m., and streamer "Lamokin,"
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday at 11 A. M.
2511     FRANK COLLINS, Proprietor,
Deakyneville P. O., New Castle co., Del.

ISLAND HOUSE, ATLANTIC CITY,
N. J., is open for the reception of Guests.
Hot and cold salt sea water baths. Conveyance will
meet all trains at Michigan avenue.     2512
M. A. RUCH.

BLAIR HALL, Blairstown, N. J.--A delightful
Summer Resort. This spacious edifice will be open for Summer
Boarders June 19. Beautiful scenery; delightful climate; excellent
board; pleasant drives. Terms moderate. Reference, S. V. BAGLEY,
eaq.     S. S. STEVENS, Proprietor.
2513

EAGLESWOOD PARK HOTEL, PERTH AMboy.
N. J., is now open. Communication by
Pennsylvania Railroad and Station Island Railroad,
1 1/4 hours from New York. Lawns, bathing and
fishing; iron and Sulphur Spiring; water, gas,
stabling.     COLEMAN & YELLOTT.
S. S COLEMAN.
G. W. YELLOTT     2514

ORIENT Springs Health Institute, Amberst,
Mass., for treatment oParalysis in all forms, Spinal Diseases,
Contracted Cords and Limbs, rooked Feet and Hands, Enlarged Joints,
Wry Neck, St. Vitus's Danceall Deformities, Lameness and Nervous
Diseases; Disease of Brain, Heart, and Lungs, Hysteria, &c. G. W.
RHODES, M. D., Medical Doctor.
2515

APPLEDORE HOUSE.
ISLES OF SHOALS.
OPEN FOR GUESTS JUNE 20.
These islands, situated a distance of ten miles off
the New Hampshire coast, are blessed with an even
temperature, a remarkably pure and invigorating
atmosphere, perfect quiet, and entire freedom from
dust. The most eminent physicist recommend a
sojourn at Appledore as possessing all the sanitary
influences of a sea voyage. A regular physician
connected with the Hotel. Staunch yachts with
careful skippers are always ready to take parties out
sailing or fishing, the facilities for which are unequalled.
Guests may take the early trains from
Boston on the Eastern Railroad, which connects at
Portsmouth with the swift steamer Appledore direct
for the Hotel. A safe landing of the streamer has
been constructed.     LAIGHTON BROTHERS.
je13-3m     2516

COLLECTING CHOICE SEEDS
As the season fro plating is fast approaching,
the following remarks in regard to the selection
of seeds, which we copy from the Boston Cultivator,
will not doubt be useful our many of our readers
"There is no way in which improvement can be
made in agriculture, at so small and expense, as by
collecting seeds of a superior variety of vegetables,
trees and scions of superior fruits, and superior
animals. It costs no more to raise a crop of
an excellent variety, if we except the harvesting
of a large crop, to cultivate superior fruit, or keep
the best animals, than to attend those of interior
kinds which yield 25 or 30 per cent less.
There is a vast difference in different varieties
of vegetable; in some cases by the expense of 
one dollar, in time or money, in getting a superior
variety, there may be ten or twelve dollars added
to the bale of a crop on an acre of land; and
a valuable crop being once obtained, perhaps it
can be continued for many years, affording and annual
advantage, in return for a little attention to
this mode of improvement.
In planting different varieties of potatoes on the
same Kahn, and under the state treatment, we find
that some kinds yield almost twice as much
as others, while there is  no material difference
in the price. Again, some kinds that do not rot,
are now worth a dollar a barrel more than those
subject to decay, and which were should while the
price was low.
Sometimes a single ear of corn may be worth
more dollars to the farmer then act grows it contains;
it may even make a difference to that
amount annually.
Some oats mildew almost wholly free form this affection.
There is also a vast difference in the weight of
lots; some weighing almost twice as much as
other, and yielding as many bushels.
Som squashes, on account of their pretty, will
sell twice as high in the market as others, to say
nothing of the advantage to having a superior article
for one's own use.
It is about the same with all other vegetables:
a gardener would do better by paying a dollar an 
ounce for cabbage seed of a pure variety than to
have poor seed given him. And we have known
cases in which cultivators would have paid that
price cheerfully rather than run the risk of sowing
poor seed.
There is a great variety of turnips, some adapted
to very early use, other late in succession in
the summer some for fall, others for early winter,
and a few that keep as well as a parsnip for spring
use; there is a great advantage in having kinds
adapted to their peculiar season.
Farmers, gardeners, seedsmen, and seed growers,
all pay too little attention to this subject. We
ought to have professional seed growers, who will
attend to the business in a scientific manner, collecting
all the varieties of vegetable for experiment,
as a nurseryman does with his specimen
orchard. And the seed grower should elect only the
best vegetable to propagate from, for the same
reason that a stock-breeder elects for this purpose
his finest animals.
The seed business, as a general thing, is not
properly managed and there is fault in all concerned,
the seed-grower and the purchaser. The
purchased aims too much at buying cheap, some
make this the only criterion. The the dealer is
undid to buy cheap, and to this end he nay sometimes
import seeds, at a low price, and not offer
the seed grower enough to pay for raising.--
Foreign seeds are often worthless or false to their
mark. We have no doubt that foreign seed-
dealers sent to this country their old, worthless
seeds.
Cultivators should encourage the growth of
good seeds by being willing to pay fair prices.
Dealers should buy such seeds as are good and
true and encourage growers on home they can
rely, not abandon them because they can get seeds
of a doubtful character a little chapter elsewhere.
The cultivator should hold the vender responsible
for the seed he sells, and then he will be glad to 
buy those home he knows, in order to hold
them responsible. We need improvement in this
business, and unity it is made, all concerned will
suffer.     2517
Now the seed grower has no encouragement, as
he has to compete with old worthless seeds, in
the hands of unprincipled dealers in foreign markets.
The dealer here buys low an the must sell
low; and the purchased tries to buy as cheap as
possible, as he has not sufficient confidence in the
article he buys to pay a good price.

GRAFTING FRUIT TREES.--The season of grafting
is at hand, and the work should not be neglected.
Trees which bring not forth good fruit, whether apples,
pears, plums or cherries, should be grafted with
scions of better varieties, without unnecessary delay.
If this course should be generally adopted, what a 
remarkable change would a few years produce in the
quality of the fruit, On the subject of grafting fruit
trees, a writer says:     2518
"There is probably no branch in immediate connection
with agriculture, more interesting or more truly
scientific, than the art of grafting. Long as this are
has been known in it's general principle, the art has
recently taken an immense advance , and is yet but
partially understood by the most experience practitioners.
That a small twig, or even a bug, or a small
piece of the tender bark from one tree, being inserted
in the branch of the tree, but bearing fruit of the
shape, size, color and flavor of that of which the bud
or scion was taken, is of itself a wonder and would
be incredible if it were not common. This are is already
so far advanced, that a fruit-bearing branch is
grafted on the short stump of a nursery tree, so as to
constitute a perfect tree in miniature, bearing fruit--
apples, pears, peaches or plums, though less than 20
inches high. Apples partaking of different kinds--
the sweet and sour flavor for instance--in different
parts, or opposite sides of the same apple, may be
produced by splitting longitudinally the buds of different
kinds, and uniting parts of different buds."

FRUIT TREES -- WORK FOR MARCH -- PRUNING.
Now I the times to commence, in good earnest, to
prune tress and vines. Give a good front to the
trees--prune too little rather than too much--
avoid large wounds if possible--cover them with
composition. Peach tress end to make long
branches. Shorten them, Grace vines should be 
pruned early. Moderate bleeding, however, does
not injure them.
Grafting. Cut you gratis from thrifty shoots
of young bearing trees; use grafting wax go about
one part, by weight, of beeswax, two of tallow
and one of rosin. It is our impression that very
thin gutta percha is deserving to trial. It is
accompanied with a paste to make it adhere. It
would keep out water and air.
Budded Trees should now be cut down to the
bud if it has taken.
Transplanting. Get you ground well prepared;
ample holes Dif and rich earth, to compost
of earth and well-rotted manure all ready.
Catterpillars. Examine your trees and cut off
the limbs contain fin deposits of eggs.
Buy the best Trees. Every person owning land
should, every year, buy a few of the choicest fruit
or have them grown ready to hand.
Wash for Trees. A weak solutions of potash,
or lie, of wood-ashes, applied to the trunks and
branches of trees destroys insects and gives a 
smooth bark. A mixture of lime and cow manure
makes a good wash.   2520HINTS FOR MARCH.
Cows and ewes, which are near the period
of parturition, require attention. For
three or four weeks before they bring forth,
their food should be of such a nature as
will impart strength to them and their offspring,
and at the same time promote the
secretion of milk. Brewer's grains, where
they can be obtained, are among the cheapest
and best articles that can be used.
They may be fed to cows at the rate of a
peck fo reach cow, per day, before calving,
and a half-bushel per day afterwards.
Sheep may be fed from one quart to three
quarts per day. Where the grains cannot
be had, a little corn or oats, for sheep
---say a pint of oats, or from a gill to a
half pint of corn to each, per day, and for
cows, corn meal, or meal from corn and
oats; or corn and cob ground together, at
the rate of from two to four quarts each 
per day, will be beneficial. A few carrots
---say a peck to a cow, and a quart to
a sheep, per day---will greatly favor the
secretion of milk, and may be given with
advantage in addition to the meal or corn.
The best of hay should be provided. Clover,
but before it was too ripe, and so nicely
made that none of its heads or leaves
have been lost, and is free from mustiness
and dust, is not inferior to any other hay,
excepting for working horses and oxen.
The animals should have dry and comfortable 
shelter, and should not be exposed
to storms.
March is the best month in the year for
securing wood and timber. Wood should
therefore be cut, split and piled, that it
may have the benefit of the drying winds
which usually prevail during this month.
Hot-beds, if not already made, should
be formed at once.
Manures may be composted in this
month, and will be sufficiently decomposed
for use by the time they are wanted for 
spring crops.
Oats may sometimes be sown in the latter 
part of this month or beginning of
April. It is always advisable to sow them
as early as practicable, or as soon as the
ground is in a suitable state. The best
varieties of the Irish and Scotch oats are
very heavy, and from some trials made
here with them, appear to exceed in yield
and value the common oats of this country.
The Hope-Town oat is one of the 
best kinds. It is early. hardy, and productive.
---Albany Cultivator. [*2519*]

Champagne Wine.
A bottle of this wine in the province of Champagne, 
can be bought for about 40 cents. Now
the jolly fellows of the United States think they
get the best of this wine to drink. Why shouldn't
they? Don't they pay two, three, and even
five dollars a bottle? The following facts will
show them the chance they have of drinking
pure wine. With a ticket a prize can be calculated
on with more certainty than the purchase
of the bottle of the wine pure from the 
vintage, in this country.
There are 32,000,000 of bottles of false champagne
every year sent to Russia, about as much
more is sent to England, and fully equal to that
quantity to the United States. There is a company
in Paris who make natural champagne wine.
They take poor Chablis, for instance, sweeten
it with candy, refine it, and then pass it through
an apparatus which charges it with carbonic
acid gas, and in fifteen minutes, it is ready for
the market.
Immense quantities are also made from cider,
by the employment of all sorts of drugs, and
in England, a great deal is made from gooseberries
and the stalks of rhubarb. It is not so
good as the genuine, but nine out of ten of those
who drink it, can't tell the difference, and it will
make them just as drunk, and give them the same
horrid head ache; and why then is it not just as
valuable? True, some poisonous drugs are 
sometimes used in the fabrication, but none,
perhaps worse than alcohol.
The annual production of France in this article
of Champagne, is about 50,000,000 bottles.
The annual consumption of the world in the
same time, is 300,000,000, so that 250,600,000,000
of false wine goes down some people's
throats is a clear case.
[*2521*]

MARRIAGES.---A western paper gives out the following 
notice to "all whom it may concern :"
"All notices of marriages where no bride cake is sent, will
be set up in small type, and placed into some outlandish corner
of the page. Where a handsome piece of cake is sent,
it will be placed conspicuously in large letters; but when
gloves or other bride favors are added, a piece of illustrative
poetry will be given in addition. When, however, the editor
attends the ceremony in propria personæ and kisses the
bride, it will have a special notice, VERY LARGE TYPE, and
the most appropriate poetry that can be begged, borrowed,
stolen, or coined from the brain editorial."
AMERICAN AND ENGLISH WOMEN.---The American girl
at eighteen is one of the most beautiful of living beings,
but at thirty she is passe. At forty the English woman is in
her prime. Whence comes the difference?---from their respective
habits of living. The American woman lives in
hot houses and takes very little exercise abroad, and when
she does, she is ill protected against the weather. The
English woman rides, walks, practices archery and other
exercises in the open air, and is always properly clad to
meet the exigencies of the weather. Hence her beauty is in
perennial bloom. One is a hot-house plant that withers on
exposure, the other a hardy tree that flourishes in every
phase of weather.
A MAN.---The man whom I call deserving the name, is
one whose thoughts and exertions are for others rather than
himself, whose high purpose is adopted on just principles,
and never abandoned while heaven and earth afford means
of accomplishing it. He is one who will neither seek an
indirect advantage by a specious road, nor take an evil
path to secure a real good purpose.
[*2522*]

COURTSHIP AFTER MARRIAGE.---One evening, [??] a
gay party at Herr Kretchman's, the subject turned
upon female beauty, and a gentleman of the company
asserted that the youngest daughter of the
Kammerrath Ammon (a blonde, born in April, 1776)
was the most beautiful girl in the city. I instantly
resolved to try myself upon that subject, without loss
of time, and slipping out of the room, I went straight
to the Kammerrath's house, and rang the bell.
The door was opened by the youngest daughter
herself, who explained the unusual circumstance, by
saying it happened that no one was in the house excepting
her parents and herself.
I looked earnest at the maiden, and found her beautiful
and graceful beyond all description; so, without
hesitation, I asked her, there on the threshold, if she
would be my wife.
"Why not?" answered she. "But come in and
speak to my parents."
In the village of Truppach, on the 8th of January,
1796, we were married, in good simple country fashion,
and late in the evening the bride stepped into
my carriage at her father's door, and went with me
to my old house.
I soon found that it was easier for a man to become
a bridegroom than a wise husband. We plagued
each other constantly in the beginning, out of pure
love, till continual vexation and coldness ensured,
which we both felt, but could not account for.
Yesterday my lady would not suffer me to leave her
side; and to-day she found it good to visit her brother,
ten miles in the country, without bidding me
adieu, or naming the time of her return. Two days
after this, hasty messengers came one after another:
I must come---I should come---without me she could
have no peace.
I went, and the joy of re-union seemed as if it
would never end. On the following day I was again
a burthen. I left her with a cold parting, and that
self same night came the repentance by an extra
post---she could not live without me---I must hasten
back.
This certainly would not do---in this way all my 
identity would soon be destroyed.
Since the day of my marriage with my beautiful
wife, I had been the submissive slave of her will;
but now that it was plain she had no will of her own,
I must follow some other plan. I sat down to consider,
and after some reflection decided what to do.
Since my marriage, my old employment and pursuits
had been altogether neglected; but now I resumed
them, and as much as possible returned to my
bachelor life.
My wife every day sent letters full of tears; but I
paid no attention to them outwardly, although they 
touched my heart sorely. At length, I wrote her a
long, serious letter, in which I said that, as we had
been married without any previous courtship, it was 
not strange that, being unacquainted with each
other's character, we could not harmonize together,
and I proposed that she should remain at her father's 
house at present, and that, with her permission, I
would visit her two or three times a week, and spend
an evening with her in conversation, until we were
acquainted with each other, and after that, if she
should like me well enough, I would take her home
to be my wife---but if she could not be satisfied with
my habits, manners and character, I would leave her
under her father's roof, and give up all claims upon
her. [*2523*]
This plan did not please her much; but she appeared
to think it would not be becoming in her to
bring up any objection.
Well, to cut a long story short,after a formal courtship
of no very great length, I once more took her
home, and she made me one of the best little wives
in the world.---Lang's Memoirs.

FAMILY AND SOCIAL READING.---The benefits
of social reading are manifold. Pleasures
shared with others, are increased by the partnership.
A book is ten-fold a book when read
in the company of beloved friends by the ruddy
fire, on the wintry evening; and when our intellectual
pleasures are bathed in domestic affection.
An elegant writer, commenting on the
practice of reading aloud, says,
'Among a thousand means of making home
attractive---a main point in ethics---this stands
high. What is more pleasing? What is more
rational? What is more tributary to the fund
of daily talk? What more exclusive of scandal
and chatter? He would be a benefactor indeed,
who should devise a plan for redeeming
our evenings; and rallying the young men who
scatter to clubs and taverns and brawling assemblies.
Such a reformer and inventor
would deserve a garland of heart's ease, from
the hands of slighted women. Families which
are in a state of mutual repulsion have no evenings
together over books or music. The
master is at his bar room. The boys are at
some public room or place of amusement.---
The girls are abroad in full dress. The mother
sits at home, in spectacles. And the several
parties straggle in, weary and sometimes
surly, at such hours as suit their whim, and
then only because nature demands sleep. It is
well if even this, at length, is not sought away 
from home.
[*2524*]

Advices for Married People.
Married people should study each others' weak
points, as skaters look out for the weak parts of 
the ice, in order to keep off them.
Ladies who married for love should remember
that the union of angels with women has been forbidden
since the flood.
The wife is the sun of a social system. Unless
she attracts, there is nothing to keep heavy bodies,
like husbands, from flying off into space.
Wives, be lenient to the martial cigar. The
smoke always hides the most disygreeable part of
the battle.
The wife who would properly discharge her duties,
must never have a soul "above buttons"
The liberties of England have been won by concessions.
Let the husband who would acquire the
privilege of asking friends to dinner without notice,
remember this when his wife hints at a new bonnet.
The wife's want is the husband's opportunity.
Notwithstanding the assertions of mathematicians,
the marriage-ring is a circle in which husband 
and wife have the problem set them in making all
square. [*2525*]

[*2526*] What "Wife" Means.
Says Ruskin: "What do you think the
beautiful word 'wife' comes from? It is the
great word in which the English and Latin
languages conquered the French and Greek[s].
I hope the French will some day get a wor[d]
for it instead of that femme. But what do
you think it comes from? The great value
of the Saxon words is that they mean
something. Wife means 'weaver.' You 
must either be house wives or house
moths, remember that. In the deep sens[e,]
you must either weave men's fortunes and
embroider them, or feed upon and bring
them to decay.NAZARENE WOMEN. -Miss Plumley, in her journals
of travels in Palestine, gives the following description 
of the women of the city of Nazareth. There
had been a wedding on the afternoon of her arrival,
and in the evening the bride, with a bundle of clothes
in her hand, was escorted by a troop of girls, with
music, round the town to the house of her husband,
where they remained clapping their hands and, with
the aid of a few drums, making a great noise until a
late hour :
 ''The Syrian Greek women are, beyond comparison,
the loveliest in the world. We saw many of those 
of Nazareth, who came down with their pitchers to 
the fountain of Nahor for water, in whom where visibly
united all that painters may in vain endeavor to 
picture- all that poets dream.  Their features combine
the perfect proportion of the Greek model, with 
the character and expression of the daughters of Israel;
their figures, the united delicasy and voluptuousness.
The costume of those we saw this evening was
well-suited to its wearers.  Their long hair, which 
was plainted, fell over their shoulders, and was in 
many instances ornamented with great numbers of 
gold sequins, and pearls; in others, flowers of brilliant 
hues replaced the 'pearls and gold;' but all wore the 
full loose trousers, drawn tight at the ancle, which 
not unfrequently was enceireled with silver bracelets;
the petticoat reaching only to the knees, and the
upper vest open at the breat.  It is neither bodice,
tunis, or jacket; but something between each.''
A SOUR CHILD.- A prisoner before the police,
lately, in Philadelphia, gave the following interesting
sketch of his "birth and broughtings up:"
"I was born weeping. My daddy used to chaw
wormwood afore I was born, and my mother used to 
make a practice of getting drunk on vinegar. When
I was a little boy nobody would allow me to nurse
their children, for they used to say I made them dyspeptic
-I looked so completely sour. When I went 
to school I was always in for the lickens, and
I do believe I bagged it for every boy in the school.
At last I got married, and my wife left me in three
months. There's no use asking why. She sed
there was no use in living with me, because, if we 
had children, they would not be anything but walking
vinegar casks, if they were boys; and if they 
were gals they would be mere jugs of cream o'tartar,
set on legs to physic all the world by their solemcolly
phizzes." 
HABITS.- Habit is a strange thing. It is the adoption
of and continuation of certain kinds of actions
until they become easy and natural to us. But the
power of habit is more strange. Look at it. It often
counteracts the most sincere vow.  With
herculean energy, it contends with resolutions of
the mightiest minds, and never will it relinquish its
tenacious grip while there is the least hope of victory.
It sways our lives, moulds our  characters, establishes
our reputations, controls our feeling, and determines
our destinies.  See, then, what depends upon the
habits you contract.  How prudent should we be in
choosing at first a course of action.  Do you hear,
young man, your future destiny depends upon the
habits you prefer now.
An honest man need not feel the assaults of
his enemies.  Talent will be appreciated, industry 
will be rewarded; and he who pursues, in any calling,
an open, manly, honest course, must in the and triumph
over his enemies, and build for himself a good
name, which will endure long after his traducers are
forgotten.
Life in every form should be precious to us,
for the same reason that the Turks carefully collect
every scrap of paper that comes in their way because
the name of God may be written upon it. Nothing
is more true than this, yet nothing more neglected.
-Prof. Longfellow. [*2527*] 

[*March '48*]
CALIFORNIAN BELLE,- An officer of the navy, in 
a letter to the Home Journal, thus sketches the
daughter of a ranchero :
You have never seen a Californian belle. A real,
genuine, out-and-out, live, native belle, I mean ; indigenous 
to the soil. I can assure you I have nearly
lost my heart with one of them, the daughter of a ranchero,
who lives about forty miles in the interior ; and 
should my application for leave of absence prove unsuccessful,
I don't know but I shall really become a 
ranchero myself! The girl is beautiful ; her complexion
is of a dark, ruddy hue, tinged with red, like
the leaves in autumn : with raven tresses, eyes intensely
black and intensely sparkling, teeth as white 
as pearl, but not like them, for no string of pearls
was ever so regular ; a faultless form, embodying a
soul as pure and guileless as an angel's. In addition
to all these natural charms, she can 'pay her mess
bill ! ' sings sweetly, touches the guitar with exquisite
skill, dances divinely, and laughs right merrily. She 
rides wild horses, throws the lasso adroitly, and never
misses her aim with the rifle. She carries a hunting 
knife in her girdle, and understand the anatomy of 
either stag or buffalo. She has never sat upon a chair 
in all her life, knows nothing about corsets, capes, 
furbelows, or flounces, never wears bonnets, and 
speaks no English!
Well, gentlemen, their she is- what do you think of
her ? A paragon, truly! Don't be alarmed if she 
should make a descent upon your quiet little circles,
some of these fine mornings, for when there is no danger to 
be apprehended when I am alongside. She is delighted
with the idea of crossing the Andes, and is 
ready to accompany me to-morrow. So take your 
telescope, and keep a sharp look-out in the offing for 
this strange craft. [*2528*] 

A Sermon for Young Ladies.
An exchange paper says that Dow, Jr., that incorigible
old saint, still continues to preach just
as faithfully as ever. Here is an extract from his
sermon to the young women, in view of the commencement
of the new year :
"My young Maidens: I know you all want to
get married as soon as you enter your teens; but
it is better to remain single and live upon the
cold soup of solitude, than to marry or wed woe.
I have but a poverty-stricken opinion of the majority
of my sex. They are corrupted by the
miscalled refinements of the age, so inflated with
pride, so fooled by fashion, so afraid of the soil on
which they live, so given to cultivating whiskers
and moustaches, while their morals are in a
wretched state for want of weeding, and so overgorwn
with hair, vanity and laziness, that scarcely
one in twenty is worth being trusted with a
wife." [*2529*]

ANECDOTE OF AN ENGLISH LADY. One
morning lately, the young and beautiful
wife of an English gentleman, attended by
one or two women servants, went early in
the morning from her house in Scutari, to
enjoy the coolness of a dip in the silver tide
of the Bosphorus. Whilst bathing some
young Turkish officers, struck by her surpassing
loveliness in so interesting a situation,
approached, and stood riveted to the
spot. The servants begged them to withdraw;
but instead of complying with so reasonable
a request, they commenced saying
so many tender things that the lady became
excessively enraged, and, being a woman of
uncommon spirit, she darted out of the water,
soon changing her bathing attire for a morning
dress, leaped into her carriage, and drove
off straight to the barracks, where she laid
her complaints before the Colonel, insisting
that the officers should be punished in her
presence. Guards were sent, and the young
gentlemen were traced to the house of a
friend, where they were at breakfast. The
Colonel, after reproaching them in no measured
terms for daring to intrude on the privileges
of a harem, told the lady that their
fate was in her hands- they should receive
the punishment she decreed. "Well," said
she, "to make sure of it, I will punish them
myself." She then seized the thickest stick
within sight and, by making most active use
of it for about a quarter of an hour, more or
less, she convinced her gallant admirers, of
the truth of the proverb, "Qu'il n'y a pas
de rose, sans epines." After that she again
leaped into her carriage, waved her fair hand
to the colonel, and drove home, highly delighted
with the morning's adventure. [Letter
from Constantinople. [*2530*]

The True Life.
The mere lapse of years is not life. To eat, and
drink, and sleep; to be exposed to darkness and the
light; to pace round the mill of habit and turn the
wheel of wealth; to make reason our book-keeper, and
turn thought into an implement of trade- this is not
life. In all this but a poor fraction of the consciousness
of humanity is awakened; and the sanctities still slumber
which make it worth while to be. Knowledge,
truth, love, beauty, goodness faith, alone can give vitality
to the mechanism of existence; the laugh of mirth
which vibrates through the heart the tears that freshen
the dry wastes within, the music that brings childhood
back, the prayer that calls the future near, the doubt
which makes us meditate, the death that startles us
with mistery, the hardship that forces us to struggle, the
anxiety that ends in trust- are the true nourishment of
our natural being.
Good advice to young Women.
Trust not to uncertain riches, but prepare yourself
for every emergency in life. Learn to work, and not to
be dependent upon servants to make your bread; sweep
your floors and darn your own stockings. Above all
things do not esteem to lightly those honorable young
men who sustain themselves and their aged parents by
the work of their hands, while you care for and receive
into your company those lazy, idle popinjays, who never
lift a finger to help themselves as long as they can keep
body and soul together, and get sufficient to live in fashion.
If you are wise you will look at the subject as
we do; and when you are old enough to become wives,
you will prefer the honest mechanic, with not a cent to
commence life, to the fashionable loafer, with a capital
of ten thousand dollars. Whenever we hear remarked,
"Such a young lady has married a fortune," we always
tremble for her future prosperity. Riches left to children
by wealthy parents often turn a curse instead of a
blessing. Young women, remember this; and instead
of sounding the purses of your lovers, and examining
the cuts of their coats, look into their habits and their
hearts. Mark if they trade and can depend upon themselves;
see if they have minds which will lead them to
look above a butterfly existence. Talk not of the beautiful
white skin, and the soft, delicate hand- the splendid
form and the fine appearance of the young gentlemen.
Let not these foolish considerations engross
your thoughts.- Gleaner.
A Droll Definition of a Yankee.
As the Yankees are creating no little excitement in
the Commercial, Political and Military world, I hope
my definition of a real genuine male Yankee may not
be considered a-miss:- [*2531*]
"A real genuine Yankee is full of animation, checked
by moderation, guided by determination, and supported
by education. He has veneration corrected by toleration,
with a love of self-approbation and emulation,
and when reduced to a state of aggravation can assume
the most profound dissimilation for the purpose of retaliation,
always combined, if possible, with speculation.
A real live Yankee, just caught, will be found not deficient
in the following qualities. He is self-denying,
self-relying, always trying, and into everything prying.
He is a lover of piety, propriety, and the temperance
society. He is a dragging, gagging, bragging, striving,
thriving, swapping, jostling, bustling, wrestling, musical,
quizzical, astronomical, poetical, philosophical, and
comical sort of a character, whose manifest destiny is
to spread civilization to the remotest corners of the earth,
with an eye always on the look out for the main chance."

To Dress Rice.- A lady recommends the
following: 'Soak the rice in cold salt and water
for seven hours; have ready a stew pan
with boiling water, throw in the rice and let it
boil briskly for ten minutes, then pour it in a
cullender, cover it up hot for a few minutes,
and then serve. The grains are double the
usual size, and quite distinct from each other.'
The faculty of reason is a flower of the
Spirit: it blooms, and its fragrance is liberty
and knowledge.
Wisdom is an open fountain, whose waters
are not to be sealed up, but kept running for
the benefit of all.
Conceit thinks that is has knowledge enough
to need no teacher, devotion enough to need
no fires, and perfection enough to need no new
progress.
Reflections on Women.- The uselessness
and expensiveness of modern women multiply
bachelors.
Vile men owe much of the vileness to
women of character, who hardly ever scruple
to receive them into their society, if the men
are rich, talented and fashionable, even though
they have been guilty of ever so much baseness
to other women.
"Had I found a character for virtue generally
necessary to recommend me to the sex,
I would," says Lovelace, "have had a greater
regard to my morals."
The physician of the Mount Hope Institution
for the Insane, Boston, says: 'We have
had several cases of moral insanity, for which
no other cause could be assigned than excessive
novel reading.
Life is shortened by indulgence in anger;
ill-will, anxiety, envy, grief, sorrow and excessive
care. The vital powers are wasted by
excessive bodily exercise in some cases, and
want of a due portion in others.
[*2532*]
BURNING OF FORTY-SEVEN WOMEN AT THE
FUNERAL OF AN INDIAN PRINCE.- The infernal
rites at the death of an Indian Prince, are thus
described in an extract of a letter from Tanquebar
in the East Indies, written by a Danish
missionary. They dug without the walls of the
city, where that Prince who died at the age of
eighty, made his residence, a large pit, which
they filled with wood, ranged and piled up as
for a bonfire. The corpse of the deceased,
richly habited and adorned, was brought forth
in great pomp, and laid on the pile; after which
the Bramins (heathen priests) kindled the fire,
with abundance of superstitious ceremonies.
The wives and concubines of the deceased,
who, according to the law or custom of the
country, ought to die with him, appeared there
at the same time, and walked several times
round the funeral pile. There were in number
forty-seven, all finely decked with jewels, and
adorned with flowers. The favored wife or
concubine carried the poignard of the defunct
prince, which she delivered up to his successor,
and made a short speech exhorting him to use
it with moderation, so as never to let it light
on any but the guilty. They she boldly turned
her face toward the pile, and after invoking
her gods, leaped into the midst of the flames.-
The second was the sister of a prince named
Tandamen, who was present at these horrid
rites. She gave him the jewels she wore, and
the prince, in receiving them, embraced her
most tenderly, and poured out a flood of tears;
but the princess, without betraying the least
concern, looked alternately, and with a steady
countenance, on the pile and on the spectators,
and crying with a loud voice, "Chiva! Chiva!"
which is the name of one of their gods, she
jumped as cheerfully into the flames as the first
did.
The others followed her close; some of them
appeared resolute enough, but others looked
wild and dejected. There was one in particular
who, being more dismayed than her companions,
ran to embrace one of the spectators,
who was a Christian, praying him to save;
but this was not in his power to do, and the poor
wretch was immediately tumbled headlong into
the fire.
However intrepid most of those unhappy victims
appeared before jumping into the pit, the
note was vastly altered when in the midst of the
flames. There they shrieked hideously, tumbled
one over another, striving to reach the
edge of the pit, and get out of it; but they were
kept in by throwing heaps of billets and faggots
upon them, as well to knock them on the head
as to increase the fire. When they were consumed,
the Bramins drew near the yet
smoking pile, and performed abundance of
ridiculous ceremonies over the ashes of
the poor wretches. The next day they
gathered up the bones, and having wrapped
them up in fine linen, carried them to a place
near the Isle of Ramesuren, where they cast
them into the sea. After which the put was filled
up, and a temple since erected on the spot,
where sacrifices are offered up in honor of the
and his wives, who from thenceforth are
numbered among the saints or goddesses. [*2533*]THE LOTUS.       29

From Frazer's Magazine.
Childhood and its Reminiscences.
[*2536*] WHAT IS A CHILD?

That is the question. Is it merely what it
appears to the outward eye---a lesser version
of humanity, a weaker decoction of ourselves---who 
wears short frocks and eats egg pudding,
goes earlier to bed and sounder to sleep, has less
sense, less strength, less knowledge, and less of
everything! No! A child is a deep mystery,
which all our reminiscences cannot unravel,
though they may give a clue to it---who has a
hidden life of its own, which it instinctively
knows to be foolishness to the world, and betrays
to no one, not even to the fondest mother---who
is the strongest natural guarantee for another state
of being (for who shall cavil at a future existence
he cannot understand, when he has already passed
through one he cannot explain?)---a creature, with
the faith of a saint, the fancy of a poet, the senselessness
of an idiot, and the subtlety of the very
fiend himself---who reproves us with its innocence,
and puzzles us with its wickedness---who
is given to be our charge, and set to be our example.
This is the real child; more different
from us in kind than it is less in degree; not even
as the bud to the flower, for the analogy fails
both ways, but rather like that undefineable material
we know so little of---once vegetable, now
mineral---the relics of another order of things---going 
through a mysterious and gradual process
[ere?] [it?] issue upon the world in the form of common
coal, or, rarely though it be, in that of the
diamond. This is the real child; not to be confounded
with many who are, in truth, only lesser
specimens of our own dull or despicable selves---human 
small coal---with no other vocation than
to wear long frocks or tails, break bigger playthings,
drink more wine, and spend more money,
grow taller, wiser, and wickeder.

It seems to us that there are two legitimate periods
for deep parental anxiety, at the very outset
of their children's lives. First, when the child is
born, to ascertain that it is provided with all the
necessary mechanism for a healthy and active
body; and, secondly, when the mind begins to
show itself, to make sure that it be endowed with
the requisite amount of childlikeness for the formation
of a true and estimable character. Gifts
and talents are another thing---capricious in the
signs and times of their budding, the darkness of 
a late dawn often mistaken by common observers
for the dulness of a dark day. But if the child
be childlike enough, if it have but enough of that
sort of foolishness bound up in its heart, it may
be destitute of brilliant parts or particular gifts,
but the parents may rely that, as the imperfection
of this world goes, it will turn out a sound, if not
an interesting, character, in spite of the greatest
mismanagement on their parts.

People talk such nonsense about precocity! As
if it were only connected with genius and singularity.
But genius is not precocity; if anything,
it is exactly the reverse. Genius, in truth, is
something more childlike still than childhood---more 
foolish, more fanciful, and more faithful,
and incorrigibly so for life. Instead of anticipating 
in childhood the mind of a man, it retains in
manhood the heart of a child. Every genius is
a child, and every child is a genius, morally, if
not intellectually, or there is little to be hoped
from him. But it is your wise, prudent, hard,
sedate children, who are really precocious, born
with a kind of spurious native experience of their
own, who naturally antedate that caution and
cunning which others so painfully acquire; keeping
out of scrapes and disappointments, because
they have none of that love and truth which lead
other children in. This is the precocity parents
should be afraid of. They will have a child who
will save them a world of present trouble, who
will commit no blunders, and break no bounds,
save his pocket-money, and spare his clothes, spy
out his brothers' and sisters' faults, and report all
the servants' peccadilloes, and be probably held
up in the family as a standard of circumspection
and prudence, or what is falsely called up to a
certain age in juvenile life, of "goodness." But
let them not rejoice: they will have a son who
will desert his father if he be unfortunate; grind
his mother, if she be a widow; bear a smooth 
character to the world, but a hard heart to his
own---turn against his parents in their old age
the very character they falsely bestowed in his
youth---and, in addition to this, have the strongest
health and longest life of the family: for there is
no life-preserver like the precocity of a narrow 
spirit and a cold heart.

There is no model like a lovely baby for true
queenly dignity---the wide open gaze, the hands'
slow movement, the proud drawing up if the
usual etiquette be transgressed---reminding us of
the beautiful lines in the " Lyra Innocentium:"---
"Why so stately, maiden fair,
Rising in thy nurse's arms,
With that condescending air,
Gathering up thy queenly charms?"
the round portly form, moving slowly to and fro,
imbedded in lawn and fine linen. And then,
when a few months older, the truly royal impatience
of opposition, the autocratic air with
which spoon and rattle are dashed down, the
haughty stare if some monitory voice exclaim---"Baby! 
baby!" and then the celestial smile, as
if to forgive you for having been angry with her.

We have dubbed the baby feminine. Babyhood
seems so, with its beauty, its softness, its
helplessness, and its waywardness---ladylike in 
each of its attributes. But look now at that little
swaggering urchin, with scarcely more than two
of our short years over its head, and it is a boy all
over. The reign of dignity has been succeeded
by that of impudence. Noise and movement are
now his chief element. Up the chairs and down
again. If you take him up he kicks and struggles;
the more comfortable you try to make him the less
he likes it; restlessness is his rest. If he is not
talking to you he is talking to himself; stamping,
hammering, rattling, clattering; whatever can
make a noise is plaything to him. Like another
Nero, he wishes all the bells in the house had but
one string, that he might ring them all together.
Nothing but sleep can quiet him; and then, if the
truth were known, he dreams of banging doors!
Mischief and courage have begun together; he'll
take a dog by the tail, or a bull by the horns;
screams to be held on a coach-horse he can't
stride, and kicks the animal to make it go faster;
is all ready to fire off a gun, and roars because
you will not let him; struggles away from the
maid to run after the sheep; tumbles down, is
picked up with a mouthful of gravel, and a
"Never no peace with you, master John;" is
held double tight by the maid all the way home,
with an admonitory chuck, now and then, which
almost dislocates his shoulder, but manages to
put his feet in the puddles for all that! Bless the
child! he is all right in his start for life, and
plague and pleasure alike he will give.

Of all the various kinds of amusement that
mankind have invented, bull-fighting included,
we doubt whether there be any so intensely exciting
as a thorough bout of naughtiness in a clever
child. A well-organized troop of this kind to
travel the country would be sure to answer. One
grudges really the fine dramatic scenes that are
wasted upon the desert air of some nurseries.
We mean, of course, an honorable and spirited,
not a mean or grovelling, naughtiness---one that
will kick nurse's legs openly, not pinch a [little?]
brother secretly; though we do remember a wonderful
satisfaction in a sly manœuvre of that kind.

Next in interest to the active use of the limbs
comes the regular argument. This is the real
school for declamation. Demosthenes had better
have betaken himself to the nursery. How magnificently
will a child defend his rights!---head
erect, kindling eyes, rising voice, the indignation
of injured honor in every action and tone; turning
dextrously off when he finds his case is weak;
appealing to your feelings when he finds he cannot
succeed with your reason, with a fretful drollery,
quite as ready to laugh as to cry. Then
shifting his ground, substituting one demand for
another. If he mayn't lean too far out of the
window, he may surely come too near the fire.
He should like to know what he may do. Is he
never to climb the bedpost again?---never?---forever?
Keeping it up, and beginning all over
again when you think he has been finally silenced,
and forcing you to some whimsical capitulation
of his own at last, for mere peace.

The society of young children is, in a high degree,
softening and refining to the mind. [You?]
seldom see nursemaids with vulgar, rough manners.
They acquire a kind of Sister-of-Charity
expression from the constant atmosphere of tenderness 
and simplicity in which they live. The
French have a right name for them, as they have
for most things. They call her "la bonne." We
can't help thinking, too, that in most cases she is
a far better companion to the child in its first
years than even its own mother. Her absence
of intellect is more on a par with the child's dawn
of it. She is not so perpetually probing for the
young idea, to see whether it be shooting She
has a kind of passive patience and dumb fidelity,
on which the child's nature can more easily repose.
A child may actually learn but little from
its nurse, though the reverse is often the case, but
with her it is always the child. Even an unprincipled
woman will be innoxious towards the
children committed to her charge. She may be
robbing the parents, but she will respect the
child. There is something in the very tenor of
her charge which brings out the tender maternal
feeling dormant in every woman's breast, and the
purer here for being unmixed with any of the
vulgar cares of life. They are bonâ fide her
children, without any of the drawbacks of anxiety
for their future provision, or labor for their present
wants. She lives in luxury with only the duties
of a mother. Every own mother has many 
more.

A nursemaid is engaged upon a different footing
to any other servant. A cook understands
that she has so many dishes to send up, and a
housemaid so many rooms to clean, but the chief
duties of a nursemaid are not in the bond. Her
sphere of action cannot be defined. She is to be30 
THE LOTUS


mistress, servant, and playfellow, and to know the 
season for each. She is to learn a new language,
understand signs unintelligible to every other,
take interest in trifles, sympathise in nonsenses, 
rub her fingers for imaginary pains, kiss his eyes
to send him to sleep, weep when he does not love
her, smile when he does, lie down and die when
he wishes, come to life again when he calls her -
and, in short, love her charge, or she don't do
half her duty, nor even know it. And how she 
does love him! Have you ever remarked the 
radiant smile with which she receives the puling 
babe from its lady-mother's arms -- an humble,
Madonna-like creature we have often thought her,
with her simple vestments, and her look of love
chastened by respect? Have you not seen the 
bright affection with which she catches and hugs
up to her some little urchin, glad to follow her, 
yet coquetting to be caught, and who, once on
her shoulder, clings like an Old Man of the
Sea? -- the pride when her children are noticed, 
the pique when they are passed over, and then
the patient watching (more than the mother's) if
sickness enter the nursery, and the bitter sorrow
(only less than the mother's) if death should follow? 

The death of a child! The words are full of
a strange and moving meaning: winter following
spring, nightfall succeeding to dawn! Fanciful
ideas crowd upon the mind, hand in hand with solemn 
truths. That little being who knew nothing
here, now to know the end of all things! That 
vacant intelligence which wondered at the ticking 
of a watch, now to understand the mystery of its
own being! My own child, who was to hang
upon my own lips for instruction, now advanced
where on word from its own would be a revelation 
to me! That helpless creature, borne from
arm to arm, guarded by day and watched by
night, too shy to bear the approach of a strange
face, now launched alone in the "vast profound,"
escorted by intelligence divine but strange! Will 
there be one among the crowd of disfranchised 
spirits who will claim an earthly affinity with it? 
Will the little brother who departed a year ago 
recognise this as the babe who entered the bonds
of flesh as he was leaving them? Or will it be
one of the first signs of a better existence that the 
ties of blood are not needed in it? 

THE LOTUS.
Philadelphia, April 8, 1848.
   Court papers, noticing our paper, and giving
our Prospectus three insertions, will be entitled to an exchange.
   Post Masters, throughout the United States, are
authorized to act as agents for us. They are requested to 
"frank" the names of subscribers and subscriptions to us, 
and we will send them, in return, a copy of the Lotus. 

     Our advent into the Literary World has been attended
with auspices so favorable as to warrant the assurance, 
that our enterprise in establishing an useful family newspaper
will be crowned a success; and that for a long 
time to come, it will be our delightful task to minister to 
the instructive entertainment of a large number of intelligent
readers. With heartfelt trust in the liberality and 
sound judgment of our fellow-citizens, we laid our first 
number before them, unaccompanied by the ordinary and 
sickening system of puffing: and nobly has our confidence
been returned. The American people have become wearied 
with having their brain tickled by the vapid prosing
of silly sentimentalizers, and makers of melo-dramatic novels; 
and long for food more substantial, that will instruct,
nourish, and strengthen the mind, and serve to enlighten, 
rather than confuse the reason, or weaken the understanding.
     Our "Lotus" has been received by a generous public
in a manner that encourages us that this attempt to reform
the course of popular reading, has their hearty approbation.
With a very handsome and increasing subscription 
list, we now consider our Lotus Flower safely
launched, and our constant effort will be to justify, by our
endeavors, the generous support we have met with, and 
to create a current of popular favor in our behalf, on which
our Lily shall float in brilliancy and beauty for many years
to come.
     To the kind friends who have interested themselves for 
us, and to our contemporaries who have, without solicitation,
noticed us in such handsome and complimentary terms,
we make our acknowledgments; and, to our latest breath, 
will remember their kindness with gratitude. 

     The ample provision, which our contents with week furnishes, 
for the occupation of our readers' leisure, will be
found full of interest and agreeable variety.
     "The Martyr Hero of Stono," and Original Poem of 
great beauty, will be read with pleasure by all who love
to cherish the remembrance of the glorious deeds of Revolutionary
times.
     "The Life of Niebuhr" needs no commendation. The 
entertainment and solid instruction which its perusal will
impart, will be experienced by every thoughtful reader.
     To the lover, of descriptive and romantic travel, "The
Three Days in the Garden of Ireland" will afford a rich
mine of agreeable reading, calling to remembrance the
days of youth, when the sweet lays of Moore, that verse
which will for ever captivate the world, dwelt in our hearts,
charming, by its melody and sweetness, our day dreams of
love and future happiness.
     And who is there that the "Mariner's Lamp" will not
cheer and delight by its detail of pure and faithful affection,
and its classical and romantic incident? 
     And what shall we more say? Our pages are filled with 
rich and sparkling treasure, fitted to suit every taste, and 
adapted to every age and condition, and our young readers
will find on the page devoted to their entertainment, much 
that will greatly interest them, while at the same time they
will reap useful instruction.
     We can assure our readers, in conclusion, that we will
maintain as good a paper in the future as the specimens they
have now before them: the only change will be in the way
of improvement, of which it becomes us not now to speak,
but which will show for itself. We can promise, however,
from time to time, an increase of original matter, in many
useful departments of knowledge; and we hope our friends
will try to make the sphere of our usefulness as extensive
as possible.

TRAINING THE YOUNG.
     One would suppose, on surveying the ample provision
which the present age supplies for intellectual instruction,
that nothing additional could be done to promote or advance
the education of children, that is not already in
actual operation. Yet, it strikes us, that too much reliance
is placed on the means of education afforded by our
common schools, universities, public lectures, and cheap 
literature, to the neglect of that old fashioned training in 
habits of industry and usefulness, which none but a parent
is competent, or, indeed, has the opportunity to give, or 
the power to enforce. While parents have so many aids
in the bringing up of their children, they are likely to be 
led into the error of supposing, when their business absorbs
all the attention of their minds, that money will procure
correct habits and an honest disposition for their offspring, 
by the same process that they are taught the Multiplication
Table; and that every thing that is required for a child's 

hibited the knowledge of every elegant art, but for want of
that soberness of disposition, and steadiness of habit which
the most ignorant and illiterate often possess, have perished
in ruin and disgrace; their knowledge only giving, by its
elevating and ennobling influence, additional poignancy to 
their humiliation. Parents should know, that to their care
solely has the training of their children and the formation 
of their moral character been committed; and that nothing
can relieve them from this responsibility. [The interaction?] 
of children in learning is quite a different affair from their
being made by constant habit, and the example of those 
in whose society they are most familiarly thrown, industrious, 
modest, sober, and virtuous. These qualities can
never be taught by precept alone; no matter how eloquently, 
authoritatively, or forcibly laid down. There must be
"line upon line, precept upon precept -- here a little, and 
there a little;" there must be the teaching of familiar
and constant intercourse, which is the parents' peculiar
province to furnish, and ought to be their chief delight. 
Much more good would be done, and an equal amount of 
pleasure experienced, if, instead of parents spending their
leisure time at places of amusement, and in constant visiting, 
they sought, by their own exertions, to make their
home the happiest spot on earth, both for themselves and 
children. The information acquired at the home fire side,
is never forgotten; and the habits which affection's hand
plants there, grow up throughout life, bearing the fruits
of honor and competency, and leave behind the immortality
of remembrance in the minds of the wise and good,
that such habits alone can create.
     We cannot wonder at boys wandering the streets, and 
collecting in knots at the corners, in the evening, to the
annoyance of well-disposed and orderly persons, when 
their parents are themselves in the constant habit of being
everywhere else than their own home; either at a theatre, 
lecture, political meeting, or some other place, where
the amount of instruction or pleasure experienced is dearly 
bought by the stores of future sorrow in reserve for them,
from the neglect of their children. The great truth should 
be felt by all, that in this life, we live not for ourselves
alone; that we all sustain certain relations, one to the other,
as parent and child, husband and wife, and fellow-citizens,
and that these relations, we are bound to mutual duties
and obligations in the habitual and conscientious discharge
of which our true happiness can only be secured; and all 
pleasure, obtained through a neglect of these obligations,
is but bitterness and ashes. 
     The life of Carsten Niebuhr, which we conclude in this
number, holds forth to parents, in the most interesting
manner, what we conceive to be the system of properly 
training the young -- of making home a place of delights,
and of making usefulness and industry the sources of all
true and lasting pleasure. To this admirable training
which he received from his father, did the great historian
Niebuhr, owe all his success, usefulness, and immortal distinction. 
Great as his natural qualities and capacities 
were, without this training, he might have for ever lived
in obscurity, or, if instructed in learning, been only distinguished
for extraordinary villany or ruffianism.
     We commend this subject to the earnest consideration
of our readers, and hope that they and their families may
all realize that real happiness, which, under proper training, 
causes duty and inclination to be identical.

"There's a time to be merry, a time to be wise,
     Their sunshine and shadow presenting,
And, if in our mirth, we should wisdom despise,
      We shall all find a time for repenting." 

 




     


Burning of Forty-Seven Women at the 
Funeral of an Indian Prince.--The infernal 
rites at the death of an Indian Prince are thus 
described in an extract of a letter from Tanquebar, 
in the East Indies, written by a Danish Missionary. 
They dug without the walls of the 
city, where that Prince, who died at the age of 
eighty, made his residence, a large pit, which 
they filled with wood, ranged and piled up as for 
a bonfire. The corpse of the deceased, richly 
hibited and adorned, was brought forth in great
pomp, and laid on the pile; after which the 
Bramins (heathen priests) kindled the fire, with 
abundance of superstitious ceremonies. The 
wives and concubines of the deceased, who, according, 
to the law or custom of the country, 
ought to die with him, appeared there at the 
same time, and walked several times round the 
funeral pile. They were in number forty-seven 
all finally decked with jewels, and adorned with 
flowers. The favored wife or concubine carried 
the poinard of the defunct prince, which she delivered 
up to his successor, and made a short 
speech, exhorting him to use it with moderation, 
so as never to let it light on any but the guilty. 
Then she boldly turned her face towards the 
pile, and, after invoking her gods, leaped into 
the midst of the flames. The second was the 
sister of a prince named Tandaman, who was 
present at these horrid rights. She gave him 
the jewels she wore, and the prince, in receiving 
them embraced her most tenderly, and poured 
out a flood of tears: but the princes without betraying 
the least concern, looking attentively, 
with a steady countenance on the pile and on
the spectators, and crying with a loud voice, 
"Chiva, Chiva!" which is the name of one of 
their gods, she jumped as cheerfully into the 
flames as the first did. [*2534*]

The others followed her close; some of them 
appeared resolute enough, but others looked wild 
and dejected. There was one in particular, who
being more dismayed than her companions, ran 
to embrace one of the spectators, who was a 
Christian, praying him to save her; but this was 
not in his power to do, and the poor wretch was 
immediately tumbled headlong into the fire. 

However intrepid most of these unhappy victims 
appeared before jumping into the pit, the 
note was vastly altered when in the midst of the 
flames. There they shrieked hideously, tumbling 
one over another, striving to reach the edge 
of the pit, and get out of it; but they were kept 
in by throwing heaps of billets and faggots upon 
them, as well to knock them on the head as to 
increase the fire. When they were consumed, 
the Bramins drew near the smoking pile, and
performed abundance of ridiculous ceremonies 
over the ashes of the poor wretches. The next 
day they gathered up the bones, and having 
wrapped them up in fine linen, carried them to a 
place near the Isle of Ramesuren, where they 
cast them into the sea. After which, the pit was 
filled up, and a temple since erected on the spot, 
where sacrifices are offered up in honor of the 
prince and his wives, who from thenceforth are 
numbered among the saints or goddesses.

CHILDREN AND [ANG?]

We remember a remarkable dream [?]
cured at a time when a little being came but to 
leave us again, whom we had hardly thought 
could have claimed a place in our heart but for the 
void it left; and it always recurs to our mind when
we hear of new life and old death meeting thus 
instantly on the threshold.
We dreamt that we were conveyed by some
mysterious guide to the entrance of this earth. It
was a kind of gallery, through which angelic be-
ings, winged and beautiful, were rapidly passing, 
all towards the earth; some with grave, others
with hopeful aspects; their expressions as various
as they were legible.
"What does this mean?" we said. "Who are 
the passing spirits who go all one way, and why
are their countenances so various?"
Our companion replied,- [2535]
"They are guardian angels, each on his way to
take charge of a new-born infant. They know
not its ultimate doom, but they know of the 
sphere to which it is born, and the probable sins
and temptations it will be exposed to. Look at
that angel," he said, "with a serious mien, as if a 
hard duty were before him! His charge is the 
child of the rich and noble of the land, who will
bring him up in pride and luxury; and his heart
will grow hard and selfish, and selfishness in high
places has few sorrows, and without sorrow the 
voice of his good angel will hardly be heard.
"And see that spirit who passes with eager, 
hopeful look! To him is committed the child of
a vicious father, who is rioting at this moment
that a child is born unto him. But open vices are
not so baneful as specious virtues. The child's
heart will be wounded and humbled in the sins of 
his father, and, in paying the penalty of another's
guilt, he will himself seek the paths of virtue."
Then another spirit passed, with firm but peace-
ful aspect.
"His charge will be arduous. The child now
born will have willful and tumultuous passions, 
and his heart will be stubborn and perverse, and
he will defy authority, and go far wrong, and the
world will say there is no redemption for him,
and even his father's face will be turned from him.
But, in the silence of a sick chamber, a mother
will plead incessantly for him, and the child of
many prayers shall yet be brought home to the
fold."
Then came one with anxious mien, and he was
guardian to a genius who would win the applause
and idolatry of thousands; and a second, with
heavenly compassion, beautiful and moving to be-
hold, and he was hurrying to the obscure offspring
of sin and shame; and a third, calm and peaceful, 
summoned to preside over the even tenor of a poor
orphan, who inherited the blessings of sainted pa-
rents; and a fourth, full of solemn anxiety, who
hastened to receive his charge from a royal cradle,
and a fifth, whose countenance of heavenly woe
we dared not ask the cause of; and many more, 
all going to their varied posts- to the children of
the good and bad, the high and low, the care-
less and the unbelieving- till we were tired of
asking; when, suddenly, came one, distinguished
from all by radiance of joy upon him.
"What is his charge?" we said. "Surely it must
be that of some future saint upon earth?"
"No," said our conductor, "he is the angel of a 
child who has died at its birth, and he is going to
carry it straight to heaven." [2535 A]
And then we awoke and found it was only a
dream; but ever since then we have never heard
of the death of an infant without thinking of the
joy on that angel's countenance. - Fraser, March
1848.

Daily Chronicle.
The Brocaded Dress. [2537]
In the centre of Berlin, stands a massive build-
ing, devoted to the purpose of gaiety and amuse-
ment. Balls, concerts, and theatrical exhibi-
tions are there given, at a very moderate charge
to the respective lovers of the dance, the charms
of music, or the drama. Masked balls are fre-
quently held, and upon such occasions the crowd
of company is excessive, and the galleries which
run round the rooms, are likewise filled with
spectators of the gay crowd below. On one of
the evenings set apart for these masquerades, I
was in Berlin, and accompanied two officers of
the regiment of guards to the motly exhibition;
we were all carefully equipped for the occasion, 
and upon entering, found that the music had al-
ready commenced, and as all the sets for the 
dance were full, we adjourned to the balcony, to
enjoy a full view of the exhilarating specta-
cue beneath us. Scarcely were the various
and national dances at an end, when they were
again recommenced; so, finding that it was al-
most useless, from the denseness of the crowd, to
attempt joining in the most active feats of the
"light fantastic toe," we determined to remain
on our seats. Immediately beneath us, the Po-
lonaise was most beautifully entered into by a
party, and, as given on the Continent, is a far
more stirring dance than the tripping perform-
ance under the name in England. In one of
the changes of the dance, each lady in her turn
is led to the centre where she is danced round 
by a gentleman, whilst she, holding a handker-
chief in her hand, twirls it in the air, and then
becomes the partner of him whose superior agi-
city gains possession of it. This had been often
repeated with much harmless mirth, when we
observed a female, more sumptuously dressed
than her companions, enter the circle; and as a 
tall young man in black, caught her handker-
chief and claimed her hand, he suddenly started
back, and, uttered one of those piercing cries
which betoken some agonizing horror, and in-
stantly excite the most lively attention. He re-
treated from the girl as if he had discovered
something in her pestiferous, and, overcome ap-
parently by some terrible feeling, he sank sense-
less into the arms of those who were standing 
near him. An incident of this nature produced
the usual sensation in a crowded ball room, and
from the singular circumstances which attended
this, the dancing almost instantly ceased, and
all other objects were laid aside, save the grati-
fication of the curiosity so strangely excited.--
A general rush took place towards the young
man, whose mask had been removed, and exhib-
ited features which had already assumed a death-
like hue, whilst a cold perspiration bedewed his
forehead. As it was impossible to keep off the
crowd, who, in their eagerness to see who was
the unfortunate object, threatened to suffocate
him; he was removed into the supper-room, and
laid upon one of the settees which stood about.
A physician was sent for, and as I fortunately
had a lancet in my pocket, and knew how to use
it, I pressed through the crowd, and with the
assistance of a young medical student, drew a
little blood from his arm. This had the effect
of bringing the young man to sense; but even
then, his mind seemed a prey to some horrible

phantasy, for, starting up, his whole frame shook
with a violent convulsion, and with marks of the
most extreme terror, he exclaimed several times
--"I saw her! I saw her!" He appeared to
have come alone to the ball, for no one stepped
forward to claim acquaintance with him; fortu-
nately, a card in his pocket revealed his address,
and with proper precaution he was taken home.
When we returned to the room, we found the
richly dressed mask who appeared to have been
the cause of this extraordinary event, very un-
concernedly dancing, seemingly unconscious of
the general remarks she was exciting. She was
eagerly questioned by several persons present as
to the young man to whom her presence had ev-
idently given so severe a shock, but she persist-
ed in denying any knowledge of him, or of any
circumstances which could clear up the affair.
The intensity of the feeling of curiosity conse-
quently soon subsided in almost every one but
myself; but it was a long time before I heard
the following remarkable detail, on which I
could place great reliance, and which I discov-
ered by my restless anxiety to clear up so strik
ing a mystery. [2537A]
The father of this young man was a small
farmer near Berlin, who, at an early age, had
been enabled to send his son to the university
at Berlin, where he distinguished himself as
much by his superior abilities, as by the warmth
and tenderness of his feelings, Whilst in his
attendance on the medical classes (he being de-
signed for the profession of a physician) he
formed an intimacy with the family of one of
his companions, and became deeply attached to
the beautiful sister of his friend. Amiable and
accomplished, the young girl was formed to
charm in every way, and in the ardent ideas of
Ernest, she seemed more than earthly. A thou-
sand little incidents strengthened the love,
which was mutual, with a truly absorbing af-
fection of the soul; and their minds being ting-
ed with the deep romantic feeling so prevalent
amongst the youth of Germany, the vows that
passed between them were considered as a sacred
and indissoluble link of their future destinies.
As soon as Ernest had obtained his degree, the
fauther of the lovely girl gave his consent that
the betrothal should take place, and a day was
appointed, to which it may be imagined Ernest
looked forward with no common feelings of de-
light. The great fair of Leipsic occurred a
short time before the happy day which was to
betroth the happy lovers, and to this place Er-
nest hastuned, to purchased for his mistress a
bridal dress, from out of the splendid treasures
there to be met with. He selected one which
was equally rich and appropriate, being of white
satin, brocaded with a border of the most exquis-
itely tinted flowers, in the most brilliant colors.
His present was received with a smile of appro-
bation, and on the happy day, the fair bride look-
ed surpassingly lovely in her becoming attire.
In the eyes of Ernest, never had she looked so
attractice. The vows were pronounced, the
contract signed, and the marriage was fixed for
the following week. After the wedding cere-
mony had been performed, a sumptuous ban-
quet was prepared, in the midst of which the
fair bride felt so suddenly indisposed, that she
was compelled to seek her chamber. She threw
herself on the bed, and alas! for the security of
human bliss, never arose from it more! A vir-
ulent fever had attacked her delicate frame, and
carried her unresistingly and remorselessly to
the tomb. The feelings of the peculiarly im-
passioned Ernest, thus robbed of his dearest
earthly treasure, may be more easily conceived
than described. Words would fail to portray
the intensity of his anguish. Only one request
did he make-- it was that his idolized bride
should be buried in the rich dress which she
wore at the betrothal. He followed her to the
grave, and, overpowered by his feelings, he
threw himself upon the coffin as it was about
to be covered pu, and with a frenzied vehe-
mence, insisted on being allowed to take one
more look, before the grave was closed forever
on his beloved one. The coffin lid was accord-
ingly removed, and he gazed upon the clammy
features of the decaying corpse until his head
became dizzy with emotion, and he was drawn
senseless from the grave. Another gazer than
Ernest had also shared in the view thus offered
of the richly attired corpse. The grave-digger
had perceived, with extraordinary surprise and
cupidity, the magnificent dress which met his
view. In the dead of night he stripped the body,
and presented to his daughter the flowered satin
robe of the deceased young lady. It served her
as a festival dress, for some years; and, we
must do her the credit of adding, that though
surprised at the costliness of such a rich dress
from her father, she was totally ignorant of the
mode in which he obtained it. It was the iden-
tical dress that met the eye of Ernest at the
masked ball, to which he had resorted more from
habit, than from any hope of amusement. Thus
adorned in the habiliments of the grave, and
bearing a slight resemblance to the form of his
lost treasure, the grave-digger's daughter flash-
ed in the eyes of Ernest, and caused the sudden
horror I have described. The dress was so pe-
culiar, and from circumstances so fixed on his
memory, that when he saw the figure approach,
he imagined it was his departed mistress who
had arisen from her grave to upbraid him for the
levity which permitted his appearance at a
ball. As the female was masked, the horrible
conception of the young and enthusiastic Ernest
will not be considered altogether as either un-
natural or incredible. From the notoriety which
the circumstance had gained, an inquiry wasinstituted into the affair, and by an inspection 
of the rifled tomb, the guilt of the grave-digger
was made apparent, and he is now expiating it
as a common felon.  Ernest, however, never
overcame the shock he had received;  a severe 
fever, attended by repeated fits of delirium, in a
very short time put an end to his existence.---
The unlucky brocaded dress, at the earnest request
of the poor young woman who had guiltlessly
caused this truly tragical event, was placed
in the coffin of Ernest, where we trust it
was permitted to remain undisturbed by any
other profane hand.     [*2537  B*] 

The Art of Dress. 

"Nor is a shawl a recommendable article. 
We mean a common square one.---
Some are beautiful in quality, and others too
unpretending in pattern to be criticised.---
But whatever piece of dress conceals a woman's
figure, is bound in justice to do so in
a picturesque way.  This a shawl can never 
do, with its strict uniformity of pattern---
each shoulder alike---and its stiff three-cornered
shape behind, with a scroll of pattern
standing straight up the centre of the back. 
If a lady sports a shawl at all, and only very
falling shoulders should venture, we should
recommend it to be always either falling off 
or putting on, which produces a pretty action ,
or she should wear it up one shoulder and
down the other, or in some way drawn irregularly, 
so as to break the uniformity.---
One of the faults of the present costume, as
every real artist knows, is, that it offers too
few diagonal lines.  Nothing is more picturesque 
than a line across the bust, like the
broad ribbon of the garter across our graceful
Queen, or the loose girdle sloping across
the hips, in the costume of the early Plantagenets. 
On this very account the long
scarf-shawl is as picturesque a thing as a 
lady can wear.  With the broad pattern 
sweeping over one shoulder, and a narrow
one, or none at all on the other, it supplies 
the eye with that irregularity which drapery
requires;  while the slanting form and colors
of the border lying carelessly round the
figure, give that Eastern idea, which every
shawl more or less implies.  What oriental
would ever wear one straight up and down, 
and uniform on both sides, as our ladies often
do?     2538 
The female hat of the present day is one
of the only very artificial features, and will
puzzle future costume-hunters to account for, 
both in its construction and its use, more
than any other article now worn---if, indeed 
any memento of its survive, for it is unfit either
for painting or sculpture.  It is come
of a bad race---having nothing to do with 
the large Spanish beaver---or the picturesque
chapeau de paille (which by the say,
is not a straw hat at all)-----or the celebrated 
Churchills of the last century, in which the 
beautiful sister Gunnings turned all heads---
but from a combination of the frightful machine
invented to cover the high toupee, of 
which the Quakeress hat is a living relic, 
and the squat, flat, projecting caps of silk or
gauze, trimmed with bows and feathers, 
which accompanied the low coiffure and
short waist of the commencement of this
century;  form which latter arose the confusion 
of terms between the French 
and the 
to some, as any frame-work filled with laces, 
ribbons, and flowers round a pretty face must
be---but it is at best an unmeaning thing, 
without any character of its own, and never
becoming to any face that has much. 
There is one of the race, however, for
which we must make special exception---
not for its native beauties alone, its polished
glistening circles, and delicate neutral tints, 
but for a deep mysterious spell, exercised 
both over wearer and spectator, in which it
stand unrivalled by any other article of female
attire;  we mean the plain straw hat.
From the highest to the lowest there is not
a single style of beauty with which this hat 
is not upon the best understanding.  It refines
the homeliest and composes the wildest; 
it gives the coquettish young lady a little
dash of demureness, and the demure one
a slight touch of coquetry;  it makes the
blooming beauty look more fresh, and the
pale one more interesting; it makes the
plain woman look, at all events, a lady, and
the lady more lady-like still.  A vulgar 
woman never puts on a straw bonnet, or at
least not the straw bonnet we have in our 


eye:  while the higher the style of carriage, 
and the richer the accompanying costume, 
the more does it seem in its native element; 
so much so, that the most aristocratic beauty
in the land, adorned in every other respect
with all that wealth can purchase, 
taste select, or delicacy of person enhance, 
may not only hide her lofty head with perfect
propriety in a plain straw hat, but in 
one plainer and coarser still than a lower
style of woman would venture to wear.--- 
Then all the sweet associations that throng
about it!  pictures of happy childhood, and
unconscious girlhood;  thoughts of blissful 
bridal tours, and of healthy country life! 
and of childhood, girlhood, tours and life 
such as our own sweet country can alone
give.  For the crowning association of all
consists perhaps in this:  that the genuine
straw bonnet stamps the genuine Englishwoman; 
no other country can produce either
the hat or the wearer.     [*2538 A*] 
But after all, in these important matters
of dress, however recommendable some of
these details may separately be, it is a
lady's own sense on which their proper 
application depends.  She did not choose
her own face and figure, but she does choose
her own dress, and it should be ordered 
according to them.  Attention to a few general 
rules would prevent a great many
anomalous appearances;  for instance, a
woman should never be dressed too little, 
nor a girl too much;  nor should a stumpy
figure attempt large patterns, nor a bad
walker flounces;  nor a short throat carry
  athers nor high shoulders a shawl;  and
  on.  but, as we have just said, every
  man in the world may wear a plain straw 

Amsterdam. 

We find the following interesting letters, 
descriptive of Amsterdam, its manners
and customs, in the Daily News: 
I again take the liberty of trespassing
on your time and patience by writing you
from this truly wonderful and interesting
city, which is the principal one of Holland. 
It is situated at the confluence of
the river Amatel and the arm of the Zuyder
Zee;  its population is about 212,000.
The whole city, its houses, canal and sluices, 
are founded upon piles, which gave occasion 
for a celebrated writer to say, "that
he had reached a city whose inhabitants, 
like crows, lived on the tops of trees."  The
houses are generally six stories high, and
built of brick, with their gable ends facing
the street.  In the wealthy portion of the 
city they are very handsome, and far exceed 
any we have.  The various canals which 
intersect the town in all directions, are
said to divide it into ninety-five islands, and 
are traversed by no less than two hundred 
and ninety-nine bridges;  they are generally
three or four feet deep, half filled with 
mud and half with water.  Every barge or 
vessel that passes along stirs the mud and
leaves its track accompanied by any thing
else than a pleasant smell.  Mud machines 
I found busy at work, cleansing the mud
out, which is sold to the farmers as manure. 
One of the first things one will notice 
after arriving in "Deutchland," are the 
little mirrors (spions,) projecting in front 
of the windows of almost every house.---
They consist of two pieces of looking glass,
placed at an angle of 45 degrees to each
other, one reflecting up and the other down 
the street.  By means of this contrivance a
lady may see all that passes in the street, 
without the trouble of going to the window, 
to be subject to the "vulgar gaze."  Another
singular thing I'll mention, and that is
a kind of hackney coach, called "sleepkoets,"
which is the body of a coach mounted on a
sledge, drawn by one horse;  the driver 
walks along side, holding in his hand a
piece of greasy rag, which he contrives to 
drop under the runners at intervals, to make
the coach slip easy.  All heavy loads are
carried on sledges;  instead of grease they
use water.  Our guide told us that a police 
regulation restricts the use of wheels for
fear lest the rattling of heavy loads over
the stones should shake or injure the foundation 
of buildings.     [*2539*] 


Holland may be considered in many respects
the most wonderful country under the
sun, and as far as my experience goes, laws
of nature here seem to be reverse.  The
sea is much higher than the land, the lowest
ground being twenty-four feet below high
water, and when the tide is driven by the 
wind, is thirty.  In no other country does 
the keel of ships float above the houses, 
and no where else does the "frog croaking
from among the bulrushes look down on the 
swallow on the house top."  The immense 
dykes which are placed along the coast to
keep the land from being overflown, are 
well-worth seeing.  Having spent a day in 
viewing these stupendous works, my opinion
may be relied on with some degree of
certainty;  most of them are planted with
trees, and their spreading and interlacing
roots assist greatly in binding the earth together. 
The base is masonry, and protected
by vast heaps of stones, (brought
from Norway,) and by rows of piles driven 
in the ground to form a breakwater against 
the fury of the waves.  The upper part is
covered with turf, and at some places to
the height of forty feet.  The very spot
on which we stood gave way in the year
1717, and 1560 persons were drowned.--- 
In no other country, I am sure, could such
an immense work have been accomplished, 
but when we consider that eight cents is
the amount a laborer receives for a day's 
work, it will not be strange to realize the
fact. 
We found the manners and customs of
the Dutch to differ widely from anything
we have with us.  They have in every district
a distinct costume peculiar to itself;  in
some the ladies wear a gold band across the
front of the head, extending down over the 
temple, and the others have a horseshoe of
silver, in the end of which is a gold machine
like the spring of a sofa, projecting in front. 
The former are called freisland, and the ornament
they wear is decidedly an improvement
to their good looks;  the latter is called
North Holland, and their ornament is decidedly
the revers.     2569  [*A*] 

THE GREAT SNOW STORM OF 1620.--- 
The snow fell during thirteen days and
nights, with very little intermission, accompanied
with great cold and a keen, biting
wind.  About the fifth and sixth days the
young sheep fell into a torpid state and 
died, and about the ninth or tenth day, the
shepherds began to build up large semi
circular walls of the dead, in order to afford
some shelter for the living;  but the protection 
was of little service.  Impelled by hunger
the sheep were frequently seen tearing
at one another's wool with their teeth.  On 
the fourteenth day there was on many a
highland farm, not a survivor of extensive
flocks to be found.  Large misshapen walls
of dead surrounding a small prostrate group, 
likewise dead, and stifly frozen in the lairs, 
met the eye of the forlorn shepherd and
his master.  Of upwards of 20,000 sheep 
maintained in the extensive pastoral districts
of Eskdale Moor, only about forty-five were
left alive.     [Gallery of Nature. 

One who Admires what Others Condemn. 
From an interview with C. M. Clay, Ex-Minister 
to Russia. 
The streets of St. Petersburg were a hundred
times cleaner than the streets, alleys and
back yards of Richmond.  They never burn down
the pest houses in Russia, as they did the other 
day in Madison County when small-pox prevailed.
As to prisons and Siberia, I am glad to have an
opportunity to refute some of the world-wide calumnies
of the anti-Russian press.  Siberia is not
so vile a country as the French penal colony at
Cayenne, nor the original Australia of
England.  Three Siberian-born ladies married 
nobles in Petersburg;  one the Prince
Suwarrow, the grandson of the Prince Suwarrow
of Napoleon's time;  the other sisters married
well, one an officer in the staff of the Emperor. 
I have heard them speak of the "Fatherland" 
as would a German.  And these were the
descendants of Siberian exiles, I do not hesitate
to say that of all the people I ever knew the Russians
are the most genial and hospitable.  It is
true the ranks in Russia are very distinct and 
marked;  but the humane spirit of Russia thaws 
all coldness, breaks all conventional barriers and
fuses the whole into one national feeling, as in no
other land.  That is the reason that Russians
never emigrate.     2540 


EGYPTIAN MAGIC, MESMERISM OUTDONE
Mr. Lane relates in his 'History of the 
Modern Egyptians,' the following extra-
ordinary anecdote of the skill of the ma-
gicians of that country as having come
under his own observation and that of the
European authorities in that place:--
The magician first asked me for a reed
pen and ink, a piece of paper and a pair
of scissors; and, having cut off a narrow
strip of paper, wrote upon it certain forms
of invocation, together with another charm,
by which he professes to accomplish the
object of the experiment. He did not at-
tempt to conceal these, but readily gave
me copies of them, which I compared with
the originals, and found that they exactly
agreed. Having written these, the magi-
cian cut off the paper, containing the forms
of invocation from that upon which the
other charm was written; and cut the for-
mer in six pieces. [2541]
I had prepared, by the magician's direc-
tion, some frankincense and coriander
seed, and a chafing dish, with some live
charcoal in it. These were now brought
into the room, together with the boy who
was to be employed, who had been called
in, by my desire, from among some boys
in the street, returning from a manufacto-
ry, and was about eight or nine years of
age. The magician desired my servant
to put some frankincense and coriander
seed into the chafing-dish; then, taking
hold of the boy's right hand, he drew, in
the palm of it, a magic square. In the
centre he poured a little ink, and desired
the boy to look into it, and tell him if he
could see his face reflected in it; the boy
replied that he saw his face clearly. The
magician, holding the boy's hand all the
while told him to continue looking intent-
ly into the ink; and not to raise his head.
He then took one of the little strips of
paper inscribed with the forms of invoca-
tion, and dropped it into the chafing-dish,
upon the burning coals and perfumes,
which had already filled the room with
their smoke; and as he did this he com-
menced an indistinct muttering of words,
which he continued during the whole pro-
cess, excepting when he had to ask the
boy a question or tell him what he was to
say. The piece of paper he placed inside
the fore part of the boy's scull-cap. He
then asked him if he saw anything in the
ink; and was answered 'No;' but about a
minute after, the boy, trembling and seem-
ing much frightened, said, 'I see a man
sweeping the ground.' 'When he has done
sweeping,' said the magician, 'tell me.'
Presently the boy said, 'He has done.' The
magician then again interrupted his mut-
tering to ask the boy if he knew what a
flaw was; and being answered 'Yes,' de-
sired him to say, 'Bring a flag.' The boy
did so; and soon said, 'He has brought a
flag.' 'What colour is it?' asked the ma-
gician; the boy replied, 'Red.' He was
told to call for another flag, which he did;
and soon after he said that he saw anoth-
er brought; and that it was black. In like
manner he was told to call for a third,
fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh; whihc he
described as being successively brought
before him; specifying their colors, as
white, green, black, red, and blue. The
magician then asked him, as he did, also,
each time that a new flag was described
as being brought, 'How many flags have
you now before you?' 'Seven,' answered
the boy. While this was going on, the
magician put the second and third of the
small strips of paper, upon which the
forms of invocation were written, into the
chafing-dish; and fresh frankincense and
coriander seed having been repeatedly ad-
ded, the fumes became painful to the eyes.
When the boy had described the seven
flags as appearing to him, he was desired
to say, 'Bring the Sultain's tent, and pitch
it.' This he did; and in about a minute
after, he said 'Some men have brought the
tent; a large green tent; they are pitching
it;' and presently he added, 'they have set
it up.' 'Now,' said the magician 'order
the soldiers to come, and to pitch their
camp around the tent of the Sultan's.'
The boy did as he desired; and immedi-
ately said, 'I see a great many soldiers,
with their tents; they have pitched the
tents.' He was then told to order that the
soldiers should be drawn up in ranks; and,
having done so, he presently said, that he
saw them thus arranged. The magician
had put the fourth of the strips of paper
into the chafing-dish; and soon after, he
did the same with the fifth. He now said,
'Tell some of the people to bring a bull.'

The boy gave the order required, and
said, 'I see a bull: it is red: four men are
dragging it along; and three are beating
it.' He was told to desire them to kill it,
and cut it up, and to put the meat in
saucepans, and cook it. He did as he was
directed; and described these operations
as apparently performed before his eyes.
'Tell the soldiers,' said the magician, 'to
eat it.' The boy did so: and said, 'They
are eating it. They have done, and are
washing their hands.' The magician then
told him to call for the Sultan; and the
boy having done this said, 'I see the Sul-
tan riding to his tent, on a bay horse; and
he has on his head a high red cap; he has
alighted at his tent, and set down within
it.' 'Desire them to bring coffee to the
Sultan,' said the magician, 'and to form
the court.' These orders were given by
the boy; and he said that he saw them per-
formed. The magician had put the last
of the six little strips of paper into the
chafing-dish. In his mutterings I distin-
guished *to* *himself* the words of the writ-
ten *invocation*, frequently repated, ex-
cepting on two or three occasions, when I
heard him say, 'If they demand informa-
tion, inform them; and be veracious.'
He now addressed himself to me; and
asked me if I wished the boy to see any
person who was absent or dead. I named
Lord Nelson; of whom theboy had evi-
dently never heard, for it was with much
difficulty that he pronounced the name af-
ter several trials. The magician desired
the boy to say to the Sultan--'My master
salutes thee, and desires to bring Lord Nel-
son: bring him before my eyes, that I may
see him speedily.' The boy then said so;
and almost immediately added, 'A mes-
senger is gone, and has returned, and
brought a man, dressed in a black suit of
European clothes: the man has lost his
left arm.' He then paused for a moment
or two and looking more intently and more
closely into the ink, said, 'No, he has not
lost his left arm; but it is placed in his
breast.' This correction made his des-
cription more striking than it had been
without it; since Lord Nelson generally
had his empty sleeve attached to the breast
of his coat; but it was the right arm that
he had lost. Without saying that I sus-
pected the boy had made a mistake, I ask-
ed the magician whether the objects ap-
peared in the ink as if actually before the
eyes, or as if in a glass, which makes the
right appear left. He answered, that they
appeared as in a mirror. This rendered
the boy's description faultless.
The next person I called for wa a na-
tive of Egypt, who had been a resi-
dent in England, where he had adopted
our dress; and who had been long confin-
ed to his bed by illness, before I embarked
for this country: I thought that his name,
one not very uncommon in Egypt, might
make the boy describe him incorrectly;
thoguh another boy, on the former visit of
the magician, had described this same per-
son as wearing a European dress, like
that in which I last saw him. In the pre-
sent case the boy said, 'Here is a man
brought on a king of bier, and wrapped
up in a sheet.' This description would
suit, supposing the person in question to
be still confined to his bed, or if he be
dead. The boy described his face as
covered; and was told to order that it
should be uncovered. This he did; and
then said, 'His face is pale; and he has
moustaches, but no beard;' which is cor-
rect.
Several other persons were successive-
ly called for; but the boy's description of
them were imperfect, though not altoge-
ther inforrect. He represented each ob-
ject as appearing less distinct than the
preceding one; as if his sight were gra-
dually becoming dim; he was a minute or
more, before he could give any account
of the persons he professed to see towards
the close of the performance; and the ma-
gician said it was useless to procees with
him.
Though completely puzzles, I was
somewhat disappointed with his perform-
ances, for they fell short of what he had
accomplished in many instances, in pre-
sence of certain of my friends and coun-
trymen. On one of these occasions, an
Englishman present ridiculed the per-
formance, and said that nothing would
satisfy him but a correct description of
his own father, of whom he was sure, no
one of the company had any knowledge.
The boy, accordingly, having called by
name for the person alluded to, described
a man in a Frank dress, of course, with

his hand places to his head, wearing spec-
tacles, and with one foot on the ground,
and the other raised behind him, as if he
were stepping down from a seat. The
description was exactly true in every
respect: the peculiar position of the hand
was occasioned by an almost constant
head-ache; and that of the foot or leg,by a
stiff knee, caused by a fall from a hourse,
hunting. I am assured that, on the occa-
sion, the boy aocurately described each
person and thing that was called for. On
another occasion, Shakspeare was descri-
bed with the most miunte correctness,
both as to person and dress; and I might
add several other cases in which the same
magician had excited astonishment in the
sober minds of Englishmen of my ac-
quaintance. A short time since, he pre-
pared the magic mirror in the hand of a
young English lady, who, on looking into
it for a while, said that she saw a
broom sweeping the ground without any
body holding it, and was so much fright-
ened that she would look no longer.
I have stated these facts partly from my
own expeience, and partly as they come
to my knowledge on the authority of re-
spectable persons. I tried the veracity of
another boy on a subsequent occasion in
the same manner; and the result was the
same. Neither I not the others have been
able to obtain any clue by whihc to pene-
trate the mystery.
[2541][*Return to W.W.*]

AMONG THE HEBRIDES.
BY AN IDLE VOYAGER.

I.—A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW FROM BEN EVAL.
LEAVE the great city and its dusky waves, which break with the
sullen roar of a sea ;  forget London, forget Paris, forget even the 
tourist-haunted vales and hills of Switzerland, pass from nooks 
reached by the prattling newspaper and the last new novel, and from
drawing-rooms fluttering with the last new poet ;  shake off your feet
the dust of ordinary life, and putting on the soul's seven-league boots,
fly northward :  through the green English counties, over the dark 
manufacturing towns, across the border, past the braes of Yarrow
and St. Mary's Loch, in and out of the city of abominations on the 
banks of the Clyde, among the fair scenes haunted every summer by
smiling tourists and jolly undergraduates—onward still, and northward
—not pausing till you have left behind every trace of civilization,
and are standing on the basaltic cliffs of Skye.  Pausing 
there, breathe for one moment the perfect sense of solitude ; see the 
mighty waters of the Minch and the Atlantic breaking troublously
around you, while mountain upon mountain rises solemnly on every
side of you, and the rain-cloud, scarfed by a prismatic rainbow,
pauses above you ; and then look westward, far out into the sea, 
where, like a monstrous serpent crawling northward, and dimly distinguishable 
in the weltering waste of water, the Hebrides stretch in 
utter loneliness, visited by no passing ship, and holding scarce any
communication with the world of man.  Then, after you have realised 
the grey desolation from afar, suffer us to wrap you in our Asmodean
mantle and fly with you across the thirty miles of water, not pausing
till we have set you down on the very summit of Ben Eval, a lonely
mountain rising in the midst of these far-off Isles of the Sea. 

Now, look round you !  It is one of those dark, dim days which
occur here five out of every seven days in the week ; and you have
above your head not the soft blue of southern climates, but the
sombre, beautiful grey of the vapour or under heaven.  The air is
full of light : not golden, not yellow and dazzling, not suffusing, but
strange silvern light, such as we sometimes see in human eyes. 
Gazing on what is below you, do you tremble and hush yourself
unconsciously ? or is your first impression that of repulsion or displeasure ?  
What do you see ?  First, on every hand, the Sea, with 
its unrest that will never be comforted.  Then, close beneath you, 
tracts of green land, rising into purple knolls, broken with gigantic 

[*2542*]CLIPT WINGS.  51

had been his easiest course, and therefore the one most pleasant to 
him. 

"But, Theodore, you wouldn't always let me see you happy. 
Sophy won't let me see her happy; she won't let me see young
Aldyce.  It's too bad, that is, Theodore."

"I will fetch them," said the doctor huskily; "they shall both 
come up."

"Stop, Theodore," cried Uncle Ted, with a vehemence that left
him breathless.

When the doctor reached the bedside, he had turned his cheek to
the pillow, and closed his eyes. 

"Don't call 'em," he said faintly.  "I like to hear the music, and to
think they're happy.  Don't make 'em leave off for me.  I'd rather
not see him now.  I won't have her made to leave off dancing, and set 
a-crying with her happy eyes.  Not to-night, Theodore.  Let her 
dance; let her be happy.  Bless her!"

After watching by him some little time, Dr. Leffler ventured to
disobey the master of the house so far as to summon his relatives
and Captain Aldyce to his beside.

Uncle Ted was so favourably impressed by Sophy's choice, that he
left him a verbal introduction to carry to his special friend the policeman,
lodging at Mrs. Woods', whose acquaintance he strongly advised
the captain to cultivate. 

He passed away at seven o'clock in the morning, in the presence
of all he loved, and looked on by a landing full of honestly-regretful
eyes. 

The Indian dressing-gown was bequeathed to Captain Aldyce, and
now serves as a nursery divan, the bright colours of which baby
hands pat adoringly.  The slippers were left to cook, their owner
having observed, he said, that she had a Cleopatra foot.  The snuffbox 
had so many claimants that the doctor, to settle the matter, 
decided to retain it in his own possession. 

KATHERINE SAUNDERS.

E 2AMONG THE HEBRIDES. 53
boulders, and so intersected and broken up with sea-fjörds, freshwater
lakes, stagnant lochans, and water in all shapes and forms,
that the land seems floating land,—patches of green drifting on the
ocean. Far away southward it stretches, till it mingles with the
cloud of the ocean, and far up northward, till it rises into the high
mountains of Lewis.
Colourless, dreary, silent, homeless, sea-courted, sea-surrounded, a
dark mass of mingled land and water, where even the men and
women (you fancy) must be amphibious—such is the prospect; and
why, you ask us, have we brought you to look upon anything so
cheerless? Why have we brought you hither, instead of keeping
you to the happy dales of English pastoral tale, and the charming
scenes of romantic fiction? Why have we wafted you to a cold
wilderness, where even the Black Forest would appeal to your heart
with more picturesqueness, and the slopes of the sierras of Colorado
be more abundant in interesting forms of life? Our answer is very
simple. You know these scenes well, in fact or on paper; but this
scene you do not know—nor are you likely to know it until you love
it; and it is with the hope of awakening some faint feeling akin to
love—some gentle tenderness for what is so lonely and so uninteresting
at first sight—that we have brought you hither.

Wander down into alleys, pass from island to island, from
lake to lake. Is all flat and unprofitable still? Look at that rainbow,
staining the damp green land through and through, and arching
up into the gentile cloud, while—see!—its ghost, lovelier still, palpitates
beneath it with one bright foot in the sea, which streams around
it green as emerald. Here is a lochan; how ugly it looked at a
little distance! and yet it is a perfect nest of loveliness, with its
yellow and white lilies, its bright floating leaves, its silvern, leaping
trout, its glorious dragon-flies. Where are you now? Ah, on the
verge of the Black Lake,—miles long, and so shallow that the rocks of
the bottom jut everywhere above the surface. In its centre a vitrified
tower stares like a ghost through the swathing mist. What a whirr
of wings! The wild geese, multitudinous as leaves in Vallambrosa,
are rising in one white cloud, till they vanish into the sky. Now
you pass over to the western coast, and wander on the sands. You
scoop the sands in your hand, and find that they are powdered
crustacea, with here and there a tiny shell "fairly fair," glittering
like mother-of-pearl. Have you seen nothing loveable yet?

If you are superstitious you will find every prospect haunted.
There are serpents in all the waters, with sharp teeth and backs like
saws, and there are mermaids on the sea-sands. On the bottom
of the great fresh lakes walks the water-bull, waiting to devour the
unwary bather, and only to be caught by human flesh on a hook as
big as the fluke of an anchor. A hare runs past your feet, but it is
useless to shoot at it without a silver bullet; for it is a witch.
[*2543*]54     AMONG THE HEBRIDES.

Still impatient? still incredulous? Yes, you exclaim, for these
things do not move your heart. The world is very beautiful even in
a spot like this; and superstition is very strange. Worn with hollow
forms and thoughts, you seek something more -- you seek living
beating hearts, throbbing against your own in strange sympathy, and
awakening there tenderness of the soul which has been sleeping
long. Wherefore bring you to a wilderness? It can teach you
nothing, you say; one touch of human nature strikes deeper than
all. And you prepare to fly.

Stay! it is precisely for that one winning touch that we have
brought you hither. Yes, hither, to the lonely waste. There are
lives growing in this lonely soil, flowers of strange beauty, souls as
dear to God as your own or any soul in the vast earth. A wilderness?
Stand on the summit of Ben Eval and look again!

For a long time, strain your eyes as you may, you perceive no
sign of humanity. Slowly as the details of the prospect grow upon
your perception, you notice yonder on the western coast, where the
sandy knolls are washed by the Atlantic surge, faint yellow gleams as
of growing corn, the bright emerald green of the potato, and--
yes!--that is the blue peat smoke rising from a tiny hamlet in the
hollow. Then, as your eye wanders along the islands and promontories,
and you perceive how richly purple they are wherever the sea
kisses them, you will see the thick blue smoke of the peat fire drifting
along before the wind, and behold the dark figures of the kelp-makers
darting to and fro amid the smoke, and feeding the fire with the
black and slippery weed. Yes, and what is that gleaming afar, away
on the green line where ocean and land meet? It is a spire. And now
you know that the white thing in the hollow yonder, small as a
pocket-handkerchief, is a house--perhaps the priest's dwelling or the
minister's manse. Then there are souls to save here as in the great
world, sheep that need the shepherd--such a one as the world
sends them. Though the human flock is every day growing fewer
and fewer here as elsewhere, to make way for veritable sheep and
cattle on four feet, the isles are not quite barren of humanity. In the
lonely bays of the sea-lochs, in the green hollows of the hills, among the
sand-knolls of the west coast, there are human habitations. Here
and there you will see a prosperous white farm abounding in sheep
and cattle, and surrounded by well-tilled fields, Scattered in unsuspected
corners are hamlets--groups of mud-huts, rudely thatched,
with little patches of corn hard by, and picturesque fishing clachans,
with strong red-sailed skiffs and drying nets on the beach before
them.
Note further, that at first sight this life repels you. You miss the
bright eye and plump cheek, the cheery crackle of the carter's
whip, the cry of the village school, the clink of the blacksmith's shop,
all the conventional attractions of the English village; and you missAMONG THE HEBRIDES.     55
equally the merry horn of the Swiss herdsman, and the picturesque 
costume of the German forester. The people here live in wretched 
huts, wear an unpicturesque costume, speak a barbarous tongue, and 
never seem to smile. They are stupid perhaps, you think, forgetting 
how stupid you yourself with your modern ways and foreign tongue 
may look to them.

Well, know them better, touch, feel, make sure they are human 
like yourself,--possibly better than yourself in much that makes 
human creatures dear to God. Who are you? Pretty girl, or fine 
lady, or dandy, or merchant, or city clerk, or painter, or analytical 
poet? Possibly you think your human horizon inexhaustible 
because it includes the last new music from Vienna or Paris, the 
many good and bad forms of life in big cities, the exhibition of the 
Royal Academy, and Browning's rehabilitation of a Greek torso. It 
may be so, or it may be only illusion. Possibly enough your horizon 
embraces no more of life absolute than that seen by these islanders, 
who live in mud huts and are at the mercy of all the winds that blow. 
To live, to love and be loved, to be conscious of the sky and the sea 
and of living creatures under them, to wonder and to tremble, to 
watch the tide of to-day wash out the footprint of yesterday--is not 
this to live? Reflect for a moment and ask yourself how much of 
your so-called knowledge of life is real knowledge, how much of your 
fancied life real living. Do you know more than these people? Do 
you feel as much? Do you see as vividly?

II.--NIGHT ON LOCH URIBOL.

It is a summer night; and we are laying in the stern of a
fishing-skiff, rowed by two stalwart boatmen. As we glide along 
under the black shadow of the hills, one of the men is crooning to 
himself, in a low sort of undertone, a weird Highland melody--one of 
those exquisitely beautiful tunes which are half a recitative, half a 
melody,--oratory set to cadence and sparkling into music just as a 
fountain tops itself with spray. The ditty he is singing may be 
rendered into English words as follows, but no translation can 
convey the deep pathos and subtle sweetness of the original:--

"O mar tha mi! 'tis the wind that's blowing,
O mar tha mi! 'tis the sea that's white.
'Tis my own brave boatman was up and going
From Uist to Barra at dead of night.
Body of black and wings of red
His boat went out on the stormy sea.
O mar tha mi! can I sleep in my bed?
O gillie dubh! come back to me!

"O mar tha mi! is it weed out yonder?
O is it weed or a tangled sail?
On the shore I wait and watch and wander.
It's calm this day, but my heart is pale.
254456  AMONG THE HEBRIDES.
O this is the skiff with wings so red,
And it floats upturned on the glassy sea.
O mar tha mi! is my boatman dead?
O gillie dubh! come back to me!

"O mar tha mi! 'tis a corpse that's sleeping,
Floating there on the weeds and sand; 
His face is drawn and his locks are dreeping,
His arms are stiff and he's clenched his hands.
Turn him up on his sandy bed,
Clean his face from the weed o' the sea.
O mar tha mi! 'tis my boatman dead!
O gillie dubh! won't you look at me?

"O mar tha mi! 'tis my love that's taken!
O mar tha mi! I am left forlorn!
He'll never kiss and he'll never waken,
He'll never look on the babe unborn.
His blood is water, his heart is lead,
He's dead and slain by the cruel sea.
O mar tha mi! I am lone in my bed,
My gillie dubh is away from me!"

As he sings, keeping time with his oars to the melancholy burthen, 
the summer moon begins to cast a ghostly gleam behind the mountains, 
and suddenly it arises above the lake--yellow, round, and 
bright, suffusing the surface of the lake with its rays. Through the 
ambient darkness glides the boat. All is still as death, save for the 
sound of the oar, the wild scream of the curlew flitting from one 
ghostly bay to another, and the faint far-off sound of the sea-birds 
feeding on the black shores of the fjörd.
Loch Uribol, whose lonely waters we are navigating, is one of the 
wildest of the strange sea-fjörds which everywhere intersect the 
Hebrides on the eastern side: vast narrow arms of the sea, bearing, 
in their innumerable ramifications this way and that, a certain 
resemblance to an outspread piece of sea-tangle, the main stalk 
representing the main fjörd, and the numberless twisted stalks and 
leaves spreading to left and right representing the numberless bays, 
creeks, and minor fjörds, which spread on either side. A boatman 
rowing straight up Loch Uribol, and perfectly familiar with the 
water, would reach the head after rowing about ten miles; but a 
stranger, attempting to perform the same feat, would wander from 
left to right, this way and that, ever mistaking some false opening 
for the real passage, until he would abandon the navigation in despair. 
Seen from the heights of Ben Ruadh, or the Red Hill, which rises 
above the fjörd on the north, Loch Uribol seems a wandering arm of 
water, broken by innumerable points, coves, green islets, and savage 
rocks, and so creeping in and out of the land that its course is very 
difficult to distinguish from those of the many fresh-water lakes and 
lakelets which surround it on every side. Beginning on the easternAMONG THE HEBRIDES.    57
coast, where it is fed by the wild waters of the Minch, it flows in and
in, and round and round, till it comes within a few miles of the
western coast, where it pauses, fed by a wild stream, which is fed in
its turn by a marshy and shallow lake of brackish water; and this last
lake, Loch Monadh by name, stretches on to within a quarter of a
mile of the Atlantic Ocean, with which it appears to communicate
mysteriously underground.
It is difficult to convey to a stranger's mind the utter loneliness
and desolation of the whole landscape of which Loch Uribol forms a
part. Wild weltering arms of sea-water with deep red stains and
blotches of outlying weed; flat, green, unwholesome islands strewed
with sickly greystone; vast stretches of low moorland, broken by
white gleams of fresh-water lochans, whence the wild sea-ducks arise
with a startled cry; larger fresh-water lochs, very shallow and
black, with gigantic boulders and crags rising out of them like jagged
teeth; the higher hills, purple with heather at the base and middle,
but rising abruptly into peaks of lurid granite: such are some of the
features which strike the eye where nothing is seen save in detail,
where there is no general effect save that of a map, or of the sea in
storm as seen from a mountain. The prevailing tone of all is a dreamy
grey---the grey of the rain-cloud which, floating hither over the
Atlantic, breaks here into dark vapour and wreaths of wool-white
mist. All is still, solemn, colourless, save where the sun transforms all
into wondrous brightness; save where the thunder-storm bursts, with
its bright purple voids and forked crimson lights; save where the rainbow,
here glittering with all the hues of the prism, starts out of the
sea like a spirit, and where, as if in answer to a spell, rainbows innumerable
issue out of the low-lying vapours and spread themselves
glittering over the isles. On every side stretches the sea, with its
restless voices: to the east the Minch, with a far-off view of misty
Skye; tot he west, the Atlantic Ocean, thundering on open sands as
ghastly in tint as a dead man's face. The habitations of man are few,
and scattered in the most lonely and unexpected recesses. At a first
approach, there is scarcely a sign of humanity, unless indeed the
red-sailed fishing-skiff be crawling out to the lobster bed in the sea,
or the smoke of the heather fire be rising from the sides of the
solitary hill.
Night, which beautifies and spiritualises all earthly things and
scenes, is lovely on Loch Uribol; and the wild mingled outlines of
land and water grow terribly pathetic in the silvern light of the
moon and the fluttering phosphorescence of the aurora. As we creep
along the fjörd in our boat, hearkening to the solitary song, the
prospect changes around us as in some fairy tale. Round dusky
points where the cormorants flutter their wings and preen their
plumage in the moon; through shallow bays with sandy shores,
whereon the heron stalks like a ghost, knee-deep, with his black
254558                              AMONG THE HEBRIDES.

shadow in the silvern pool, and where the mirrored stars are as drops
of pearls in the shimmering tide; through narrow black passages
where the sea-pigs are floundering with unearthly noises.

The dark scene around us is full of life.  A thousand sounds
hushed by day break the midnight stillness.  This solitude can
scarcely be called lonely, unless life itself be loneliness.

III.—THE FAIR AT STORPORT.

Fifteen miles from Uribol, as you sail southward along the coast,
opens Lock Storport, and at the head of the lake stands the town, or
village, or clachan, of Storport, consisting of a public-house, a shed
for dried fish, and five or six mud huts clustering around a white-washed 
school.  Some miles in the interior are churches of various
denominations, Protestant and Roman Catholic—desolate-looking
edifices in the midst of a desolate country.  Indeed, a more cheerless
prospect than Storport and the country surrounding it can scarcely be
conceived—a flat, green, marshy district, broken up with innumerable
lakes and tarns, and rising only occasionally into small hills.  It is a
walk of only five miles from Storport on the eastern coast to the white
sands of the western coast, where the surge of the Atlantic thunders
for ever.

The broken-down-looking inn of Storport, a one-story edifice without
"sign" of any sort, stands at the head of a large pier or wharf,
and for nine months out of ten stares with two glazed and fishy-looking 
eyes at the cheerless waters, broken with damp green islands,
projecting reefs, and floating weed.  The landlord wanders away
wherever business or pleasure leads him, and a dirty servant roams
to the fro through rooms innocent of the taste of whiskey or the smell
of smoke.  But suddenly, in the spring of the year, the fishy eyes of
the inn begin to sparkle and to blaze late on into the evening with a 
red and festive glare.  The herring-fishers, like a swarm of locusts,
have descended upon Loch Storport, and the whole district is alive with
the signs of life.

Who that has only visited Storport in the dull season would
know it now, on this fair day during the herring harvest?  A quarter
of a mile from the pier stretches a green flat island, and the space
between island and pier is full of fishing-boats of all descriptions,
anchored so closely together that they seem roosting like birds
on a bough.  Everywhere rises the blue smoke of peat fires: from
the shores of the loch, from the tiny islands, from the heights above
the tower;—everywhere are mud huts, tents, inverted boats, used by
the myriad fishermen for dwellings.  The air is full of the smell of fish,
the bones of boiled fish are scattered everywhere on the ground, fish
are drying on the beach and on the stones above the village, the boats
at the quay are full of fish newly caught—fish everywhere, and the
smell of fish; tempted by which, a crowd of gulls, hundreds uponAMONG THE HEBRIDES.                                        59

hundreds, are hovering and darting above Storport with discordant
screams.  Everywhere also are fishermen and fisherwomen in all costumes
and from all parts of the British Isles: from the cheery Isle of Man
fisher, with his oilskin suit and sou'wester, to the dull and dowie
Hercules of the East Coast, wrapped in wool and flannel enough to
suffocate an ox; from the quick shrewd girl attached to the east-
country boat, and cooking for the men and mending their clothes, to
the strapping women of all ages who earn their living by herring-
gutting, and live in all sorts of strange nooks ashore.

Everywhere close to the water's edge and in the water, fish, fishermen,
fishing-boats, wild women, nets, ropes, and oars: a confused
moving patchwork which fatigues the eye and bewilders the brain.

Passing hastily among the crowd of human beings, one sees more
magnificent specimens of male strength and symmetry, coupled with
more picturesque variety of costume, than could readily be seen
elsewhere under any circumstances.  The women are not so handsome,
but there are glorious creatures among them--"weeds of
glorious feature"--scarcely less attractive because they can put out
almost masculine strength if need be, and give and take those sort of
jokes which are more pointed in their language than delicate in their
meaning.

Through the crowd which besieges the quay walks Father MacDonald,
the priest of Uribol, his white head towering over all, and his
face looking at once grave, benignant, and kind.  Mingled up with the
crowds of strange fishermen and fisherwomen are drovers and their
dogs, mendicants, shepherds out for a holiday, farm servants in gaudy
finery, cattle-dealers with their pockets stuffed full of one-pound
notes, and ragged cotters of the isles.  Hand after hand is thrust out
to grasp that of the priest; greeting after greeting is showered upon
him; and many kind word and respectful salutation is thrown after
him.

Pass now to the declivity above Storport, on a road crowded with
country-people on foot and on horseback.  It is obviously a gala
day, though there are no signs of booths or shows.  The small
heathery knolls on every side of them are covered with black cattle,
sheep, shepherds, and drovers, and barking dogs,--a perfect sea of
bustle and commotion.  On one stormy height a lantern-jawed,
foxy-whiskered itinerant is preaching, to the obvious bewilderment of
half-a-dozen urchins and a semi-tipsy shepherd.  Along the winding
country road, as far as eye can see, the people are coming in a thin
stream; troops of cattle driven by shouting dogs, and ever breaking
from the track; poor women leading their solitary cows to the
market by straw-ropes; fat, red-cloaked peasant-women seated
sideways on horses in a wooden framework, with their fat legs cased
in coloured stockings and thickly booted, resting on a species of
wooden tray; herd-girls, red-complexioned, shock-haired, white-60 AMONG THE HEBRIDES.

toothed, grinning from their straw-stuffed trusses on the backs of
cows or oxen; tacksmen mounted on their sturdy ponies, and
crofters toiling barefoot; groups of men, women, and children, gaily
dressed, jolting in rude springless carts behind old horses that creep
along at the pace of snails.  Across the flat country inland, as far as
eye can see, nothing is to be seen but low green land and small
hillocks, broken up with innumerable lakes and stagnant lagoons.  In
the far distance peeps a spire; and still further, far as eye can see, a
great rain-cloud is poising over the Atlantic.

     On the knolls above the quay, where the cattle are legion, groups
of cattle-dealers and farmers are now wrangling together and bargaining
at the height of their voices.  The dirty inn is already crowded
with drinkers, and the excitement is beginning.

At the center of the crowd our attention is attracted to a wild
ragged-looking man, who, with wild cries and seeming imprecations,
is clutching the sleeve of an old man, and fast causing a crowd to
collect around them.  The speaker seems one wasted by hunger and
disease.  His black sunken eyes have the sparkle of death, his
cheeks are those of a skeleton, his lean hand is nothing but skin and
bone.  The old man whom he is addressing looks at him with ill-
concealed rage and contempt.

We cannot understand a word that is being said, though the look
and gesture of the speaker, and the occasional groans and exclamations
of the bystanders, indicate that the general tide of feeling is
running against the old man.

Carelessly addressing an old farmer who is looking on from a 
little distance, and whom we have just heard speaking English, we
inquire the meaning of the scene.

The farmer draws down the edges of his mouth and shrugs his
shoulders.

"It's shust a tenant pody that has ta'en a drap, and is speaking his
mind to the factor.  You've no Gaelic?"

"No.  Who is the old man, and what has he done?"

"He's Peter Dougall, my Lord Cairnmore's factor, and he's
cleared awa the man there, Neil MacKinnon, and the family, because
they couldna pay their rent."

"Oh, I see!  and the man is giving him a bit of his mind?"

"Shust.  He's an awfu' man, the factor; but what can a pody do
if a pody'll no pay rent for the goot land?  It canna be got for
naething, and it's no wise to offend the factor."

As he spoke, the factor, with a face cold as marble and nearly as
white, especially round the edges of the lips, shakes off the other's
hold and walks away.  The wretched being who had been abusing
him, and who has obviously been taking liquor on an empty stomach,
gazes vacantly after him with a look of wild despair; until a 
shepherd of his acquaintance staggers up with a bottle in his hand,AMONG THE HEBRIDES. 61

claps him on the shoulder, and offers him a draught of raw spirits.
He drinks from the bottle wildly, utters an hysteric laugh, and dis-
appears in the crowd.

      Towards evening the crowd greatly diminishes, for the enormous
fleet of herring-boats sails like a flock of crows to the open sea—there
to rock all night at their nets at the mercy of tide and wind.  It is a
calm day, however,—far too calm for the taste of the fishermen; and
it is a fine sight to see the red-sailed boats creeping slowly out of the
calm loch—some moving with full sails in the dark patch where there
is a little puff of wind, others with flapping sails being rowed slowly
through a glassy calm, all creeping to the mouth of Loch Storport,
where the breeze catches them, and they begin to lie over and beat
with some speed.  Smacks of all sizes, double and single luggers,
great skiffs, all speed to the deep-sea fishing.  The little bay between
the island and the pier is abandoned by all save two black coasting
vessels and several rakish-looking "runners," waiting to carry the
night's fishing south; and the water all round these is like oil, and a
few white gulls seated thereon are drinking the floating globules of
fat, while their companions, in one vast flock, have also departed to
spend the night in fishing on the open sea.

     Meantime the fun of the fair waxes fast and furious.  Sellers and
buyers have done their business; and all have now abandoned themselves
to merriment—that is to say, to furious drinking.  The
lowing of the cattle, the crying and singing of the men, the shrill
voices of the women, make day hideous.  On a smooth bit of green
above the inn a ragged bagpiper and a blind fiddler are playing
different tunes, and shepherds, herd-girls, farm-women, and drovers
are dancing like mad people, with the usual shrieks that accompany
the Highland reel.  Here a couple of men are fighting, not in the
knock-down English fashion, but tearing, screaming, and clinging to
each other's throats like wild cats.  The dirty inn is crammed,
and the sound of roaring and singing comes from the rickety door.
Half-naked Highlandmen in kilts are rushing about everywhere
with bottles of whiskey in their hands, beseeching their friends to
drink.

       Through the midst of the crowd, early in the day, passed a funeral
procession—six Highlanders in mourning two abreast, then the bearers
and their load, then six more men two abreast, all under the guidance 
of a man with a staff, under whose direction the bearers would hand
the coffin over to the others, and themselves fall back into the rear
until their turn came again to carry.  Behind the party came two
ponies carrying wicker creels with jars of whiskey inside, and rolls of 
tobacco.  The whole had moved along to a military march played by
a grey-headed piper, and disappeared to the burial-place up the
country.

      But now, towards night, back rush the mourners, free of their

254762                             AMONG THE HEBRIDES.

burthen, laughing and singing, every one tipsy as Silenus, and these
men become the wildest of the mirth-makers in the fair.

Night falls, and though the noise continues, the crowd grows
thinner and thinner.

Every now and then the public-house opens and some refractory
drunkard is shut out into the night, and the door barred in his
face.  It is curious to note the different behaviours of the various
parties so treated.  One man stares around him vacantly, smiles
feebly, and walks away unoffended; another makes the welkin ring
with his howls, batters at the door with fist and feet, utters
threats of the most bloody vengeance against all and sundry; another
calmly lies where the enemy has deposited him, drowsily singing in
chorus to the loud singing from within.  Again and again, during the
evening, there is a splash and a scream, and the alarm is given that
some one has tumbled over the pier in the dark; but there is no
fatal accident, as the water is comparatively shallow, and help is at
hand.

If any curious observer or midnight dreamer should be wandering
to-night among the hills and knolls surrounding Storport, he will be
startled every now and then by stumbling over a corpse-like recumbent
figure, which will either grunt out a sleepy disapproval, or springing
to its feet, spar tipsily at the disturber of its slumber.  Most of these
figures will be armed with black bottles of whiskey.  The highway,
too, will be sprinkled with drowsy bacchanalians.  More than one
well-to-do farmer is already lying tranquilly asleep on the road, still
gripping the bridle of the horse from which he has gently rolled,
while the quiet beast, used to its master's eccentricity, is patiently
nibbling the scanty herbage on the side of the road; and a little way
off, his head shepherd perhaps, quite as respectable-looking and quite
as respectably clothed as his master, is sleeping too, with his tired
dog curled up close to his head.  With very few exceptions, there are
no female night-birds of the tipsy kind, though out on the lonely hillside
more than one girl is lying coiled up in her lover's plaid, far too
sick and weary to take the dark road home.

Before daybreak, however, all the thirsty plants are cooled by a
drenching shower, and when the sun rises, or rather when he looks out
of the clouds with a ghastly countenance, just like one who has been
keeping it up overnight and is suffering for it in the morning--when
light comes, and the herring-boats are again at anchor, and the pier and
the shores are glittering with fresh fish, almost all the bacchanalians
have disappeared from the hills and knolls, and the inn has subsided
into its chronic state of dirt, darkness, languor, and general misery.4      NEW YORK HERALD, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1872.---TRIPLE SHEET.
MAP OF THE LAND OF THE ILIAD.
PRIAM'S TROY
Laying Bare the Home 
of Homer's Hector.
Excavations on the Site of the
Ancient Cities of Ilium.
THIRTY CENTURIES DISENTOMBED.
Traces of the Prehistoric Peoples
in Regular Strata.
HISTORY ONLY FIVE FEET DEEP.
The Trojans of the Iliad---Three Distinct
Arian Peoples Following Them---The
Historic Greek Colony Five Centuries
Before Christ.
The Great Tower of Ilium--Neptune
and Apollo's Wall.
PERGAMUS OF TROY---THE ACROPOLIS.
Pottery, Weapons, Implements and
Hand Mills Found---A Live
Toad of Helen's Time.
THE GREAT ARIAN SYMBOL.
Suns and Stars as Religious Signs---
Antiquity of the Cross.
One Hundred and Fifty Workmen
Digging a Trench.
Exploding Chevalier's Theory of
the Site of Troy.
ETYMOLOGY OF ILIOS.
Labors and Researches of Doctor
Henry Schliemann.
The following is Dr. Henry Schliemann's report,
forwarded by him to the NEW YORK HERALD, of his
patient labors, researches and successes on the
site of ancient Troy:---
EXPLODING FORMER ERRORS.
In the beginning of October, 1871, I began to
excavate, with eighty laborers, in the plain of Troy,
on the site of an ancient city, which, after having
been called Ilium during the long period of its
actual existence---say for more than two thousand
years---was renamed Ilium Novum, about one
hundred years subsequently to its entire disappearance.
Strange to say, the city was thus
named once more in the year 1788, by Le Chevallier,
the originator of the notion that the village of
Bunarbashi is the real site of ancient Troy---a
gentleman who never visited the spot himself, as
is evident from his work, as well as from his map
of the plain of Troy, in which he places Ilium
Novum close to Koum-Kalé, on the wrong side of
the Scamander, and consequently more than four
miles from its real position.
I had previously made, in August, 1868, a number
of small excavations on the heights of Bunarbashi,
between the village and the Scamander,
not certainly in the expectation that I should find
any relics of ancient Troy at that place, but only
to disprove by actual exploration beneath the surface
the theory that it had been there, for that
theory is in opposition to all the indications of
the Iliad as studied on the ground. My expectations
were fully realized by the result, for I always
came upon the virgin soil at a depth of less than
three feet, and nowhere did I find any
vestige of pottery. Moreover, the shape of
the rock, which is sometimes conical,
sometimes abrupt with steep sides and always
irregular, sufficiently shows that the space
between Bunarbashi, the Scamander and the three
heroic tombs on the summit of the mountain can
never have formed part of any city. Beyond the
three tombs are the ruins of a small city---probably
the Scamandria of the ancients---the site of which
is distinctly indicated by the remains of walls, but
which cannot possibly have had more than two
thousand inhabitants, whilst Troy must have had
at least fifty thousand. As Demetrius of Skepsis
identified the village of the Ilians with the site of
Troy, and Strabo believed in his theory, I also made
an excavation at that place, on the farm of my
friend Mr. Frank Calvert; but Demetrius was evidently
misled by a series of small elevations, which
seem to contain the ruins of huge city walls, but
which, in fact, are formed of the virgin soil.
THE SITE OF TROY.
Ilium certainly stood at the point called Ilium
Novum, on a high plateau which rises about one
hundred feet above the plain and termiuates [sic] abruptly
on its northern and northwestern sides. Its
site there is distinctly indicated by the masses
of broken and very ancient pottery found beneath
the surface and by the ruins of the walls by which
it was surrounded, and which appear to have been
the walls built by Lysimachus. The steep descent
on the northern and northwestern sides suggested,
naturally, that the Acropolis had been in that quarter
of the ancient city; and that it was so I found
good evidence, and indeed proved, by an
excavation I made in April, 1870, at the
northwestern corner; for I brought to light a 
buttress with walls of more than six feet 
thickness. The imposing position of this plateau,
which projects far into the plain, as well as its
natural defences, seem to have destined it for the
site of a large city, and since I first saw the plain
of Troy I have never had the slightest doubt of its
identity with the site of the Homeric Ilium.
THE NATIVE DIFFICULTY.
One half of the site of the Acropolis belongs to
my friend Mr. Calvert, at the Dardanelles, who had
made small excavations in various parts of his
field, but none deep enough to give satisfactory
results. The other half, which forms the northwestern
corner, and which for that reason appeared
to me more promising, was owned by two Turks---
Koum-Kalé---who would neither sell me their
field at any price nor give permission to
excavate, except on condition that I paid
a large amount of money and gave bonds
to fill up the diggings as soon as they should be
terminated. Confronted with this difficulty I applied
to the Sublime Forte, which, at the suggestion of
Mr. Trenaio, the learned Director of the Imperial
Museum, at once compelled the owners to sell the 
field at its estimated value to the Ministry of Public
Instruction, and generously gave me authority
to excavate at my pleasure. Therefore, with my
eighty workmen, as I said, I went at it in October
last and out a large trench from the [sinue?] into the
[*2548*]
[end of column]

mount. By the end of November, when I was
stopped by the Winter rains, my trench had
reached a length of fifty-six metres, and a depth of
nine to ten. As I have kept my measurements
generally in metres the general reader can count
the metre at forty inches English.
From this cutting I had most encouraging results.
I found the ruins of different ages in strata
of comparative regularity. I found the ruins of
historic times reaching generally only to a depth
of one and a half metres, and nowhere deeper
than two metres. In a depth of from two to four
metres there were no stones, and the calcined
ruins left no doubt that for ages immediately preceding
historic times there had been only wooden
houses here. Presently I shall speak of the objects
found in those different layers of ruins, and particularly
of the religious symbols, which
prove that the inhabitants had been of
Arian race. At a depth of four to seven
metres there was an entire absence of metal, and I
found a very great quantity of stone implements of
all kinds, finer pottery, all the houses built of small
stones, united with earth, and evidence that the
inhabitants were Arians. At a depth of from
seven to ten metres, all the houses built of unburned
brick; inhabitants of Arian race; very many copper
weapons and instruments, though implements
are for the most part of black stone (diorit). At
a depth of ten metres (thirty-three feet) I came
upon immense masses of large stones, and at once
believed that I had reached the veritable ruins of
Troy.
To this deeply interesting point I had come, as I
said, by the end of November, when my operations
were stopped by the rainy season.
DIGGING IN EARNEST.
In April last I began again with a force of 100
men, which number I soon increased to 126, and
ever since the number of my laborers has been between
one hundred and twenty and one hundred
and fifty. Since the Autumn I had received from
London some wheelbarrows and good English
picks and shovels. Mr. John Latham, the director
of the Piræus-Atheus Railway, had supplied me
with some of his best workmen, to serve as overseers;
and Mr. Cookson, the British Consul at Constantinople, 
had sent ten man carts and twenty
wheelbarrows. This time I opened a cutting or
platform of 70 metres breadth by 14 in depth (say
233 feet by 45), cutting into the elevation from the
north side, intending to carry this cutting through
as far as the Chiplak road---a distance of nearly
200 metres, or a trifle over an eighth of a mile;
but I did not find the virgin soil even at this depth.
Thereupon I cleared out a well which I had discovered
in the previous October, and there I found
the natural rock at a depth of sixteen metres, or
fifty-three English feet. In order to avoid the
labor of sinking the whole cutting two metres
deeper, but resolved to carry the operations to a
proper depth, I now began to lower the floor of the
cutting at an incline of one in eight, an inclination
that would give me the proper depth, as I estimated,
by the time I had advanced sixteen metres.
I went on thus for twenty metres. But the cutting
was made with very great difficulty, for the six 
metres at the bottom---that is, the six metres
lying immediately on the virgin soil---were
composed only of stones and rubbish---rubbish the
hardest and toughest I ever saw, and stones for
the greater part huge boulders. On the 1st of May
I opened from the south side, close to the Chiplak
road, a counter-cutting, directed to meet the one
advancing from the north. This I made only thirty-
four metres wide. As the surface slope on the
south side is more gradual than on the north, I had
to sin[k?] the trench more rapidly in order to get the
proper depth. But here also the difficulties were
very great, and increased apparently at every
step.
Seeing that with the difficulty of the cutting I
could not possibly terminate the work in the present
year on the scale in which I had commenced
it, I, perforce, limited myself to opening a platform
of 150 metres in length and twenty-four to
thirty in breadth; and this will now be [antsued?] in
a few days.
In the beginning of June I also began another
cutting in the field of Mr. Frank Calvert, close to
my large platform, at a perpendicular depth of
[end of column]

fifteen metres or fifty feet below the summit of the
hill and thirty-four metres in breadth, because certain
indications in that direction led me to believe
that I could find there the temple of Minerva. At
only one metre below the surface I came upon a
relic of Greek art, a fine sculptured marble of the
time of Lysimachus, representing Phœbus Apollo in
female attire, with the disc of the sun on his head
and supported on four horses of beautiful workmanship.
This slab is two metres long by eighty-eight
centimetres broad, and must weigh more than a ton.
I also found there a long Greek inscription which I
shall publish, and which refers to the Emperor
Antoninus Pius, who is therein called Titus [Ælius?]
Hadrianus Antoninus. The slab with this inscription
is also of large dimensions, and weighs
upwards of a ton. It stood, probably, in a temple,
which, to judge from the sculptured figure,
was that of Apollo.
In the hope of finding beneath this probable site
of a temple some ruins of the temple of the time
of Priam, I went on, but was soon led to believe
that at this point there was but little chance of
touching the virgin soil at a depth of fifteen
metres. Instead, therefore, of continuing this
second platform on the intended scale I only
opened in it a trench eight metres wide and six
deep.
HE FINDS A WALL.
At this part of the mount the accumulation of
rubbish is very great, and exceeds fifty metres in
width; for at that distance from the slope I came
upon a wall built of huge stones, joined with
clay, two metres in thickness and three in height,
which, as the layers of rubbish below it distinctly
show, had been built on the slope. Whether this
wall served as the sub-structure of some Trojan
temple, or whether it was the wall of circumvallation
which Homer (Iliad, vil., [432-452?]) attributes to
Neptune and Apollo, I am unable to say. Large
masses of great stones which I find in my trench
below the wall convince me that it was formerly
higher than now; but even if it had been but ten
feet high, this would appear sufficient, since the
site of the mount is, itself, at an angle of forty to
forty-five degrees.
Below and above this wall I find masses of that
splendid black pottery which resembles so much
the Etruscan terracottas and which I find here
exclusively in the two inches immediately above
the virgin soil, and this at a depth of from 14 to
16 inches below the surface.
The wall runs from east to west and thus completely
bars my passage. I shall go on with the
trench a little ways beyond the wall, but on a level
with it, because I cannot clear out the rubbish behind
without going to very great trouble, and I
shall leave that labor till next March, for the season
is already advanced.
A GREAT FIND---IS IT PART OF PRIAM'S TOWER?
Besides, my thoughts are now absorbed in another
important object. In digging the great
trench simultaneously from north and south across
the mouth, I came, July 19, upon a colossal structure
of solid masonry 12 metres or 40 feet in
thickness, and of a perpendicular height of 6 
metres (20 feet), built on the primitive rock.
Its structure is similar to that of the wall found
beneath the site of the temple, except that the
stones are smaller. As yet I have only been able
to clear so much of it as the breath of my cutting
on its south side, and of course its top.
This south side, which faces the remainder of the
high plateau on which the city stood, is slightly inclined,
so that at the base the wall protrudes about
one metre; the north side, which faces the Acropolis,
with the ruins of its palaces, is exactly
perpendicular, but is still buried in the rubbish.
In two days, however, I shall be able to clear it entirely,
as by that time my whole canal will be
ready. Just now I am excavating to the right and
left of this wonderful structure for two reasons---
first, to satisfy the curiosity of the civilized world,
as well as my own, what it is and what it can
mean; and secondly, in order to find a passage
for the rain water which my enormous cutting,
sloping at an angle of fourteen degrees, would
bring down with the fury of a mountain torrent on
this noble structure, and injure, perhaps destroy,
it---for who can estimate what its power of resistance
may now be? But the difficulty of making
such an escape for the Winter rains through the
stone-like rubbish I encounter can scarcely be appreciated
by one without personal experience of it.
If the structure does not exceed 40 metres in
length, I think I shall dig it out in three or four
weeks; but if it exceeds this, I shall make a tunnel
under the wall and open a trench to the north,
cutting so as to send the rain water by the steep
descent of the north side.
WHAT CAN THIS STRUCTURE HAVE BEEN?
The city wall? I find by measure that the part I
have laid bare is but 37 or 38 metres
from the western descent from the Acropolis
to the plain, and it is therefore not unlikely that
the structure was a tower in the wall, and it may
have been the great tower of Ilium (Iliad, v[?]., 3[3?]6),
to which Andromache went up to scan the plain in
search of Hector. By my excavations on the
site of the temple, I have proved that
the accumulation of rubbish there exceeds 50
metres, and thus it cannot be surprising if it is
37 or 38 metres here. If we suppose the tower
standing on the very edge of the western descent.
[end of column]

its position is most imposing, and it overlooks
the plain in all directions.
ITS FORMER STATE.
From the masses of stones I found on the south
side of the monument, I have no doubt that it was
once much higher than now. For the preservation
of what remains we are indebted entirely to the
ruins of Troy itself---which covered it completely---
which ruins are peculiar and cannot be mistaken
for those of the cities subsequently built on the
same site. Doubtless whatever part of the tower
thrust itself above the general level of the ruined
mass was thrown down by the next builders, who
were of different character and customs, and has
neither walls nor fortifications.
That this kind of architecture---stones joined
with clay---is as ancient as that called the
cyclopean appears to be proved by the fact that
buildings and walls of this structure have been
found in the islands of Thesa and Therassia below
three layers of volcanic ashes [68?] feet in
thickness, which were thrown out by an immense
central volcano that must have sunk into the sea
more than fifteen hundred years before Christ.
TRACES OF THE PEOPLE, UTENSIL, &C.
So far for the great remains of the ancient city.
I propose now to tell of the objects found in the
different layers of rubbish which are calculated to
throw some light on the various peoples that succeeded
one another here through twenty centuries,
and I shall begin with those left by the earliest inhabitants
(the Trojans), who built on the primitive
soil their houses of stones joined with clay. In
common with all their successors at this place,
until the beginning of our era, and,
perhaps, later, they have round objects
of terracotta in the form of volcanoes
and "carousels," with and without ornaments.
Some similar terracottas, without ornamentation,
are in the museum in Athens, and two ornamented
ones, which are found in the terra maris of Italy,
are in the Museum of Parma, but these are the
only examples I have ever seen in any museum. 
Here I find them by thousands, and about half are
ornamented. These terracottas are from two to
four centimetres broad and high, and have always
a hole through the middle. Those found at a height
of two metres above the virgin soil represent the
sun with his rays---sometimes stars are intermingled
with the rays--or the sun in the centre of a
cross. Copper nails seventeen centimetres long
were found on the virgin soil. There was no trace
of metal weapons or implements, but the nails
are a sufficient evidence that the people
knew worked the metal copper, and
of course weapons existed. I found many
small saws of flint stone, four and a half to five
centimetres in length, and hand millstones
of lava 33 centimetres long by 17 broad,
in the form of an egg cut in its length into two
halves. With little exception all the terracotta
vessels I found is the layers of rubbish of the
Trojans are broken, and but few can be put together.
Everything in the nature of pottery was
apparently destroyed in the huge stones that fell
in the ruin. But I possess all the pieces of some
black vessels and of one double red goblet, and
these I shall be able to reconstruct. I have also a
great part of a black double goblet; but of a dozen
more of these I have only the central part, sufficient
to show what they were. Without exception
all the terracottas of the Trojans of which I have
found pieces, and particularly the black urns
with Assyrian ornamentation---the shining black
bowls with a tube on each side, the very small
round black pots which represent the human face
(and of which I have one nearly perfect), as well
as the larger vessels and bowls with tubes on each
side for suspension and sometimes with three feet---
all attest
THE OPULENCE, THE FINE TASTE AND THE ART
of their possessors; and one sees at a glance that
these were made by a people altogether different
from those whose traces are in the ruins at a depth
of from seven to ten metres. I would particularly
call the attention of archæologists to the great resemblance
between the black Trojan bowls, plates,
&c., and the black Etruscan bowls and
plates, although whenever the Trojan terracottas
are ornamented, and whatever
the ornamentation may be, it is
always entirely different from the ornamentation
of Etruscan pottery, because in the Trojan articles
the ornamentation is always engraved; cut in
while the ware was still soft and unburnt, and the
cut lines filled with a white substance. Many vessels
are ornamented inside and out.
THE TROJAN PALACES AND DWELLINGS
in which these splendid terracottas were used
were of great size, because in their walls belonged
all the immense masses of hewn and unhewn
stones which cover these fragments in layers of
from four to six metres in thickness. The edifices
built of stones joined with clay, were are [sic] crumbled
together in a terrible conflagration, as is evident
by the calcination of stones and rubbish, and all the
houses contained was either crushed or burned.
On the primitive soil I also found a Trojan 
lamp consisting of a small round bowl 4 1/2 centimetres
in diameter, with four feet, each of
them with a hole, and a fifth foot in the middle,
without a hole. Thus the lamp could be suspended
or placed on a table. With the immediate successors
of the Trojans, I found a similar lamp in which
[end of column]

the small cup is joined to a saucer 8 centimetres
in diameter, and which has three crooked feet
and two holes. How this was used is not apparent,
for, as there is no hole in the cup, the two holes in
the saucer cannot have sufficed for the suspension
of the lamp. In the rubbish of Troy proper
I found a few fragments of terracotta,
with painted ornaments; except these there
was no trace of color with any other prehistoric
nation, save only with that whose
ruins are at a depth of ten to seven metres, and
here only the single instance of that huge goblet of
terra cotta in the form of a champagne glass
which has a uniform bright red color. For the
most partthe [sic] Trojan terracottas are indestructible
by moisture; to some, however, the dampness has
proved destructive. I found on the virgin soil a small
domestic burial place formed by three stones and
containing two urns with human ashes. These
urns were of a most fantastic shape, but they had
been so affected by the damp soil that with the
utmost care I could not take them out without
breaking them. I doubt whether I shall be able to
put these together, though I have all the pieces.
Beside the double goblet I also found in the tower
rubbish simple black and red goblets with handles
at the bottom, so that the vessel can only be put
down on its mouth. Similar goblets in great numbers
are at a depth of from seven to ten metres,
except that instead of a single handle they have a
double one in the form of a crown.
In the Trojan ruins proper I also found weights
of granite, hammers and axes of diorite, and small,
beautifully polished implements in the form of
wedges of a splendid transparent green stone, besides
small black terracotta discs of 5 centimetres
in diameter, with a hole through the centre;
large discs of granite 15 centimetres in diameter,
with a hole through the centre; flat pieces
of alabaster in the form of bottles and punches of
bone. At the same depth I found large masses of
bones, boar teeth, small shells and shark bones,
which, having been thrown into the court yards, 
were in that way, perhaps, preserved from the fire.
WHO CAME NEXT?
The Trojans disappeared with the destruction of
the city, for in none of the late layers of rubbish
do I find the least vestige of such walls
as they made; nor in the late terra
cottas is there the slightest resemblance to that
splendid, graceful and fantastic pottery made by
the people of Priam. On the site of the ruined city
new settlers of another civilization and different
habits and customs built a new city, and only the
foundations of their houses consisted of stones
joined with clay; all the walls above were of unburned
brick. Visitors to the Plain of Troy will
see in my excavations, at a depth of seven to ten
metres, many of these walls turned into one solid
mass of really burned brick, perhaps by the great
conflagration, but each single brick can still be seen.
SUMMARY OF MATERIAL RESULTS.
This, in addition to the wall above described
and the Colossal Tower, I can as yet offer to science
only fragments of urns, vases, goblets, plates and
bowls of wonderful execution, as mournful monuments
of a nation whose glory is immortal.
HEROES OF HOMER'S THIRD EPIC.
My account of these ruins would be incomplete
without the addition of a remarkable circumstance.
Amongst the great stones at a depth of twelve and
sixteen metres I found many large toads, and at
a depth of twelve metres one small viper. Probably
the viper may have reached this depth from
the surface, but this is out of question for the toads,
which, therefore, must have been where I found
them for more than three thousand years. It is
with a strange sensation that one looks upon living
creatures who were the contemporaries of Hector
and Andromache, though they be only toads.
WHAT THE RUINS TELL OF THE TROJANS.
Until last week the only Trojan symbol I had
found in all my explorations was the sun, and this,
it then seemed to me, might almost as well be no
symbol at all, since in one view it is universal, and
the absence of symbolical indications had left me in
doubt as to what race the Trojan people belonged.
But last week I found a large number of symbols
which enable me to say with certainty that
the Trojans were Arians.
THE SYMBOLS FOUND.
The cross, and that cognate symbol, which may
be described as a cross with a crotchet at the end
of each limb at right angles with the limb,

are the symbols of those two pieces of wood which
[end of column]

our Arian forefathers used, together with the
"pramatha" (from which the Greek Prometheus)
for kindling the holy fire ([ugul?]). The crotcheted
cross symbol was found on utensils discovered on
the banks of the Odor, and is a symbol of great
importance in religious history. Thousands of
times I have noted it in the Roman catacombs,
and it may be seen around the pulpit of St.
Ambrosius, in Milan. It is on a Celtic
funeral urn in the British Museum, which
was found in the county of Norfolk, at Shropham.
In the Ramayana this symbol is on the front of
all the ships with which King Rama transported
his soldiers across the Ganges, on his expedition to
India and Ceylon. Sanscrit scholars give to the
Ramayans a date of about eight hundred years
before Christ, and the expedition was four or five
hundred years earlier, for in the Third Book of
Kings we find Sanscrit names for the produce,
ivory, apes, peacocks, spices, &c., which were
brought in Solomon's time in Phœnician ships
from Ophir identified with the present Abhira),
and the names of the conquerors can scarcely thus
have come into general use, in a densely peopled
country, in less than two or three centuries. Rev.
William Brown Kerr assures me he saw this
symbol frequently recurring in the ancient Hindos
temples, particularly in those of the Gaion.
ANTIQUITY OF THE CROSS.
It is a subject for future investigation whether
the cross which has become a later religious symbol
is simply derived from this ancient symbol or is
another representation of the same two pieces of
wood with which the Arians kindled their sacred
fire. My esteemed friend, E. [Burnouf?], the Sanscrit
scholar, is of the latter opinion, and he writes me
that he knows for certain from the ancient schohasts
of the Vedas, from the comparative philology
and from the figurative monuments, that fire machines
in the form of a cross, without hooks, were
used by our Arian forefathers in the most remote
antiquity. He adds that the Greeks continued for 
a long time to produce fire by friction in this way,
and that they called the two lower pieces of wood
"stauros." This word is either derived from the
root "stri," which signifies "lay on the ground,"
and answers to the Latin "sternere," or from the
Sanscrit word "stavara," which means firm, solid,
immovable. Later, when the Greeks found other
means for kindling fire, the word "stauros" became
restricted to mean simply "cross."
On some ancient Greek vases in the collection of
Professor Rousopouios, at Athens, I also find the
symbol of the cross with crotchets. From all
which it seems to me certain that both the simple
cross and the other were symbols of the highest
religious importance with the Arian race at a time
when the peoples now know as Celts, Germans,
Persians, [Pelnagians?], [Hindoos?], Hellenes, Slavonians
were still one nation and spoke one common
language; and both these symbols I have found in
their most definite form on large numbers of the
small terra cottas taken by me from the lowest
stratum of rubbish on the site of Troy.
HISTORY CONTINUED.
The nation which immediately succeeded the
ancient Trojans in the occupation of this site also
remained here for centuries, inasmuch as all the
rubbish, at a depth of from ten to seven metres, is
from one and the same people. Here also I find
the two symbols described above---indubitable evidence
that they were also Arians. Here I find no
instance of the double goblet, but in its stead those
drinking cups with a handle below in the shape of
a crown, and those fantastic red goblets in the
form of a gigantic champagne glass, and with a
large handle on each side, so that they also only
stand on their mouths. I find here, too, drinking
cups of ten to twelve centimetres in height, ornamented
with a female face in high relief and with
no handle, and a great deal of splendidly burned
but uncolored pottery, such as water or wine urns,
from a metre to a metre and a half high and half a
metre in diameter; also small urns with human
bones, plates and bowls, vessels with a face
having only one eye, and this on the forehead,
probably representing a cyclope; vessels twenty
to twenty-five centimetres high, of a most fantastic
form, with a female face, breast and abdomen,
and in addition to the two natural ears two
enormous upright standing ears that evidently
served as handles; many vessels with a beak-like
mouth and short of long backward bent neck;
masses of small and large vessels in
THE FORM OF A BALL OR AN EGG,
with a short tube on each side and a hole in the
same direction in the mouth through which a
string was drawn to suspend them---many of these
have also three feet, and some are engraved with
ornaments in the form of leaves and branches.
Here are many curious vessels in the form of an
animal with a tall three feet and a long projecting
neck and mouth. They have an immense
handle on the back. I find also very small terra
cottas representing swine---representations of the
priapus---and beautiful terracortas in the form of
volcanoes and carousels with the most ingenious
symbolical ornamentation.
THE SUN INVARIABLY APPEARS
on all ornamented terracottas of this kind in the
remains of all nations that lived here, and I find it
almost to the very surface; also the symbol of the
cross with crotchets. But the sacred altar, with
the holy "agnt" burning upon it: the mystic rose,
the holy Soma tree, which gave to the gods the
amsit or ambrosia---all these symbols appear only
in the little carousels just mentioned, as found at
a depth of from ten to seven metres. The symbol 
of lightning, which closely resembles the Phænician
letter "Noun," I found represented sixteen
times on a small vulcano taken from a depth of
eight metres. In this case these signs stood in
groups of four, so placed as to form a cross around
a central sun. However, the symbol of lightning
is not limited to these depths, for I found
it also many times on the small vulcanoes
and carrousels at a depth of 5 metres. In all
the layers, from a depth of 10 metres nearly to
the surface, I frequently find the sun with rays
exactly as represented on the sculptured Apollo
found in the temple; but still more frequently I
find the sun in the midst of from three to eight
rising suns, which form a cross around it; and
similarly surrounded by stars in the centre of a
cross or of a cross and "pramantha." Sometimes
five roses are represented, of which four form a
cross and the fifth a "pramantha" around the
sun. On some terracottas there are fourteen clusters,
each of three sunbeams, extending like crooked
windmill wings in all directions from a central
sun, while the spaces between are filled with stars.
On others are three holy altars covered with
flames, and clusters of stars form a cross around
the sun; or four tails of sunbeams, or two altars,
with flames, and two crochetted crosses, forming
a cross around the sun, of with a cross each side
the sun, and the remaining spaces filled with stars.
All the small terracottas are of red and black clay,
very fine and hard as stone. Sometimes the same
forms are cut in black, blue or green stone. This
nation had also
HAND MILLSTONES MADE OF LAVA,
hammers, wedges and pestles, of diorite,
weights, mortars and discs of granite, slings of
loadstone and a great many small saws of silex
and volcano glass; but all these are of much better
workmanship than in the upper layers. Fla[t?]
pieces of alabaster, in the shape of bottles, the use
of which is unknown to me; balls of serpentine or
porphyry, [3?] centimetres in diameter, with a
hole through the middle; spoons of bone and many
bone punches are found here.
BARBAROUS  SUCCESSORS.
At a depth of from 7 to 4 metres all the
remains indicate the presence of an uncivilized
people of Arian race, which again destroyed Troy and
extirpated her inhabitants, for, as stated in my report
of November last (published in the Augsburger
Allgemeine Zeitung), there is no trace of metal in
these layers, and the architecture is altogether
different, for here the walls are all of small stones
joined with clay. Many of these house walls may
be seen in the sides of my excavations. Stone
implements abound here, but more rudely made
than in the layers below; and the terracottas are
of inferior quality, though their forms are graceful
and pleasing to the eye, particularly some in the
form of hour glasses 10 centimetres high, and 
with two handles; others in the form of teacups
with one handle, large ones with two handles.
There are goblets with female faces alike
in size with those previously described, but
the faces are so coarsely made that I thought
they were intended for owls when I first saw them
and wrote of them as such. There is much less
terracotta here than below, and some pieces---
balls covered with symbols---not found there.
These are 3 to 4 centimetres in diameter. The
surface of one is divided into eight equal compartments,
in one of which is a sun with ten rays,
of which four are straight, while the others appear
to represent religious symbols. One, I believe, is
for lightning; another has the form of a serpent; a
third resembles the number 3; a fourth is like the
Arabic number 2, and the remainder resemble fish
hooks. Close to the sun is a star; in the next
compartment is a holy soma tree with eight
branches, a quadrangle with two stars and a triangle
with four stars. In the third space is a soma
tree with twelve branches, a circle with a star
and a line with twelve stars above and below it.
In the fourth field is a soma tree with six
branches, a triangle with three compartments and
two squares; the fifth field has a sun with six
crooked beams and a straight one; the sixth has
five divisions, with five, four and seven stars, respectively,
in the first, second and third; a figure
like the Arabic number 2, and three stars in the
fourth, and in the fifth a simple cross. In the 
seventh field is a soma tree with ten branches, and
in the eighth is a serpent-like figure with a star.
On the other ball is a sun with thirteen straight
rays, and inside of it another one with two
crooked and seven straight rays; and then between,
the crotcheted crosses three clusters of
stars. Terracotta balls covered only with stars
in eight compartments are common. To this
[salno?]  nation belongs a well with sides of hewn
stones; and hand millstones are also found here.
FROM BAD TO WORSE.
There was another epoch in the history of Ilium
in the period represented by the accumulations
found at four metres. The city was again destroyed
and its extirpated inhabitants were succeeded
by a poor and miserable people still of
Arian race, for all the religious symbols still appear;
but the vessels on which the symbols are
marked are of different shape, some being nearly
cone-like. Pottery is scarcer and coarser here.
Copper was known to this nation, for there are
many lances, knives and nails of that metal. The
latter are curious in form, for they have either two
heads close to one another or no head at all, but
both ends pointed, so that a head was made by
bending over one end. All these houses
here were made of wood, and there are
no stones, even no stone implements, save
weights and hand millstones of lava, and saws and
knives of volcanic glass and sliex. One saw, [12?]
centimetres long by 4 wide, is so beautifully
made that I thought it was a comb. It was fixed
in wood, as the upper part shows.
HISTORY IS NOT VERY DEEP.
Pre-historic times terminated when the accumulation
of rubbish had reached about two metres below
the present surface of the mount, for at thatNEW YORK HERALD, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1872.--TRIPLE SHEET.

WASHINGTON.

Congress in the Throes of the Holidays.

HIGHFALUTIN ORATORS RUNNING AWAY.

Shilly-Shally Policy of the Man of the Avenue.

OUR OWN PARTICULAR CATACAZY.

Polygamous Questions Disturbing Virtuous Legislators. 

FUNNY FLAPPING OF LAME DUCKS.

Congress Before Its Race for Epizootic Geese and Turkey and Healthful Sauce. 

WASHINGTON, Dec. 20, 1872,

The Fun of the Holidays--Mobilier as a Convenience--Who Cares for Law?

The Crédit Mobilier people can hardly pass a
merry Christmas after the full exposure of their
operations as given in the HERALD. It appears
that some of the shrewdest men in the House were
tempted by Ames and roped in by Alley, although
others, like Boutwell and Banks, saw a cat under
the meal, and declined to thus enrich themselves.
This Spartan firmness of Boutwell's will be made 
the most of by Butler in engineering for him the
coming Senatorial contest, while Dawes will suffer.
Whatever Ames may say or may not remember,
the testimony already before the Committee shows 
that Dawes did receive and pay for ten
shares of this Credit Mobilier stock, and did
received dividends on it, although when it had
ceased to pay well he virtuously sold it back to
Ames. This will damage the chance of Dawes to succeed 
Wilson in the Senate, and it will enable Butler
to repay the damage Dawes did him when he endeavored 
to get the republican nomination for
Governor of Massachusetts. Wilson was another
of the victims of Ames and Alley, and they also saw
that the son-in-law of Dawes--Eliot, of the Freedman's 
Bureau fame in the House--had
his quota. Whenever Ames sought to ensnare 
a Congressman by offering him this
stock at par he would refer the victim
to Alley. Of course Alley would vouch for Ames
and then the latter would offer to guarantee ten
per cent on the stock offered, provided he could receive 
one-half of the income above that rate. The
lamest ducks after the Massachusetts men are Garfield 
and Bingham, of Ohio, and Schofield, of Pennsylvania.
  It remains to be seen whether the House will
tolerate as a representative a man who has deliberately 
sought to secure influence by beguiling his
colleagues into becoming stockholders. As for
Alley, he broke down so completely in attempting
to cross-examine Colonel McComb yesterday as to
excite sympathy for himself and pity for Ames,
who suffers from his adviser's stupidity.

Big and Little Statesmen on the Run.

"See how they run!" The three blind mice did
not display more alacrity in escaping from the
farmer's yard than have our Senators, representatives 
and lobbyists in leaving this Capitol to enjoy
their seventeen days of holiday vacation. The impecunious 
people of the district had hoped for the
enactment of the Deficiency bill, which contains
an item of $1,250,000, sadly needed to replenish
their exhausted Treasury. But Senator Rice persisted 
in taking up the time of the Senate during 
the first part of the afternoon with his
recital of the political feuds in Arkansas,
and the House gradually dissolved until it found
itself without a quorum and adjourned. When the
Senate did get at the Deficiency bill it was fought
by Edmunds, of Vermont, who does not think the
street in front of his house here has been properly
graded, and by Logan, who expects to be the capital-
in-the-Mississippi-Valley Presidential candidate
in 1876, but they were generally voted down, and
the bill was finally passed by the Senate with some
trifling amendments. Nothing can now be done
until the House resumes its sessions in January
to concur in these amendments and meanwhile
thousands of destitute people here will pass anything
but a Merry Christmas. The Board of Public Works
in carrying out their plans have not only spent all
the money at their command, but the appropriations
for paying the firemen, the police, and the
school teachers. It had been hoped that Congress
would have made the appropriation, and that these
funds could be restored to the Treasury for their
legitimate purposes. But now Christmas turkeys
can be purchased by submitting to extortionate
discounts on pay warrants by the Shylocks hereabouts. 
It was not gracious in Congress if it intended 
to appropriate this money to do it thus 
grudgingly.

Little Congressmen Hurrying Home for the Holidays--Blows Aimed at Our Impassable 
Executive.

The exodus of Congressmen homeward bound for 
the holidays commenced yesterday, and when the
House met to-day there was no quorum left. This
was to be expected, for during the week preceding
the holidays Congressmen are like schoolboys, impatient 
to hurry home before school is out. Mr.
Dawes vainly whistled for a quorum. There was
none to be had. The Senate was just then discussing 
the Deficiency bill appropriating $1,250,000 for
the Board of Public Works, which was passed in
the House yesterday, and the quorum was required
to be on hand for its final adoption in case the
Senate returned it with an amendment. Some
of the members were in the House
from a sense of duty, others because they
are property-holders in Washington and
personally interested; but it was all "love's labor
lost." At the opening of the proceedings Mr. Porter, 
from Virginia, introduced two joint resolutions, 
one proposing a constitutional amendment 
for the election of the President and Vice
President and the other for the election
of Senators by a direct vote of the people. The
resolutions were referred to the Judiciary Committee, 
and will doubtless be acted upon after the
holidays, as the complications that might have ensued 
from the death of Mr. Greeley, had he been
elected, have aroused Congress to the urgent necessity 
of changing the present cumbersome and dangerous 
mode of electing the Chief Executive.

Polygamy in Peril--No Gammon for Grant--Shilly-Shally Policy.

If the forecast of the political prophets be not
all astray, the Utah social and political situation
will next loom up as the great problem to be 
solved by the administration. The servants of the 
ancient seer and revelator, Brigham Young, are
already here in strong force, but with decreasing
confidence. Hooper and Cannon, the Mormon delegate, 
without his four wives, and Territorial Attorney 
Snow, are here zealously striving to
mould Congressional opinion to resist the coming
storm. The President has on several occasions
recently expressed in the most earnest manner his
determination to put an end to the lawless proceedings 
of the polygamous saints in Utah, and to
do away with their "peculiar institutions." He
has said that if necessary he will place Phil Sheridan 
at Salt Lake with 10,000 troops, and will enforce 
the laws without war. Leading Senators
and Congressmen are ready to pass the necessary 
laws, which will be presented after the holidays;
and acts, repressing polygamy in the future, while
protecting the unfortunate women and children--
victims of the Mormon creed--and regulating the
elections, will be passed at an early day. The
shilly-shally policy, as the President calls it,
will give way to one of energetic action,
and Brigham Young, it is expected, will speedily
place himself and followers in sympathy with
American institutions. Cannon is said to have

given up all hopes of obtaining his seat in the next
Congress. He finds opposition too strong to polygamy
and to him as possessing four wives. Rumors
of an impending change among high officials in
Utah are current. The President will retain the 
Judiciary, especially Judge McKean. All suspected
of want of vigor in aiding to peacefully remove
the "last twin relic of barbarism" will be set aside.
This is the programe of the administration.

New York Capitalists Getting Up a "Job" in Washington.

A party of New York capitalists, lately arrived in
this city, have in view the acquisition of the public 
lands of the District of Columbia. This scheme
involves the plunder of grounds in and around
this city, upon which the nation has already expended
millions of money. They propose to carry
out, at their own expense, all the improvements
contemplated according to the plan of the Board of 
Public Works, the cost of which is estimated at
about seven million dollars, if in return Congress
donate to them public lands worth a hundred millions.
They argue that Congress has been
tardy and reluctant to make the necessary 
appropriations, that the work is therefore going on
slowly, while they would carry out all the improvements
within the shortest time possible. They 
say they are prepared to spend $20,000,000 to beautify
the city, in order to raise the value of the 
lands, if donated to them. They count as nothing
the loss of all this property to the city and the nation,
which would thus have spent millions of 
money upon the lands in order to give them away 
as a present. This is the outline of one of the
most stupendous jobs ever conceived by audacious
schemers. 

Mr. Orton and the Postal Telegraph Scheme.

It is the current opinion here that Mr. Orton, the 
President of the Western Union Telegraph, has
made a bad impression upon the Appropriations 
Committee by his overbearing conduct toward the 
Postmaster General and the other gentlemen who 
did not happen to agree with his statements. One 
of the ablest members of that committee, who is 
not personally interested in any postal telegraph 
scheme, has said that Mr. Orton injures his case
more and more every time he comes before the 
Appropriations Committee. He says Congress will 
certainly adopt some postal telegraph plan, though
it may be an intermediate one. He himself considers
Mr. Creswell's proposition that the government
should assume the ownership and management
of the telegraph as by far the best solution of
the question. He doubts, however, that any 
postal telegraph bill will be passed during the
present session.

The Little Diplomatic Chap from Russia--His Dealings with the Holy Father.

Information has been received here that Mr. C. 
Catacazy, formerly Minister to this country, has
not fallen in disgrace with the Czar. Though
diplomatic exigencies required that he should be 
disavowed as a public functionary he is still in the 
services of the Russian government as a 
secret agent, and his talent for intrigue 
has lately found a profitable field.
Gortschakoff has employed him to carry on
negotiations with the Court of Rome, in order to 
adjust the ecclesiastical difficulties existing between 
the Pope and the Russian government with 
regard to the appointment of Roman Catholic
bishops in Poland. The version of the trouble is as
follows:--During the Polish revolution of 1863 six
Roman Catholic bishops were deposed by the Russian
government and transported to Siberia, because 
they would not submit to the orders of the
Russian government, which interfered with the free
exercise of their spiritual authority. After the 
exile of the bishops Russia desired that the Pope 
should name others to fill the vacant diocese. The
Pope refused, and has ever since maintained that 
the exiled priests were still the legitimate 
incumbents of those bishoprics. During 
an audience with the Pope the then
Russian envoy used disrespectful language 
to the Holy Father, who thereupon ordered 
him to leave the room. The Papal Nuncio was recalled
from St. Petersburg and has never since
been replaced. Negotiations have been going on 
between Rome and Russia, but without result. A
few months ago Prince Gortschakoff hit upon the 
plan of sending Catacazy to Rome in order to 
bring about some satisfactory arrangement. In
this he has succeeded by obtaining the 
concessions desired by Russia. The Pope 
has consented to nominate six new 
bishops who were recommended by the 
Russian government to fill the vacant diocese in 
Poland. Catacazy has obtained all the credit for 
this diplomatic transaction. It is said that Catacazy 
is on intimate terms with President Thiers, 
who supported him throughout the negotiations 
Thiers is said to have advised the Pope to comply 
with the desire of the Russian government,
promising in return to give all the assistance in
his power to the Holy Father. Catacazy is thus
reported to have been instrumental in producing
more intimate relations between France and
Russia.

Civil Service Reform
is being gloriously exemplified in Washington.
Congress favors civil service reform. No more
offices are to be filled by mere soldiers at the expense
of valuable services to Senators. The Warwick
of Pennsylvania is as unremitting as ever in
his efforts to purify the political atmosphere. He
is dissatisfied with fair and true men, and he does
not disdain to try his hand among the more humble
servants of the Republic. He is now engaged in
the laudable work of purging the government
printing office (an Augean task he avers) in the
shape of a young man who holds a situation there
as an assistant foreman.

Cappers for a Copper Company.

S.T. Snow, of the Revere Copper Company of
Boston, heading a representation  of 
manufacturers of copper and composition material
for shipbuiilding purposes, are now in this city in
consultation with the Maine Congressional delegation,
Mr. Dawes and the Secretary of the Treasury,
in regard to the admission of shipbuilding materials
provided for in the act of June 6, 1872. Their
object is to secure a wider application of 
the law which will be more satisfactory to, 
the shipping interest and entirely so to the metal
manufacturers. They will be heard before the Committee
of Ways and Means in January, and the indications
are that the act referred to will be
amended at this session of Congress to harmonize
conflicting interests and give it greater usefulness.

Allegators Taking Water in the Senate.

During the session of the Senate to-day, while
Senators Clayton and Rice, of Arkansas, were debating
the question of the appointment of a committee
to visit that State and investigate the recent
trouble, Senator Clayton denied the statements
made by his colleague, and said:--
The honorable gentleman may deny this allegation, 
but I can produce the allegators.
The President pro tem. was constrained to ask
the Senator what he meant by the term allegators.
Clayton explained that he referred to the parties
who gave him the information, and said they were
gentlemen of the first water. The explanation
was entirely satisfactory, the President recognizing
the intimate relation between alligators and water.  

Confirmations by the Senate.

The Senate in executive session to-day confirmed
the following nominations:--George Bliss, Jr.,
United States Attorney for the Southern District of
New York; John T. Croxton, of Kentucky, Minister
resident at Bolivia; vice L. Markbreit, recalled;
William B. Crosby, of New York, Consul General at
Rome; vice D. H. Armstrong, resigned; B. W. Brisbois,
of Wisconsin, Consul at Veeviers; vice C. W. 
Kleiberg, recalled; A. J. Cassard, of Louisiana,
Consul at Tabasco; vice F. M. Nemegyi, resigned;
William A. Baldwin, Collector of Customs at Newark, 
N. J.; vice William Silvey, deceased.

War on Consuls.

The list of foreign consuls is to be revised, and
the consuls recommended by Schurz, Sumner, and
Trumbull are to be rotated out on the 4th of March
to make way for the proteges of more steadfast republicans.

Naval Orders.

Masters Clinton H. Curtis and William E. R. 
Delahay have been detached from the Powhattan
and ordered to the Supply; Passed Assistant
Surgeon F. M. Dearborn, from the Ohio to the Supply;
Assistant Surgeon G. O. Allen, from the naval
hospital at Chelsea to the Ohio; Assistant Surgeon
William A. Corwin, ordered to the naval hospital 
at Chelsea; Acting Assistant Surgeon W. Elston,
to Mound City, Ill.

ARTISTS AT WORK.

Preparations for the Spring Exhibitions. 

Studios and Ateliers Brimming with Profession Business. 

The successful painter reminds one of the busy
little bee, of whom the playful emendator of Dr.
Watts remarked that it gathers honey all the day
and eats it all the night. The artist gathers art
honey all Summer and feeds upon it during the
frosty months. In no other profession is one portion 
of the year so exclusively devoted to acquiring
the material for labor and the other portions so relentlessly  
monopolized in making valuable use of
that material. The artist lives out of doors during
Summer and Autumn that he may to the better advantage 
work in doors when the cold months come
and Winter wraps the landscapes up in white
and draws her veil over firmament and field. Seldom 
or never have our artists been busier than
they now are. The ateliers brim with studies
glowing with the freshness of the Summer and
Autumn which have just elapsed. The greater proportion 
of the memoranda made by our more
prominent painters possess an originality and
vitality which will enter into the composition of
many a picture now in its initiatory stages. The
following list does not pretend to be a full one but
will be found correct so far as it goes:-- 

DAVID JOHNSON.
Two pictures are engaging the attention of this
artist. One is a view of Colwell, Lake George, noticeable 
for the delicious quality of its grays. The
other is a scene on Fourteen-Mile Island. The first
is a commission and derives a tinge of historical
interest from the fact that a portion of the ruins of
old Fort George occupies the foreground. Both of 
these pictures are to be reproduced hereafter on
an extended scale. 

FROST JOHNSON 
is profitably occupied with several pieces of still 
life which are principally remarkable for their rich
and subtle contrasts of color. "Ninety- two in the
Shade'" is the somewhat equivocal title of a just
completed picture representing a common street
corner scene in one of the proletarian sections of
New York during a Summer day. An average group 
stands around a street fountain--a laborer mopping
his unctuous face, a woman with a baby, a 
newsboy shouting the HERALD, a demoralized dog
quenching his thirst. The dog is too unconventional
to please the average customer, and Mr. Johnson intends
to commit the mistake of effacing him and
painting in some sleek and proper and wholly uninteresting
nonentity. The artist's studies in 
heads, mostly taken abroad, are unique. They are
simply studies of coloration from nature, and unite
individuality of color with strength of effect. Mr.
Frost Johnson is busy on a theme which illustrates
an idea borrowed from the late Nathaniel Hawthorne's
"Mosses from an old Manse."

WILLIAM HART
is pursuing with enthusiasm his new discovery,
made during his Summer absence, in regard to the
application of positive white--a discovery which
Turner made for himself long ago, and which may 
be said to be the keynote to color. All of Mr. William
Hart's future pictures will be painted according
to this standard. The latest specimen, to which
he is now putting the final touches, is "The Breaking 
Up of a Cloudy Day," the locality whence the
material was derived being Cape Elizabeth. The
light green of the sea and the tender blue of the 
sky are exquisitely blended. "A Scene on the
Ausable," is a complete song in color, the warm,
rich, passionate hues of Autumn being compared
and contrasted with a taste and touch that are
simply lyrical in their fineness and melody. Mr.
Hart brought home from his summer jaunt
twenty-five or thirty studies wonderful for their
brilliant vivacity and passing with the ordinary
amateur for finished pictures.

J. R. BREVOORT.
Three or four pictures, just finished or finishing,
are found upon the easels of Mr. Brevoort. The
scenes are principally taken from Farmington,
Conn. "Lights and Shadows of a Summer Day"
and "Autumnal Rain" are in the last stage
of completion. In the first-mentioned the
sentiment is that of a passive serenity and
the canvas is crowded with rich greens. In the
other a gloomy day of October rain is indicated--a
subject for which Mr. Brevoort seems to have
peculiar sympathy. The foliage lacks the vivid
and surprising contrasts for which the American
Autumn is famous, the distant hills are murky,
and the feeling of loneliness and desolation relieved
by the presence of but one solitary figure.
A third picture, just finished, and entitled "In October"
left Mr. Brevoort's studio only a day or two
ago, and occupies a place in the gallery of the
Young Men's Christian Association. The image was
taken at Gloucester shore, Mass.

LOUIS C. TIFFANY.
This artist recently ended a residence of many
months in and near Tangiers, Morocco and brought
back with him many picturesque and bold
studies. Some of these have been used for composition,
and Mr. Tiffany's easels are full of promising
works. "Outside of the Prison at Tangiers
is one of the largest pictures of the kind ever
painted in this country. It is in water colors, and
will be exhibited next Spring by the American
Water Color Society. It contains about twenty
figures, and is principally noticeable for the accuracy
with which it indicates the fanciful and
picturesque ensemble of the people and society. 
Of less interest than this are "A Street Scene in
Tangiers," two Moorish figures and "Six Logis,"
all in a very imperfect condition.

R. SWAN GIFFORD 
is surrounded with studies taken at and near Cairo 
and most of these memoranda enter into the pictures
he has lately painted or is painting. "The
Approach to Cairo" represents two camels bearing
burdens, outside the walls, the atmosphere has
that particularly hazy effect which is due to the air
being full of brilliant dust particles in incessant
motion. Another picture is the "Rosier Battery at
Gibraltar," which will be completed in three weeks.
A third represents one of the principal fountains in
Cairo, surrounded by a representative group resting
on mats and smoking pipes -- beggars, water carriers,
and the conventional Cairo "merchant," who
does the bookkeeping for all the shopkeepers in his
neighborhood. "The Fort of Cairo" reproduces a
landing piece immediately opposite the Pyramids
with freight boats about to disburden themselves.
The sky is a fair representative Egyptian sky, less
blue than the Italian, and absolutely cloudless. In
a picture, as yet in its earliest stages, its unclear
even to the artist, but meant to be strongly
characteristic of Egyptian life, lazy motion on a
warm day is the motive. Even in this initiatory
stage it is not impossible to believe that there will
be a sort of lotos languor about it.

ALFRED T. BRICHER 
is particularly happy in light and water and is
busily working on two pictures in which this felicity
is made abundant use of. One of these represents
a light effect on the Mississippi in which
little or no attempt is made at local coloring, but
in which the light glittering upon the water
is indicated with a glow and brilliance
beyond the reach of most artists ambitious
for this order of result. "Morning
on Narragansett Bay" is in an exceedingly undeveloped
state as yet. It will be full of figures and
incident, and Mr. Bricher expects to be busy on
these two pictures for some weeks to come. 
his just-begun efforts is "Shower at Sunset." Mr.
Bricher has also a large collection of studies from
nature in water colors, taken at Newburyport and
Manchester, Mass. The most noticeable of these represents
a September tide dashing in, carrying a
quantity of debris along with it.

MISS M. J. WALTERS
has made, for future use, studies of Brass Castle
Brook, Warren county, New Jersey; Belvidere on
the Delaware, and Saddle River, Bergen County,
just above Paterson.

BISPHAM 
has several important works in progress. One of
these is called "The Charge to the Front," and is
already sold to the Seventh regiment. Another is
the "Stampede of Wild Horses on a Prairie." The
artist has been working on it two years, and expects
to complete it this Winter. The prairie is
supposed to be on fire, and the horses are endeavoring,
with variously and intensely expressed
terror, to escape the rapidly advancing flames.
This picture is already purchased, and will be forwarded
to England in the Spring. "Cattle Going
Out in the Early Morning" and a "Portrait of a 
Pointer" complete the list of pictures which, during 
the Winter, will engage Mr. Bispham's 
The portrait represents a somewhat celebrated
dog, named George, which took the prize at a dog 

fair which possesses a history that collectors
of stories about dogs would find interesting. 

WILLIAM SATTERLEE. 
"Never Too Old to Dance" has just left the easel
of this artist. The scene is Italian, and the subject 
represents an old Italian woman dancing, as is 
frequently the case in that easy-going climate, with 
a young peasant. The coloring is very brilliant, 
a fitting contrast of the sanctimonious priest with 
the insouciance of the principal actors is cleverly 
depicted. Other pictures of Mr. Satterlee, in various 
stages of unfinish, are "A Glimpse of a Happy 
Home," representing a young girl wistfully regarding
some doves in an aviary; a "Flower Girl" offering
a bouquetière, making up her nosegay, and 
"The Song of the Sea," taken from Washington 
Irving's sad but delightfully told story of Annette 
Delarbre. 

J.H. BEARD 
has in hand several of his curious and unique pictures, 
which will be completed during the coming 
week or two. "The New Year's Call" represents
one dog visiting another, and, having exhausted 
all the commonplaces of conversation, one of them 
watches with anticipation a glass stand containing
New Year's cake and other dainties, while the 
other wears a bored expression, for which the visitor 
is plainly responsible. "No House Large
Enough for Two Families" is another equally original
and cunning theme, handled in that peculiar 
vein which gives a burlesque human interest to 
scenes of Mr. Beard's animal life. 

SMILLIE 
is illustrating the Yosemite for a work now in 
process of publication by a New York publisher, 
his work reproduces all the characteristics of 
Yosemite scenery--Indians, "big trees," wrecks, 
rock spires, fractured granite, and so forth. He is
also preparing for the Spring exhibition at the 
Academy of Design a large picture, for which 
he has as yet no name, representing Yosemite
Indians and guides making rapid escape 
from threatened danger. A comparison picture
to this will be "Evening Shades Among
the High Sierras," which, amid Mr. Smillie's multitudinous
work, may not be completed this season,
and which promises to abound with purple shadows
in nice contrast to the melting radiance of evening.
His studio is fairly lined with studies made in the
Yosemite. Among the more valuable are "The
Fort at Sentinel Rock," "Merced River," "The
White Cedars," "El Capitan," "The Dames," "Half
Dome," and "Eagle Peak Canyon." A water color,
"Mother and Child," awaits finishing, and will be
exhibited in the spring by the American Water
Color Society.

JAMES M. HART
has given superb illustration to that line in Whitman's
poem of "The Drover" which reads thus: -
Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun.
This line will probably be used as the title of the
picture, though a shorter one would perhaps be
more apposite. The subject represents cattle being
driven through a wood. There is a great deal of
spirit and action and pure feeling in this picture.
The passage is exquisitely painted. Another picture,
entitled, "View on the Catskill," is fresh from the
easel.

JOHN ROGERS
the sculptor, will, in a few weeks, finish a group
figure which he is now working, entitled, "The Favored
Scholar." Both subject and treatment are
fascinating. The figures are three in number. A
young and handsome schoolmaster is explaining a 
lesson to one of his scholars, a young girl, beautiful
and coy. His glances are bent upon her with a
tender yearning which the mere pedagogue could
never find, and the beautiful scholar listens to him
with a shy demureness, in which is perceptible a
consciousness of the emotion she has created in
her teacher's breast. In front of the desk at
which she stands sits a laughing boy, all unregarded,
who has adorned his ears with paper-curls,
desecrated the desk with grotesque devices, and is
using all in his power to make the favored scholar
smile. The sentiment of this work is delightful--
so pure, so delicate, so ingenuous and so earnest.

T. L. SMITH.
"The Moated Grange" has inspired Mr. T. L.
Smith. Two words, spoken in Shakespeare's "Measure for
Measure" by the Duke Vincentio to Isabella,
supplies Tennyson with material for seven twelve-
line verses, and Tennyson in turn has suggested a
theme to Mr. Smith. The verse to which the artist
acknowledges particular indebtedness is the one
beginning--
And ever, when the moon was low,
and the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
It is a picture in which one expects to find the
black mosses and rusted rails, the broken
sheds, the clinking latches, the flitting bats, the
crowing night fowl, the lowing oxen, the cold
winds, the blackened waters, the shaking poplars,
the gnarled barks, the level wastes, the glimmering
faces and the ghostly footsteps mentioned by the
illustrious author of "Mariana." The sentiment
which suggested all these minute particulars is
indicated by Mr. Smith, and the feeling
jumpiness and lonely isolation is reproduced with
painful intensity. It is to be hoped that Mr.
Smith will repudiate all suggestions to repaint the 
sky in the left background. The gloomy and lurid
tone that he has given it is happily adapted to the 
subject, and any alteration in this respect would
be almost sure to be for the worse. The picture
is not yet quite finished, but probably will be in
the course of a week or two. The final touches are
presently being applied to a lovely Autumn view,
complete with golden foliage, as warm but not as
dark as some of the Autumn studies of William
Hart.

PAGE.
The present résumé must include a reference to
Mr. Page's "Portrait of Shakspeare," which will
greatly evoke almost as much discussion in art
and literary circles as his "Head of Christ." It
should be mentioned in passing that, by those to
whom the "Head of Christ" is offensive, Mr.
Page is generally accredited with having
introduced Paganism into modern art
and with having been impiously ambitious
to paint a perfect anthropomorphic portrait. The
facts simply are that Mr. Page is one of the most 
orthodox of the orthodox, and that in painting the 
"Head of Christ" he merely endeavored to express
his own conception of absolute Godhood resident
temporarily in the form of man. His "Portrait of
Shakspeare" is the climax of long years of study
and effort. It is a repetition of the authenticated
Stratford portrait, but during the vestigations Mr.
Page had not ignored the existence of the Stratford
portrait and the Droeshout print. It is predated
[???] but when this artist [???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
[???] one may almost be termed a tentative
effect. At least it is regarded nearly in that light
by the artist himself. The scar over the right eyebrow
is retained to which the poet is supposed to
refer in the 112th sonnet, beginning:--
Your love and pity doth the impression fill,
Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow.
The distance between the brows is very great
and gives repose and strength to the countenance.
The eyes are as earnest as self-possessed, as reserved
and as unfathomable as those of the
Sphinx; the cheeks are florid; the lower lip has
that hanging look to which the dramatist may be
suspected to refer in one of Falstaff's passages,
and the countenance expresses a large, generous,
charitable, lovable nature, to which pettiness
was impossible and to which humanity was infinitely
dear. The portrait is intended for Judge
[???] and is now at Mr. Page's studio. This artist
will go to England in the Spring, where he will
most probably lecture on Shakspeare, a task for
which he possesses several eminent qualifications.

W. H. BEARD.
Upon the easels of this artist may be seen "I
Thought I Heard Something" and "Narcissus."
Both are imbued with a spice of that fantastic
creative which has contributed to whatever is bien
 né to Mr. Beard's reputation. The first mentioned
picture represents a dusky sportsman, gun
in hand, peering from underneath a prone tree
that in falling forms a hypotenuse, to which the
ground and the portion of the trunk that remains
standing hold the relation of base and perpendicular.
The sportsman is evidently looking in every
direction except the right one, for above him, on
the upper side of the trunk, is an immense black
bear gazing downward with hungry eyes. The
comic sentiment in this picture predominates, and
the very title implies that Mr. Beard had not attached
to it serious import. "Narcissus" is piquant.
It is a burlesque version of the fable of the beautiful
stripling who pitied after his own shadow. Mr.
Beard's "Narcissus" is a squirrel complacently regarding
its image in the water. The management
of the reflection is perfect, and this is the more
noticeable because nine artists out of ten fail in attempts
of this character.

JULIAN SCOTT.
"The Battle of Cedar Creek" is a very large painting,
twenty feet by ten, which will almost monopolize
Mr. Scott's attention during the Winter. The
[???] study is comparatively insignificant.
When the preparer of this article called on Mr.
Scott, the large painting had not yet been transferred
to that artist's new studio, and, consequently
was not visible. It will be one of the largest
pictures of the kind ever painted in this country,
and the historical interest will enhance the pertinency
of public curiosity in regard to it. The only
other picture upon which Mr. Scott will probably 
labor much during the next few months is "Farragut
at Port Hudson," in process of completion,
for one of the Farragut family. It will presently
be transferred from West Point, where it is now.
It represents Admiral Farragut on the poop-deck
of the Hartford, teaching his son how to tie a tourniquet.
Not having yet seen the work, it is impossible
to announce its merits.

W. J. HAYS
has, unfortunately, been something of an invalid
for the past two years, and, therefore, has not as
many studies on hand as the admirers of his "Buffalo
Hunt," "Prairie on Fire" and "Prairie Dogs"
would wish. In fact, only one picture, and that a
small one, is occupying his brush at present. It
represents four deer, and is named "Scene in the
Autumn Woods." It is graceful and spirited, and
the fixed expressions of all the animals, and the
startled appearance of one, are very clever and
natural reproductions. But Mr. Hays is never so
much at home as when delineating life on the prairie.
He has made these a peculiar and enthusiastic
study, and indicated them upon canvas with
a vivid fidelity to which it is not easy to give too
much praise. The swells and undulations, as soft
and inviting as though they were the literal breasts
of Nature, in his chef d'oeuvre of "The Prairie Dogs"
are wonderful in the harmonious and tender mu[???]
with which they subside into each other.
But since none of the pictures except the work
representing the four deer, now in hand, are new,
it is pointless to linger over them here.

J. McENTEE.
The latest work in which Mr. McEntee has expressed
himself is termed "Looking Out to Sea,"
the Massachusetts coast, near Gloucester, furnishing
the material. For beauty of effect and elaborateness
of finish it will compare with two 
completed pictures, one of which the artist has repainted,
and both of which have their scenes laid 
among the Catskills. One of these efforts is 
strangely beautiful. It gives the interior of a 
forest that has undergone the bewildering transfigurations
of Autumn. The silver cord of September
is loosed, and the golden bowl of October 
is broken, and the last red and golden blood-drops 
of November are spilled. The ground is carpeted 
with tawny, rich-hued leaves, there is a delicate 
tracing of foliage overhead and in the midst of 
the luxuriant yet lonely scene is discerned the 
figure of a solitary woman seated on a prostrate 
trunk. It is such pictures as these which mar the 
effect of "Looking Out to Sea." One of the disadvantages
of exceptional merit is found in the very 
criterion it unconsciously makes itself. 

S. R. GIFFORD.
A very beautiful and romantic theme has fascinated
Mr. S. R. Gifford--"A Foggy Morning on the
Golden Horn." The locality, as the reader is 
aware, is between Stamboul and Pera, the Bosphorus
and the Sea of Marmors. It will be in time to 
return to this picture when a minuter degree of 
finish shall render a fairer estimate possible. A 
just completed work is "Rheinstien," presenting a 
castle on Rhine, near Bingen, the summit
steeped in sunlight and the base reposing in 
shadow. 

F. R. CARPENTER. 
A great deal of labor has been projected by this 
artist for the Winter which has just set in. Until
the last few days he has been employed at his 
country studio in repainting his celebrated "Emancipation
Proclamation," which may now be said to 
be the final result of eight years of thought, experience
and observation. One of the last expressed 
wishes of President Lincoln was that this picture
should be owned by Congress, and all 
who revere the lessons of Mr. Lincoln's 
life and character will be glad to learn that there
is now a fair chance of this desire being realized. 
The picture enjoyed the advantage of being painted 
at the White House, under Lincoln's own eye. It 
contains portraits of Lincoln, Seward, Stanton, 
Chase, Welles, Caleb B. Smith, Blair and Bates. 
Mr. Carpenter will likewise finish, during the next 
few months, his picture of "The Joint High Commission,"
begun last year, just after the signing 
of the treaty. It include likenesses of Earl De 
Great, Northcote, Tenterden, Sir John Macdonald, 
Bernard, Sir Edward Thornton, Secretary Fish, 
General Schenck, Judge Nelson, Bancroft Davis, 
judge Hear, and Judge Williams. Other works in 
the later stages of finish are full-length portraits
of the Hon. Asa Packer, of Pennsylvania, for the 
Lehigh University, which he founded; Ezra Cornell, 
for Cornell University; James Russell Lowell,
for the same university; and Dr. Chapin, for the 
new Chapin Home for the Aged and Infirm. 

CONSTANT MAYER 
has this time extracted inspiration from those 
lines in Gray's "Elegy" which read:--
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood. 
He has named his picture "The Village Hampden," 
and surely a more felicitous title has not often been
bestowed. It represents a little rustic tatterdemalion
of six or seven, hands in pocket and frown on
brow, with pugnacity oozing out of every pore, and
generosity of the face. The very costume is a valuable
study in the ragged picturesque. The theme 
is simplicity itself, but it is handled so genially and
powerfully, such strong and rustic individuality is
indicated in the attitude and expression, and the
entire sentiment is so happily crystallized in the
title, that "The Village Hampden" will probably be
among the most popular of M. Mayer's lucubrations.

M. F. H. DE HAAS.
Sunset and moonlight effects are among the
favorite efforts of this artist. Accordingly two
fresh, unfinished specimens in this line are to be
found on his easels. The one nearer completion 
represents "Moonlight on the Coast of Maine." The
effect is very peculiar--the roseate after-glow of
sunset being in strong contrast to the shower of
yellow light raining from the perfectly risen moon
and strongly tinging the water. The sky needs
mellowing, and this belongs to the unaccomplished
portion which will immediately employ Mr. M. F.
H. de Haas' brush. The other picture, only half
finished, is "Sunset on Long Island Beach," with
the usual fishing boats in the distance and desultory
groups on shore. One or two weeks' work remains
to be done on it.

WM. F. DE HAAS.
For many weeks past Mr. William F. de Haas has
been working at a picture representing Appledore
Island, among the lsles of Shoals. The season of
the year is September, just after a northeast gale
has ceased and the wind has veered to the west.
The water at this point is perfectly clear, the rocks
are clean, and consequently no mud or sand mixes
with the breaking waves to lend them a yellow
tint. A bright green characterizes the breakers as
they dash over the rocks, an effect not often seen
save at this and similar localities. The green is
in vivid contrast to the water in the distance,
deeply tinged with the blue firmament it reflects.
Mr. William F. de Haas intends, however, to modify
this deep azure by introducing clouds, and thus
tempering the reflection. Two smaller pictures 
are "The Shawangunk Hills," near the Catskills,
and "Morning on the Coast of Maine." In the last
mentioned picture the light of the rising sun is
represented as softly filmed by the misty atmosphere,
so that its yellow glare, losing its intensity,
subsides into a golden glow. Mr. William F. de
Hass' principal work, however, is "The Appledore
Island" scene, which promises speedy completion.

WEATHER REPORT.

OFFICE OF THE CHIEF SIGNAL OFFICER, WASHINGTON, D.C., DEC. 21--1 A. M.

Probabilities.

For the New England and Middle States fresh and
occasionally brisk northerly to westerly winds, clear
and clearing weather and falling temperature. For
the South Atlantic States northeasterly to northwesterly
winds and clearing, but partly cloudy 
weather, with lower temp return. For the Gulf
States, Tennessee and Kentucky, northeasterly to 
northwesterly winds and clear weather with low
temperatures. From the Ohio Valley and Missouri
[?] Lake Erie and Upper Lakes southerly to 
westerly winds and generally clear and cold
throughout.

The Weather in this city Yesterday.

The following record will show the changes in
the temperature for the past twenty-four hours in
comparison with the corresponding day of last
year, as indicated by the thermometer at Huduut's 
Pharmacy, HERALD Building:--

1871.
3 A. M. ..... 24
6 A. M. ..... 22
9 A. M. ..... 26
12 M. ..... 18

1872.
30
34
38
40

1871.
3:30 P. M. ..... 15 
6 P. M. ..... 11
9 P. M. ..... 8
12 P. M. .....  5

1872.
39
37
38
33

Average temperature yesterday ..... 38 1/2
Average temperature for corresponding date last year .....16 1/2

Trains Delayed by Snow Drifts Ten Feet Deep.
POUGHKEEPSIE, N.Y., Dec 20, 1872.
The morning passenger train on the Poughkeepsie
and Eastern Railroad, coming West, was detained 
five hours at Boston Corners, this morning,
by snow drifts ten feet deep. A furious gale of 
wind was prevailing there at the time, and the
Harlem trains did not date to cross the high embankment,
on which trains have been blown from the track.

Snow and Rain in Boston.
BOSTON, Dec 20, 1872.
Three inches of snow fell here after midnight, 
but it is snowing heavily this morning.

"Old Probabilities" at Fault for Once.
CHICAGO, Dec. 20, 1872.
The great storm of yesterday throughout the
Northwest occurred contrary to the predictions
of the Weather Bureau of the War Department.
For two days the weather report had been announcing
clearing and fair weather, when it persisted
in being cloudy, and, after a dash of snow
the day before yesterday, ended yesterday with
once of the most extensive storms witnessed here
for a long time.  Twelve hours after the storm had
generally commenced the Weather Bureau came
out with the probabilities for to-day, predicting 
what had already passed.  The sky was bright and
clear this morning, although every thoroughfare
was 
BLOCKED WITH SNOW.
The snow storm appears to have extended
over a large extent of the country. Trains arriving
here last night and this morning on
nearly all the roads were more or less delayed, but
no serious inconvenience has resulted. To-day the
weather is clear and bright.

Three Inches of Snow in St. Louis.
ST. LOUIS, Dec 20, 1872.
The mercury this morning was eighteen degrees
below zero, which was the lowest for the past five
years.

Snow Accident in Utah.
SALT LAKE CITY, Dec. 20, 1872.
There have been heavy storms in the mountains
here.  There was a snow-slide at Alta, by which the
buildings of the mine were carried away. Two 
men were severely cut and bruised, and two others
were taken down by the slide, but were not seriously 
injured.

Severe Storm at Halifax.
HALIFAX, N.S., Dec 20, 1872.
A heavy snow storm has prevailed all day from
the northeast. The storm has prevented the arrival
of any train from the West or East since yesterday. 


NEW ORLEANS

Seizure of the Times by the United States Marshal.

The Citizens' Committee in the Supreme Court.

Associate Justice Bradley Not Decided to Go to Louisiana.

Marshal Packard Takes Possession of the New Orleans Times.
NEW ORLEANS, Dec. 20, 1872.
A high handed outrage has been perpetrated to-day
on the press on a trumped-up charge involving 
only $1,500, but alleging fraud. The New Orleans
Times was seized by the United States Marshal
by order of Judge Durrell. Although double 
the amount was offered in discharge of the debt a 
release was refused. The Times has been very
severe lately in its comments upon Durrell. This 
act is regarded by the public as an attempt to stifle
the press. Great indignation exists throughout 
the city.
 
Mr. Justice Bradley to Use His Own Judgment Whether He Will Go to Louisiana
Or Not.
WASHINGTON, Dec. 20, 1872.
After the Supreme Court adjourned to-day ex-Judge 
Campbell and others of the sub-committee
of the Louisiana delegation, had a conference with
the Judges of the Court, and gave their reasons why
they desired Associate Justice Bradley to proceed
to New Orleans to review the general proceedings
of Judge Durrell. Judge Bradley, instead of going 
thither on his own volition, preferred that the request
to do so should come from his colleagues,
who took the matter under advisement.
It was subsequently ascertained the Judges came
to the conclusion that it now remains with Associate 
Justice Bradley himself to decide whether he
will go to New Orleans for the purpose already 
stated.
After leaving the Supreme Court this morning
the committee held a private meeting at Willard's.
The committee, at their meeting this afternoon,
agreed to issue an address to the people of the
United States, setting for the law and the facts
in the case now disturbing that State, and to petition
Congress for relief when its session shall be
resumed, immediately after the holidays.
The committee adjourned to meet in New York
on Monday next, the committee having been invited
by prominent men of all parties to visit New
York and lay the whole matter before the people.
Subsequently the committee went to the Capitol
and paid their respects to Speaker Blaine in his reception
room.

The New York Programme Changed.
WASHINGTON, Dec. 20, 1872.
The New Orleans delegation at a meeting to-night 
reconsidered the resolution adopted this morning
to visit New York in a body, to present their
grievances to the merchants of that city. It is now
determined to leave Judge Campbell to prepare an
address to the American people, and for this purpose
the Judge, accompanied by two members of
the sub-committee left for Baltimore this evening,
where he will remain until the task is finished.
The address will give a clear and succinct history
of the troubles, the efforts put forth by 
the administration to hold the balance of power in
the State, and the proceedings before the United
States Courts, bringing history down to date.
It will repudiate political application, and directly
claim to be the expression of the citizens of Louisiana,
irrespective of party. It is understood to-night 
that the request of the delegations to have
Justice Bradley visit New Orleans and hear the
case now pending before Judge Durrell will not be
acceded to, as under the circumstances to comply
with the committee's request would, it is said,
virtually impugn the correctness of Judge Durrell's 
proceedings.

THE PACIFIC COAST.

The Wreckers at Work on the Sunken Steamship Sacramento--Hopes of Saving
Most of the Furniture, Machinery, &c.--The Modoc Indians Bold and Defiant.
SAN FRANCISCO, Dec. 20, 1872.
Advices from San Diego indicate nearly all
of the [???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
[???]
moving very slowly. The Indiana [???] to fight the
troops ten to one and will never surrender.
An attack by the troops is momentarily expected
to take place. Captain Jack's camp is not so difficult
to be reached as was at first supposed. The
Modocs came back to the old battle ground on Lost
River and challenged the troops to fight them. A
few shots were exchanged without effect on either
side. The Modocs were seen on the mountains
watching the movements of the soldiers. Volunteers 
have gone to Yreka for more arms and ammunition.
A movement is on foot among certain capitalists
here to convert the vacant Pacific woolen mills in
this city into a cotton factory. It is believed that 
the cotton crop of this State for the coming year
will amount to 500,000 pounds. 
Every British ship in this port has been supplied
with crews at $35 per month each, without bounty.
American ships pay $30 per month, without 
bounty. Eight boarding house masters claiming
bounty were brought before the United States Circuit
Court to-day and gave bail in $500 each.
A performance will be given on Tuesday night at
the California Theatre for the benefit of the family
of the late Colonel Albert S. Evans, who lost his life
by the burning of the steamship Missouri.

OBSCENE LITERATURE.

A Large Quantity of the Matter Captured.

John Wesley Nichols and George Francis Train
were arrested last night by Captain Byrne, of the
Fifteenth precinct, upon bench warrants issued
upon complaint of Mr. Comstock, President of the
Young Men's Christian Association, charged with
publishing and putting in circulation an obscene
paper. Nichols was captured at his place of business,
No. 535 Broadway, and Train at the residence
of Dr. Schefferber, 313 West Twenty-second street.
While Captain Byrne was watching for the appearance 
of the men in front of Nichols' store, he 
noticed a boy leave the place, and, sending Detective
Carr to look after the boy's movements, the
police discovered he was making arrangements
for the transfer of a quantity of the papers to
some place down town. Sufficient time was allowed
the people in the store to get everything
ready, and when the truck the boy hired
had gone a little way down Broadway the parcels
were seized. Officer Young, on taking the matter
to the station, found the parcels that were in the 
cart contained about two thousand copies of the
paper. Detective Henderson then arrested 
Nichols, and, after locking him up, returned to
Captain Byrne, and both proceeded to the house in
Twenty-second street, where Train was concealed.
He was taken from there to the Fifteenth precinct
station and will be sent before Judge Ingraham
this morning at eleven o'clock.

BOWLES BROTHERS & CO.

The Property of Mr. Appleton in Newport Attached by the Creditors of the Late
Banking Firm.
NEWPORT, R.I., Dec. 20, 1872.
The property of Nathan Appleton, of Boston,
situated on Bellevue avenue, was attached to-day
by the creditors of the banking house of Bowles 
Brothers. The estate is represented to be worth
$60,000, but would not probably net more than
$50,000 were it put by auction. 

FIRE LAST NIGHT.
A fire broke out at eleven o'clock last night at 
No. 314 East Thirty-fifth street, in the sash and
blind manufactury occupied by George Weyer.
The building is surrounded by tenement houses
and the fire created considerable consternation
among their inmates, who were seen in groups at
every window. Two of the steamers were damaged
in getting to the scene, but the flames were 
easily subdued. The loss was $2,000 on stock and
$500 damage to the building. The fire originated
in the boiler room. Weyer, who was twice barned
out in Forty-second street, had but recently removed
to the building.Site of ancient Troy
N.Y. Herald
Dec 21, 1872

depth I came upon Hellenic masonry of large hewn stones, joined without any binding material, and above them remains of housewalls of brick or stone,
joined with cement or lime. Now and then I find at a depth of 2 metres, painted and unpainted Greek pottery, which leaves no doubt that Ilium was in the hands of Greeks when the surface of the mount was two metres lower than it is now. At whatever time this new colonization occurred it was certainly long previous to the visit of Xerxes in 480 B. C. Fluted pottery, to which archaeologists ascribe the age of 200 B. C., occurs at a depth of one metre. Those small, round terra cottas, with a hole through and ornamented with the sun with a halo, or surrounded by stars in the centre of a cross or in the centre of three, four, five or six rising suns, are here almost at the surface. How all these identical symbols passed from the pre-historic to the historic time and remained in fashion in the latter for so many centuries I understand as little as I do the use of those little volcanoes and carrousels. That they were not worn seems evident from the fact that not one in all the number indicated the presence of any means of suspension.

All those large urns found in the upper layers belong to the historic time. Seven of these I sent to the Imperial Museum at Constantinople. It bewilders the thought to note that THE ACCUMULATED RUBBISH OF PRE-HISTORIC TIMES extends in this place through fourteen metres of perpendicular depth, and that of historic times only through two metres. But if we consider as is the fact that the vast masses of rubbish of Illium proper---the stumps of its great towers and the huge stones cast down that filled the spaces between---make a depth of six metres, and that the debris of houses of unburned brick built during centuries is laid upon this; that again for other centuries houses of small stones joined with clay made in their ruin another considerable addition to the depth, and that for ages all succeeding houses were built of wood; considering that no people used in its building the material found on the spot, but all brought new material from a distance, it may not seem wonderful that the accumulations should at length make a rubbish whose depth is equal to the height of the ordinary houses in a modern city like Paris. 

ETYMOLOGY OF THE HOMERIC NAME FOR TROY.

I am well aware that the Sanscrit scholars derive the words Ilios and Helios (the sun) from a lost form of Selene, the moon, and probably from Seirios, the form Sira being found in the Veda; and that they believe Ilios and Ilion as names of this ancient city are from the Sanscrit Vilu, which signifies fortress. But I would call the attention of philologists to the wonderful coincidence that I should discover thousands of volcanoes and carrousels with the symbol of the sun---the name of which luminary is in modern Greek pronounced exactly in the same way as the name of this city---Ilios; that being the name of the city in Homer, who only once calls it Ilion. I think scholars of the cuneiform inscriptions have proved by the cuneiform spelling of the Greek words that the modern Greek pronunciation was already in use as far back as the time of the Selencidae. But for some remaining difficulties of comparative philology I would say that the innumerable representations of the sun on these small terra cottas were nothing else but a picture writing for the name of this city---Ilios. 

AN APPEAL FOR HELP.

The great wall found on the north side of the mount, as well as the tower I am uncovering, are doubtless parts of those great encircling walls which Homer ascribes to Neptune and Apollo, and I apprehend no difficulty in tracing them out fully, and thus demonstrating the form, plan and dimension of Troy. But the expense is too great for private fortunes, and I hope some government will undertake to conclude the labor, in which case I would joyfully cede my "firmin" and freely give my houses here and all my implements and machinery, and I would then at once proceed to my cherished project excavating the temple of Apollo, at Delphi. Otherwise I will continue to do at Troy all that I can at my own expense. As a reward for the vast work I have done, for the great expense I have incurred, and for all my privations and sufferings in this wilderness and pestilential climate, but above all, in consideration of my success, I trust that the civilized world will give me the right to rebaptize these sacred precincts with their right names, and in the name of the divine Homer I give them once more those names of immortal glory which fill every man's heart with joy and enthusiasm: I call them Troy and Ilium, and I designate

"PERGAMUS OF TROY"

the acropolis whereon I write these lines.

Any information that may be called for I shall be happy to give; but as my health is broken, and as the plain of Troy is now infested with pestilential fevers I will, after the end of August, be in Athens. 

DR. HENRY SCHLIEMANN.

2548A
DECEMBER 21, 1872.—TRIP

The Site of Homer's Troy--Dr. Schliemann's
Excavations.

The deeply interesting letter to the HERALD
from Dr. Henry Schliemann, respecting his
vast labors in search of the olden Troy, and
which we print in another column, needs but
little introduction to our readers.  The German
scholar and archӕological enthusiast tells
his story with clearness and simplicity.  If he
does not exhaust the subject in all its bearings
he explains what he has achieved in a manner
which cannot fail to awaken keen interest in
the continuance of his labors.  That the
subject matter might be better understood we
present a map of the locality where the patient
savan has labored to successfully to find the
Ilion or Troy of Homer's great epic.  It is a
fitting phase of this progressive, inventive age,
that amid the mighty struggle for light upon
the subtle secrets of physics and the application
of knowledge thus acquired to the daily
wants of life, so much interest can be centred
in the dim past.  In this growing desire for a
knowledge of epochs beyond the reach of
those we term historic, the modes in which the
hunt for information is pursued are characteristic.
The records on which the learned for
ages relied for their knowledge of these remote
times are now merely the often unreliable
guide books which the scientific searcher uses
to indicate how and where to set about his
work.  The huge mounds by the banks of the
Tigris, that Xenophon passed in his flight
twenty-three centuries ago, without knowing 
any more than the Arabs of Mesopotamia of
twenty-three years since, that they contained
the ruined palaces of Nineveh, were reserved
for the spades of Botta and Layard.  In a
few years of persistent excavation more of the
glory of the Empire of Assyria was made
known than in all the twenty-three cycles that
preceded.  After the pioneers of the spade
comes the more profound labor of the comparative
philologists who learn to decipher
cuneiform inscriptions and read from them
the stories of the peoples who graved them
thousands of years before.  The same diligent
inquiry and work have lately led to the disentombment
of the Ephesian marbles from the 
great buried temple of Diana.  From the same
spirit and the same toil we see appear before
us the sculptured treasures from the island of
Cyprus.  Among the greatest of these performances
will rank the triumph of Dr.
Schliemann in fixing the site of Troy.  For
ages the enthusiasm of cultivated minds has
found an abiding place in the land made
sacred to poetry and heroic glory in the Iliad
and Ӕneid.  Byron could wander among
the marshes of the Scamander and dream of

Ilion in its glory.  Even the soldier of precision
and mathematics, Von Moltke, could find
time to speculate upon its military strength.
But the scientist did not let his dreams or
his speculations interfere with the digging of 
his trench, and, as a result, the sceptics, who
pronounced the wars of the heroes upon the
plain all but a myth, are brought up against
the great tower of Ilion itself after it had 
hidden its head for over three thousand years.
The settlement of this question is not,
however, the only contribution to our
knowledge. In the process of laying bare the
remains of ancient Troy Dr. Schliemann discovered
successively the traces of four succeeding
peoples who had dwelt on the same
spot, and whose cities were destroyed by fire,
as Troy had been.  "Peoples in regular
strata!" It is a curious thought, wherein
science and sentiment may meet.  More than
this, by the relics of pottery, arms,
implements and symbols, he is enabled
to state of what race were the men
and women who dwelt in those
cities.  The widespread and unmistakable
religious symbols of the Aryan race, the cross,
simple and crotcheted, were there.  The sun,
the stars, the mystic rose and the holy soma
tree, each told their tale of race and belief.
Refinements in the heroic age he found succeeded
by rudeness in the next, then rudeness
by semi-barbarousness, and then by almost absolute
barbarism.  Next he traces in the rubbish
the coming of the Hellenic colony, which
is called historic, but which must have commenced
existence twenty-four hundred years
ago.  He traces backwards from the present
inch by inch, instead of year by year, and
finds heroic Troy upon the virgin soil or the
solid rock some forty-six feet below.  There is
a suggestiveness in this idea of a century of
history in a foot and a half of rubbish far
deeper than the thought of "Imperial Cӕsar,
dead and tuned to clay."  While the decipherers 
of the arrow-head writings of Nineveh
are discovering corroboration of the Bible
story of the Deluge it is curious to find proof
of the foundation in fact of Homer's epic
coming to light at the same time.  [*2549*]

A work of the character of Dr. Schliemann's
requires that patience and perseverance which
nothing but enthusiasm can supply.  There
is, however, something more needed, and that
is money.  Dr. Schliemann has carried on the
vast work thus far at his own expense, and
now appeals for help.  For reward he asks
nothing beyond permission to rebaptize the
scenes ef his labor with the names which
Homer gave them.  We heartily recommend
to our readers his unvarnished narrative of the
search among the "mournful monuments of a
nation whose glory is immortal."[*1888 - Social life in Greece
Book by Prof. Mahaffy 
of Dublin*]
April 28, 1888.] THE SPECTATOR. 577
Court who did not flatter the Zuboffs," and seems to have been 
the only Minister with ability as well as moral courage. Paul
figures in these seriously piquant pages as the eccentric person 
or madman that he was ; but Prince Adam thinks that he
wished to be just and do what was right. "It often happened," 
he says, that after Paul "had dismissed some one whom he had 
badly treated, he called him back, embraced him, almost
asked his pardon, confessed that he was wrong, that he had
unjustly suspected him, and gave him presents to make up
for his past severities. He inspired all the officials of his
Empire with the terrors which he often felt himself, and this
universal fear produced salutary effects." But it also led to
his murder, because no one felt himself safe from the caprices 
of a fantastic monarch who did not always call back the
persons whom he punished. And he likewise made himself
ridiculous. He forbade round hats; they were "a sign of
liberalism;" and as the wearers were cahsed and beaten, Lord 
Whitworth, in order to secure his safety in the streets, was
obliged to have made for him "a hat of a peculiar shape." When Paul learned that the French officers wore large whiskers, he "at once ordered every mad at Court to shave off his whiskers, and the order was executed an hour afterwards. At the ball in the evening there were a number of, so 
to say, new faces, with blank spaces on their cheeks, showing 
where they had shaved. People laughed as they met each other." Czartoryski was in Italy when the assassinations took place; but he has left a vivid description of the terrible 
scene, his version of its causes, and an account of Alexander's 
share in the transaction. It is one of the best chapters in the
book, and well worth reading. On the whole, the same may
be said of both volumes, although there is too much in the
second which may be fairly called padding, and the important 
documents not published before are not specially pointed out 
or numbered. Czartoryski is certainly a novel personage in
the gallery of memoir-writers, and we can only regret that,
before death came, [he] had not finished what was so well begun. 
----
A HISTORY OF HELLENISM*
PROFESSOR MAHAFFY has given us, in the present volume, a continuation of his well-known Social Life in Greece. But the two books are very different in plan and execution. The former work dealt with a period for which we have the most ample original testimony of every kind, and which has been made familiar even to the "general reader" through the constant attention paid to it by modern historians and critics. 
The new period, on the contrary - from the death of Alexander 
to the Roman conquest of Greece - is comparitavely obscure even to the scholar; literature dies out in Greece itself; at Alexandria it is learned and artifical, and avoids "local allusions"; so that , until we reach Polybius, we have to depend 
largely upon, and be thankful for, such authorities as the Lives of Plutarch. Moreover, the English reader, in whom 
we may always assume some acquaintance with the century of Themistocles and Pericles, has had small opportunity hitherto 
of similar acquaintance with Hellenistic times. Grote ends with 
the death of Alexander; Curtius breaks off even earlier. The history of Thirlwall, which brings us down to the Sack of Corinth, 
treats only of Greece Proper, not of the Hellenistic kingdoms; and the great work of Droysen has not yet found an English translator. "Hence," says Professor Mahaffy, "there is more actual history in the present volume than in its predecessor." The account of life and manner must be accompanied throughout by at least an outline of political events; otherwise the reader could only be bewildered and irritated by 
allusions and generalisations to which he possessed no key in 
fact. 
But the principal reason for this difference of plan in the 
new book is one which we are reminded of in the mention of
Thirlwall: the chronicler of life and manners is here no longer
confined within the narrow limits of classical Hellenedom; "Greek life after the conquests of Alexander extends far beyond the bounds of Greece, and its most interesting phases are in Syria and Egypt." (p.vii.) Athens and Sparta occupy 
now but a narrow portion of the stage; the active life and vigour of the period, its wars and conquests, are to be sought 
in the Hellenized kingdoms - Macedonia, Syria, Egypt - of the Diadochi and their successors; Athens is still, as always, the home of philosophy and serious thinking, but for literature we 
turn to Alexandria, and for art of Pergamum. Of a 
subject-matter so wide and varied we can scarcely look for any real 
unity of treatment; and Professor Mahaffy gives us instead a series of brilliantly coloured pictures of the different centres of Hellenistic "life and thought," all the while skillfully combining history and biography with the review of social and 
intellectual conditions.
Greece Proper, in the third century, stands reft of its earlier glory. We find there, it has been well said, "the dregs of a nation, the vigour of whose political and literary life has for ever passed away." Its spirit has gone forth to leaven the new kingdoms of the Macedonian; but Greece itself has lost its 
prowess in arms, its art and literature. The very possibility of a healthy political existence ceased for it with the supremacy of Macedon. The reign of Alexander was followed by "the rapid and complete antiquating of patriotic politics and politicians in Greece, who could henceforth aspire to nothing beyond communal liberty for the Greek cities" (p. 9); "no doubt all Greek cities alike suffered from the emigration of the young and vigorous, who saw at home no scope for their energies, and who left Greece for ever to settle with honour and fortune and Alexandria, Antioch, and other leading cities of the East." (p. 128). That the country had not lost all its 
old vigour, is, indeed, shown by the rise to power of the Achæan and Ætolian Leagues (whose sudden growth Mr. Mahaffy 
ingeniously ascribes to the wealth acquired by Ætolians and Achæans as mercenaries in the East). But these federations have made little mark in the world's history. The Ætolians were mere valiant freebooters; the Achæans win our sympathy 
and respect, and their leaders - Aratus, Philopœmen, Lydiadas - were men after the antique pattern; but, with the most 
upright and patriotic aims, they could accomplish nothing against the dominating forces of Macedon and Rome.

At Athens, under Demetrius the Phalerean and Demetrius the Besieger, the decline is startling, and is reflected in the extant literature. The writers of the new comedy "produced a whole literature of graceful talk, polite immorality, selfish ethics, and shallow character" (p. 116); the Characters of
Theophrastus depict "the nature of man as shown in an idle and decaying provincial society - the passions and pursuits of 
people with no public spirit or interests; the virtues are
omitted, even the stronger vices, and all the changes rung upon 
the foibles and vulgarities of every-day life." (p. 118). The practical teaching of Zeno and Epicurus was no doubt a regenerating influence, though rather to the individual than to 
the State at large. Professor Mahaffy has written an
interesting chapter on the foundation and growth of the philosophical schools, whose importance is evidenced by the famous Decree of Sophocles for their banishment from Athens, 
by the crowded audience attracted to such teachers as Theophrastus, and, in the case of Stoicism, by such eminent disciples as the philosopher-king Antigonus Gonatas. 

But every region and every period of the Hellenistic world
comes under Professor Mahaffy's review. Following upon a
vivid sketch of the characters and fortunes of the Diadochi
and Epigoni (one of the best things in the books), and the account of Athens just mentioned, we have four chapters on life and literature at Alexandria under its first and second
Kings. Then Pergamum, with its art and refined culture;
Rhodes, the trading centre of the world; Syria, with its line 
of great monarchs; and the Greece of Aratus, are brought
before us. The last chapters are occupied with the later fortunes and decay of Hellenism in Egypt and Syria and Macedon, together with an interesting notice of the Jews in
the two former kingdoms; and the book closes with a detailed 
review of Polybius and his age. The writer is to be
congratulated on the skill with which he has worked an enormous 
mass of material into order, if not unity; though he has 
been compelled to give so much space to the narration of
events, he has kept steadily in view the social and intellectural 
characteristics of the times; witness the chapter (xvii.) on
education and the drama - where the best and latest
authorities have been consulted - and the full citation of the reflections 
and anecdotes of Polybius. 

Special attention is paid to Egypt and its capital, a novel
feature being the use made of native Egyptian texts. Every
reader will be grateful for the chapters which deal with the
Museum and its learned men, with the Alexandrian poets
Callimachus, Apollonius Rhodius, Theocritus, and Aratus -

*Greek Life and Thought, from the Age of Alexander to the Roman Conquest.
By J.P. Mahaffy, Fellow, &c, of Trinity College, Dublin. London : Macmillan
and Co. 1887.
[*2550*]578       The Spectator             [April 28, 1888.
with the great city itself and its busy populace of all 
nationalities; and, later on, with the strange decline 
of Hellenism, and the self-assertion of the native and Jewish
elements there.  Here is Professor Mahaffy's picture of
Alexandria (pp. 165-66): —
"But if the commercial site of Alexandria was brilliant, we 
cannot say much for its natural beauty.  Sandhills and a tideless 
sea, without wooding, without cliffs, with no mountains or islands
in sight—what could be more dreary to those who had been 
accustomed to the enchanting sites of the Greek and Asiatic coast 
towns?  We know that the Greeks of classical days said little 
about the picturesque, and seldom described it.  Nevertheless, its 
unconscious effect upon poetry and other forms of art is clearly 
discernible, and perhaps not a little of the unpicturesqueness of 
Alexandrian culture is due to the absence of this vague yet 
powerful influence.  The grandeur of solemn mountains, the 
mystery of deep forests, the sweet homeliness of babbling rivers, 
the scent of deep meadows and fragrant shrubs, all this was 
familiar even to the city people of Hellenic days.  For their 
towns were small, and all surrounded by the greatest natural 
beauty.  But the din and dust of the new capital, reaching over 
an extent as great as modern Paris, were only relieved within by 
a few town-parks or gymnasia, and without by fashionable bathing 
suburbs, with the luxuries of city life replacing the sweets of Nature; 
and if there was retirement and leisure within the university, it 
was eminently the retirement among books—the natural home for 
pedants and grammarians.  How much this city life weighed upon 
the spirits of men is proved not only by the general dryness and 
dullness of the literature it produced, but still more by the great 
popularity of the poet of pastoral life, who delighted the jaded 
senses of his literary friends by a return into the simplest, if not 
the purest, country life; and who rejoiced the pedants by putting 
them into pastoral dress, to feed their flocks on uplands of wide
 view, or lie idle in the rich grass, or sit by a fountain 'and sport 
with Amaryllis in the shade.'  It has been generally recognized 
that the success of the late after-growth of genuine 
Greek poetry was due to this strong and declared contrast, but
perhaps the dulling effect of the actual surroundings at Alexandria 
has not been equally appreciated."
     Many are the remaining topics of interest; the art of
Pergamum and Rhodes—the former, at least, no unworthy
descendant of the earlier schools; the growth of city life
throughout the Hellenistic world, "that gigantic turning of
country-people into towns-people which might be almost
called a definition of Hellenism" (p. 326); and all the 
good stories culled from Athenæus, Plutarch, Polybius, and
Josephus,—that of the Byzantines, for example, who lived a
drunken and luxurious life, chiefly, we are told by Athenæus,
in pothouses, so that a General who was put to great straits to
make them man the walls had these establishments set up
close inside the fortifications."  The freshly coloured and
lifelike characterisation of men and peoples which distinguishes 
the book is well illustrated in the following presentment of the 
Macedonians (pp 214-15):—
     "But the people with whom Antigonus had chiefly to deal were 
not the easiest material for the development of these [cosmopolitan] 
views. In the Macedonians he had, indeed, subjects differing
widely from those of the King of Egypt, or from all those who
were really subject to the Court of Antioch. Instead of sand-hills 
or desert or the lazy river carrying down its wealth amid tropical 
heats, through fields of golden wheat, we have in Macedonia alpine 
wilds, foaming torrents, forests of primeval timber, upland pastures 
with winter snows,—the everlasting home of a free and bold race 
of mountaineers, given to war and the chase, and as shepherds 
despising the laborious tiller of the soil. All the splendour of
their court never subdued a certain rudeness in these Macedonians; 
they never produced, that I can remember, a great man of letters. 
They seem to have acquiesced in the loss of some of their pristine
 liberties, and to have submitted to the tolerably absolute monarchy 
of their philosophic King. But then, the position of Macedonia was 
that of a military outpost against barbarism; and among a nation 
of soldiers absolute obedience is easily transferred from the camp, 
where it is indispensable, to the homestead. Yet withal, the Macedonian 
still went about through the Greek and Syrian world as 
the Englishman has been accustomed to go through Europe,—the 
acknowledged superior in physique, and the citizen of a nation
which had dominated the world."
     A word should be said on Professor Mahaffy's style, which 
has lost none of its vivacity (to use no severer term). A certain 
license of colloquial or "direct" expression may be conceded to 
the idiosyncrasy of the Professor, however unsuited it be to the 
dignity of history; we are prepared to read of the "younger 
sons" of the Greeks who "went abroad as mercenaries and 
knocked about in satraps' courts" (p. 294), of Rome's "vulgar 
mawkishness about Greek liberties" (p. 446), and of the "downright 
snobs" among the Romanizing Greeks (p. 449). It 
induces only a faint shudder when the banqueting-chamber 
at Philadelphus's great festival is brought before our 
eyes as "a sort of glorified Holborn Restaurant, where 
the resources of art are lavished on the walls of an 
eating-room." (p.201). But the use of the "modern instance"

is easily overdone; it is justified in the comparison of the 
first Ptolemy to Victor Emanuel, and of Philopœmen to 
Garibaldi (pp. 191 and 441) but to illustrate the politics of 
the Achæan or "patriotic" party and their opponents in 
Greece by reference to our present Irish Question, appears to
us at once misleading and in bad taste. Let the author, we
entreat him, run his pen everywhere "blottesquely" through 
the words "Home-rule" in text and index (the latter, by the 
way, a full and useful one). In a new edition, too, Mr.
Mahaffy, who is himself so good a scholar, should cancel his
childish animadversions on the "pedant," "pure scholar," 
or, as he is designated in the introduction, "the superannuated 
schoolboy who holds fellowships and masterships at English
colleges, and regards himself as a perfectly trained Greek
scholar." The book would be much improved were these
things away; with or without them, it is a capital piece of 
work, at once painstaking and brilliant, and may be heartily 
recommended to all lovers of the Hellenes.

RECENT NOVELS.*
Bernard and Marcia is an exceedingly quiet story, perhaps 
too quiet to appeal to those readers who must have their
fiction seasoned by piquant condiments; but it will give real
pleasure to that smaller but not less important class who can
appreciate and enjoy the artistic handling of comparatively 
commonplace material. If, while speaking in this broad 
general way of the character of the book, we were to hint a 
fault, the hint would take the form of a suspicion that the 
author has in some measure sacrificed effectiveness to verisimilitude,
—that her novel reads rather like a transcript from 
actual life than a recasting of actual life in the mould of the
imagination. In a story of this kind we demand that the
characters should be harmonious and realisable, and that their 
deeds and words should be consistent with our impression of
their personality; and this demand is satisfied by Bernard and
Marcia, in which we have not found a single blurred or untrue 
stroke. But we also require something more than this,—that
the book should have the unity given by the imaginative selection 
which instinctively excludes all non-essential material, 
the unity which makes every detail of value, not merely for its
own sake, but for the sake of its relation to the whole. In this
important virtue, Bernard and Marcia is certainly somewhat 
defective. We have a number of characters, incidents, and
situations which, while faultless in themselves, have, in their
place here, the fault of superfluity. They do not help the 
action of the story; and what is often true in life—that what
does not help hinders—is always true in art. Many novels
would be more or less better for pruning; but few recent
novels would repay the labour of the pruner so well as Bernard 
and Marcia, which, if cut down to two volumes, would be a
very graceful and satisfying story. The sub-title may mean
either that a considerable number of the characters are middle-aged 
people, or that the romance in which the hero and heroine 
act the principal parts does not come to its blossoming-time 
until they have left their days of youth far behind them. They
appear at the beginning of the novel as a boy and girl, with much 
both in inherent nature and in outward circumstance to draw
them together; but the current of Bernard Vallance's life is
diverted from its natural channel, partly by a terrible accident
which makes him the unwitting cause of the death of his
father's wife, and partly by one of those strange infatuations 
to which the natures on whom their action is most disastrous
seem most liable. The story of Bernard's long martyrdom as
the husband of Lydia Shafton is told with skill, power, and
pathos, though it is impossible to feel a doubt whether even
her wonderful beauty should have blinded such a man as he
to her inherent coarseness and vulgarity. It is in the delineation 
of a personality like that of Bernard that the weakness 
of the author's method manifests itself. Of course, it is perfectly
true that in real life we meet persons whose actions 
seem to us inconsistent or inexplicable, because we have not
got the key to their character; but it is the privilege of the 
novelist to supply us with this key, so that we may read as we 
run; and when he fails to supply it, a certain confusion of 

(1.) Bernard and Marcia: a Story of Middle Age. By Elizabeth Glaister. 3 
vols. London: Hurst and Blackett.----(2.) Narka. By Kathleen O Meara. 
2 vols. London: Bentley and Son.----(3.) King or Knave? By R. E. Francillon. 
3 vols. London: Chatto and Windus.----(4.) Mayroyd of Mytholm: a Romance 
of the Fells. By John Dalby. 3 vols. London: Chapman and Hall.----(5.) 
The Court of Rath Croghan; or, Dead but not Forgotten. By M. L. O'Byrne. 
Dublin: M. H. Gill and Son.----(6.) Under the Stars and Under the Crescent: a 
Romance of East and West. By Edwin de Leon. 2 vols. London: Sampson 
Low and Co.JOHN JACOB ASTOR. 
John Jacob Astor was born in the village of
Waldorf, near Heidelberg, Germany, on the 18th
of July 1763. The village is in the territory of
the Grand Duchy of Baden, on the banks of the
Rhine. 
To the notice of the subject of this sketc[h] by
Washington Irving, in his work entitled As[to]ria, 
we are indebted for some of the particul[ar]s of
Mr. Astor's early life, to which we add su[ch] as 
were known to some of his friends amon[g] our
citizens.     2552 
Mr. Astor was brought up in the simiplicity of
rural life, but while yet a more stripling, le[f]t his 
home and launched himself amid the busy [?] 
of London, having had from his very boyh[oo]d, a 
singular presentiment that he would ultimately
arrive at a great fortune.  His education was
limited, but sufficient to enable him to rea[d] and 
write and understand arithmetic.  In afte[r] life
he improved himself by self education pa[r]ticularly
in Geography, a study of which he was 
fond, and in which not one man in a thousand is
accomplished, and most persons, otherwis[e] well
informed, are profoundly ignorant.  M[?]tor
also wrote a handsome running [h]and, 
[unders]tood well the intricacies of commerc[e]
those branches of knowledge most import[ant] [?]
a merchant.     [*2552 A*] 
     At the close of the American Revoluti[ion] [?]
was still in London, having left home at th[e] [age}
of 18.  He spent three years with his [?]
brother, a music seller in London.  A
brother, the late Heury [Henry] Astor, had been for 
five years resident in New York, in the 
occupation of a butcher, and Mr. Astor determi[ned]
to follow him, and seek his fortune in the rising
country of the United States, which had then 
just started into existence as an Independent
Republic.  Investing a small sum which he had 
amassed since leaving his native village, in merchandize
suited to the American market, he
embarked in the month of November, 1783, in
a ship bound to Baltimore, and arriving in Hampton
Roads in the month of January, 1784.  The
winter was extremely severe, and the ship, with 
many others, was detained by the ice, in and
about Chesapeake Bay, for nearly three months. 
     During this period, the passengers of the various
ships used occasionally to go on shore, and
mingle sociably together.  In this way Mr. 
Astor became acquainted with a countryman of
his, a furrier by trade.  Having had a previous 
impression that it might be a lucrative trade in
the new world, he made many inquiries of his
new acquaintance on the subject, who cheerfully
gave him all the information in his p[ow]er 
as to the quality and value of different furs and
the mode of carrying on the traffic.  He s[ub]sequently 
accompanied him to New York, a[n]d by
his advice Mr. Astor was induced to inve[st] the
proceeds of his merchandise in furs.  With [t]hese 
he sailed from New York to London in 1784, 
disposed of them advantageously, made himself
acquainted with the course of the trade, and returned
the same year to New York, with a
view to settle in the United States. 
     We have understood, that in his early [a]dventures, 
Mr. Astor received some assista[n]ce in 
capital from his brother Henry, who was then
prosperous in business, and finally acquired a 
large fortune.  He died we think, about twelve
years since, and, having no children, left the
bulk of his estate to his nephew, Mr. William 
B. Astor. 
     In New York Mr. John Jacob Astor devoted
himself to the branch of commerce, with which
he had thus casually been made acquainted,--- 
For a time he was connected in business with a
Quaker merchant, the late Robert Bowns, then
engaged in the Fur and Skin trade.  Mr. Irving 
says that Mr. Astor began his career, of course, 
on the narrowest scale;  but he brought to the
task a persevering industry, rigid economy, and 
strict integrity.  To these were added as aspiring
spirit that always looked upward;  a genius
bold, fertile and expansive;  a sagacity quick to
grasp and convert every circumstance to its 
advantage, and a singular and more wavering
confidence of signal success. 
     An instance of this buoyant confidence which 
no doubt aided to procure the success it anticipated, 
Mr. Irving says, he had from the lips of
Mr. Astor himself.  While yet a strange[r] [i]n the
city, and in very limited circumstances, h[e] passed
by where a row of houses had just been erected
in Broadway, and which, from the s[up]erior
style of their architecture, were the t[?] and
boast of the city, "I'll build, one day, [ano]ther, 
a greater house than any of these, in th[is] very
street," said he to himself.  He has, sa[ys] Mr. 
Irving, accomplished this prediction. 
As yet trade in peltries was not organized in
the United States, and could not be said to form
a regular line of business.  Furs and skins were
casually collected by the country traders in 
their dealings with the Indians or the white
hunters, but the main supply was derived from 
Canada.  As Mr. Astor's means increased, he
made annual visits to Montreal, where he purchased
furs from the houses at that place, [e]ngaged
in the trade.  These he shipped from 
Canada to London, no direct trade being allowed 
from that Colony to any but the mother country. 
[*2552 B*] 
     In 1795, Jay's Treaty removed the restrictions
on trade, and opened a direct commercial intercourse
between Canada and the U. States.  Mr. 
Astor was in London at the time, and immediately 


made a contract with the agents of the N. 
W. Company for furs.  He was now enabled to
import them from Montreal into the U. States 
for home supply, and to be shipped thence to
different parts of Europe, as well as to China,
which has ever been the best market for the richest
and finest kind of furs. 
     Jay's Treaty also conferred other benefits 
Mr. Astor, by its operation, in the sur[?] 
the posts on the [?], Oswego, Da[?]
to the Americans, thus opening a trade for the
American merchants on the confines of Canada, 
and within the territories of the United States.
Mr. Astor continued to act as agent for the
North West continued to act as agent for the
North West Company until 1807, when he embarked
in trade on his own account.  His capital
and resources had by this time greatly augmented, 
and he had risen from small beginnings
to take his place among the first merchants and
financiers of the country.  His genius had ever
been in advance of his circumstances, prompting
him to new and wide fields of enterprise, beyond
the scope of ordinary merchants.
     In the early Directories of this city, we find
Mr. Astor located as follows:---In 1796, at 149 
Broadway, probably his residence;  in 1803, his
store was at 71 Liberty street, and his residence
at 223 Broadway, which building he purchased 
of the late Rufus King, who was, it will be remembered, 
at the close of the last century, ou[r]
Minister to England.  The house referred to, 
occupied part of the block of ground, on which 
the Astor House now stands, part of the site of
the latter having been purchased by Mr. Astor
of the late John G. Coster, and others.  In 1813 
Mr. Astor's store was at 59 Pine stand is   813 
his office was at No. 8 Vesey street, where his
principal business was for many years transacted. 
His brother, Mr. Henry Astor, always resided
in the Bowery. 
     In 1809, Mr. Astor obtained from the Legislature
of New York a charter for "the American
Fur Company," with a capital of one million of
dollars, with the privilege of increasing it to two
millions.  The capital was furnished by himself
---he in fact constituted the company;  for though 
he had a board of Directors, they were merely
nominal;  the business was conducted on his
plans, and with his resources, but he preferred 
do so under the imposing and formidable as[?]
of a corporation, rather than in his individual 
[ca]pacity, and his policy was sagacious and effective. 
[*2552 C*]
In 1811, he bought out the Mackinaw Fur
Company, merging that and the American Fur
Company into a new Association, called "the 
South West Company."  In this arrangement
he was joined by certain partners of the North 

West (British) Company, and other persons engaged
in Fur Trade.  In these operations he had 
the countenance of the American government. 
The war which broke out in 1812 between the
U. States and Great Britain, suspended the association; 
and after the war it was entirely dissolved; 
Congress having passed a law prohibiting
British fur traders form prosecuting their enterprises
within the United States. 
We have not time and space to enable us to
follow Mr. Astor in his further operations in the
Fur Trade, or to describe his grand commercial 
scheme of Trade across the continent of North
America, and settlement of Astoria, at the
mouth of Columbia River.  Suffice it to say that 
his operations in the Fur Trade led his extensive
connection with Canton, in China, and the
importation of Teas, Silks, Nankeens, &c., from 
thence;  a business which he followed for many
years, more probably as a means of obtaining
returns for his Furs, than as a source of profit.
Indeed we understand that his import trade from 
China was so frequently unprofitable as not to
have added to his wealth.  We may mention we
were informed some years since, that the last
cargo of Chinese silks and teas, in which Mr. 
Astor was engaged, was disposed of in this
market at a loss of two hundred and ten thousand
dollars, of which Mr. Astor owned two-thirds
---consequently his proportion of the loss
was one hundred and forty thousand dollars, 
a sum quite sufficient to break an ordinary
merchant. 
     Mr. Astor's purchases of Real Estate for investment
commenced, we believe, in the early
part of this century.  In 1803 he purchased 
about 50 acres in the upper part of this city on
the North River, of the late Gov. George Clinton. 
He afterwards bought of Col. Burr, the
lease of the Richmond Hill property, in the
Eighth Ward, which had been granted to Col. 
Burr by the Corporation of Trinity Church--- 
The lease expires in 1866---having still about 18 
years to run.  This property contains, it is said, 
2000 buildings, and will revert to the church, of
course, when the lease expires.  A part of the
extensive property, principally in the Ninth
Ward, once owned by the late Abijah Hammond,
also fell into the hands of Mr. Astor, 
whether by purchase or foreclosure of mortgage 
we are not informed.  It is understood, however, 
that a large part of Mr. Astor's real estate was
obtained by the latter mode, falling into his
hands as a payment for loans of money, which
the inability of the borrower prevented them
from returning. 
The City Hotel he purch[ase]d at auction for
 one hundred and twenty one thousand dollars.
[?] it having formerly belonged to the estate of
Ezra Weeks, Esq.  The Park Theatre was purchased
jointly by Mr. Astor and the late Mr. 
Beekman, by means of buying up the shares of 


the former proprietors, who owned it as a joint
stock concern. 
     In addition to his immense investments in
Real Estate, Mr. Astor was largely interested.
In State Stocks, Banks and other Corporations.
He was, we know, some years since a large
stockholder in several of the banks in the western
part of this State.  His protracted suit 
against the State of New York for a claim to
the alien lands in Dutchess and Putnam counties, 
illegally forfeited during the Revolution, 
and sold by the State, will be remembered.  He
had purchased the claim of the heirs and finally
recovered of the States five hundred and sixty-one
thousand, five hundred dollars, for which 
the State issued to him stock at 5 per cent. 
     The amount of Mr. Astor's estate is variously
estimated at from twenty to forty millions of
dollars.  It will probably soon be known with
something like accuracy, and thus gratify the
public curiosity, which has been continually
alive on a subject in which the people at large
have in reality no interest, for nearly half a century. 
     Mr. Astor's private life was known to but few
of our citizens.  He mixed but seldom in society
except with a small select circle who occasionally
received his hospitality, so far as to
partake of a dinner at his house.  He was fond
of the society of literary and scientific men, not
taking much part in the conversation but listening 
with eagerness to their remarks, when two
or more of them were together. 
     As to public spirit, Mr. Astor had much less
of that feeling, than the late Mr. Giraro, of 
Philadelphia, never aiding great objects of public
expenditure, by subscriptions equal to other 
capitalists of far less capacity.  In some instances
he has aided public charities and it is said, has
left a fund to establish a library for the use of our
citizens.     [*2552  D*]
The most liberal act of his life that has ever
come to our knowledge was his signature to the
memorial to Congress in favor of the General
Bankrupt law in 1841, and thus by his example 
as a great capitalist aiding in the passage of that
most benificent measure, by which, notwithstanding
the abuses practiced under it, many
worthy citizens and their families were relieved
from difficulties occasioned by misfortune, and
enabled to render themselves useful to society
by their industry and enterprise. 
     Mr. Astor married in early life a lady of this
city, whose maiden name was Todd, a relative
of Mr. William W. Todd, one of our oldest and
most respectable merchants.  Mrs. Astor died
about eighteen years ago, leaving two sons, Mr. 
Wm. B. Astor and another, who has been imbecile
from birth.  She left also three daughters, 
two of whom are since deceased.  One married 
the Rev. John Bristed, author of a work on the
Resources of Great Britain.  Mr. Bristed resides 
at Bristol, Rhode Island.  Another daughter 
married Baron Rumiff, a German, and died 
in Paris a few years since.  She was a lady of
great piety and benevolence, and her life, written
by Rev. Dr. Baird, has been published in
this city.  Mrs. Ladgdon, now widow lady, survives
her father, and resides in this city, and
has a number of children.---N Y Express.[*Charles King's 
address at Elizabethtown
April '48*]
2553

John Quincy Adams was the last link that bound 
us to the men of our heroic age. He had lived and
served with Hancock and Saml. Adams and John 
Adams of Massachusetts — with Roger Sherman and 
the Wolcotts of Connecticut — with Jay and Schuyler 
and Clinton and Hamilton of N. York — with Dayton 
and Boudinot and Clark and Paterson of New 
Jersey — with Robt. Morris and Benj. Franklin of 
Pennsylvania — with Washington and Jefferson and 
Madison of Virginia — with the Pinckneys and the 
Laurens of S. Carolina. Born a British subject in 
the colony of Massachusetts, he had been the representative 
of the 24 United States — sovereign, independent, 
and free — at the Court of Great Britain. 
     He had heard the cannon of Lexington and Bunker 
Hill, in his youth. His maturer years witnessed 
the triumphs of Champlain and Lake Erie — of Lundy's 
Lane and New Orleans ; and ere he yet died, 
again the shouts of victory through the prowess of 
his countrymen saluted his ears from the far off land 
of the Aztecs. Through gloom to glory he was permitted 
to mark the growth of the Republic. He 
saw and suffered under the privations of the Revolutionary  
War. He beheld and comprehended the 
scarcely less perilous vicissitudes, weaknesses and 
trials of the Confederacy. His ardent and well-instructed
mind perceived the necessity and rejoiced in 
the success of the Federal Constitution. Under the
Administration of his father he saw laid the keels of 
that glorious navy that has borne the stars and stripes 
in honor and in triumph, o'er oceans and o'er lakes. 
He has seen the Old Thirteen more than doubled.— 
He has lived up from a people of three millions to 
near twenty millions. He had himself been the 
President of these millions. In every step of their 
growth and their greatness he had labored with them 
and for them, and was truly a great part of them.

Fortunate man ! after running such a career to 
die such a death ! — to be mourned, as he has been 
honored, by a nation — leaving behind a name and 
an example which posterity will not willingly let die.

And that example is full of encouragement. 

What John Quincy Adams was, in character and
attainments, and capacity, others, with like singleness 
of purpose, labor and assiduity, may become ; 
for he was emphatically the creature of education. 

The natural faculties of Mr. Adams were not superior 
to those of thousands of others. Of genius — 
that high, rare, and almost undefinable essence — he 
had little  But with an intellect naturally strong 
and quick, with a capacity for labor and firmness of 
purpose which so many possess without giving to 
them the right direction, the events of his early life 
and the enlightened care of a mother, rendered him 
a reasoning and thinking being at an age when others 
are mere sentient creatures. While yet a boy, 
as his father wrote, he was a hero and a patriot ; and
thrown, at the most impressible age, into the society
of Franklin and other sages, he soon learned the 
value of knowledge, and as soon, that to knowledge 
there is no royal road ; but for all labor, diligence, 
unwearied application, are indispensable in 
order to its attainment. The circumstances of the 
times, and the position of his father made him almost 
unavoidably a child of the Republic. He was 
at an early age sworn upon the altar of his country — 
not like the Carthaginian warrior, to inextinguishable 
hatred of another people — but to untiring devotion 
to his own.  And well did he keep his faith, and 
never was he found wanting, at any period of his career, 
to the honor and interests of his country.

In his personal habits and intercourse — the utmost
simplicity prevailed. He was a hard student even 
to his last hour, and in all situations. When President 
of the U.S. he was probably the first man up 
in Washington, lighted his own fire, and was hard 
at work in his library while sleep yet held in its obliviousness
the great mass of his fellow citizens. 
Familiar as he had been with the most splendid 
Courts, and the highest circles of Europe, he was of 
almost abrupt plainness in his manner, dress and intercourse. 
He took pleasure in manly and athletic 
sports — like Lord Byron, was particularly addicted 
to swimming — and when President used occasionally 
to ride from Washington to Quincy on horseback —
sometimes wholly unattended, sometimes attended 
by a servant. His memory was tenacious of persons, 
not less than of things ; and of the multitudes 
presented to him in official or social intercourse he 
rarely — however casual the introduction — forgot one 
or failed to be the first to recognize him wherever he
thought such recognition might be recognized as a 
kindness. In his domestic and social relations his 
character was exemplary. As a son, husband, father, 
and neighbor he was not only without reproach 
but above eulogy — for no duty as either did he 
leave unfulfilled. And his whole public and private 
life was guided as his end was cheered by Religion, 
earnest, intelligent, sincere and therefore tolerant. 
Firm and well grounded in his own convictions he 
assumed not ever to make those convictions the 
measure of the conviction or conduct of other men ; 
but, earnest in his own person he afforded the testimony 
of his conduct and example to the indispensibleness 
of practical Faith, as the only sure foundation 
for usefulness or greatness whether in men or in 
States — he was content to leave to each one the
responsibility for his own belief and practice. 

Such, gentlemen, was John Quincy Adams — and 
such as he was, a model of correctness in private life 
— a learned, diligent, faithful and able public servant 
— a benefactor at once and an honor to his 
country — of fervent and unchangeable patriotism — 
such, by like cultivation of his natural faculties — 
by like single heartedness -- by like purity of conscience 
and of conduct — by like devotedness to duty 
and to country — by like straightforwardness in all 
positions, sacrificing never principle to expediency — 
and by a fearless pursuit of the Right, the Becoming 
and the True — wherever and to whatever that might 
lead ; such as he was, others may become — for he 
was as one of us, endowed by nature with faculties 
not more brilliant than was vouchsafed to thousands 
of others — placed indeed in early life in circumstances
peculiarly favorable to the development of 
high traits of character — yet after all -- owing his 
excellence and exalted reputation mainly to the 
early training of an admirable mother, and subsequently 
to his own noble aspirations after usefulness 
and to his unwearied diligence, to render himself 
worthy and competent to serve his country.

In this sense it is that Funeral Honors paid to this
illustrious man, instead of being merely an empty 
and unmeaning ceremonial, become not only just 
and fitting in themselves, but of high policy for the 
republic ; since they fix attention upon and provoke 
inquiry concerning the whole life and career of the 
great departed, and thus, by identifying high station 
with eminent virtue, and a nation's gratitude with
disinterested service rendered to that nation, they excite 
the emulation of generous minds, and by the example 
of, and the honor paid to departed greatness, 
vehemently influence the hearts of the living to like
achievements, that in Death they too may be thus 
remembered and rewarded.  [*2553A*]


TO THE EDITORS OF THE CRITIC:
It seems to me that the difference of opinion as to the necessity 
of feeling what one writes, during the process of writing, arises 
from the fact that every man has two distinct lines of 'feeling,' 
which are entirely independent of each other. One might be called 
our real feeling, and the other a parody of it. It is quite possible 
to agree with both the authors whom you quote in the letter before 
me. Diderot had real feeling in his mind when he said that it interfered 
with the effectiveness of a player, and he was right ; while
Horace, in the passage you give — 'Si vis me flere, dolendurn est 
primum ipsi tibi,' — refers to that imitation of real feeling (a handmaid 
of the imagination, so to speak) which all men have in their
nature, and which artists and writers of fiction or poetry possess in 
the highest degree. Clergymen also possess it in marked force ; 
they utilize it constantly in their pulpits. I do not think that any 
actor, clergyman or writer can produce strong effects on others 
without experiencing this form of so-called 'feeling.'

The best illustration of it I call to mind, showing how independent 
it is of real feeling, is given in the memoirs of Mrs. Kemble.  
She speaks of the strange double-life of the actress, and instances 
herself in playing the farewell scene of 'Juliet.' Trembling with
emotion, and with tears streaming from her eyes, she kept one of 
those eyes - tears and all - on the train of her dress, to protect it 
from a gas-jet. Perhaps a similar instance, which came under my 
own observation, is a more forcible illustration still. A little girl, 
nine years old, whose artistic 'feeling' was a matter of natural impulse 
only, would shed copious tears in playing a scene with the
late Charles Thorne ; and, at the same time, she would warn him, 
in a whisper, not to touch the color on her face with his powdered 
mustache. Now, to my mind, the 'feeling' displayed in the above 
cases has no connection with the feeling aroused by grief or pity in 
real life. If you ask me to account for our mysterious dual nature 
in this respect, I can only say, 'Seek the answer in the stars'
when you get there.  [*2554*]
NEW ROCHELLE, March 28, 1888      BRONSON HOWARD.

[* Phil : Press Feb .23 '84 *]
The March number of Lippincott's Magazine is compact 
with entertaining papers. A peculiar and touching 
interest attaches to "Bella-Demonia," the complete 
novel, by the late gifted actress-author, Selina 
Dolaro. Her friend, Mr. E. Heron-Allen contributes 
a tender and interesting biographical sketch "In 
Memoriam."  "When" he says, "in the Wintertime 
of '87 her drama Fashion was produced, and 
all its beauties marred by rank incompetence of 
some of those who played it, she realized that she 
must seek more uncongenial work to make 
her daily bread, and so she wrote articles, stories for the
magazzines, and made that book entitles "Mes 
Amours" out of the poems and the doggerel rhymes 
that she had written and that faithful friends wrote 
for her, giving her their leave to print their verses. 
Not content to wait and trust to fortune for some 
unexpected gift, she turned at once to the most 
arduous task of all her life, — "Bella-Demonia." 
With loving care she labored at her book, reading 
authorities and histories, and, having gathered her 
materials, she took them to the seashore. There 
we wrote (hers was the brain and mine the hand 
alone) "Bella Demonia: a Dramatic Tale." The 
world has read how when this book was done and 
publishers had read it and agreed to publish it the 
manuscript was lost — was stolen from the office of 
the World by some malignant fiend whose wickedness 
the patient lightnings yet have failed to blast. 
Up to that hour her health had seemed to us improving 
daily, but this frightful loss seemed such a 
shock to the poor fragile soil, that from that day 
the end began, and as she bravely sate her down 
and wrote again her book from memory (for she kept 
no notes), the hand of death seemed to be drawing 
her away from us. The book at length was done over 
again, and then the Lipincotts made her an offer 
that she could accept, so that the latter months 
were lived at least in comfort, if not luxury. [*2555*]PRESS.

[?]ARY 11, 1884. TWO CENTS.

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[SECOND column starts with DEATH]

DEATH AFTER DRINK.                                                                               

The Terrible End of a Father's Debaunch With His Son. 

AWFUL PARRICIDE NEAR UNIONTOWN.

Alpheus Wilson and His Son Frank Get Drunk on Pay-Day and Return Home, Where the Latter Shoots His Father Dead. 

2551

Special Despatch to The Press.

UNIONTOWN, Feb10 -- A little past one o'clock this morning, Coroner Batton was aroused from his slumbers by a call to hold an inquest upon a body of Alpheus Wilson, reported to have been shot and killed by his son Frank. The scene of the terrible crime is in North Union township, about three miles East of Uniontown, near a place called Cool Spring Furnace. From the facts developed at the inquest to-day, it appears Mr. Wilson and his son were both in Uniontown yesterday. It was pay day at the Stewart Iron Works, where they have been employed and they had plenty of money, which they spent freely, both being addicted to drinking. The father returned home in the evening, and, having some money left, gave his wife twenty dollars, which he asked her to lay by as a start for next month. He afterwards lay down on the floor and fell asleep before the fire.

THE END OF AN AWFUL DEBAUCH. 

About half-past ten his son Frank, came home and, finding the father upon the floor, eted him with, "Why in the ---- aint in bed?" He was evidently much in -ed, and began kicking and abusing the bering man, in the presence of the aughter, who upbraided the son for onduct. This enraged him and more abusive. Finally, the the two men ceased hostili- take a few drinks toge- in broke out, and the -rel on his part by 
leave my home 
and was gone turned and, 
father:  
say it
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n, 
the 
yet." 
disap- 
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e alarm. 
r Dennis 
e has been 
id it was re- 
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l to arrest him. 
ck, Sheriff Ster- stables Chick and pringer's Starling house and Murphy as the two officers -phy heard a cracking 
e place being near the 
and bushy. Approach- 
eard the click of a re- 
ut: "Come out, Frank; 
ouble now, and don't 
-?" asked Wilson, and 
his revolver cocked. Murphy, and Wilson placed him in a 
all.

ER AND SISTER.

d the Wilson house, 
her and daughter 
atch. As the car- 
ame out and began 
he drove them off 
had been intend- 
ed the deed was 
nuk when he shot 
erences. He was 
in jail.
im, was about 60
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Suicide.

uca Quigley,
years sexton
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ton.


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The East
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the Rev. J. A.
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[top of the THIRD colunn starts with FLOOD PERILS]

FLOOD PERILS.

The Ohio Rapidly Approaching the Highest Limit Ever Experienced.
Special Dispatch to THE PRESS.
CINCINNATI, Feb. 10.-At 8 o'clock to-night, with the Ohio at this point sixty five feet two and one-quarter inches and rising an inch hourly, the situation increases apprehension. Business men have been telegraphing all day to up-river points, and the news received in reply is that the river at Gallipolis, 203 miles above here, is, according to one despatch, four feet higher than ever before known, and rising an inch an hour. Other despatches from the same points put the rise at a foot or two greater, but they are not timed, and the difference in the hours of observation accounts for the disparity in the reports. In addition to those come reports of heavy rains and a continuous rapid rise of the river at Ripley, O. and Mayaville, Ky., one 155 and the other 65 miles above here.
There is an East wind here, and it began to rain at 7 o'clock. A rain from the East coming down stream floods the Ohio's tributaries successively, causing the greatest possible flood with the water discharged. Rains coming up river give the water time to run out in detail, and in such floods the Ohio may discharge a vast amount of water with relatively little overflow.
But independently of the rains of to-day, which if general and heavy will vastly increase the danger, there is the great flood in the Muskingum coming down to join a flood from the Kanawha. At Cincin[?]ati to-day, the sightseers crowded the bridges and hilltops. Business men began to-night preparing for a worse flood than any of them ever anticipated. It looks now as if extreme high water will continue all this week and will not stop much short of seventy feet at Cincinnati. 
There is scarcely any gas in the city to-night, and genuine alarm has grown, since the limit of the great flood of 1832 has been passed. The opera festival, which began to-night at Music Hall, is supplied with light from a 2-inch pipe on treatles run across Elm Street from the City Hospital, where this gas in manufactured. 

PORTSMOUTH'S PREDICAMENT.

An Ohio City Shut Off from the World by Water.
PORTSMOUTH, O., Feb.10--This city is almost entirely under water, and all communication with other points is shut off. The water is higher than during the flood of 1832, when the river was higher than ever known before. One-half of those who moved into their second stories are moving from their homes altogether, and all the frame houses are deserted, many of them floating away. Great suffering has already been experienced and [?] is expected. 
At daylight, this morning, a fire broke out in Green's feed store, in the business portion of the city, caused by the slacking of [?] submerged in the rising water, but, owing to the fact that hose could not be laid out on account of the distance of the building from dry land, the flames spread considerably before the firemen could get to work. A flatboat was towed to Sixth Street, where a fire engine was loaded on it, when it was towed by men in skiffs to the corner of Second and Market Streets in the vicinity of the fire. The firemen worked in boats and on house-tops, and succeeded in confining the fire to six buildings, which were burned to the water's edge. The churches are all under water. The river here to-night is rising over an inch and a half per hour, and a hard rain is falling. We have not heard from any place for three days. No papers or other mails have been received during that time. Our people are in great distress. 
J. J. McFARDIN,
Mayor of the city of Portsmouth, Ohio. 

Congressmen Taking Action. 
WASHINGTON, Feb. 10-- A meeting of the Congressmen from Ohio, Kentucky and West Virginia was held to-day at the Ebbitt House to take steps to secure an immediate appropriation for the relief of sufferers by the flood in the Ohio Valley. Senator Sherman presided, and among the representatives present were Messrs. Follett, Jordan, Taylor, Warner and McCormick of Ohio; Goff, of West Virginia, and Culbertson, of Kentucky. It was resolved to ask Congress for $250,000 for the flood sufferers.
 
The Scene at Wheeling. 
WHEELING, Feb. 10-- The streets are being disinfected as the water recedes. The acone is distressing in the extreme, hundreds of wrecked houses blocking avenues and railroads. Four tons of mail, the first since Wednesday, came in to-day by boat. A few trains are running. Between Wellsburg and Moundsville 20,000 people must be fed and clothed. Many cases of premature confinement are reported. Some sufferers for food are reported to have been reduced to eating cows found dead in the water.
 
Red Cross Relief for the Sufferers. 
WASHINGTON, Feb. 10-- Miss Clara Barton, president of the American National Association of the Red Cross, accompanied by Dr. Hubbell, the special field agent of the association, will start to-morrow morning for the scenes of the floods. She will go first to Pittsburg and will follow the Ohio River down from Wheeling, W. Va., visiting such places as have suffered. She requests that Red Cross societies North will, until further notice, forward supplies to Cincinnati as a central point of distribution.
 
Five Hundred Helpful Sufferers. 
LAWRENCEBURG, Feb. 10-- No additional losses have been reported here to-day, and the people who have suffered from the flood are entirely self-helpful. Five hundred persons are quatered in public buildings and halls, the township trustee buying all supplies, and issuing food by a regular system.

WRECKED BY AN ICEBERG.
The Experience of the Steamer Nottinghill In Mid-Ocean. 
NEW YORK, Feb. 10-- The captain of the steamer Nottinghill, 2616 tons, wrecked on February 2, on her voyage from London to this port, says that on that day, while the ship was going dead slow, she was struck by an iceberg on the port side, near the bridge; the berg, rebounding, struck again near the engine-room, staving two big holes, into which the water poured rapidly, putting out the fires. On the next day a large steamer passed by, disregarding the Nottinghill's signal of distress. On the 5th instant the steamer State of Nebraska rescued the crew and captain of the Nottinghill, landing them at this port to-day.

A Mexican Railway's Struggles.
CITY OF MEXICO, Feb. 10-- The Mexico and Vera Cruz Railway Company is curtailing expenses, eighty officials and several hundred workmen having been discharged, and one of the two freight trains stopped. This action has been taken in consequence of decreasing receipts, owing to the Central and National Railroads bringing no more freight over that line, and to the competition of the Narrow Gauge road in unique traffic.
 
Machines Preferred to Workmen. 
Special Despatch to THE PRESS.
JAMESTOWN, N. Y., Feb. 10-- Nearly fifty workmen in N. W. Gokey & Sons' bo[?]t and shoe factory are on strike because of a relocated [?] five cents per [?]. Prefers to give the [?] can save twenty cents per case as [?] by using machines. It is expected that the trouble will soon be adjusted.

Peruvian Affairs.
CALLAO, Feb. 10.-- Senors Fonesca and Liestra have been elected to the Chamber of Deputies. It is rumored that Nicholas Pierola has also been elected deputy from Huacho, but the Opinion Nacional denies the report. Chief Rivenos has been killed in an Indian revolt near Mollendo.

[top of the FOURTH column starts with BEECHER ON PHILLIPS.]

BEECHER ON PHILLIPS.

A Glowing Tribute to the Great Abolitionist Orator.

REVIEWING THE ANTI-SLAVERY DAYS

The Famous Brooklyn Clergyman Recounts His Personal Reminiscences of Wendell Phillips' Work, and of the Principles by Which He Was Actunted.

Special Despatch to THE PRESS.
NEW YORK, Feb 10.--A great audience in Plymouth Church listened this morning to a sermon by Mr. Beecher upon Wendell Phillips. The discourse was a noteworthy one, as the utterance of one anti-slavery orator regarding another. Mr. Beecher spoke first of the anti-slavery days, and then of the career of Mr. Phillips. Mr. Beecher chose for his text:

Blessed is be that considereth the poor; the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble; the Lord will preserve him and keep him alive; and he shall be blessed upon the earth; and then wilt not deliver him unto the will of his enemies. - Psalm xi: 1.

Mr. Beecher said:
It was on last Wednesday, that standing upon the steps of the Parker House in Boston, in School Street, my attention was arrested by a procession. As they came up I saw a soldierly body of colored me, with muskets reversed, with silent band, with the officers' corps behind it, with swords reversed. And then came the carriages that followed the hearse that bore dust to dust all that remained on earth of Wendell Phillips. The streets could not hold the crowd, and he whom the mob had sought once and again to tear for pieces now drew tears on every side from the mob, and the obsequious city sought to make up its vulgar scorn of other days by its worshipful attention now.
 
It is respecting this man and his times that I shall, very briefly and imperfectly, speak this morning. Fifty years ago, during my college life, I was chosen by the Athenian Society to debate the question of African colonization, which then was now, fresh and enthusiastic. Garrison was then just kindling into that firebrand-a brand of fire that never went out until slavery was consumed.

Wendell Phillips, a younger lawyer, had just began his career. Fortunately, I was assigned to the negative side of the question, and in preparing to speak I prepared my whole life. I contended against colonization as a condition of emancipation-enforced colonization was but little better than enforced slavery-and advocated immediate emancipation on the broad ground of human rights.

THE INHERENT FREEDOM OF MAN.
I knew but very little then, but I knew that all men are designed of God to be free, and that ought to be the text of every man's life-this sacredness of humanity as given of God and redeemed from animalism by Jesus Christ, crowned and clothed with rights that no law nor oppression should dare touch. Nearly two generations have passed since then, and the young men who are marching now from youth to manhood are little acquainted with the men or movements of those days; but a few gray heads are left who can recall all these scenes. 

It has been said that men are more ignorant of that part of history which immediately precedes their own lives than any other. Let us, therefore, throw some little light upon the history of those days that immediately precede our own. At the beginning in the history of this people, slavery was the accident; it was introduced at a time before the world's eyes had been opened; it came in, indeed, under the color of benevolence; it had not attained a very great estate for many years, and yet, in the days of its infancy, it so conflicted with the fundamental ideas on which our institutions and laws were based that the Northern States got rid of it. Because the climate an d husbandry were not favorable to it in the Northern States they were helped to do it, but the spirit of liberty had taken on the moral element in New England and in New York and Pennsylvania, and so it was very soon extinguished.

THE INDUSTRIAL TRINITY OF THE SOUTH.
In the South it became a very important industrial element. Rice, sugar, cotton were the trinity that dominated the industry of the South, and slave labor was favorable to this industry. It became, therefore, a pecuniary interest to the South, as it never was in the North. After a time the industry became so important that, although throughout the South, in the earlier days, men recognized slavery as a sin and its existence as a great misfortune, and always hoped that the day would speedily come for emancipation; yet, all those hopes and expectations were met and resisted and overthrown by the fact that slavery became a political interest. It became the centre which united every Southern state with every other, and gave unity to the party of the South; so that political reasons, rooted in pecuniary reasons, gave great strength to slavery in the South. The North emancipated, the South fortified.

AN OFT REPEATED MISSTATEMENT
It has been said a thousand times, and every time falsely—it was said by one of the most elegant sons of the South a few months ago in Cooper Union, where I presided; it was not the time nor a fitting place to expose the misstatement—it has been said that the North sold out, and, having realized on their slaves, invested in liberty as a better paying stock. It is absolutely a lie. It has no historical verity to it. In Massachusetts, where to some slight extent slavery existed, as it did not in Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine, it died by a very simple legal decision where one case was brought into the courts, and the courts determined that it was inconsistent with the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution sequent, and the man stood free. After that there was no enactment, nothing; slavery perished of itself by that one single enactment.

In New York a bill was passed early for the gradual emancipation of slaves, and it was guarded in every way. On obtaining a certain age they were to become free; up to that age they were the property of their masters, upon [?] [?] [?] [?] [?] [?]
rested with full weight. After a trial of some ten years it was considered a great deal better to be rid of the evil at once, and subsequent legislation determined upon immediate emancipation.

And now as against those that falsely accused the integrity and love of liberty of this great state, let me say that if you will go look to the laws and to the practice under them, you shall find that with the Declaration of Emancipation, both the primitive form of it and the subsequent form of it, the rights of the slave or of the coming freedman were guaranteed and their safety. His role was permitted to take a slave out of the state if New York without giving bond for his return, and if he came back without his slave, at least he could prove that he had died away, he was himself made a criminal and subjected to punishment, and there is reason to believe that in regard to the vast number of the comparatively few slaves that were in the State of New York, their emancipation was a bona fide emancipation, and they never were sold South. Now and then a man steels a horse, but it should not lay to the state from which it was taken the charge of admitting theft. There may have been single men or women spirited away; there may have been slavery; I know of none, I have heard of none; there may have been, but whatever the statute could do to maintain the slave in his integrity and liberty, was done, and substantially and generally it was effectual, [?] all this cheap wash of rotten declamation that [?] hear going through the land that the North [?] [?] its slaves and then went into the [?] emancipation, is false.

WHAT [?] 
[?] [?] [?] condition of the public mind throughout the North at the time that I came to consciousness of public affairs and was studying my profession, may be described in one word as the condition of "imprisoned moral sense." All men, almost, agreed with all men that slavery was wrong, but what can we do? The compromise of our fathers includes us and binds us to the agreements that had been made in the formation of our Constitution—our confederation first and our Constitution after. There were regarded everywhere as moral obligations by men that hated slavery.
"The compromises of the Constitution must be respected," said the priest in the pulpit, said the2 THE PHILADELPHIA [?]

politician in the field, said the statesman in public 
halls; and men abroad, in England especially, could 
not understand what was the reason of the hesitancy 
of President Lincoln and of the people when 
they had risen to arms in declaring at once the 
end for which arms were taken and armies gathered 
to be the emancipation of the slaves. There 
never has been an instance in which I think the 
feeling and the moral sense of so large a number 
of people have been held in check for reasons of 
fidelity to obligations assumed in their behalf. 
There never has been in history another instance 
more notable, and, I am bound to say, with all its 
faults and weaknesses, more noble. The commercial 
question--that being the underlying moral 
element--the commercial question is the North 
very soon became, on the subject of slavery what 
the industrial and [?] question of the South 
had inside it. It corrupted the manufacturer and 
the merchant. 
Throughout the whole North every man that 
could make anything regarded the South as his 
legal, lawful market, for the South didn't manufacture; 
it had the cheap and vulgar husbandry 
of slavery. They could make more money with 
cotton than with core or beef or pork or leather 
or hats or woodenware, and Northern ships went 
South to take their forest timbers and brought 
them to Connecticut to be made into woodenware, 
axe helves and rake handles, and carried 
them right back to sell them to the men whose axes 
had cut down the trees. The South manufactured 
nothing except slaves; it was a great manufacture, 
that; and the whole market of the North 
was bribed--the harness-makers, the wagon-makers, 
the cloak-makers, makers of all manner 
of implements, of all manner of goods, every manufactory, 
every loom, as it clanked in the North 
said; "Maintain," not slavery, but "the compromises 
of the Constitution."
ANTI-SLAVERY MEN AND ABOLITIONISTS.
The distinction between the anti-slavery men 
and Abolitionists was simply this; The Abolitionists 
disclaimed the obligations to maintain this 
Government and the promise of the Constitution, 
and the anti-slavery man recognized the binding 
obligation, and sought the emancipation of slaves 
by the more circuitous and gradual influence; but 
Abolitionism covered both terms. It was regarded, 
however, throughout the North as a greater sin 
than slavery itself, and none of you that are under 
30 years of age can form any adequate conception 
of the public sentiment and feeling daring the 
days of my young manhood. A man that was 
known to be an Abolitionist had better be known 
to have the plague--every door was shut to him. 
If he was born under circumstances that admitted 
him the best society, he was the black sheep of 
the family. If he aspired by fidelity, industry and 
genius to good society he was debarred. "An 
Abolitionist" was enough to put the mark of Cain 
upon any young man the arose in my early day, 
and until I was 40 years of age.
It was punishable to preach on the subject of 
liberty. It was enough to expel a man from church 
communion if he insisted on praying in prayer 
meeting for the liberation of the slave. I am 
speaking the words of truth and soberness. The 
Church was dumb in the North, not in the West. 
A marked distinction exists between the history 
of the new-school Presbyterian Churches in the 
West and the Congregational Churches, the Episcopal 
Churches, the Methodist and Baptist 
Churches in the North and East. The great publishing 
societies that were sustained by the contributions 
of the churches were absolutely dumb. 
Great controversies raged around about the doors 
of the Bible Society and the Tract Society, and of 
the American Board of Commissioners for 
Foreign Missions. The managers of these societies 
resorted to every shift except that of sending the 
Gospel to the slaves. They would not send the 
Bible to the South, for, they said, "It is a punishable 
offense in most of the Southern States to 
teach a slave to read, and are we to go in the face 
of this state legislation and send the Bible 
South?"
The Tract Society said: "We are set up to 
preach the Gospel, not to meddle with political 
and industrial institutions." And so they went 
on printing tracts against tobacco and its uses, 
tracts against dancing and its abuses, and refusing 
to print a tract that had a shadow of a criticism 
on slavery.
EVEN THE CHURCH EXCLUDES THE SLAVE.
One of the most disgraceful things took place 
under the jurisdiction of Bishop Doane, of New Jersey--I 
take it for granted, without his knowledge. 
I have the book. It was an edition of the 
Episcopal Prayer Book, and they had put into 
the front of it a steel engraving of Ary Sebeffer's 
Christus consulatori. There was a semi-circle 
around about the beneficent and aerial figure of 
our Savior, the poor, the old, the sick, the mother 
with her dead baby, bowed in grief: every known 
form of human sorrow belonged to the original 
design and picture and among others a notable 
slave with his bands lifted to Him, praying for 
liberty. But that was too much, and so they cut 
out the slave and left the rest of the picture and 
bound it so the Episcopal Prayer Book of New 
Jersey, and I have a copy of it which I mean to 
leave to the Historical Society of Brooklyn when I 
am done using it. 
These things are important, as showing the incredible 
condition of public sentiment at that 
time. If a man was known to be an anti-slavery 
man is almost preluded bankruptcy in business. 
You remember, some of you, the black lists that 
were framed and sent all over the South, of men 
that were suspected of being Abolitionists in New 
York City. The South undertook to boycott the 
whole North. Then it was that I drew up the 
sentence for a then, member of this church. "I 
have goods for sale, and not principles." It was a 
blight to all political hope. No man could have 
the slightest expectation of rising to politics that 
did not bow the knee to Baal. A derisive laugh 
was the only answer with which exhortations to 
nobility and manhood were received. This public 
excitement was worse in the North than anywhere 
else in the Northeast worse than in the West, on 
account of the extent of manufacturing and commerce 
there.
MR. BEECHER'S RELIGION.
When I came to Brooklyn I was exhorted not to 
meddle with so unpopular a subject. "What is 
the use?" was said by a venerable master in 
Israel; "Why would you lose your influence? 
Why don't you go on and preach the Gospel?" To 
whom I replied: "I don't know any gospel of that 
kind, my gospel has got in it the breaking of 
prison bars and shackles, the bringing forth of 
prisoners, and if I can't preach that I won't preach 
at all." The very first sermon that I ever preached 
before this congregation, or rather the congregation 
that met me, was the declaration of my principles 
on temperance, on peace and war, and, 
above all, on the subject of slavery. 
For years and years just prior to the renting of
the piers I came out like thunder on the subject
of slavery, for I told my people that they need not
think that they could drive me out of my principles,
nor smooth me out of them, nor in any way
snake the pews an argument to me of prudence in 
the matter of principle. The church rose steadily
in spite of the Abolitionism of the pastor. Yet, if
a colored man at that time had come into the 
church, he would have been an object of observation
and the cause of some grumbling, though
not of revolt in this church, thank
God. There never has been a day since
I became the pastor of Plymouth Church that a
well-dressed or respectable colored man or woman
could not have come in and taken a seat in this
church. It would have excited among a great
many a good deal of trouble, but the congregation
has been of that mind, and never the result of my
undertaking to enforce it. I never preached on
that subject. I never said to the people in this
congregation, from the beginning to this day, "You
ought to let colored folks sit in your pew." I 
preached the dignity of man as a child of God, and
lifted up the sanctity of human life and nature
before the people. 
When I came here there was no place for them
in the theatre except the negro gallery; no place
in the opera for colored men or women, no place
in the church except in the negro pew,
no place in any lecture hall, no place
in the first-class ear on the railways. The white
omnibus of Fulton Ferry would not allow a
colored person to ride in it. They were never allowed
to cross in the gentlemen's cabin in the 
boats. 
AN INVITATION TO FRED DOUGLASS.
I invited Fred Douglass one day in those times
to come to church. "I should be glad to, sir,"
said he, "but it would be so offensive to your
congregation." 
"Mr. Douglass, will you come? and if there is
any man objects to it, come up and sit on the 
platform by me, you are always welcome there." 
I mention these things simply to show what was
the state of feeling that existed everywhere
twenty-five or thirty years ago; existed, swept
[?]ugh the desert, scorching and blasting public 
[?]t.
[?]DELL PHILLIPS' ADVENT.
It was at [?] [?]ing of this Egyptian era in 
America that the young [?] Baston appeared.
His blood came through[?] the best col[?]
families. He was an aristocrat by descent and 
nature--a noble one, but a thorough aristocrat.
All his life and power assumed that guise. He 
was noble; he was full of kindness to inferiors; he 
was willing to be and do and suffer for them, but 
he was never of them, nor equaled himself to 
them. He was always above them, and his gifts 
of love were always the gifts of a prince to his 
subjects.
All his life long he resented every attack on his 
person and on his honor as a noble aristocrat 
would. When they poured the filth of their im[?]ations
upon him he cared no more for it

than the eagle cares what the fly is thinking about 
him down under the cloud. All the miserable 
traffickers and all the scribblers, and all the aristocratic 
boobies of Boston were no more to him than 
the mosquitos are to the behemoth or to the lion. 
He was aristocratic in his pride, and lived higher 
than most men lived. He was called of God as 
much as ever Moses and the prophets were, not 
exactly for the same great end, but in consonance 
with those great ends.
You remember, my brother, when Lovejoy was
so infamously slaughtered by a mob in Alton,
blood that has been the seed of liberty all over this
land. I remember it. At this time it was that
Channing lifted up his voice and [?]
[?] ought to be uttered in
[?] of that infamy and cruelty, and asked for
Faneuil Hall in which in call a public meeting.
This was indignantly refused by the Common
Council of Boston. Being a man of wide influence,
he gathered around about himself enough
venerable and influential old citizens of Boston to
make a denial of their united request a perilous
thing, and Faneuil Hall was granted to call a public
meeting to express itself on this subject of the
murder of Lovejoy.
The meeting was made up largely of rowdies.
They meant to overawe and put down all other expressions
of opinion except those that then rioted
with the riotous. United States District-Attorney
Austin-- when Wendell Phillips' name is written
in letters of light on one side of the monument,
down low on the other side, and spattered with
dirt, let the name of Austin be written -- made a
[?] and justified the mob, and ran
the whole career of the sower of those days, and
justified non-interference with slavery.
THE COMING LEADER'S FIRST UTTERANCES
Wendell Phillips, just come to town as a young
lawyer, without at present any practice, practically
unknown, except so his own family, fired with
the infamy, and feeling called of God in his soul,
want upon the platform. His first utterances
brought down the hisses of the mob. He was not
a man very easily subdued by any mob. They
listened as the kindled and poured on that man
Austin the fire and lava of a volcano, and he
finally turned the courses of the feeling of the
meeting. Practically unknown when the sun
went down one day, when it rose next morning
all Boston was saying, "Who is this fellow?
Who is this Phillips? A question that has
never been asked since. Thenforce he was
a flaming advocate of liberty, with singular advantage
over all other pleaders. Mr. Garrison
was not noted as a speaker, yet his tongue was
his pen. Mr. Phillips, not much given to the pen,
his pen was his tongue, and no other like speaker
has ever graced our history. I do not undertake
to say that he surpassed all others. He had an
intense individuality, and that intense individuality
ranked him among the noblest orators that
have ever been burn to this continent, or, I may
way, to our Garrison, which were excessively disagreeable
in the whole public mind. The ground
which he took was that which Garrison took.
GARRISON'S DOCTRINE.
Seeing that the conscience of the North was
smothered and mute by reason of the supposed
obligations to the compromises of the Constitution
Garrison declared that the compromises of the
Constitution were covenants will hell, and that
no man was bound to observe them. This extreme
ground Mr. Phillips also took-- immediate, unconditional,
universal emancipation at any cost
whatsoever. That is Garrisonian, that is Wendell
Phillipsism, and it would seem as though the
Lord rather leaned that way too. I shall not discuss
the merits of Mr. Garrison or Mr. Phillips
in every direction. I shall say that while the duty
of immediate emancipation without conditions
was unquestionably the right ground, yet in the
Providence of God even that could not be brought
to pass except through the mediation of very
many events.
RENOUNCING THE UNION.
It is a remarkable thing that Mr. Phillips and
Mr. Garrison both renounced the Union and denounced
the Union in the hope of destroying
slavery, whereas the Providence of God brought
around about the love of the Union when it was
assailed by the South, and made the love of the
Union, the enthusiasm that carried the great war
of emancipation through. It was the very antithesis
of the ground which they took. Like John
Brown, Mr. Garrison and Mr. Phillips, of a heroic
spirit, sought the great end nobly, but by measures
not well adapted to secure the end.
Little by little the controversy spread. I shall
not trace it. I am giving you simply the atmosphere
in which he sprang into being and into
power. His career was a career of thirty or forty
years of undiminished eagerness. He never
quailed nor flinched, nor did he ever at any time
go back one step or turn in the slightest degree to
the right or left. He gloried in his cause, and in
that particular aspect of it which had selected
him, for he was one that was called rather than
one that chose. He stood on this platform.
NO HALL FOR PHILLIPS TO SPEAK IN.
It is a part of the sweet and pleasant memories
of my comparative youth that when the mob refused
to let him speak in the Broadway Tabernacle,
before it was moved up town, William A.
Hall, now dead, a fervent friend and Abolitionist,
had secured the Graham Institute where in to hold
a meeting when Mr. Phillips should be heard. I
had agreed to pray at the opening of the meeting.
On the morning of the day on which it was to have
taken place I was visited by the committee of that
institute, excellent gentlemen, whose feelings
will not be hurt now, because they are all now
ashamed of it-- they are in heaven.
They visited me to say that, in consequence of
the great peril that attended a meeting at the
Institute, they had withdrawn the liberty to use
it and paid back the money, and that they called
simply to say that it was out of no disrespect to
me, but from fidelity to their supposed trust.
Well, it was a bitter thing. If there is anything
on earth that I am sensitive to it is the withdrawing
of the liberty of speech and thought.
PLYMOUTH CHURCH THORWN OPEN.
Henry C. Bowen, who certainly has done some
good things in his lifetime, said to me: "You can
have Plymouth Church if you want it." "How?"
"It is the rule of the church trustees that the
church may be let my a majority vote when were are
convened; but if were are not convened, then every
trustee must give his assent in writing. If you
choose to make it a personal matter, and go to
every trustee, you can have it." He meanwhile
undertook, with Mr. Hall, to put new placards over
the old ones, notifying men quietly that the meeting
was to be held here and distributed thousands
and ten thousands of handbills at the ferries. No
task was ever more welcome.
I went to the trustees man by man. The majority
of them very cheerfully accorded the permission.
One or two were disposed to decline and
withhold it. I made it a matter of personal friendship.
"You and I will break if you don't give me
this permission," and they signed; so the meeting
glided from the Graham Institute to this house.
A great audience assembled, we had detectives in
disguise and every arrangement made to handle
the subject in practical form if the crowd should
undertake to molest us. The Rev. Dr. R. S.
Siorrs consented to come and pray. A gentleman
was called to preside over the meeting who had
been known to be an Abolitionist almost from his
cradle, but he was personally a timid man though
morally courageous.
When I put the sense of the meeting that he
should preside, he got up and was so scared that
he could not be heard. He muttered that he
thought some other man might have been chosen.
I called him by name, "You are elected to preside,
sir." He got up again. "Will you be kind enough to
come up here and preside, sir?" and for fear that
he would be worse bombarded by not doing it than
he would by doing it, he came up; prayer was
offered, an explanatory statement was made, Mr.
Phillips began his lecture, and you depend
upon it by this time the lion was in him and
he went careening on. His views were extreme:
he made them extravagant, I remember, at one
point--for he was a man without bluster, serene,
self-poised, never disturbed in the least-- he made
an affirmation that was very bitter, and the cry
arose over the whole congregation. He stood
still, with a cold, bitter smile in his eye, and
waited till they subsided, when he repeated it
with more emphasis. Again the roar went
through. He waited and repeated it, if possible
more intensely, and he beat them down with that
one sentence until they were still and let him go on.
A GENTLE, GENEROUS NATURE
The power to discern right amid all the wrappings
of interest and all the seductions of
ambition was singularly his. To choose the lowly
for their sake, to abandon all favor, all power, all
comfort, all ambition, all greatness--that was his
genius and glory. He confronted the spirit of the
nation, and of the age. I had almost said he set
himself against nature, as if he had been a decree
of God, overriding all those other insuperable
obstacles. That was his function. In literature
and in history widely read, in person magnificent,
in manners most accomplished, gentle as the babe,
sweet as a new-blown [?] clear and
silvery, yet he was not a man of tempests: he was
not an orchestra of a hundred instruments: he was
not an organ mighty and complex.
The nation slept, and God wanted a trumpet,
sharp, wide-sounding, narrow and intense--that
was Mr.Phillips. His eloquence was penetrating
and alarming: he did not flow as a mighty gulf
stream; he did not dash upon this continent
as the ocean does; he was not a mighty rushing
river. His eloquence was a flight of arrows,
sentence after sentence, polished and most of

them burning. He slung them, one after the
other, and when they struck they slew.
Always elegant, always awful. I think his scorn
was as fine as I ever knew it in any human being.
It was as if he call every day in himself:
"I am not what they are firing at. I am not there,
and I am not that. It is not against me, I am infinitely
superior to what they think me to be. They
do not know me."
Conscience and pride were the two concurrent
elements of his nature. He lived to see the [?]
emancipation, but not by moral means. He [?]
to see the sword cut the letter [?]
[?] young to retire, though too
old to gather laurels of literature, or to seek professional
honors. The impulse of humanity was
not all abated. His soul still flowed on for the
great under masses of mankind, though, like the
Nile, it was split up into scores of mouths, and not all
of them were navigable.
A SUNSET IN GLORY.
After and long and stormy life his sun went down
in glory. All the English speaking people on the
globe have written among the names that shall
never die the name of that scuffed, detested, mob-
beaten, persecuted wretch-- Wendell Phillips.
Boston, that persecuted and would have slain
him, is now exceedingly busy in building his tomb
and rearing his statue. The men that would not
defile their lips with has name and thanking God
to-day that he lived.
ANOTHER MEMORIAL SERMON.
Interesting Services in Commemoration of the
Dead Orator.
The Spring Garden Unitarian Church was
crowded last evening, when the Wendell
Phillips memorial service was held. The
minister, Charles G. Ames, opened the service
by reading the same selections from Isaiah
as were read at the funeral in Boston by
Rev. Samuel Longfellow, and then introduced
Robert Purvis as a life-long comrade of Wendell
Phillips, and as "a man whose heart is a
live coal from the same altar." Mr. Purvis,
who was an original member of the National
Anti-Slavery Society, gave several reminiscences
of the dead orator, his voice being
broken by emotion. Miss Mary Grew, of
Philadelphia, cousin of Wendell Phillips'
wife, and for over thirty years an [?]
Abolitionist, spoke earnestly, declaring that
the lesson of his life was his loyalty to truth.
Mr. Ames, in introducing Miss Grew, said
that she was one "who has nobly borne the
cross and who already wears the crown."
Edward M. Davis, of Boston, the son-in0
law of Lucretia Mott and a pall-bearer at
Wendell Philips' funeral, was discovered in
the audience. Coming forward, he gave an
interesting recital of the scenes in Boston last
week, when the city where Phillips had been
stoned had risen to do him honor. Mr. Am[?]
then rose to speak, but as it was alread[?]
ter nine o'clock, he said that the m[?]
service would be continued on next [?]
evening, when he would read a pa[?]
he had prepared. He declined th[?]
son for Wendell Phillips' inter[?]
[?]
reason for rebellion against [?]
had the colonies when u[?]
King George. The servi[?]
a benediction by Miss [?]
had sung the burial [?]
Calmly, ca[?]
He hath [?]
He hat[?]
He ha[?]
A[?]
NEW [?]
ing for [?]
at t[?]
T[?]
Sa[?]
J[?]
nomi[?]
evenin[?]
Repubi[?]
A deer[?]
Dubois the[?]
some buck, a[?]
town unmolest[?]
A twenty-ei[?]
to Christian Seltz[?]
the horse is hitch [?]
load of children to [?]
alone, and alone goes [?]
ing.
The annual report [?]
Sons of America headq[?]
this State to be in a very [?]
the year seven command [?]
dinate camps were instit[?]
membership is about 3000.
While Peter Madd[?]
and James A. Foyle were [?]
mountain breach at Rav[?]
Thursday, a large bank [?]
undermined, gave way, [?]
and injuring them terr[?]
Father O'Haran, [?]
Church in Wilkesban[?]
Francis O'Hara, of [?]
among the former's [?]
for suffering Irish p[?]
press orders.
According to a [?]
of the Sharon Hera[?]
who has attended a[?]
Institute in Pebney[?]
better schools, bette[?]
suits than an other [?]
Hon. G. H. Sp[?]
book-shelves in his [?]
Bedford County.
room caused a hiv[?]
wood of which the [?]
the lawyer was co[?]
from his office.
Mr. Henry R[?]
Milford, one of [?]
Barnes, has been [?]
death is hourly [?]
[?]
[?] the [?]
phians.
The huner[?]
complaint agai[?]
Grove Park As[?]
chase deer out [?]
threatens to be [?]
are imported [?]
will kill them [?]
preserves.
A party of [?]
several large [?]
County, near [?]
large m[?]
thousand [?]
lumbermen [?]
four feet [?]
and which will [?]
Reuben Bitz [?]
ville Saturday for [?]
farm work the co[?]
road, his sleigh [?]
team, upset an[?]
of the horses, fr[?]
Sunday night. [?]
as a farmer, and [?]
On one of [?]
Country he ne[?]
friend killed [?]
skin tanned a [?]
which were p[?]
Freeley prized [?]
Fourierite exp[?]
thing that rem[?]
the slippers [?]
Western Penn[?]
his possession.
Mr. James [?]
County, has now[?]
receipts, of very [?]
ily are of Englis[?]
been handed do[?]
for 396 years, th[?]
1480, or three ye[?]
America, and g[?]
the writing very [?]
original bright [?]
The county [?]
have decid[?]
[?]
and [?]
The necessity [?]
long existed. [?]
Charities called [?]
old jail and ask [?]
to appear befor[?]
cessity of a new[?]
agreed with the[?]
will be $1750, an[?]
from $75,000 to [?]E. L. Davenport played an engagement at
the National in 1854 or '55.  His William in
"Black Eyed Susan" I never shall forget.
It was a great character in a small play.
He was another grand and versatile
actor, but was never properly appreciated
here in Boston, his own native place.  He
[?was] a thorough artist; one who never 
[?created] a part, but who played everything
well and excelled in many characters, notably
his "Sir Giles Overreach," "Bill Sykes,"
and in the tragedies and comedies of Shakspeare.
Alas, how soon forgotten!  Yet no!
not forgotten, by some at least.  Old playgoers
will never forget the great dramatic
lights in their great parts.      W. A. F.

[*2556A*]


[*Bost. Trans:
Oct: 12 '91*]THE WORLD MAGAZINE OF
OUTING
[???]TIME

UNITED STATES POSTAGE
1   ONE CENT  1

NEW YORK

Mr Walt Whitman
328 [Mar???]

2556


Early Closing--Evening Hours--What have
evening hours done for mechanics who had only
ten hours toil?  What in the moral, what in the
religious, what in the scientific world?  Harken
to these facts!  One of the best editors the Westminster
Review could ever boast, and one of the
most brilliant writers of the passing hour was a
cooper in Aberdeen.  One of the editors of a 
London daily journal was a baker in Elgin; perhaps
the best reporter of the Times as a weaver
in Edinburg; the editor of the Witness was a stonemason.
One of the ablest ministers in London
was a blacksmith in Dundee; another was a watchmaker
in Banff; the late Dr. Milne, of China, was
a herd-boy in Rhynie; the principal of the London
Missionary Society's College at Hong Kong
was a saddler at Huntley; and one of the best missionareis
that ever went to India was a tailor in
Keith.  The leading mechanist on the London
and Birmingham Railway, with £700 a year, was
a mechanic in Glasgow; and perhaps the richest
iron founder in England was a workingman in
Moray.  Sir James Clarke, Her Majesty's physician, 
was a druggest in Banff; Joseph Hume
was a sailor; Mr. Macgregor, the member from
Glasgow, was a poor boy in Rosshhire; James
Wilson, the member for Westbury, was a ploughman
in Haddington; and Arthur Anderson, the 
member for Orkley, earned his bread by the
sweat of his brow in the ultima Tule.--North of
Scotland Gazette.

2557

ABD-EL-KADER.   The following graphic
account of the "Caged Hawk," taken from
a French paper, will, we think, prove interesting
to our readers.  2559
"I have seen the emir.  His eyes are
not black, as stated, but gray, with long
black eye-lashes.  He speaks with great
volubility, which is a mark of high distinction
amongst the Arabs.  Whatever may be
his reputation as a warrior, it is still greater 
as a man of learning.  He is represented 
to be as deeply instructed as an Arab can
be; his library, carried about in two trunks,
never quitted him, even during the period
immediately preceding his submission.--
The true cause of his giving himself up to
the French was love:  he is another Antony.
After having endeavored with an heroic
courage to force his way through the
Moorish camp, he had succeeded with a
number of his followers, in getting so far
free as to be able to gain the desert; but
when on the point of departing, he heard
a fire of musketry directed again his deira.
He then turned and fell on the Moors.__
The cries of his women, whose tents were
begun to be pillaged, exalted his courage;
he twice came down with his wounded
horse, and was ten times surrounded, but his
great agility saved him; and he effected a
victorious retreat with the deira.  At last,
after having left behind him a train of blood
for three leagues, he arrived at our frontier,
where he found himself in the alternative
of choosing between his two enemies.--
Then, abandoning his deira to our generosity,
he again set off for the south; but
after two nights' march, and with a certainty
of being able to save himself, his heart
grew soft at the idea of isolation, and, preferring
captivity with his own people, he
returned and treated with us.  If this man
had not already gained our esteem by the
struggle which he sustained against us for
fifteen years, every one agrees in declaring
that the courage which he displayed in this
last hour of his warrior life ought to obtain 
for him our liveliest sympathy

Death of Chas. Hine.
It is three or four months since this able artist
sorrowingly laid aside his pallet and brushes,
took a last fond look at the studio, where he had
so long enjoyed beautiful visions of form and
color, and came home to die in the midst of
of his family.  Many elderly farm-folks 
up in the Bethany, where he was born, forty-six
years ago, will recall him as a tow-headed
boy, as bright, and mischievou, and lively as
the squirrels he chased along the zig-zags of the
old stone walls, and will say to one another, as
they read of his death:  "He was a son of Lewis
Hine, the carpenter, who moved to New Haven--
he was always a master-hand to mark out things
natral,"  A large number of his early pictures
are owned here, and some of his recent works--
all, we believe, greatly prized; but his best
things have been produced since his removal to
New York, fifteen years ago, where he met with
better encouragement, and made a steady and
brilliant advance in his art, down to the time
when he began to dip his pencils in the blood he
needed in his veins.  Most of his late heads are
valued by their possessors beyond gold--hundreds 
of them.  He was nervous and impulsive--
a rapid worker; and portraiture, which circumstances
forced him to follow, excellently as he did
it, was very trying to his quick spirit--which ^
(would have jumped with joy to have drank)
in the atmosphere of wild crags, and tumbling
rivers, where the sunsets cast a misty glow of
purple and gold upon the tops of majestic mountains.
How he exulted in his letters to us, when,
a few years back, he had the grand good fortune
to spend several weeks in camping, out among
the lakes, and the primeval forests, of the Adirondacks!--
and how many sweet transcripts of
scenery he found there, are a perpetual reminder
of golden days upon the walls of those
who were with him!  If it had been Charley's
privilege to have led a broad open-air career, it
would, no doubt, have kept off the dread desease
of consumption, to which he was predisposed;
and instead of now lying cold, he would have
been in the glory of his prime, advancing to a 
splendid future.  As it was, he did the best he
could, and accomplished much; and we like to
think he has now reached at a bound a still
brighter future than this we speak of--over
the river, where the colors never grow dim.
Kind friends gathered around him during his
weary sickness, and did all that tender hearts and
generous hands could do to smooth his way--and
he had pleasant letters from Albert Nash of Cincinnati, 
whom he dearly loved--and it was a great
comfort to him, a day or two before he passed
away, (on the morning of July 28th,) when his
old mystical poet friend, Walt. Whitman, sat by
his bed, and with the cheerful simplicity of a 
child, and with his eyes moist with sympathetic
sunshine, talked like a sage of the life beyond.
And when Walt. went away he pressed his bronzed
and white-bearded face to the palid cheek of
the dying painter, and gave him a good-bye kiss.
                                                             G.E.T.
2558  

CURRAN.--Lord Clommell being pressed to
an extreme by the argument, eloquence and
wit of Curran, and losing all temper, called on
the sheriff to take those into arrest that were
found 'contemptuously presuming to fly in the
face of the Court.'  Curran, perceiving at the
moment, the twittering of a swallow, active in
pursuit of flies, in his turn, calls the sheriff to
take this swallow into arrest as guilty of contempt,   
having 'contemptuously presumed to fly 
in the face of the Court.'  [The ridicule and
peals of laughter ensuing this observation close
the scene.]       

CURRAN AND SHERIDAN having been met by
Horne Tooke in a company, the opinion of
Tooke was subsequently asked as to the wit of
the two orators?  He replied, that "Sheridan's
was like steel, highly polished and sharpened
for display and use; and that Curran's was like
a mine of Virgin gold, incessantly crumbling
away from its own richness.'

Curran was liable to fits of irritability which
stimulated him to severity.  The vain and personable
Erskine on one occasion in company
casually asked what Grattan 'said of himself.'
'Said of himself!" was Curran's astonished interjection,
'nothing.  Grattan speak of himself!
why, sir, Henry Grattan is a great man.
Sir, the torture could not wring a syllable of
self-praise from Grattan, a team of six horses
could not drag an opinion of himself out of him.
*  *  *  *  *
Sir, he stands on a national altar, and it is the
business of us inferior men to heap up the fire
and the incense  *  * [See Croly's Geo. IV.
p. 99.

In alluding to Lord Byron, Curran constantly
objected to his lordship's talking of himself.--
'Any subject' said C., 'but that eternal one of
self.  I am weary of knowing once a month the
state of any man's hopes or fears, rights or
wrongs.  I should as soon read a register of the
weather, the barometer up so many inches to-day
and down so many inches to morrow.  I
feel skepticism all over me at the sight of agonies
on paper, things that come as regular and as
notorious as the full of the moon.  The truth is
his lordship weeps for the press and wipes his
eyes with the public.

In properly governed circles and communities
necessary discipline has its first and advocate
moral right--the influence of religious 
views, next to this stands the force of reason as
exhibited in the civil law.  And the remaining 
defender is the military arm or physical
force.

Every single example of punishment has in it
something unjust, but its operation against individuals
is balanced by its tendency to promote
the public good.--[Tacitus.

A more fruitful source of incident could be
found in the infernal workings of the heart of a
malignant slave than in the richest copiousness
of the fertile imagination.--[Curran.

CONTAGIOUSNESS OF CRIME.--It may be observed
that there are certain years in which in
a civilized country, some particular crime
comes in vogue.  It flares its season and then
burns out.  *  *  *  * Unquestionably the
press has a great deal to do with these epidemics.
Let a newspaper give an account of
some out of the way atrocity, that has the
charm of being novel:  and certain depraved
minds fasten to it like leeches.  They brood
over and revolve it:  the idea grows up a horrid
phantasmalian monomania:  and all of a sudden in
a hundred different places the one seed sown by
the leaden types spring up into foul flowering.
But if the first reported aboriginal crime has
been attended with impunity, how much more
tenaciously does the imitative faculty cling to
it.  Ill-judged mercy falls, not like dew, but
like a great heap of manure upon the rank
deed.--[Bulwar's 'Night and Morning.'

2560

April '48
At the Surrety Theatre, London, they have
got a real black actor, who is astonishing the cocknies
by his chaste performance.  Douglass Jerrold's
newspaper gives the following account of the phenomenon:

2561

On Monday, Mr. Aldridge, a negro, performed
the part of Zanga, and although the selection of
such an individual looked like the parading a piece
of reality by having a real black man to represent
the ideal character, and therefore seemed to be an
insufferable piece of vulgarity, yet we thought it our
duty to witness it.  We were agreeably disappointed.
Mr Aldridge is an undoubted negro, but is gifted
with an intelligence of perception, dignity of action,
and force of expression that not only do honor to
his particular race, but to humanity.  He is not a
great, but he is a very good actor.  He reads with
much feeling and appreciation of the author; and
there is a force and vigor in his passionate enunciation
that is stirring, and perfectly free from imitation
or rant.  He especially possesses a freedom of gait
and natural dignity of movement, derivable probably
from the unconfined nature of his early life.  He
has nothing of the savage, but his freedom from the
pretty manners of conventional training.  He made
as much of Zanga as it is possible to do of so wordy,
blustering, and clumsy an Iago.  He has a slight
foreign accent, and his voice, like most of his countrymen,
is thin in the upper tones.  He immediately
afterwards performed Mungo in "The Padlock,"
with so much humor, and with such characteristic
songs, that it gave universal satisfaction.

A CENTENARIAN, Hannah Stevenson,
said on good authority to have lived one
hundred and one years and five months,
was buried in Moorestown, Burlington
county, New Jersey, last week.  She was
the mother of twenty-two children, of
whom she survived all but four.  She outlived
her husband twenty years.  Hannah
was of African extraction, though born in
New Jersey "under the King."

Sept. '77

2562ALD --- SUNDAY,  OCTOBER 15, 1882 --

such things, knowing them well, all the vast and complicated
events of the war, on which history dwells
and makes its volumes, fall aside, and for the moment, 
at any rate, I see nothing but young Calvin Harlowe's
figure in the night, disdaining to surrender.) 

LITERARY CRITICISM.
There are many scattered dashes of poetic
and literary criticism, evidently negligent and
impromptu.  On one of the concluding pages, 
for instance, the following: 

I tried to read a beautifully printed and scholarly
volume on "the Theory of Poetry," received by mail
this morning form England---but gave it up at last for
a bad job.  Here are some cap telous pencillings that 
follow'd, as I find them in my notes: 
In youth and maturity poems are charged with sunshine
and varied pomp of day;  but as the soul more
and more takes precedence (the sensuous till included), 
the dusk becomes the poet's atmosphere.  I, 
too, have sought, and ever seek, the brilliant sun, 
and make my songs according.  But, as I grow old, 
the half-lights of evening are far more to me. 
The play of imagination with the sensuous objects 
of nature of symbols, and faith---with love and pride
as the unseen impetus and moving power of all, make
up the curious chess game of a poem. 
Common teachers or critics are always asking:
"What does it mean?"  Symphony of fine mustaches, 
or sunset, or sea waves rolling up the beach---what
do they mean?  Undoubtedly, in the most subtle 
elusive sense, they mean something---as love does, 
and religion does, and the best poem---but who shall 
fathom and define those meanings?  (I do not intend 
this as a warrant for [???]lness and frantic escapades, 
but to justify the soul's frequent joy in what cannot
be defined to the intellectual part or to calculation.) 
At its best, poetic lore is like what may be heard of
conversation in the dusk, from speakers far or hid, or
which we get only a few broken murmurs.  What is 
not gather'd is far more---perhaps the main thing. 
Grandes poetic passages are only to be taken at
free removes, as we sometimes look for stars at night., 
not by gazing directly toward them, but off one side. 
(To a poetic student and friend.)---I only seek to
nt you in rapport.  Your own brain, heart, evolution, 
must not only only understand the matter, but largely
supply it     2563 
HIs criticism of "Edgar Poe's significance"
as an example of the best critical powers, and
shows a high moral judgment.  He says "there
is another shape of personality dearer far to
the artist sense (which likes the play of 
strongest lights and shades), where the perfect 
[c]haracter, the good, the heroic, although 
never attained, is never lost sight of, but, 
through failures, sorrows, temporary downfall, 
is return'd to again and again, and while
often violated is passionately adhered to as
long as mind, muscles, voice obey the power 
we call voiltion.  This sort of personality we
see more or less in Burns, Byron, Schiller and
George Sand.  But we do not see it in Edgar
Poe.  *  *  *  Almost without the first sign of
moral principle or of the concrete or the heroisms, 
or the shapier fleetings of the heart. 

MADAME MODJESKA 

In the Privacy of Her Own
Apartments. 

A Chat About Foreign Life
and Celebrities. 

Players, Play Makers and
Public Taste. 

Mme. Madjeska naturally desires rest and
ease in the hours left her by the exacting demands
of rehearsals and public performances. 
But it was upon the enjoyment of this precious 
time, doubly needed now, that she is recovering
from a recent trying and exhausting cold---the
tribute that our New England climate demands
form all strangers---that she suffered intrusion, 
and graciously welcomed the intruder. 
"I am not a talker," said Mme. Modjeska, 
deprecatingly, "only when I am alone.  Then
I can think aloud, or talk fast enough;  but
when I am expected to say anything, I am so
unfortunate as not to have an idea, and no
words to conceal the lack." 
Fortunately there were others present who
evidently understood the secret of her talking
moods;  for, no sooner had the conversation 
taken a general turn and drifted into a channel 
where Mme. Modjeska could lose the consciousness
that she was expected to say something, 
than her declaration of being no talker
became a dead letter, and she was spontaneiously
giving utterance to the impressions of
her recent London experience with fluency
and enthusiasm. 
"I don't know much about society in general 
in America, but in London it is certainly too 


GOSSIP FROM GOTHAM. 

Sumptuous Style in Which
Editor Dana Lives. 

Editor Hurlbert's Recluse
Habits and Home. 

Departure of the Ford 
Brothers for the West. 

[FROM OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.] 
NEW YORK, Oct 12, 1882.  Have you ever
been to Dosoris island?  Probably not.  Have
you ever seen Dosoris island?  Probably you 
may have got a distant glimpse of it while
steaming up Long Island sound on a Fall River
boat.  It is a lovely island, some
two miles in circumference, near Glen
cove, off the starboard bow as you sail eastward. 
It is the summer home of Charles A. 
Dana, editor and chief proprietor of the Sun, 
and every day during the warm months he
journeys to the city 20 miles off and back on a
steamboat in private apartments elegantly
fitted up for his exclusive use.  His 
residence is an antique mansion, rambling
and roomy, on an eminence crowning the
island and overlooking grounds laid out with a 
consummate mastery of the arts of forestry, 
orchardry, vineyard and floriculture.  There 
are acres of vine festoonery, yielding harvests 
of the richest grapes that can be grown along
this isothermal line.  Fruit is cultivated 
in abundance.  There are mushroom 
caves where the pale fungi grow deep in the
earth, approached only by ladders and seeing 
no other light than torches.  I doubt if anybody 
else in this country has anything like it; 
and, indeed, it is said there are few mushroom 
caves even in France that equal these for the
variety and excellence of the product. 
There are on Mr. Dana's place more than 109 
species of pines.  The needle-bearing trees 
see[m] to be his favorites.  E     Japane 

and Sullivan stop wh
and the fine mansions o
Mayor Edward Cooper and of 
John Jay, a little further west. They are f[i]nished, 
I am told, bachelor fashion, in a style
of barbaric splendor, the walls hung with a 
hundred curious trophies from the Orient, with
presents from the Shah and the Khedive, and
the autograph letter of His Royal Highness
Prince Tewfic, "inclosing" to him the
Ehyptian obelisk which now stand in our
Central Park.  There may also be, by this time, 
gilt-edged and perfumed invitations to dinner
form the frightened Brooklyn bridge thieves, 
against whom Hurlbert is making a gallant
fight, almost single-handed. 
Mr. Hurlbert's personality is not as familiar 
to the public as that of the other prominent
New York editors, for he has not been so much
caricatured, and is seen far less frequently on
the streets and in society.  But a pretty
fair idea of him can be obtained by
looking at a good portrait of the
Emperor William, and then imagining him 
about 10 or 15 years younger.  He has similar
eyes and eyebrows, and the very same gray 
side-whiskers.  He is at once a bon vivant and
a studious recluse, and is not only a brilliant
writer, but an afiable compasion when surrounded
by his chosen friends. 
2564     THE FORD BROTHERS. 
The Ford brothers, not wholly unconnected
with the transfer of Jesse James, have gone
West to be present at the trial of the youngest, 
"Bob," which begins in Missouri--Kansas
City, I think---on Wednesday, the 19th, for the
murder of Wood H te.  I dropped in at
Bunnell's Museum Monday, and saw them, 
and they didn't manifest the least reluctance 
to shaking hands with me.  The elder of the
two is 24, the younger 20 this last summer.
Both looked like a couple of dry goods clerks
on a vacation, the younger "Bob," seeming particularly
innocent and unsophisticated.  They
were dressed in fashionable New York clothes
of the latest cut;  and yet they did not carry
themselves in a haughty and arrogant manner 
or see, at all stuck up.  They bore their honor
very meekly, and Bob wore some body's cluster-diamond
pin on his claudent scarf, which was
exceedingly becoming. 
"You are glad Frank James has come in?" 
I asked;  "feel a little relieved?" 
"Not particularly," said Charles Ford, toying
with some one's gold watch chain, "I 
don't reckon he was going to come into any
town and try to get away with us.  He knows
better than that."
"What do you think he gave himself up 
for?"
"We cannot conjecture," and they looked
with frank inquiry at each other   "It ought


[*Courier
July 30  '84*] 
2566     Old Man Booth. 
Junius Brutus Booth was the deligh tof
the Washington play-goers in the Jackson 
and Van Buren administrations, and his
wonderful impersonations of Richard III, 
Iago, King Lear, Othello, Shylock and Sir
Giles Overreach were as grand as his private
life was intemperate and eccentric. 
He was a short, dampy man, with features 
resembling those of the Roman emperors 
before his nose was broken in a quarrel, 
and his deportment on the stage was imperially
grand.  He had a farm in Maryland, 
and at one time he undertook to
supply a Washington hotel with eggs, milk 
and chickens, but he soon gave it up.  The
traditions that have come down to us of 
this great artist represented him as one
whose instant and tremendous concentration 
of passion in his delineations overwhelmed
his audience and wrought it into
such enthusiasm that it partook of the
fever of inspiration surging through his 
own veins.  He was not lacking in the 
power to comprehend and portray with
marvellous delicacy and exquisitely the
subtile shades of character that Shakespeare
loved to paint, and his impersonations
were a delight to the refined scholar
as well as to the uncultivated backwoodsmen 
who crowded to his performances. 
Booth is buried at Greenmount Cemetery, 
near Baltimore, and in the centre of his
lot is a pedestal of rough-hewn granite, 
surmounted by a marble column.  On one
side of the column is a bas-relief portrait
of Junius Brutus Booth, surrounded by a
laurel wreath.  Beneath are the following 
lines; 

Behold the spot where Junius lies; 
O, drop a tear where Genies dies. 
Of tragedy the mighty chief; 
Thy power to please surpassed. 
Hic jacet the matchless Booth. 

The poetry is a little shaky, but the sentiment
will do.  Another side of the shaft
has cut upon it, 'Brn May 1st, 1896.'  On 
the opposite side is, 'Died November 30th, 
1852.'  The remaining side has upon it, 
'Sacred to the memory of the children of
Junius Brutus and Mary Ann Booth: 
John Wilkes, Frederich, Elizabeth, Mary
Ann, Henry Byron.'  John Wilkes Booth
was buried, after his lifeless body had been
brought to Washington and identified beyond 
doubt, in one of the ground-floor cells 
of the old penitentiary, which had been 
included with the arsenal limits.  When
the building was torn down.  Edwin Booth
received permission to have his brother's
remains removed to Baltimore and interred
in the family lot.  Brotherly love brought
the body of one who had cast reproach
upon a historic name from a dishonorable
grave, and charitably laid it among his
kinsmen. 


The Oldest Man in the World. 
[Exchange.] 
"Spain may well boast of the oldest man in the
world.  In the old city of Bogota resides a man
who, according to his own account, is 180 years 
old;  his neighbors assert on what they believe the 
best of authority that he is even older.  The oldest
inhabitants, some of whom are about 90, declare
that he was a very old man when they were 
children.  His signature has been discovered on a
subscription paper drawn up in 1712 for
the erection of a new convent.  A very aged 
Spanish physician vouches for the age of
this wonderful m[a]n, who he found one
day engaged in his favorite occupation of gardening. 
 His skin had become of the consistency of
parchment, and his hair was white as snow and
as thick and bushy as a turban.  He freely discusses
the subject of his great age, and attributes 
it to very careful and correct haints.  He eats 
but once a day, and then takes a half hour for it, 
assering that a man ought to eat enough in that 
time to last him twenty-four hours.  He fasts on
the first and fifteenth of each month, devoting 
these days to drinking water very freely.  He
chooses the most nourishing food and always 
eats is cold.  It is well known that the Spaniards
can boast of large numbers of unusual 
longevity, which they attribute to a large con[s]sumption 
of onions, of which they claim to raise
   dnest in the world.     2565 



ANNE BOLEYN AND SIR THOMAS
WYATT. 
The hour of midnight had just passed away, when four
women and four men, singly and stealthily crept into St. 
Peter's church, in the Tower.  When there, grouped together, 
one explained to the rest the proposed course of proceeding; 
all then bent their steps to the same point, and
were presently engaged, some in lifting up a huge flagstone
from the pavement, others in spreading a very large 
cloth by the side of it;  and, two wooden shovels being
produced, two of the men proceeded instantly to throw out
upon it the earth from a newly-made grave.  This was the
grave of Anne Boleyn, whose headless body had been
rudely and hurriedly thrown into it, only twelve hours previously. 
In all possible silence the men worked, and with no other
light than was thrown on the soil by a small dark lantern, 
most carefully held;  but, although silently, they yet worked
resolutely, and with great vigor and dispatch cast forth all
that was found between them and the object of their
search, which was an old elm-chest, that had been used 
for keeping the soldiers' arrows in.  In this were deposited 
the remains of their late queen;  and, the lid being removed, 
the body, which had on the scaffold been most
carefully folded in a thick winding-sheet, was then lifted
out, and laid on a large black cloak.  The lid replaced, and
the earth, with great caution and speed, being again thrown 
in, and the large flag-stone again laid down, the party hastened
to the church door.  A gentle signal from within 
having been answered by the opening of the door from 
without, and the assurance by the opening of the door from 
one was stirring, or in sight---the whole party passed hurriedly
away with their burden into a house near at hand. 
Very shortly after the men separately retired to their respective
temporary lodgings, to ponder rather upon their 
plans for the ensuing day, than to reflect upon the dangers
they had incurred in their proceedings. 
The four women, to whose care the body of the queen 
had been thus confided, were the four faithful, and attached, 
and chivalrous maids of honor, who had attended 
upon Anne in the Tower, and accompanied her to the
scaffold.  These, when her head was severed from the body, 
took charge of both, suffering no one to touch them but
themselves, and having wrapped them carefully in a covering 
they had provided, and placed them in the old chest, 
which had been brought thither to receive them, they went 
with those who were appointed to bear away the body to
the church, and did not leave it till they saw it completely 
enclosed in the grave which had been so hastily opened to
admit it. 
One of these four was Mary Wyatt, and one of the four
men was her brother, Sir Thomas Wyatt, who could not
endure the thought that one whom he had once so fondly
loved, whom he had always admired and esteemed, should
be buried like a dog, and thrust into the grave, as a thing
dishonored and despised;  and, when a messenger brought
him word that Anne, but a moment before she knelt down
on the block, whispered to his sister to implore her brother 
to bear off, if possible, her remains from the Tower, and to
give her the rites of Christian burial in a place she named, 
he determined at once to encounter all risks, to fulfil, if
practicable, her dying request. 
There was, undoubtedly, great personal danger to himself
in the attempt.  He had very narrowly escaped being
sent a prisoner to the Tower, with Norris Weston, and 
Brereton;  and, had he accompanied them, he would undoubtedly 
have been executed together with them, two
days before.  He knew and felt this;  and that his life was 
not worth a week's purchase. 
But there were other difficulties to contend with, and
other considerations to be given to the subject, than such
as arose from any personal dangers to himself.  Alone, he
was powerless.  Yet, who would be his confederates in a
scheme that threatened the loss of life to all engaged in it? 
Who would enter into a hostile Tower, well garrisoned, 
and vigilantly guarded, and brave the vengeance of a governor, 
by carrying away the body of a queen, of whose
person, whether living or dead, he had the custody?  And 
for whose sake was all this risk to be encountered?  The
poor queen could give no thanks;  her friends were all in 
disgrace.  Wyatt had no money, and no influence or authority; 
but that helped him which has helped so many
others, and which has so often achieved success in still 
more perilous enterprises---he had man's love for women to
appeal to. 
Those chivalric maidens, who braved without fear the
frowns of their king, and the insulting speeches of his
courtiers, to attend upon their unfortunate and maligned
queen in her degradation and distress, were not likely to
have either pusillanimous lovers or brothers;  and the men
happened to be in this case worthy of the women.  They
entered immediately and cordially into Wyatt's plan, and
separately, and without an hour's delay, made their way to
the Tower, to make inquiries as to the health and well-doing
of their respective favorites.  When there, various reasons 
were found for their staying during the night.  The
ladies themselves would all depart the next day, and the
assistance of such friends in their removal was more than 
desirable. 
Besides, other circumstances within the Tower in some
measure favored their projects;  the hurried preparation for
so many executions within the walls during the last few
days---the arrival of so many nobles and counsellors, to sit 
in judgment upon the prisoners---and the arrival that day
within the Tower of the king's brother, the Duke of Suffolk, 
the king's son, the Duke of Richmond, and other 
high officers of state, to witness Anne's execution---and 
their hurried departure, after all was over, with their numerous
retinue, deranged the usual customary duties of the 
guard, and made them less inquisitive than they would 
otherwise have been, as to the persons they admitted. 
In addition to this, all the prisoners, who had caused all
this excitement, had been disposed of---all were executed, 
and, moreover, buried.  There was no one remaining
within the Tower cared for by any one;  and the extreme 
vigilance of the constable, Sir William Kingston, so long
as he had the prisoners in charge, and until he had in every
respect obeyed the king's stern decrees in respect of them 
all, made him, perhaps, now less severe in his regulations 
towards the few unhappy ladies, their friends, who would
be his guests only a few hours more within the Tower
walls. 
The peculiarly mournful situation of these ladies, the melancholy
and afflicting scenes they had so lately witnessed, 
their heroic conduct, and their deep distress, made it impossible
to deny to them the sympathy and visit of a few friends. 
Mary Wyatt, in her deep sorrow, might well be supposed to 
need a brother's consolation, and even, in her forlorn state, 
a brother's protection.  This gave him, immediately subsequent
to the execution, an amply sufficient reason for visiting 
his sister in the Tower, and he soon arranged with
Mary all the details of his enterprise;  and Mary soon secured
the hearty co-operation of the other ladies, who were but
too well pleased to lend their aid to fulfil the last expressed
wish of their dying mistress. 


A quiet entrance into the church was all that Sir Thomas
then seemed to need for the success of his plans.  He strolled
into the church, conversed unreservedly, and with as 
much composure as he could assume, with the sexton, who 
pointed out to him the stones which covered the bodies respectively
of Queen Anne, and her brother, Lord Rochford. 
The man, it appeared, from his conversation, had greatly 
commiserated the fate of the unhappy queen, and was
shocked at the heartless manner in which she had been 
thrust into her grave, without any attendant priest or religious
service.  Sir Thomas Wyatt availed himself of this
favorable prepossession, and by persuasions of various kinds, 
some verbal, some, perhaps, more substantial, he obtained of
the man permission to enter the church at midnight, and
with the ladies who had been the queen's attendants, to
complete her funeral obsequies secretly and quietly, as they
best could. 
Of course the sexton never knew, nor did the constables
of the Tower ever dream, of the masterly manoeuvre that
had been practised against them.  So far, however, had Sir
Thomas succeeded, that he had rescued the body from its
grave, and had placed it in hands that would, to their utmost, 
protect it.  The next step was to remove it beyond the
Tower walls. 
It was natural enough, that from the excitement and distress
of the preceding day, from the terror and grief they had
been exposed to in the actual witnessing on the scaffold the
beheading of their lovely queen, that the ladies should be
more or less ill, and that one at least should need to be carried
to her litter, from illness and sheer exhaustion. 
When the hour arrived for their departure, they respectively
sent their adieus and their thanks to Sir William and
Lady Kingston, and a litter being at the door, three of the

; and presently
another gentleman appeared, carry-
arms a lady who seemed but little able to support
herself. She also was in mourning, and closely covered 
up. This was the body of Anne.  Having safely deposited 
her with the others, the whole drove away, followed by 
the other maid of honor disguised as one of the attendants. 
Quietly and together, the gentlemen walked through the 
Tower gates, beyond which their horses awaited them; 
mounting these, they proceeded westward, and were soon 
lost sight of in the crooked and narrow streets which led directly
from the Tower to the city.
Twelve days had passed away, when Sir Thomas Wyatt
rode into the court of Blickling Hall, in the county of Norfolk, 
accompanied by his sister Mary.  It was in this hall
that he had passed many of the days of his early life, a companion 
and a playfellow to the daughter of his father's
friend, Sir Thomas Boleyn.  here, when a boy, he had gambolled, 
and walked, and gardened, and read with the sweet
little girl, Anne Boleyn.  Here, as children, they had enjoyed
together many of the hours of their happier years---for his 
father and her father being for a time coadjutor governors 
of Norwich Castle, the families frequently visited each
other.  Nor did the intimacy cease with the removal of the
Wyatts to Allington Castle, in Kent, since the Boleyns moved
also in that county, to occupy not altogether exclusively, 
but very frequently, Hever Castle. 
There Wyatt was a frequent visitor, and with his increasing
years increased his attachment to the fair Anne, the
playmate of his childhood.  But it was at Blickling Hall 
that all his earlier recollections of the Lady Anne were associated; 
and, as he rode through its archway on the 1st of
June, a thousand thoughts rushed through his mind a
thousand recollections urged themselves in his memory, of
her whom he had once fondly hoped to make his bride---
whom he had since seen made a queen---and whose headless
body he had so lately rescued from an ignominious
grave. 
The Earl of Wiltshire, her father, had two days before 
arrived at Blickling to receive his expected guests.  None
else wee there but themselves.  It was a time of mourning
and sorrow for all---a time of fear, and not of feasting.
Their danger was still great;  their detection was still possible. 
One indiscreet step, one unguarded word might still
betray them, and bring down the fiercest wrath and the
most certain death upon them all. 
The motives for the Earl of Wiltshire's visit to Blickling
were natural enough.  His daughter had fallen under the
king's displeasure, and had lost her head in consequence, 
and every possible means had been taken by the king to defame
her character, and to hold her up as an object for the
nation's scorn and abhorrence.  The father necessarily
shared in the disgrace of the daughter;  and at that moment
his presence at court, and in mourning, would not have been 
borne by the king, who was just then engaged in introducing
his new wife to the citizens of London, and holding high
festivities in celebration of his new marriage. 
Retirement to his country-seat, if only for a season, seemed
only proper in the earl's case, and the most reasonable
and prudent thing he could well do.  And, as for Mary 
Wyatt, she had undergone so much of late for Anne's sake, 
had suffered so much from anxiety and distress, had witnessed
so much, had endured so much, that, to retire altogether
from the scene of so many disasters would seem equally advisable
to her;  and the attachment and steadfast friend of the 
earl's daughter could not have retired for a time to a more 
suitable home than the earl's halls. 
 It was sufficient for Sir Thomas Wyatt himself that he
accompanied his sister.  The presence, therefore, of the
three together at Blickling Hall, excited no curiosity as to
their motives, called forth no observation;  on one obtruded
upon their grief;  no one disturbed their quiet;  no one intruded
on their privacy;  and as the earl had proposed to reside
here again for a few months, and the hall had been of
late rather deserted and neglected, various packages of furniture
and goods had been forwarded from his house in town
for his use here.  Some packages of this kind, in old boxes 
and crates, arrived the same day that Sir Thomas Wyatt
arrived, and seemingly for his better accommodation, as they
were removed at once to the rooms occupied by him and his
sister. 
In fact,  Sir Thomas had scarcely had the covered cart
that brought these goods out of his sight since the day it
left London.  He travelled slowly, for his sister's sake, and
invariably rested for the night wherever the cart rested. 
Still he knew nothing, seemed to care to know nothing of 
either the cart of the two men who went with it.  He neither
spoke to them, nor did they make the slightest observation 
to him.  Occasionally they passed by, or were overtaken
by two well mounted horsemen, who seemed to be
travelling the same road with him, and to have no greater
motive for haste than he had.  These did occasionally, when 
the accommodation was sufficient, rest for the night at the
same inn;  but, whenever they did so they took no notice 
of each other.  And thus they journeyed, till they all arrived
within an hour of each other at the city of Norwich.  Here, 
probably, the strangers stopped.  But not so did Wyatt, nor
the cart.  These proceeded onward to Horsham;  and here
Sir Thomas began to breathe more freely.  He had so far 
succeeded in fulfilling her dying wish, whose memory he
still so fondly cherished---he had thus far brought her mortal
remains.  This night passed, and another, and a short 


day's travel over, he would place all that he could of the
daughter in her father's halls.  Whatever might be the result
to himself, he had fulfilled what he considered has duty
to her.  But not a word on the subject throughout the whole
journey had passed between himself and his sister.  Walls
have ears, and so have hedges, as many have found to their
cost;  and Wyatt had lived too long at court not to know
when it was both prudent and safe to keep his tongue 
at rest, on that very subject especially which at the time
was the most occupying his thoughts.  That night, however, 
passed quietly away, and before the evening of the following
day they saw the cart enter the magnificently-timbered park 
of Blickling Hall.  Then Wyatt rode on at once to the
house;  had a brief interview with the earl;  and the packages
were all that night stowed away, where no curious eye
would be prying into them, and no questions be asked about
them. 
Thus far his project had succeeded to his utmost desire. 
Once more Anne Boleyn rested in the halls of her birth. 
The fickle tyrant, who had by his threats driven away the
devoted Percy from her, who had deprived her of the happiness
she might have enjoyed with that most devoted and attached
admirer, and of the rank to which he would have 
raised her as Duchess of Northumberland---who next sought 
to seduce and to ruin her---who then raised her to his throne
---and finally sent her to the scaffold---then to the earthed
rather than buried, to be hid rather than entombed, little
thought that, at that moment, she was again in the hall of
her fathers---in that hall from which he had so artfully beguiled
her, and from which he had so long, by titles and appointments, 
estranged her. 
There now once more she reposes, after all the trials and
temptations to which he had exposed her---after all the indignities
and insults to which he had subjected her---after all 
the calumnies and falsehoods he had heaped upon her.  Oh, 
could she have known when she ascended the scaffold that 
within one month from that day all that remained on earth
of her would be found in that chamber once called her own 
at Brickling Hall, how much firmer would have been her
step, and how much more cheerful her spirit!  She had apprehended
that her remains would be indignantly treated--- 
that the rites of sepulture would be withheld from her, and
that her grave would be where no memorial would be found
of her;  and, therefore, her appeal to Wyatt, to save her, 
if possible, from the degradation that awaited her---to remove 
her, if possible, to the tomb of her fathers.  Her desire had
now, however, a prospect of fulfilment---a grave had been
opened in Salle church, which was the ancient burial-place 
of her father's family;  and thither, on the second night after 
Wyatt's arrival, they proceeded, accompanied by his guests,
ostensibly for the purpose of having midnight masses said 
for the repose of his daughter's soul;  his daughter's remains, 
however, went with him.  They had, under Mary Wyatt's 
care, immediately upon their removal from the Tower to her
house, been most carefully embalmed with a black velvet pall, 
she was placed in one of her father's carriages, into which
Wyatt and his sister entered;  the earl preceding them in 
another carriage alone. 
What that earl's thoughts and reflecting were during the
two hours he was slowly and unobservedly travelling, by 
Aylsham and Cawston, to Salle, it would not be difficult
to divine.  He had within the month lost a daugher and a
son by the band of the executioner---that son his only son---
that daughter the queen of England.  Her name, besides, 
had been branded with infamy;  and the prime mover of 
all this misery to him---the most active agent to work him 
all this ill!---to bring his son and daughier to the block---was
his own son's wife, the infamous Lady Rochford.  There
ended all his dreams of ambition---all his influence and prosperity. 
His children beheaded---his name dishonored---himself
shunned.  He was now alone, it might be said, in the
world.  One daughter, indeed, yet remained to him, his
daughter Mary;  but she had two years before incurred the
anger of her father by marrying Sir W. Stafford;  and he
was, in consequence, utterly estranged from her. 
The bitter reflections of those two hours perhaps the better
prepared the earl for the solemn ceremonies that awaited
his coming at Salle church.  He alighted there at midnight. 
A few faithful servants bore the mangled remains
of his daughter to the side of her tomb;  but the perilous duty
all there were engaged in would not allow of numerous 
tapers---of a chapelle ardent---of a whole choir of priests---or
of grand ceremonials.  One priest alone was there, and the
few candles that were lighted did no more than just show
the gloom in which they were shrouded. 
But, all that could be done for the murdered queen was
done.  A mass was said for the repose of her soul---de Profundis
was changed by those present---her remains were
carefully lowered into the grave, where they now rest;  and
a black marble slab, without either inscription of initials, 
alone marked the spot which contains all that was
mortal of Anne Boleyn, once queen of England. 

2567 

The Monk and the Rabbi. 
During an Eastern voyage, which a
learned and pious rabbi took to visit the
Hebrew Academies, he made the acquaintance
of a monk who was on a pilgrimage
to Jerusalem.  The two travellers got on 
very harmoniously, and their conversation 
at first was truly amicable, till it was disturbed 
by religious controversy, when their 
wrangling became so violent that, on their 
arrival at the caravansery, they were incensed
against each other.  During the 
night the monk, sinking under the influence
of an Eastern climate, fell seriously ill.--
Rabbi Solomon put aside every other consideration, 
and paid him due attention;  and, 
as the rabbins at this period generally knew
something of medicine, he was fortunately
able to assist his fellow-traveller, who thus
became indebted to him for his life.  The
rabbi postponed his departure to attend upon 
the invalid till out of danger, and, when he
came to bid him adieu, the priest thanked
him, with an overflowing heart, in these
words:---"I am poor, and can do nothing
for you, but I pray to Heaven for your prosperity. 
The most delightful day of my
life will be, when I can prove my gratitude."
Rabbi Solomon interrupted him by saying, 
"You owe me nothing.  Although opposed
in religion, humanity ought to unite
us, and the law of Moses commands me to
act toward you as I have done.  Adieu! 
We may never meet again.  Live worthily, 
and, if you ever meet a suffering Jew, assist
him as I have assisted you."  Years afterwards, 
on his return to France, Rabbi
Solomon stopped at Prague, where his co-religionists 
received him with honora and
fetes.  The Jews of Bohemia were then 
under the domination of Duke Vladislas, 
who allowed no opportunity to pass without
manifesting his hatred to them.  When he
heard of the reception given to the stranger, 
like all tyrants, the duke regarded him as a 
conspirator, a Messiah, or a plotter of
revolution, and gave immediate orders for
his arrest.  During this era of persecution, 
to bring a Jew to judgment, was to send
him to death.  This community of Prague
were thrown into trouble and despair.---
When brought in chains before the duke, 
Rabbi Solomon was the only one who preserved
his tranquility. 
His representations were rejected, and
Vladislas was about to pronounce his condemnation,
when the Bishop of Olmutz advanced
towards the ducal throne and exclaimed, 
"My lord, in the name of the God
of Christians, I forbid that even a hair of
this Jew be touched.  He is noble, generous, 
and conscientious, and never was deaf 
to the voice of humanity."  The duke and
the court were confounded;  but the bishop 
related with warmth the service which had 
been rendered to him by the generous rabbi
when he was only an obscure monk.  The
duke instantly ordered the irons to be removed
form Rabbi Solomon, and the courtiers
vied with each other in overwhelming
him with compliments.  The Christian 
bishop thus distinguished himself by his
gratitude, and Rabbi Solomon had an escort
of honor, and was loaded with presents
and blessings.  But that which was
more grateful to him was, that the Jews of
of Bohemia enjoyed peace and security under
the protection which the bishop gratefully
accorded to the brethren of his fellow-traveller, 
the benevolent rabbi.---Moral
and Religious Tales  
2568 


METTERNICH---YOUNG NAPOLEON. 

We take the following sketch form Parley's
Peregrination published in the Boston Atlas: 

Prince Metternich is the most wonderful individual 
in Europe, who does not wear a crown.---
His house is near the palace---a slight iron foot
bridge connecting his study window with one of
its terraces, so that he has an imperial puppet directly
under his thumb.  I was fortunate enough
to see him yesterday afternoon, as he was leaving
the council room.  About five feet in height, slightly
formed, meagre, and walks with a feeble step; 
his head is large, the eyes grey, the mouth small
and compressed, while the broad forehead is
strongly marked with wrinkles of cunning or furrows
of thought---perhaps both.  A winning smile 
played upon his cheek as he acknowledged by lifted
hat by a polite bow, and I could hardly realize
that so plainly dressed, gentlemanly a man
could be the ruler of 50,000,000 of people---the
antagonist of European freedom---the out-writer of
Napoleon---the murderer of his son. 
As a diplomatist he is unrivalled;  possessing in 
a high degree, the power of concealing his feelings
under an icy cold mask, while he carries out his
political tactics, which consists, to use his own 
words, 'in the art of telling lies with a good grace.'
To aid in his mind-depressing task, he has organized
a secret police which is unrivalled---successfully
repressing every expression of thought by
forcing on all the deadening conviction that the
eyes and ears of spies are everywhere,   Those 
who have good opportunity for knowing, assert 
that there is not a private circle in Vienna destitute
of paid informers, whose denunciations are
sufficient to banish or imprison any one native or 
foreigner. 
From the palace of the executioner, we went
to the tomb of his victim, in the vault of the Capuchin 
Convent.  A pale, penance-macerated
looking young monk, with a flowing beard and 
brown cowl, lit a candle, and preceded me down a
flight of stone steps, leading to the last resting-place
of the Imperial House of Hapsburgh.  Here
are upwards of seventy coffins on the pavement, of 
silver, bronze or copper, some covered with bass-reliefs, 
others entirely plain;  but only one interested
me---that which contains the remains of Napoleon's
son. 
Not many years ago, (it was the 29th of March, 
1811,) a death-like silence resigned over Paris, 
though it was mid-day.  Carriages were stopped, 
the artizan's hammer, thousand's of Frenchmen 
held their breath, and counted the cannon notes 
that were pealing forth form the battery before the 
invalids;  it had been announced that twenty-one 
guns would be fired on the birth of a Princess, 
while an imperial hundred gun's salute would welcome
a male heir.  "Eighteen, nineteen, twenty,"
hearts beat quick---"twenty-one,"---a second of 
mighty doubt---and then another report was heard; 
but the remainder were drowned by a unanimous
shout of joy.  Napoleon had an heir.  He was repaid
for the sacrifice he had made in casting his
loved Josephine for his adored France.  The vast 
French Empire rejoiced, and even in our infant
republic, James Monroe wrote a letter to the Emperor, 
signed by President Madison, offering "congratulations
on the fortunate birth of a prince,
     from the dignity of his extraction, the title
     ROME." 
     of this unfortunate young man is too 
     dialogue or oppression and
attempts to subdue an eagle mind;  but POISON at
last carried off to a quiet grave a noble form, that 
military hardships could not break down, or Fanny
Eissler corrupt.  The "King of Rome" rests in 
a copper coffin, on whose sides eight lions' heads
hold large bronze rings, while smaller lions' 
heads ornamented the ends.  In each corner of the
top is a small bass-relief representation of an overturned
helmet on a lance and sword, surrounded
by a wreath of laurel. 

A THIEF WITH A CONSCIENCE.---The following
story, related by a criminal, shows that even the
most abandoned have a tender place in their
heart;  I passed on e day by a Savings Bank in the
city of -------, when many poor people were about
making deposits.  I stepped into the bank for the 
purpose of robbing somebody if occasion offered. 
I was attracted by the appearance of a woman, 
with a bank-book full of notes in her hand, and
child in her arms.  The child became restless and
in quieting if, she slipped the bank-book into her
pocket.  I immediately slipped it out, and then
walked into the street, and lingered a moment to
see the end of the matter.  In a few moments 
the poor woman came down the steps, having discovered
her loss---she was weeping bitterly.  The
people all sympathized with her, and some one
near me said it was a very hard case, that the
woman was very poor;  and she hand an intemperate
husband, and that the money so unexpectedly
lost, was her little all. 
This was calculated to move the hardest heart; 
but when I looked at the child, and saw it raise a
little white handkerchief to its face and cry bitterly, 
I could no longer forbear.  I followed the
woman and addressed her.  "My good woman, 
did you not lose some money just now?"  "Yes
sir, indeed I did."  "Well here it is."  I handed
her the money:  I am the man who took it.  Walk 
around a square or two and then deposit it;  if you
go to the bank immediately, I shall be suspected. 
---Ex. Paper. 
2569 



IRISH COUNTING.---"Teddy, me boy, did ye go
to the parthy last night?" 
"Oh, wan't I there, darlint---and wan't it a fine
time we had Jemmy?" 
"How many of the boys did ye 'av wid ye?" 
"Oonly foor." 
"An' who were they?"
"There was myself, that's one;  there was Barney
Flinn, that's two;  the two Croghans, an' 
that's thraa;  an'---an'---faix---there was foor."
Teddy commenced his count again. 
"The two Croghans is one;  meself that's two; 
an' Barney Flinn is thraa---is thraa---but there
was foor, onny how!"
Not satisfied with three, Teddy scratched his
pate, and very emphatically recommenced his
counting. 
"There was Barney Flinn, that's one;  an' the
two Croghans, that's two; an' meself, that's thraa; 
----------an'---an'  bedad there was foor!---but I
can't think of the uther one!" 

Execution of Louis XVI. 
All our readers are more or less fakili
the bloody scenes of the French Revo
and doubtless will be interested in the foll  ing
sketch from that awful drama: 
"On the 15th of January, the Convention proceeded
to vote what the punishment should be, 
death or banishment.  Every member advanced 
singly to the tribune, and openly gave his vote. 
For forty hours the voting continued, during
which time the galleries were crowded, the bar
of the assembly besieged with deputations, and
the Jacobian club maintaining the excitement by
continued inflammatory harangues.  As each of
the more celebrated deputies proceeded to give
his vote, the interest was absorbing;  but when
Orleans (Louis Philippe's father,) tottered to the
appointed place, with a face pale as death, a
silence perfectly awful pervaded the hall. 
'Exclusively governed by duty,' said the unhappy 
man, 'and convinced that all those who
have resisted the sovereignty of the people deserve
death, my vote is death.'  Another breathless
silence succeeded the conclusion of the
voting. 
'Citizens,' at length said Verginand, the President, 
'I announce the result of the vote---
there are 721 votes;  a majority of 26 have voted 
for death.  In the name of the Convention, I
declare that the punishment of Louis Capet is
death.'  Paralyzed at the very unexpected division, 
which had been occasioned by the succession 
of their own party;  the Girondists made
but one more struggle, and that was for a delay 
in the execution of the sentence.  The vote had
made their opponents too strong for them, and
their last proposition was negatived, by two-thirds 
of the deputies.  Fully prepared for his
fate, the King received the result of the vote
with the unshaken firmness.  'For two hours' said
he, 'Malesherbes, I have been revolving in my
memory whether, during my whole reign, I 
have voluntarily given any cause of complaint 
to my subjects;  with perfect sincerity I can declare, 
 when about to appear before the throne of
God, that I deserve no reproach at their hands, 
and that I have never formed a wish but for their
happiness.'     2570 
On the 20th of January, Santarre, with a deputation 
of the municipals, read the sentence to 
Louis.  He received it with the same firmness
as before, and asked a respite of three days to
prepare for death, the solace of an interview
with his family, the consolations of a priest. 
The convention would not accede to the request 
for a respite;  the hour of ten on the following
morning was irrevocably fixed for the execution; 
the other demands they granted.  From that time
the King seemed resigned nad tranquil.  'Did 
they suppose I could be base enough to kill myself;'
said Louis, when they removed the knives
at diner, 'I am innocent, and can die without
apprehension.'  At half-past eight in the evening, 
the Queen and her children entered the
King's apartment.  The scene that ensued during
those two hours, the two last hours of their
united lives, cannot be described.  At ten the
King rose, the parents blessed their poor son, 
and sought to separate for the night.  'I will see
you to-morrow in the morning at eight o'clock,'
said the King, as his children clung around
him, with tears and shrieks:  'Why not seven?' 
exclaimed they all.  'Well, then seven---at
seven---adieu.'
So mournful was the accent with which Louis
uttered the words, that the children redoubled 
their lamentations;  and the Princes Royal fell
fainting at her father's feet.  With one tender
embrace to each beloved one, the King tore himself
from his agonized family.  The rest of the
evening was devoted to his confessor, the Abbe
Edgeworth, that heroic priest who dared to afford
the last office of religion to his King.  At
midnight the King retired to bed, and and slept 
peacefully until five.  At that hour he rose, gave
his last instructions to his faithful valet, Clary, 
entrusted him with his last words to his wife and
children, and the few relics he had to distribute
among them.  He wished to cut off his hair with
his own hands, and thus escape the degradation 
of that operation on the scaffold;  but the guards
refused his request.  They feared he would use
the scissors for his own destruction, for they
could not believe that the mild and meak-minded 
King could dare to die on the scaffold 
Louis then received the sacrament, at a small
altar prepared in his chamber, and heard the last
service of the dead, while the noise of the people
thronging the streets, and the rolling of the
drums, announced the preparations for the execution. 
At nine, Santerre came to the Temple.
'You come to seek me,' said the King.  'One
minute, and I am ready.'  As he said this he entered
his little chamber, and brought out his last
will, which he asked Santerre to take;  the creature
refused, and the King deposited itin the
hands of one of the municipals who had accompanied
him.  For two hours the long procession 
was dragging its way through the streets of
Paris everywhere hemmed and hedged in
with an imposing military force, that render-



ed every attempt at a rescue fruitless.  At last
the carriage stopped at a spot near the centre of
the Place Louis XV, between the gardens
of the Tuilleries and the Champs Elysees. 
The place was lined with cannon, and the
crowd reached as far as the eye could see on
every side.  'This is the place, is it not?' whispered
Louis to his confessor, and then with an 
air of the most perfect self-possession, descended
from the carriage and undressed himself without
the aid of his executioners.  The men approached
to pinion his arms.  A momentary 
anger seized him as he exclaimed,---'No, I will 
not submit to that.'  The executioners called
for aid, and were about to use force.  'Submit
to this outrage,' said Edgeworth, 'as the last
resemblance to that Saviour who is about to  e 
ward your sufferings.'   Louis yielded and walked
composedly to the foot of the scaffold.   As 
the King mounted the steps he received the
benedictions of his confessor:  'Son of Saint
Louis, ascend to Heaven.'     [*2570 A*]
Advancing to the edge of the scaffold, the
King silenced the drummers that were placed to
prevent his words being heard, and spoke these
last sentences to the people.  'I die innocent
of all that is laid to my charge;  I pardon the
authors of my death and pray God that my
blood may never rest on France.'  He would
have said more, but as his next words, 'and
you unhappy people,' were uttered, S 
forced the drums to beat and drown his
In a moment the executioners seized 
victim, he was forced under the axe, the  came
the clank of the falling iron, and the deed was
finished." 

Lord Byron. 
2571 
The pretty fable by which the Duchess
of Orleans illustrates the character of her
son, the regent, might, with little change, 
be applied to Byron.  All the fairies, save
one, had been bidden to his cradle.  All the
gossips had been profuse of their gifts.---
One had bestowed nobility, another genius, 
a third beauty.  The malignant elf who had
been uninvited came last, and, unable to reverse
what her sisters had done for their favorite, 
had mixed up a curse with every 
blessing.  In the rank of Lord Byron, in
his understanding, in his character, in his
very person, there was a strange union of
opposite extremes.  He was born to all that
men covet and admire.  But in every one
of those eminent advantages which he possessed
over others, there was mingled something
of misery and debasement.  He was 
sprung from a house, ancient indeed and noble, 
but degraded and impoverished by a series
of crimes and follies, which had attainted
a scandalous publicity.  The kinsman
whom he succeeded died poor, and, but for 
merciful judges, would have died upon the
gallows.  The young peer had great intellectual 
powers;  yet there was an unsound
part in his mind.  He had naturally a generous
and tender heart;  but his temper was
wayward and irritable.  He had a head
which statuaries loved to copy, and a foot
the deformity of which the beggars in the
streets mimicked.  Distinguished at once 
by the strength and by the weakness of his
intellect affectionate yet perverse, a poor
lord, and a handsome cripple, he required, 
if ever man required, the firmest and the
most judicious training.  But, capriciously
as nature had dealt with him, the relative to
whom the office of forming his character
was entrusted was more capricious still. 
 She passed from paroxysms of rage to
paroxysms of fondness.  At one time she
stifled him with her caresses, at another time
she insulted his deformity.  He came into 
the world, and the world treated him as his
mother treated him---sometimes with kindness, 
sometimes with severity, never with
justice.  It indulged him without discrimination, 
and punished him without discrimination. 
He was truly a spoiled child;  not
merely the spoiled child of his parents, but
spoiled child of nature, the spoiled child of
fortune, the spoiled child of fame, the spoiled
child of society.  His first poems were received
with a contempt which, feeble as
they were, they did not absolutely deserve. 
The poem which he published on his return 
from his travels, was, on the other hand, extolled
far above its merits.  At twenty-four
he found himself on the highest pinnacle of
literary fame, with Scott, Wordsworth, Sou- 
 hey, and a crowd of other distinguished
writers, beneath his feet.  There is scarcely
an instance in history of so sudden a rise
to so dizzy an eminence.     [Macaulay. 


Vision of Charles the Twelfth. 
This renowned warrior once had a very extraordinary
vision, which is said to be one of the best authenticated
realtions of the kind on record.  He
caused it to be recorded at the time and the original 
document, giving an account of the matter, writen
by the king and signed also by the physician, is believed
to be still in existence.  It bears date but a
short time before Charles was killed, and the fulfilment 
came in due time, some twenty-six years afterwards. 
The account of the vision, taken from the
king's paper's is as follows: 

It was a dark and gloomy night.  The clock had
struck ten.  The ill-lighted room cast an additional
gloom on the figure of Charles the Twelfth, as he sat
in front of a huge fire in his favorite saloon in the
palace of Stockholm.  Immediately in front of him, 
over the fire-place, was suspended the picture of his
Queen, with whom, to tell the truth, he had just 
been disputing, and now set in silent discontent, 
mentally comparing the charming form which hung
before him with the now less beautiful figure of her
Majesty, only breaking his sullen silence by occasionally
muttering some curse on her altered
temper. 
When the King was in these moods he was always
closely attended by his physician, Baumgardten. 
The re-action in a mind so buoyant as that of
Charles, being proportionately dangerous, it was often 
feared he would commit suicide;  so the doctor
always remained near to him, seeking for a convenient
opportunity to draw his mind back to livelier
things, to arouse him from the dreadful mental prostration 
to which he was subject. 
On the evening in question, Baumgardten had 
sat patiently for about an hour, alternately watching
his majesty and the storm which was raging
outside.  But neither the view of the sullen monarch, 
nor the opposite wing of the palace, which
formed the grand hall, where the state trials and similar
events took place, could afford much amusement
to the tired son of AEsculapius, who finding 
his patience begin to wear out, suddenly started up, 
and began pacing the room up and down, in the
same manner that mariners pace the quarter-deck 
of a vessel at sea, occasionally stopping at the window
to look out on the black and gloomy pile of
buildings I have mentioned. 
Suddenly he started back.  "Great heavens, 
sire!" 
"Silence!" growled the King. 
The doctor took two more strides across the
chamber.  At length he could contain himself no 
longer. 
"What is this extraordinary appearance?  Please
your majesty some strange event is taking place in 
the hall of justice."
"Hold your tongue, sir, or I shall command you
to quite the room?"  replied the monarch, who felt
annoyed at these interruptions of his reverie, and
which he believed arose form a mere desire to arouse
him from his meditations. 
The doctor paused, but after a while curiosity got
the upper hand of his better judgment, and walking
up to the King, he touched him on the shoulder, and
pointed to the window.     2572 
Charles looked up, and as he did so, beheld to his
great amazement the window of the opposite wing
brilliantly illuminated.  In an instant, all his gloom, 
his apathy vanished.  He rushed to look out.  The 

lights streamed through the small panes illuminating
all the intermediate court-yard.  The shadows of
persons moving to and fro was clearly discernable. 
The King looked inquisitively at the doctor.  At
first he suspected it to be a trick to entrap him from 
his indulgence in moodiness.  He read, however, 
fear too legibly written in the countenance of the
physician to persevere in the notion. 
The king and his doctor exchanged glances of
strange and portentous meaning.  Charles, however, 
first recovered, and affecting to feel no awe, 
 turned to Baumgardten.      [*2572*] 
"Who has dated to cause the grand hall to be
lighted up!"  he exclaimed, "and who are they
who, without my permission, have entered it?" 
The trembling physician pleaded his utmost ignorance. 
"Go instantly, and call the State porter hither!" 
Baumgardten obeyed, and returned with the terrified
menial, to whom, however, he had not communicated
the reason of his being sent for;  but
who, nevertheless, was sadly alarmed at being summoned
before his royal master at this unusual hour. 
"Where is the key of the eastern wing?" demanded
the King in a voice of unsuppressed anger. 
"Here, sire," replied the servitor, instantly producing
it. 
Charles stared with surprise, but quickly recovering
himself, asked, "To whom have you afforded
the use of this key?" 
"To none, your majesty.  It has never left my
side."
"Who then, have you given admission to?" 
"To no one, sire.  The doors of the eastern wing
have not been opened for at least ten days." 
"Could any one enter without your knowledge
by a second key or entrance?"
"Impossible, sire.  There are three locks to open
before admission could be gained.  The sentry would
allow none to pass in without my accompanying
them.  No human being could possibly get in." 
"Look there, then, and tell me the meaning
of those lights?"  rapidly demanded the king, who
suddenly withdrew the curtain he had purposely
let fall before the entrance of the concierge. 


The poor man stared a moment, and gasping
for breath, totally heedless of the presence of his
Majesty, fell back into a chair which stood near
him. 
"Arise, arise;  I see you have no hand in this
strange affair," added the King in a milder tone.---
"Get a lantern instantly, and accompany us to the
building.  We will pass round through the centre 
of the palace.  Breathe not, however, a syllable to
any one, but be quick." 
In five minutes more the trio were en route, and 
soon arrived at the door, which the King required
his trembling servitor to open.  He did so;  the
brilliant light streamed upon the group.  The affrighted
porter instantly fled, while Charles, followed 
by Baumgardten, boldly stepped into the room, tho'
his blood ran cold as he perceived it filled with a 
large assemblage of knights and nobles superbly arrayed, 
whose faces, though he saw, neither he nor
Baumgardten could distinctly catch.  They were 
all seated, as if a state trial were going on.  The
high officer sat in gloomy silence, as one or two inferior 
officers moved noiselessly about.   Presently 
the world "Guilty" seemed to breathe through the 
room.  A short, a solemn pause, a door opened, and
ed, men apparently of rank, bound and prepared for
execution.  They were followed by the headsman, 
and others bearing the block, &c.  Not a word was
uttered---not a movement shook the assembled 
judges. The principal criminal laid down his head
on the block, and the next instant it rolled from the
scaffold, and actually struck the foot of Charles the
Twelfth. 
At this juncture every light disappeared.  The
King called loudly for assistance to secure the persons
who had thus assembled, and committed violence
beneath the royal roof.  Before he had time to
do so twice, the frightened porter rushed in , attended
by several officers of the household, and servants
bearing torches.  Not a vestige of the vision remained. 
Everything was in its proper place.  The very 
dust which had been allowed to accumulate, rested 
on the furniture.  Every door was well fastened; 
scaffold, block, criminal, judge, all were gone. 
Only one token remained to bear out the actual 
 scene which had taken place:  a large drop of blood
had stained the stocking of the King, exactly on the
spot on which the traitor's head had rolled. 
The next day the record was drawn up from 
which this sketch is taken. 
In 1792, Ankers'rom and his two principal accomplices
justly suffered death for the murder of
their sovereign, Gustavus the Third, King of Sweden. 
[*2572 A*] 

THE DAILY TIMES. 
[From Noah's Sunday Messenger.] 
The Murderer of Ellicott Findlay
and his Child. 
An Incident of Domestic Heroism During the
Revolutionary War. 

We have all heard of course, of the herosim
of princesses, and of queens, and of ladies, 
gay as well as forlorn, of the olden time, 
some of whom heroically defied the world in 
order to carry out some design, and others of
whom faced death, but escaped it through
the aid of feats incredible perpetrated by
themselves.  Well, it is not of this kind of
heroism that we are about to tell of in a few 
words, but altogether another species---
the "domestic" species is a very good name 
for it. 
At the time of the revolution here, there
were many French people in the country, 
the chief portions of whom were, when war
was declared placed to support the glorious
cause whose success has given the oppressed 
of civilized creation an asylum.  The French 
here were of Huguenot families, and being
familiar with the bitter cup of tyranny, could
sympathised thoroughly, with a young nation 
whose people wished to reject that a cup before
it was drained to the dregs.  The French 
did support the republican side of the struggle, 
and that nobly.  We had sought of late, 
frequently to find a French story, and had
nearly abandoned the search as a vain one, 
when we came upon the name of Francis
Rague, of this State.  He was a native of
Rouen, and was a worker in some kind of
woven goods, but what, whether carpets or 
velvets, the chronicles say not.  He had lived 
in the country, or on this continent, ten
years prior to the revolution, spending most
of his time in the Canadas, with Indians and
white adventurers of a very bad stamp.  Collecting
a number of persons, dark and white, 
as bas as himself, he commenced a trip of 
toryism on the frontiers, and also down into
the heart of New York, which he pursued 
for a period of four years.  He seldom or
never risked a battle, could it by any means 
whatsoever be avoided.  However, the old 
threadbare tory business of incendiarism, 
child and woman murder, and scourging unarmed
and lone men, was done by wholesale
under the firm of F. Rague & Company.--- 
He prided himself on an Italian bandit look
which he possessed, and the exercise of natural 
cunning and quick perception.  He was 
no inactive marauder we are assured, but on 
the contrary was very servicable against 
our people in favor of the invaders.  Occasionally
he did services as a spy, for acts
pertaining to which office he once narrowly
escaped being shot by an officer under Putnam. 
[*(2573*] 

Rague had extended his route as far towards 
the city as the vicinity of Peekskill, 
accompanied by two of his companions, and
furnished with information which enabled
him to pick up the right kind of material for
a desparading troupe. 
  An old gentleman, named Ellicott Findlay, 
living near Peekskill, with his motherless
child and a poor serving maid.  The old man 
was reputed wealthy, and, as strong boxes 
were then more common than bank vaults, it
was presumed that his house contained considerable
money.  Rague was made acquainted 
with this fact, and at once determined to
possess himself of the "root of all evil" there 
preserved.  The old man was a rebel, and it
was no harm to rob him.  The house was
easy of access, and very simply constructed. 
It had a cellar, a sitting room, and sleeping
apartment on the ground floor, and a small
room and open garret above.  The old man
slept below---the servant, Mary, and the
child, above.  On the night Rague sallied
out to rob and punish this old "rebel," the
snow fell thick and fast, and the cold was intense. 
Rague took only one comrade, a vicious
Indian, who had been civilized by
"fire-water" and rascallty, and who was 
known throughout the Canadas, as "Poor 
Jack!"  This glorious couple entered the
house without much expense of exertion, and
soon stood beside old Mr. Findlay's bed.---
Arousing him, they demanded his money.---
He protested that there was not one farthing
in the house.  Well, where was it?  they inquired, 
to be answered that he had put it out
of his hands.  By this time, the ruffians were 
desperate, and their intended victim alarmed
beyond measure.  Mr. Findlay refused to
state where he had money concealed, or
whether he really had any put by;  and
Rague, becoming exasperated, struck him on 
the chest with the haft of a knife he was flourishing. 
The poor old man, unconscious of
the extreme and bloody character of his visitors, 
essayed to call for help, when Poor
Jack, unable to control himself, (alas! these
human passions!) plunged his knife into the
heart of the wretched man.  The house was
then searched below, but without any issue
of success.  Rague then determined to go and
torture the servant girl, who was notorious 
for her timidity, into a disclosure of the secret 
of the hidden money.  The girl had heard all 
that had transpired, and was partly attired
when the ruffians entered her chamber.  The
child, at the risk of its life, was crying with
cold and fear. 
  "Where did your master place his money?" 
was the first interrogatory put to the
girl by Rague.
  "He would be angry if I told you," she
replied, firmly. 
  "He is dead!" said Jack, abruptly, "and
can't be angry."  "His money can do him no
good, and we want it."
  "I am afraid I shall do wrong to tell you
what I know of it," said Mary, without
evincing fear. 
  "Right or wrong, you must tell, or we'll
serve you as we did old Findlay," remarked
Rague, feraciously. 
  "Well," responded the girl, after appearing
to reflect an instant, "come with me,
and I'll show you where he buried his
money."
  The idea of digging, publicly, and in the
snow, for a murdered man's treasure, was
hardly relishable, and the tories began to 
grumble their displeasure, when Mary restored
their good humor by telling them that
the money grave was in the cellar.  It was 
then fashionable to bury valuable and cash
to preserve them from the tories, and nearly 
all the coin belonging to patriotic families---
the watches, silver spoons, and jewelry also
---was deposited either beneath the surface
of the earth, or in some place equally secure
and difficult of discovery. 
  Before the tories proceeded to the cellar, 
Jack quietly murdered the child, because it
made "too much noise."  The girl made no
remark, but as if nothing had occurred to disturb
her, trimmed a light, and led the way
towards the cellar.  To reach this she was 
compelled to pass the gory form of her
butchered master.  She did pass it, and
blenched not.  Rague expressed his surprise 
at her coolness, saying he had heard she was
inordinately timid, to which she replied she
had been, but had recovered the courage 
which nature had originally given her.  Getting
to the cellar, which was entered through
a trap cut into the floor, she pointed to the 
right or eastern corner, and bade them dig.
She was about to depart then, imagining that 
her duties were fulfilled, and she was at 
liberty.  But the tories would not allow her
to stir, they said, until the discovery of the
money proved that she had not deceived
them.  The girl's situation was then frightful, 
inasmuch as she had deceived them, and
knew nothing of old Findlay's circulating
property.  They soon excavated the earth to
the depth of a foot. 
  "How much deeper have we to go?" inquired
Rague, after having commanded her
to hold the light. 
  "I don't know," answered Mary, "but
believe he stood up to his hips in the hole."
  "Hell take it!  We shall not get through 
2573 


till morning," was Jack's remark, as both he
and his companion resumed their labor with
energy.  Mary, hardly daring to reflect upon 
what she was doing, regaled them with a 
story which developed the fact that the
amount buried must be large, that it would
make them rich, and that, if they would give
her a very small share for her trouble, it
would make her independent of domestic
servitude for life.  Delighted with their prospect
they readily agreed to give her as much
as she thought would place her in the posiiton
she desired to stand in.  Two feet of earth 
was upturned, and Rague began to feel with 
his spade below the lower surface to see if
he could touch the chest. 
  "If I only had a pick, now!" he said, as if
he did not expect to get one. 
  "A pick!" cried Mary.  "Oh! one stands
by the door of the house;  I'll get it."
  Before they knew what she was doing she
had gone up the step ladder and through the
trap;  and in the next instant they were 
fastened in the damp, dark, and dismal cellar, 
to which was not a single window or other
aperture.  Mary had shut the trap, and, with 
all the strength she could employ, set a heavy
piece of furniture upon it.  With the speed
of lightning almost, she put all the articles of
bulk in the room upon the door, and was
happy to find that they were sufficient to
keep the tories in their prison.  She then
hunted up a hammer and nails, and made
them completely secure, so far as the blockaded
method of egress was concerned.
  To their entreaties and threats she gave no 
heed, nor did she respond to anything they
said but once, and that was to tell them that
there was not a feather's weight of coin in
the cellar to her knowledge.  Rague then
began to cut his way through the floor;  but
in those days the planks and timbers used
were not very easly severed or broken, and
he abandoned that attempt to aid Jack in 
boaring their way through the foundation.---
In the meantime the girl, with wonderful 
courage, placed the bodies of the old man 
and his child in a decent position, and attired 
herself in out-of-door apparel.  All this she
did without wasting a second's time, of course, 
and at the same moment she heard the efforts
and the blaspheming exclamations of
the tories. 
  That poor girl, having done as we have
stated, rushed out into the storm and darkness. 
The snow was two feet in depth, and
the wind blew almost a hurricane.  She was
obliged to journey two miles before she found
any one to alarm, and then she found but one
farmer; named Ashbury, and a lad.  These
individuals however, armed themselves, and
went back to Mr. Findlay's, arousing people
on their way.  Two hours and a half after
Mary's start, eight men were at the house. 
They opened the trap-door, expecting to find
the ensnared marauders.  A light was procured, 
and with muskets levelled and bayonets
fixed, the rebel parties entered the cellar. 
The tories had torn---how, was increadible
---a portion of the foundation out above 
the surface of the ground outside.  Rague
was gone, having crawled through the hole; 
but Jack, the Indian, was jammed fast into 
the aperture, and was dead. 
  Mary fainted as soon as she was safe, and
paid the penalty of her heroism by a year's
illness and an early death.     [*2573 A*]
  Francis Rague, one year and a half after
the enactment of the above scene, was at
Canada, near Toronto, keeping an ale-house, 
or village tavern.  He relinquished that calling, 
however, to return to the practice of toryism; 
but where he died, or how, the author
of his very brief biography does not inform 
the world. 

Victor Hugo's Great Romance. 
  Appleton has published Victor Hugo's novel
complete in French, though the American translation 
is not yet half published.  We advise all 
who can read French with ease to read this
novel in the original, because none of the translations
do justice to it.  That of the Appletons
is probably the worst, and we hear that the English
one is much better;  but no translator is
likely to render the full force of Hugo's extraordinary
French;  or indeed, for that matter, to give
a complete version, for there are passages that
few publishers in this country or in England
would venture to give without modification.  In
French such things read more naturally.  The
whole novel is said to be but the first 
of three in which the social life of
the eighteenth century is to be exhaustively
presented.  Aristocracy, Monarchy
and Revolution are to be exemplified each in a
novel;  L'Homme qui Rit is English Aristocracy; 
Monarchy is to France under the Bourbons; 
while Revolution will be Paris in 1793---the last 
and greatest of Hugo's books.  As for L' Homme
qui Rit, it opens in 1689 and closes in the reign 
of Queen Anne, who is admirably described.
The boy who appears in the opening chapter, 
and who grows up to be the "Laughing Man" 
under the name of "Gwynplaine," and the protection 
of the man "Ursus," is in fact, the legitimate
son of the old republican peer, Lord 
Clancharlie, and is proved to be such in the
third volume of the Paris edition, by the testimony
of a witness who is pressed to death for 


refusing to plead, according to good old English
custom, and by evidence of the paper thrown 
overboard from the Biscayan ork, picked up on
the coast of France, and brought to the office of
Barkilphedro, the queen's flatterer, and the
hater of Duchess Josiane.  This evil-minded lady, 
who by a whim, strange but natural, takes a
fierce fancy to the horribly mutilated Gwyn
plaine, is a rival in his affections to the beautiful 
blind girl, Dea, who as a boy he picked up on 
the Chessil near Weymouth.  He remains faithful, 
at last, to Dea, who dies as she is sailing 
away to Holland, whereupon Gwynplaine, otherwise 
Fermoin, Lord Clancharlie, jumps into the
sea and is drowned, while old Ursus, wit his 
wolf, Homo, is left to make the voyage alone. 
This Ursus by the way, is made the vehicle  of
some of the sharpest---sarcasm and misanthropy, 
---almost as good in its way as that of Shakespeare's
Timon and Apemaurus.  In the midst 
of the book he makes great speech at the Tadcaster
inn, in Southwark, where he is exhibiting
Gwynplaine.  He says:--- 

  "Men and women of London here am I.  I congratulate
you upon being English.  You are a
great people.  I will go further, and say, you are 
a great populace.  You have a sublime appetite. 
You're the one nation that eats all the others. 
That's the part to play.  This swallowing up 
all the world puts England in a class by herself. 
In policy and philosophy, in the management of
colonies, of people and of trades---in the firm desire 
for doing to others all kinds of harm that is
good for yourselves---you stand alone and you are
wonderful.  The time is coming when there will 
be on earth two great sign-posts.  On the one
will be written 'Men,' and on the other, 'Englishmen.' 
I merely state these facts to your greater 
honor and glory, not being a man and not being
an Englishman, inasmuch as I have the honor to
be a Bear.  More than that, too, I'm a learned
Doctor.  The two things go together." 

  The exhibition was a perfect success,---it not
only pleased the populace but also the great 
model of fashion in his time, Lord David Dirry
Moir,---a half brother of Gwynplaine.  This 
dandy patron of prize fighters, betrothed to
Duchess Josiane, but given to visiting the cockpits
and boxing rings of Southwark, had seen 
and been charmed with the novelty of this man
of grins.  Ursus and his exhibition became poplar
in the highest degree, and excited the anxiety 
of the local authorities and of the clergy.  Ursus
is had up before an august commission consist-
of a doctor in theology, a doctor in medicine,
and a doctor in civil law---the court of arches, in 
short.  Being asked what right he has to speak 
in public, he replies that he is a philosopher.  He 
is told that is no right at all.  "I'm a tumbler 
besides," he says.  This saves him;  he may 
speak as a tumbler, but as philosopher he must
be silent.  He is questioned upon his opinions, 
and escapes only by setting his judges by the
ears.  Even this is not always a sufficient defence, 
especially against the last and gravest of
the accusations.  The doctor of medicine says,
"We are told that you cure the sick."  "I am 
the victim of calumnious misrepresentation,"
Ursus replies.  So thoroughly professional an
answer procures for him his liberty, and the exhibition 
on Southwark bowling-green flourishes 
even more than before. 
  It may easily be understood that this is a
novel of quite another fashion from those that 
England and America pour forth in such abundance.  
It is an earnest, undaunted, thrilling, but
sometimes unreadable appeal for the wretched
against the heartless oppressors.  It is didactic
and symbolical.  Towards the end the author 
says that the perpetual grin of the Laughing
Man is an image of the supposed contentment 
of the nations under their oppressors.  "The
mutilation of his face meant 'Jussu Regis';  it
was solemn evidence of the crime committed by
kings on him---a symbol of the crime committed 
by royalty upon the people."  It abounds with
faults of taste, and blunders in orthography, and
exemplifies in the highest degree the weakness
no less than the strength of Victor Hugo.  But, 
take it for all in all, it is the book of the
year. 
2574ORIGINAL LETTERS OF RUSKIN.
COUNSEL AND COMMENT BY THE FAMOUS 
ENGLISHMAN.
The two letters found below were written by 
Mr. John Ruskin to a gentleman now a resident 
of Brooklyn, says the Brooklyn Union, who was 
some 20 years ago a student in Paris. The handwriting 
of the author of the "The Stones of Venice" 
is a neat and clerical one, and other are occasional 
interlineations in the letters:-

BADEN, 12th Oct., '63. 
My Dear Sir, — Your interesting letter has been 
long in reaching me, as I had left Chamouni before 
its arrival there, else I had answered before 
now. Thank you for all your courteous and kind 
expressions. Forgive me if I answer briefly, as 
writing wearies me. Do not let yourself be 
changed in temper by anything that has happened 
to you hitherto in matters of the affections. 
If you had to choose a peach out of a basket, 
and the first you felt was unripe, and the 
second decayed. and the third hard or wasp-eaten, 
you would not, therefore, lose your temper 
and declare you would never try another? It 
is more difficult and better worth while to find a 
good wife that a good peach. Try again. 
Women. take them on the average, are far nobler 
and better creatures than men: but the best are
still women, not angels: and the worst are very 
bad, and yet not, to my mind, as bad as wicked 
men. For a woman at the worst is still an animal; 
but a man at his worst is a calculating machine 
with a little spinal marrow in it for oil. 
We are on the whole (the present race of us) tenfold 
baser than our women; but it is wholly the 
women's fault that we are so. When 
I get home I will send you an English poem, as 
finished an example of exquisitely pure English 
as we have in the language and full of most 
precious thoughts on the subject of marriage. 
Let me know, therefore your address in December. 

Meantime, pray continue to study Carlyle (you 
can get his life and letters of Cromwell in Tauchnitz 
edition). Never mind what the common run 
of people say to you, but observe what people say 
who can do anything well (no matter what); their 
sayings are worth attention, though their way 
be wrong. Good soldiers, physicians, lawyers, 
painters, musicians, men of literature, are always 
to be listed to reverently, even it you see 
they are prejudiced; but people of "society," and 
most commercial men, are always wrong in everything 
relating to general principles; still more, 
of course, the clergy. Read Plato, Xenophon, 
and Horace continually, and Livy; you will find 
every wholesome human wisdom in them; for 
poetry read Dante, and our English Chaucer; the 
latter both for his exquisite character, and for 
the study of English at the root -a fountain-head, 
rather- for the source is in Chaucer, higher and 
purer than the modern stream very often. Please 
let me know, sometimes, for it gives me great 
pleasure, how you are getting on and what you 
are thinking. My address is Denmark Hill, Camberwell, 
London. Forgive this hasty and somewhat, 
presuming letter, and believe me faithfully 
yours,   J. RUSKIN.
DENMARK HILL, CAMBERWELL, LONDON, } 
[*2575*] 8th January 1864.
My Dear Sir - I have your nice letter, and am 
very glad of it for I did not know if you had received 
my last, and should have been very sorry 
if you had not. All you say I can entirely and 
deeply sympathize with, and I profoundly regret 
your having to withdraw yourself from your 
favorite studies to follow that of the law, not 
merely because as present time is irksome to you,
but because I fear your present generosity and 
openness, not to say clearsightedness, may be in 
some measure oppressed by the forms and fictions 
of legalism; nevertheless, I have more hope than 
fear for you; hope, that in the study, so conscientiously 
and nobly undertaken, you will preserve 
your nobleness of conscience to the end, and that 
your perfect and practised science may render 
you tenhold more powerful and useful in the 
great political struggles which Europe has to go 
through. We are at the birth of a new epoch of 
human life, and a vast one. You young men have 
the destines of the earth in our hands, and those 
who are true and brave among you will have hard 
and heartrending work, but glorious work, and 
you may live to see the fruit of it. I, and those 
now working with me, may have some of the heat 
of the day, but shall see no victory. 
I can't write any more today, but let me hear 
from you whenever you can. I am at home for 
two months at least. 
I have ventured to direct to you two English 
books; one of Carlyle, full of the most previous 
meat and strength, especially in its closing chapters, 
which pray read when you are not tired. 
The other is poetry, not so much poetry as exquisitely 
tender rhythmic prose- the things which 
noble youths, even when not poetical, should 
always feel about love.  This last book is very 
difficult. Read very little at a time. 
Pray let me hear from you often, and be assured 
of my sympathy and hearty desire for your 
happiness. Forgive me acceptance in this naive 
way of the part of tutor you so modestly offer me. 
With sincere regards to your mother, believe me 
always faithful yours,   J. RUSKIN

Jean Prevost. 
Jean Prevost was an honest man, and his 
family of children and grandchildren, who all 
dwelt under his roof, were as well provided for 
as any in the whole parish. He had the best 
cured bacon, and the finest flavored cheeses, in 
the district, and on holidays, he could indulge 
himself and his guests, with a rasher of the one, 
and dressed lentils; a slice of the other, and to 
wash all over, a draught of wine, superior to 
the small beer sort of stuff, the poorer folks swallowed 
under the fine name of vin du pays. 
But Jean was old; "he had been a solider in 
his youth," and that did not make him a whit 
younger, for a soldier's life is rough one, and 
wears a man sadly. But though old, he was 
as brave in spirit as he had ever been; and except 
when the weather changed, and his old 
wounds, barometer-like, felt it, he was vastly 
good-natured and happy. And so he might, for 
he was above want, and in comfort himself, 
and knew he had wherewithal to make those 
he cared for equally so; for he owed no man 
any thing, and was the owner of snug little 
corner of land which he had bought from the 
commissionaires of confiscated domains six and 
twenty years years before, with a little money he had 
saved when quartered for two years in the house 
of one rich widow in the Fauxbourg, St. Antoine, 
in Paris, and twelve months and a half 
with another in the Rue de Provence in Lyons, 
for though now bent and weak, he was once 
tall, comely and strong. He also received a 
pension from the state for the wounds he had 
gotten in his service. 
At the time my take begins Jean was old however, 
and even ill. He had caught a cold after 
dancing at the wedding of his eldest grandson. 
The apothecary of neighboring village in passing, 
having heard that Jean was sick, called to 
see him, and brought from one his saddle bags 
a goodly store of gallipots and pill boxes, papers 
of brickdust, and other medicines; but Jean, 
who had never been so ill before, said he would 
have none of them, and told the man of Glysters 
to go "au diable." Whether he took this 
advice or not I cannot, for a certainty, state; 
though I deem it improbable that he did, seeing 
that he left the house muttering "Mon Dieu" - 
not a very likely way of talking, when about 
making a call on the devil. 
Jean ate, or tired to eat, and drank, or tired 
to drink- some of his best wine, but all would 
not do. When honest Jean Prevost, some time 
plough-boy and cultivator at the farm of Clos-Giraud, 
next grenadier in Biron's Chasseur's, 
and lastly proprietaire in the Department of 
Brest, was born, it was decreed that sixty-eight 
years should be the term of his lease of life; 
and Nature had fulfilled the contract. Now 
the time of expiry had arrived, and Jean felt, 
and his children saw, that he was dying. The 
veteran had always been. good Catholic, and 
had not missed hearing mass and keeping lent 
and fast says, as strictly as his love of bacon, 
when cured after his own fashion, would let 
him, at least for a half dozen years. But his 
old friend, the Curate, who had visited, and 
married, and buried, and eaten with every family 
in the parish int turn, had died lately of a 
surfeit, from disposing of the greater part of a 
young pig, the half of a turkey, and also six 
"omeiletthe a la Fermiere," at a merry-making, 
on the marriage of the young woman whom he 
called his niece, and the world called his daughter; 
he had been succeeded by some zealous, 
lenten-faced, soupmaigre-eating, but plotting 
and avaricious Jesuits, called in modern parlance, 
missionaries, who settled themselves in 
an old monastery, and undertook the cure of all 
the could in the parish. 
Jean had a mortal dislike to these fellows, 
who were always preaching about the lost property 
of the church, the propriety of refunding 
it, and the blessedness of tithe paying. But 
how could the old fellow act, when he saw himself 
dying? No other priest was to be had, and 
what good Catholic would die sans absolution? 
So he even sent for one of these Jean-faced gentry, 
on purpose to receive his certificate of discharge 
from the army of this world, that he 
might the more readily get admission into one 
of the standing regiments of heaven. A member 
of the scarecrow tribe soon arrived, for they 
knew Jean to be a man who could pay. and 
proceeded without delay to his bedside. He was 
fast approaching to the grave, but the friar 
would not let him get quietly into it, by easing 
his soul, and by giving him extreme unction, till 
he confessed and did penance. Did penance -
why old Jean could not turn on his side ! yet he
was obliged to own that he flirted with widows
- had like wine too well even on Fridays. -
"Now," thinks he, "he'll surely dismiss me."
But no - Jean Prevost was told he could not
have absolution till he restored to the church
the lands which had once been its property, but
which he had fairly bought and paid for! At 
this starling proposition, Prevost, weak as he
was, raised himself up and stared, as well he
might. He then, by looks, declined to acquiesce
in his modest demand. It was reiterated
with threats. Jean recovered speech - cursed
the old Monk - made signs to his son to kick
him down stairs - was eagerly obeyed - shook
hands with his children - blessed their offspring
- said an ave - and gave his spirit to its Giver.
The priest hastened to communicate this bad
success to his brethren, and they swore to be 
revenged. This they thought they would do
by sending word to Jean's family, that they
would not permit him chrisrian burial, "even
if he came to the church-yard, which he would
never do; (true, dead men don't walk far;) "for"
said they, "the devil and three of his servants
will carry him to hell this night."
Jean's friends were dreadfully frightened at
all this, but an old fellow-soldier of his, who
happened to be a guest in the house at the time,
smelt the rat beneath the cassock, and answered
them that "his old friend's bones would lie
in the church-yard, and devil a bit of the devil
would touch them till they got there." Leave
that to me," answered the old boy; "give me a

bottle of brandy, a slice of your bacon, leave
your doors on the latch, and I'll dare all the
devils that come to touch the coffin of Jean
Prevost, my old and worthy comrade!" Night
arrived; Jean's friends crept fearfully to bed;
the old soldier had his brandy and bacon, and 
having primed himself and a dose of both, and
sharpened a massy hanger which hung at his
side, he sat down by his friend's corpse and
sang old songs and smoked from old pipes till
twelve o'clock. A few minute after that hour
strange noises were audible without, screams
were echoed by howls, and grunts by groans'
footsteps were heard on the ground floor of
Prevest's cottage, and, above all, a strong smell of
sulphur was perceptible.  Pierre Jaquemont--
that was the old soldiers' name--began to feel
queerish at the sulphur, but, recollecting it was
used in manufacturing gunpowder, he took 
another petite verre of brandy, and was quite
ready for the nocturnal visitors, who soon floundered
into the dead man's chamber, and began
to unscrew his coffin.  "What d'ye want with
my old friend, you rogues?" cried Pierre; but
he got no answer.  They began to lift the body.
"Come, come." said he, "let him alone, will 
ye?" No reply. "Then have at ye, you old
humbugs!" bawled Pierre, and with one blow
of his hanger he cut off the hand of the most
forward devil of the party.  If devils don't feel
pain, they at least cry when they appear to be
hurt, for this one roared unmercifully.  He was,
however, carried off; Jean Prevost was replaced
in his coffin--next day was quietly buried
in it--his friend, Pierre Jacquemont got well paid
for his sentinelship, and it was remarked forever
afterwards that the Prior of the neighboring
Monastery held his missal during service in his
left hand, and kept his right, if he had one,
under the sleeve of his cassock! 
[2576]

[?DENTS] OF THE UNITED
[?URING] THE FIRST CENTURY OF AMERICAN
[?PENDENCE]--COMPILED BY j. [?DISTURNE]
      A propos of the recent death of ex-President
Fillmore, whose funeral takes place today
at Buffalo, the following list of Presidents
of the United States, from Washington down,
their politics, date of birth and death, will be
of general interest:
1.  George Washington, *of Virginia, born
February 22, 1732; elected Commander-in-Chief
of the Continental army in 1775; first inaugurated 
as President, in the city of New York,
April 30, 1789; second inauguration, in Philadelphia,
in 1793; died December 14, 1799, aged
68 years.
2.  John Adams, * of Massachusetts, born in
1735; inaugurated March 4, 1797; died July 4, 
1826, aged 90 years.
3.  Thomas Jefferson, t of Virginia, born in
1743; first inaugurated in Washington, in 1801; 
second inauguration in 1805; died July 4, 1826,
aged 82 years.
4.  James Madison, t of Virginia, born in 1751;
first inaugurated in 1809; second inauguration
in 1813; died in 1837, aged 85 years.
5.  James Monroe, t of Virginia, born 1759;
first inaugurated in 1817; second inauguration
in 1821; died in 1831, aged 72 years.
6.  John Quincy Adams, t of Massachusetts,
born in 1767; inaugurated in 1825; died in 1848,
aged 80 years.
7.  Andrew Jackson, t of Tennessee, born in
1767; first inaugurated in 1829; second 
inauguration in 1833; died in 1845, aged 78 years.
8.  Martin Van Buren, t of New York, born
in 1782; inaugurated in 1837; died in 1862, aged
80 years.
9.  William Henry Harrison, [p] of Ohio, born
in 1773; inaugurated in 1841; died, in office,
April, 1841, aged 68 years.
10.  John Tyler, t of Virginia, born in 1790;
elected Vice President, and inaugurated as
President in April, 1841; died in 1862, aged 72 
years.
11.  James K. Polk, t of Tennessee, born in
1795; inaugurated in 1845; died in 1849, aged 54 years.
12.  Zachary Taylor, [p] of Louisiana, born in
1784; inaugurated in 1849; died, in office, in
1850, aged 66 years.
13.  Millard Fillmore, [p] of New York, born in
1800; elected Vice President in 1848, and inaugurated
as President on the death of General 
Taylor, in 1850; died March 8, 1874, aged 74 
years.
14. Franklin Pierce, of Pennsylvania, born
in 1791; inaugurated in 1857; died in 1868, aged
77 years.
16.  Abraham Lincoln, of Illinois, born in
1809; first inaugurated in 1861; second inauguration
in 1865; assassinated April 14, 1865, aged
56 years.
17.  Andrew Johnson, of Tennessee, born in
1808; elected as Vice President; inaugurated as
President in April, 1865.
18. Ulysses S. Grant, of Illinois, born in 1822;
first inaugurated in 1869; second inauguration
in 1873; term expires 4th March, 1877.
* Federal
t Democrat
tt Independent
P Whig
S Republican
[2577]FATHER MATHEW. 
[*2578*]
The most splendid triumph of mind and character
achieved by a private individual in any age over the
vicious tendencies of the multitude, is that of the
Very Reverend Theobald Mathew over the destructive
habit of drunkenness.  If any benevolent man, 
a cou     enuous exertion and eloquent per-
     enabled to withdraw a dozen of 
   low creatures from habits of intoxication, and 
 store them to a steady practice of sobriety, with
all its attendant comforts and blessings, that man
would have lived to great purpose.  But the number 
of those snatched from the fatal career of inebriety, 
and established in permanent habits of self-command
by Father Mathew, are not to be reckoned by
dozens, or hundred, but millions. 
The miseries of the later ages of the world were
sown by the early ages.  The praises of wine and
conviviality have been the favorite themes of the
most celebrated poets of all ages.  In Greece they
had an express god of wine, and paid him divine 
honors.  There, Homer and Anacreon;  in Rome, 
Horace, Ovid and Tibullux, and almost all their respective
countrymen of the classical ages gloried in 
the celebration of drinking revelries.  In India and
Persia, as in Greece and Rome, heroes drank, and
poets sung the praises of drinking.  From east, and
south, and north, the habit and the glorification of
drinking descended to us.  From the tribes which 
from Asia followed Odin to the north;  from those 
which overrun Germany and then Britain, we had 
the passion for strong drink, and the impression that
there was something noble and heroic in it, handed
down to us.  The seed sown thus sprung up thicker 
and more rampant in every succeeding age.  As population 
increased, and artificial pleasures were sought 
to supply the place of those exhausted in field and
forest, art evoked the raw spirit from the fermented 
liquor, and presented it fiery, maddening, and fraught 
with a thousand curses, to the multitude.  Over land
and sea flew the new genius of demoralisation and
death.  On city and on hamlet the still poured its
terrible poison, and rage, rags, discord, and crime
followed it.  Wherever crowds were congregated, it
spread among them like a pestilence.  Wherever
shops and factories arose, it came in to blast industry, 
and lay prostrate domestic comfort.  Wherever poverty
appeared, it appeared also, and made that pov-
ty a hundred-fold more intense, more frightful, and
ediless.  It demonized the mass;  it made the 
retreats of its individual atoms the dens of
rrible crime, of maledictions, and murder. 
hrove rapidly in its rear;  the human frame, 
an human happiness, withered as it ad-
children carried in the mother's arm to
uckling gin and not milk form the mo- 
grew up, bu per-
der, or haunted 
ivid, decrepit, 
ideous intemperance.  If any one
horrible antagonist of human 
progress was, and what it threatened 
he may yet see plenty of examples of
on, or other great towns, in the quarters
poor.  He may see the deluded wretches crowd=
o the gin-palaces;  he may see them squalid and
e skeletons, shivering round their doors on win-
midnights, too poor to enter, yet unable to tear
themselves away.  He may see women come out, and 


fall prostrate on grates and pavements, and be conveyed
away bleeding and insensible.  He may follow, 
on Saturday nights, the wives of workmen from the 
counting-house doors where they receive their wages, 
imploring money to buy food for the children on the
morrow, and receive only curses and blows.  He may 
go on amid acres and miles of crowded human abodes, 
 and see destitution where there should be comfort, 
imprecations where there should be love---one widespread
scene of wrath and misery, the fruit of the fatal
passion for spirituous liquors. 
But it was not alone amid our dense population 
that gin and whiskey, and the like cauterizing
drinks, spread their disastrous effects---the evil followed
us to other continents, and fixing on the simple
natives, raged with the virulence of a new disease, 
and swept them by whole tribes from the earth. 
In the hands of wicked men it became the most
frightful instrument of aggression, extortion, and
destruction.  They supplied the American Indian, the 
Australian, and New Zealander with the irresistible 
fascination of the fire-water, and the colored man
perished from his ancient lands, and left them with 
an awful title to their possession. But the crime
was pursued by its retribution.  The vice of spirit-drinking
took root among the ordinary settlers of all 
those countries, and raged as fatally among the new
race as the old. 
Thus the seeds of classic praises of drinking cast
into the congenial ground of human indulgence had
duced a monstrous crop;  and serpentine natures 
mped in it.  That which was but a gilded basilisk 
classic ages had become a hydra in ours.  Its hun-
d heads defied the sword or the axe of modern 
ions.  The pestilence of strong drink over-
ll other pestilences.  Men contemplated its
ss and effects with consternation.  It bade fair
all civilising powers, to render abortive
, and the proud promises of rel-
e mass.  The press and the pulpit
in vain.  Christianity---nay, natural re-
n---was annihilated in the hearts of thousands. 
orance, the effect of poverty, and poverty, the ef- 
ct of intoxication, looked on the misery around
nem, and denied the very existence of principle of
good.  Those who know the real condition of the un-
appier portion of the working classes know too well 
this melancholy truth.  It is incredible how much
faith in Christianity and in a Providence have died
out under the influence of a condition which, though
originating in the neglects and the oppression of
governments, has been fearfully aggravated by the
crowning curse of intemperance. 
But Providence was not slumbering.  When the
evil had reached such a magnitude as to defy human
counsel, and to stand before the public eye in all its
deformity, the man and the hour arrived.  That man 
was Father Mathew.  The name of Father Mathew 
has long been a household word.  The wonderful influence
he has exerted, and the moral revolution that
he has effected, are known to every man.  Our present
purpose is to make our readers more familiar
with his personal history.  That and the history of
the temperance cause are identical. 
The Rev. Theobald Mathew is descended from a
very ancient Welsh family.  The records of the
Principality carry the pedigree back to Gwaythvoed, 
King of Cardigan, in direct descent from whom was
Sir David Mathew, the great standard-bearer of Edward
IV., whose monument is in Llandaff Cathedral, 


as also those of his grandsons, Sir William and Sir
Christopher Mathew, of about the date of 1530.  Edmund
Mathew, Esq., the grandson of Sir William 
Mathew, and heir to the ancient estates of the family
at Llandaff and Aradyr, was high sheriff of the county 
of Glamorgan, in 1592.  Two of his sons, George
and Edmund, went to Ireland about the year 1610. 
Here, in 1620, George married Lady Thurles, widow 
ord Thurles, and mother of the first and great
Duke of Ormonde.  Thus, closely allied by blood and
friendship with the Ormonde family, and possessed 
f the vast estates of Thomastown, Thurles, and Ann-
ld in Tipperary, and others in the counties of 

Clare, Galway, Cork, and Limerick, the family continued
down to the present time.  Francis Mathew, 
son of Thomas Mathew, of Annfield, was a gentleman
of the highest consideration in Ireland, and became
successively baron, viscount, and Earl of Llandaff. 
At his death, in 1806, the estates amounted to 
upwards of £40,000 a year.  His successor, the late
Earl of Llandaff, greatly encumbered them, and on
his death, in 1822, intestate and without issue, the
property was entered upon by his sister, Lady Elizabeth
Mathew.  This old lady, who before her death 
was said to be not unfit for a lunatic asylum, died in 
1842;  and in direct violation of, and in opposition to
the will and desire of George Mathew, as above named, 
from whom her grandfather, Thomas Mathew of
Annfield, had derived the estates, bequeathed the
whole entirely from her name and family to a French
nobleman, Viscount de Chabot, highly connected in 
Ireland, but in no way allied in blood to the Mathews. 
Thus were the estates of the Mathew family, 
after the lapse of centuries, conveyed away from 
them.  What is singular enough, the old lady---who, 
we believe, had adopted, and brought up, Father 
Mathew---made him an executor of this very will
which deprived his family of its property.  He naturally
declined to act.  The will, it is said, can be
disputed;  but we are not aware of any steps having
been taken by the Mathew family as yet.  The castle 
and domain of Thomastown is regarded as one of the 
most beautiful places in Ireland, and is situated in
what is termed the golden valley, about four miles
from Cashel, in the county of Tipperary. 
Thus---by one of those mysterious ordinances of
Providence which occur in all ages, as if to point out
the finger of God in particular events, needing nothing
but its own energy to produce them---Father Mathew
is deprived of the fortune which could greatly 
assist in effecting his work;  yet he is called forth, and
does it. 
Mr. Mathew was born at Thomastown, on the 10th
of October, 1790.  His father, James Mathew, of
Thomastown, son of James Mathew, of Two-Mile-Borris, 
near Thurles, was left an orphan at an early
age, and was taken under the care and patronage of
his uncle, Major-general Mathew, of Thomastown. 
The Rev. Mr. Mathew's mother was daughter of
George Whyte of Cappa-Whyte, Tipperary, who
was married to the niece of the celebrated General 
Mathew, of whom honorable mention is made by
Sheridan in his "Life of Swift." 
Mr. Mathew lost his parents very early, and was
adopted by Lady Elizabeth Mathew, who placed 
him under the tuition of the Rev. Dennis O'Donnell, 
the respected pastor of Tallagh, county Waterford. 
At the age of thirteen, he was sent to the lay academy
of Kilkenny, where he remained seven years, and
feeling a desire to enter the church, he was then removed
to Maynooth to pursue the necessary studies. 
After sometime he returned to Kilkenny, stimulated 
by the example of two old capuchin friars to embrace 
their order, and there remained till appointed to his
mission in Cork.  By a rescript from the late Pope
Gregory XVI. he received the degree of Doctor, with
a dispensation from all Episcopal jurisdiction, which 
permits him to possess property and enjoy an annuity 
as a layman.  On Easter Saturday, in the year 1814, 
he was ordained in Dublin, by Mr. Murray, after
having remained for some time under the care of the
very Rev. Celestine Corcoran, of that city. 
From the moment of entering on his mission, 
Father Mathew displayed the sincere conscientiousness
of his character.  All his duties as a Christian 
pastor were discharged with the most indefatigable
activity.  In the confessional, in the pulpit, at the
bedside of the departing spirit, he was ever found
prompt, faithful, and sympathising.  The time ot
occupied in those sacred duties was devoted to the
poor, to the afflicted, and to the management of the
temporal concerns of his flock.  The presence of a
generous, good, and beneficent character is soon felt. 
That of Mr. Mathew rapidly acquired him the affectionate
confidence of all about him.  Those who had 
no friends on whom they could rely appointed him 
their executor.  He has filled the office for hundreds 
of such.  The dying father committed his bereaved 
family to his care;  the widowed mother, threatened, 
by her own death, with the utter unprotectedness of
her children, drew composure, and resignation from 
her confidence in him.  Every day multiplied the demands
on his attention, and widened the circle of 
his untiring usefulness.  He acted as a magistrate as
well as a minister, and thus composed feuds, secured
justice to the oppressed, and healed the broken 
peace of many a family.  His charities kept pace 
with his exertions, and were only limited by his
means.  Among other acts, seeing that there greatly 
wanted more accommodation for burial in Cork, and
for the security of the dead, Father Mathew purchased 
the Botanic Gardens, and, allowing them to 
retain their former agreeable walks and statuary, 
the best specimens of the native genius of Hogan, he 
converted them into a cemetery, not for Catholics
alone, but for members of every other Christian denomination. 
To the poor burial is allowed gratis, 
and the moderate fees derived from others are all devoted
to charity.  He pays a sum of two guineas
weekly to the Cork North Infirmary from the burial 
fees of this cemetery. 
About the same period he commenced building a
church of the Gothic style of architecture, and expended
about £14,000 on it, and will require £8,000 
more to finish it;  but the temperance cause so completely
absorbs his whole time and means, that it is
yet unfinished, though universally admired. 
It was by his beautiful character of a genuine
Christian that Father Mathew had, before the commencement
of his temperance career, risen into the
highest estimation among the people.  The affability 
of his manners;  his readiness to listen to all their 
griefs and cares, and, if possible, to remove them; 
the pure and self-sacrificing tenor of his life, were all
eminently calculated to seize on the quick, warm impulses
of his countrymen, and to make his word a
joyful law to them.  In no country had the vice of
intoxication spread more devastation than in Ireland.
The cheapness of whiskey, the poverty of its people, 


which made them in their troubles and their wrongs
fly to the temporary Lethe of alcohol, spread (says
Mr. Birmingham, his biographer) like one vast sheet
of water, the vice of intoxication over the land, 
bringing to the homes of the humble, crime, wretchedness, 
and degradation.  Every species of guilt 
owed either its origin or increase to this besetting 
sin.  Waylaying, private societies, combination 
oaths, plundering of fire-arms, threatening notices 
&c., &c., were its detestable offspring.  Projects of
the darkest description were conceived by men under 
the influence of liquor;  and in the shabeen houses---
those traps for the unhappy victims of inebriety---
their execution was planned.  It has been known 
that a glass of whiskey was, in many cases, the only 
reward offered or accepted for the perpetration of the
deadliest deed.  The sad consequences of such frequent
violations of all laws, were special commissions, 
summary executions, perpetual banishments, 
families left to pine in rags and wretchedness or
driven out upon the world to eat the bread of sorrow. 
Such was the condition of Ireland.  Benevolent
individuals beheld that moral plague spreading on 
and on, with consternation.  All efforts to restrain 
it were in vain.  The law of the land, Sir Michael
O'Loughlin's act for the suppression of drunkenness, 
was directed against it, but with little effect.  Many 
of the wise and good deemed it incurable;  it was
said that the Irish would abandon their nature when 
they abandoned whiskey. 
Under these circumstances, some benevolent members
of the Society of Friends, and a few others, at 
Cork, who had formed themselves into a temperance
association, but found themselves unable to cope 
with the mischief, implored Mr. Mathew to throw
his great popular influence into the cause.  One respectable
Protestant of the name of Olden, exlaimed:--- 
"Mr. Mathew, you have got the mission, do
not reject it!" 
Perhaps there is no man living who bears about 
him less of the expression of an ambitious man.  Of
all the distinguished persons whom I have seen, I
recollect no one whose whole person, manner, and
bearing, indicate such a thorough singleness of heart; 
such a pure and unmistakable desire to do good and
leave all to God.  Such a man, however arduously
occupied before, could not refuse for a moment to 
enter such a field of usefulness.  He responded at
once to the call upon him;  and with his characteristic
zeal, threw his whole soul into it. 
For a time the effect was by no means brilliant or
encouraging.  The man labored, but the cause did
not move.  For a year and a half he had to persevere
against the deep-rooted degradation of the
mass, the ridicule and detraction of many, and the
discountenance of those from whom he had hoped for
support.  It was like beginning to overturn a rock
which seems rooted to the earth forever.  But a motion 
once effected, every fresh effort makes it more
perceptible, till in gradually increasing oscillations
the huge mass at length gives way, and rolls rebounding
from you.  From this time the cause of temperance 

was triumphant.  The wonderful sp
which has astonished the whole world, of me
nouncing the old clinging vice, which nothing befo 
could tear from them, renouncing it not by dozens 
by scores, but by tens of thousands, commenc
"In a place at Cork, called the Horse Bazaar, 
held his regular temperance meetings twice a-week, 
on Fridays and Saturdays.  The members of his society
increased---the most obdurate drunkards in the
city enrolled themselves in the Cork Total Abstinence
Association.  Along the banks of the Shannan 
his fame began to travel.  First the men of Kil
came in to be received;  then some hundreds from 
ry;  then from Limerick;  until some time 
month of August, 1839, the system burst into an universal
flame." 
The first great demonstration of the effect which 
he was producing, showed itself at Limerick at that
time.  He had gone to that city to preach on some
charitable occasion, at the request of Dr. Ryan, the
Roman Catholic bishop.  Such was the state of the
population there, as it regarded the abuse of spirits, 
that he received a communication from Mr. Fitzgerald, 
the mayor  of Limerick, to this effect:---"I have 
held about a hundred and fifty inquests since the 1st
of October, 1838, and I can safely affirm, tha tone
half of the number were caused, directly or indirectly, 
by intoxicating liquors.  There were eight
cases of death by drowning;  several by burning, 
and many from apoplexy, while in a state of intoxication; 
and within a short period, four individuals
committed suicide while under the hellish influence
of strong drink."  
No sooner, however, did the poor people, burthened
with the weight of their own weakness, hear that 
the moral regenerator had arrived in the city, than
they began to pour in in myriads from the neighboring
counties.  In a short time the streets became filled
with dense masses of the populace;  and so great 
was the rush of temperance postulants, that the iron 
railing opposite to the house of Mr. Dunbar, the reverend
gentleman's brother-in-law, where he was staying, 
were carried away, and a number of persons
were precipitated into the Shannon.  Fortunately, 
they were all safely picked up, and no further  accident
occurred.  Some of the Scotch Greys, who attended
to keep order, were occasionally lifted with 
their horses from the ground, and borne on for a short
distance by the rushing multitudes;  and so densely 
were the people crowded, that several, in their eagerness
to approach Mr. Mathew, ran along quietly and
securely on the heads and shoulders of the vast assemblage
to their destination. 
To trace the progress of Mr. Mathew's widespreading
success from this period would far exceed 
our limits.  He proceeded to visit Waterford, Lismore, 
Ennis, Clonmel, Thurles, Cashel, Templemore, Castlecomer, 
Rathdowny, &c., &c., where the same
scenes, oftens of thousand thronging to take
pledge, were witnessed.  At Parsonsto
was most interesting.  On entering th
stands the beautiful Roman C
spectacle impressed bosoms not very     pti
feelings of intense interest and awe.  In front of 
chapel was stationed a large body of police, presenting
a very fine and well-disciplined force.  Outside 
these were the rifles, on bended knee, with bayonets
fixed and pointed, forming a barrier to oppose the 
rushing multitudes;  whilst within and without this
barrier, to keep the passages clear, the cavalry, with
flags waving to the winds, moved up and down in 
slow and measured pace.  Beyond, and as far as the
eye could reach along the streets, were the congregated
masses, swaying to and fro with every new impulse, 

and by their united voices producing a deep, 
indistinct sound, like the murmur of the ruffled waters
of the sea.  Within the vicarial residence, and 
in strong contrast to the stirring scene without, sat
the mild, unassuming, extraordinary man, round
whom had collected this display of martial pomp, 
and numerical force. 
To gave an idea of the most extraordinary impulse
which he had communicated to the public mind on
this subject, we may state that in one day, at Nonagh, 
20,000 persons took the pledge;  in Galway, in 
two days, 100,000;  in Loughrea, in two days, 80,000; 
between Falway and Loughrea, and on the road to
Portumna, from 180,000 to 200,000;  in Dublin, during
five days, about 70,000!  There are few towns in 
Ireland which Father Mathew has not visited, and
with the like success. 
But it may be said that he had a very impulsive
public to deal with;  a people that actually, spite of
his own protestations, believed that he could perform
miracles, and touched his clothes in the assurance 
some virtue flowing to them;  and that the fire once 
kindled in Irish bosoms would burn on like a blaze in
a tropical forest.  True, they are impulsive;  but let
it be recollected, that no man, nor any combination 
of men or efforts, could be found able to stir this mobile
mass, to kindle this inflamable material before. 
Father Mathew did it.  He effected a change more
intense, extensive, and extraordinary, than was eve
before witnessed;  and had this great moral revol
tion gone no further;  had the stupendous multitud
of people melted gradually away, and in time ev
become what they were before, the marvel would sti
have been great, and the temporary arrest of miser
in many thousands of human abodes, a great gai  of 
But spite of what has been said of relapses, and
cooling down, there is no reason to believe 
effect will not be as permanent, as it has 
ing.  And it has not stood still.  It ha
channel, spread over England, Fra
and even into the Scandinavian nation
ern winters have generated habits of 
brandy.  In the United States of
cess has been little short of that i
the drinking of spirits had attai
in both town and country;  but 
abstinence has been zealously
states, and hundreds of thousa
by it from the horrors which
with ardent spirits inevitably
ther Mathew visited England, and
other cities the enthusiasm with which
ceived, and the thousands who haste
the pledge, testified equally to the nee
gress of the remedy. 
It is not here the place to discuss the
are every day raised regarding teetotal
it is necessary for persons to take the 
not intemperate;  how far total disuse o 
quor is hurtful or otherwise to the ge
how far it is necessary for those who hav
pledge always to maintain it.  There are, 
likely, some of these points on which we might
form the apostle of temperance himself.  But on 
thing should be understood, and that is, that th
pledge binds no man to perpetual abstinence---he may
give it up if he pleases.  And these are the two main 
points on which we entirely agree with Mr. Mathew; 
that they who are temperate, but feel that they can 
strengthen the hands of their weaker fellows by abstinence, 
perform a generous and a Christian deed; 
and that every man who has forfeited his power of
self-command by indulgence, ought to go down into
the A B C school of abstinence till he can regain the
dignity and comfort of temperance. 
The success of Father Mathew's practice is the best
test of its soundness.  By that he has stemmed a
greater torrent of crime;  has averted a greater mass
of calamity; has, like a messenger of the Almighty, 
introduced a great amount of love, peace, and 
prosperity, into human dwellings, and into dwelling
full of wretchedness and bitterness that had the
taste of hell, than any man before.  This he had 
done.  He has stopped up the road to ruin---vanquished
despair---given hope, and faith, and happiness
to thousands whose lot and whose hearts were
dark as death;  and for this---long as men worship 
God and honor virtue---long as the spirit of Christ
breathes on the earth, inciting good men to deeds of
divinest charity---shall the name of Theobald Mathew
ascend daily from the dwellings of the poor, 
amid their prayers and thanksgivings. 
When we see what is yet to be done in this particular
department of social reform;  when we see how
thousands of the poor still curse their poverty with
the inflictions of drunkenness---how they brutalise
their temper, waste their resources, sink their wives
and families into a limbo of every plague of human
life, hunger, nakedness, hopelessness, exasperation, 
and despair;  when we see, in fact, how the steps of
intemperance are dogged by ignorance and every 
crime, we must hesitate, with a jealous caution, to
whisper even a word which might check in the remotest
degree this benificent reformation.  We hail 
it as a magnificent gift of Providence. 
We have lately been demonstrating to the working
classes how they may convert Labor, which is their
master, into their invaluable servant.  But in this 
glorious work there is nothing so essential as temperance. 
"The time wasted and money spent," write
a philanthropic friend form Birmingham, "by
sands of the workingmen, on beer, spirits
co, would, if employed an
enough to establish their comfort and inde
for life."  Honor, then, to Father Mathew!  and 
every man and woman who assists in the great cause
of emancipating the million from the despotism of
bad habits. 
It remains only to state that, in Father Mathew, 
the Catholic priest is completely lost in the Christian. 
To him Catholics and Protestants are of
equal interest.  They are men.  Again, no man ever
evinced a more disinterested zeal.  He has spent all
that he had of his own, and reduce to bankruptcy a
brother-in-law who was a distiller.  His own brother, 
also a distiller, died suddenly in the prime of life,
leaving a large family to be provided for.  His death
is said to have been hastened by the reduced state of
his business through this reform.  Yet this ma, and
other branches of the family, which was particularly
connected with the wine and spirit trade, supplied
Mr. Mathew with large sums of money for the prosecution 
of his work!  The circumstance is beautiful 
beyond expression.  Mr. Mathew holds up the distillery
and lands of about five hundred acres of his late
brother.  He has had many offers for the building, 
at a large rent, for a distillery, which he has refused; 
but he hopes to let it soon for a cotton or carpet manufactory. 


Thus, suffering himself, and causing his nearest
connections to suffer, Father Mathew goes on his
way as if there could be no care in his heart while
he is expelling it from others.  Some time ago, on
hearing that Mr. Mathew had incurred debts on this
account which hampered him, a subscription was
raised with creditable alacrity, and these were cancelled. 
But he is still at work without sufficient
means, and without a provision for old age. 
As you sail up the Cove of Cork, a tower raised in 
honor of Father Mathew, or rather of those who
have honored him as he deserves, arrests your eye. 
This tower was built by a most respectable and
high-minded merchant-tailor named O'Connor, as a
mark of gratitude and respect to the noble-hearted 
people of England, for their kindness and hospitatlity
to Father Mathew, on his visit to them in the cause
of temperance.  It was designed by Mr. O'Connor, 
and is a beautiful and chaste specimen of the florid
Gothic, interiorly being emblematical of both countries
in armorial bearings, medallions, and emblems. 
It commands a view over sixty miles, taking in the
Bantry chain of mountains and the harbor of Cork, 
 with the wide Atlantic.  The tower cost £2,500.
Mr. O'Connor also gave Hogan £350 for a monument 
place in Father Mathew's cemetery.  The tower
was built at the sole expense of Mr. O'Connor. 
2578 

[?NEW YO]RK DAILY TRIBUNE, MONDAY, MARCH 9, 1874.—TRIPLE 

OBITUARY.

MILLARD FILLMORE

  Ex-President Millard Fillmore died at his residence,
in Buffalo, at 11:10 last night. He was conscious
up to the time of his demise. At 8 o'clock, in
reply to a question by his physician, he said the
nourishment was palatable. These were his last
words. His death was painless.  [*2579*]
  With the death of Mr. Fillmore another of the
few prominent survivors of the stormy period of our
politics preceding the war passes away. Millard
Fillmore was born at Summer hill, Cayuga County
N. Y., Jan. 7, 1800. His ancestors were of English
origin, but his great-grandfather, John Fillmore,
from whom all of the name in the United States are
descended, was born about the year 1702 in Ipswich,
Mass., and was the hero of a remarkable adventure
at sea; where, after being captured by
pirates and kept for nine months upon their vessel,
he, with two other captives, made an attack upon
his captors, killed several, and eventually gaining
possession of the ship, brought it into Boston harbor,
where the surviving pirates were tried and executed.
The grandfather of Millard fought as a
lieutenant under Gen. Stark in the battle of Bennington; 
his father, an early pioneer from New-England
to Western New-York, settled in Cayuga
County when it was yet a mere wilderness,
and could give but a slender education
to his family. Millard Fillmore never
saw a grammar or a geography till he
was nineteen years old. During four years
preceding that event he had been apprenticed to
learn the clothier's trade; but while thus engaged
he was a diligent reader in the village library, storing
his mind from books of history, biography, and
travel. Judge Wood of Cayuga County perceived
the capacity of the youth of 19,
gave him a place in his law office, advanced
the means for his necessary expenses, and
enabled him to begin a course of study. To repay
the small sums thus adyanced, Fillmore taught
school in the Winter months; and it is related
that out of $36 received for an entire season's
teaching, he received but $6 for himself and
applied the remainder to these obligations. In the
Fall of 1821 he removed to the County of Erie, and
the next Spring entered a law office at Buffalo, 
where he sustained himself by teaching, and was
admitted to the bar in 1823, beginning practice at Aurora 
in the same county. In 1826 he married Abigail,
daughter of the Rev. Lemuel Powers. The children
of this marriage were a son and daughter. Mrs. 
Fillmore was a lady of refined and gentle manners,
and graced the high position which she subsequently
occupied as the mistress of the White House.
  Mr. Fillmore's first appearance in political life
was as a member of the Assembly from Erie
County in 1829. During the three years of
his service in the State Legislature he
belonged to a powerless minority, the Democrats 
being largely in the ascendant; but he
took a prominent part m the preparation and advocacy
of the law which abolished that relic of barbarism,
imprisonment for debt. In the Fall of 1832
he was elected to the XXIIId Congress on the anti-Jackson
ticket, and took his seat during the stormy
session succeeding the removal of the deposits from
the United States Bank. After serving one term he
renewed the practice of his profession till the Fall
of 1836, when he was reëlected to Congress, and as a
member of the Committee on Elections in
the famous New-Jersey "broad seal" case, established
his reputation in the House. The
agitation of this election case was among the prominent
causes that determined the overthrow of the
Democratic party and the Whig triumph in the
Presidential election of 1840. Mr. Fillmore was re-elected
to the XXVIIth Congress, and there obtained
the arduous and responsible position of Chairman
of the Committee of Ways and Means. The
session continued during a period of nine months,
during which he was not absent from his duties in
the House a single hour. The financial affairs of the
Administration were in great disorder, and the
public reputation of Mr. Fillmore was largely
advanced at this time by his unwearying
industry and the tact and judgement he brought
pensation. The North—or rather that portion of
the North which was growing each year in hostility
to Slavery—did not consider the compromise
any concession whatever, and beyond the circle of
timid conservatives, who then as now were ready
for any sacrifice of principle for the sake of
harmony and to save the party—the only effect was
to arouse a profound indignation at the inhumanity
and brutality of the fugitive slave act.
  The hostility of the North to the Fugitive Slave
law had been anticipated in some measure, but it
was not believed either that it would be enforced in
so aggressive and offensive manner on our side, or
opposed so vehemently and to such extreme lengths

on the other, as afterward appeared. In
the discussions which preceded its passage it had
been violently assailed as unconstitutional in some
of its provisions; and President Filmore was careful
to take the precaution, before signing it, of procuring
from the Attorney-General a written opinion 
in favor of its constitutionality. In this opinion
his own judgment concerned; No one ever doubted
Mr. Fillmore's peority of motives, or that he followed
his cousciencious convictions of duty in singing
the fugitive slave bill. But it cost him personal
popularity and his administration the
confidence of the people and no doubt
was largely the cause of the overwhelming defeat of
the Whig party in 1852 and its disappearance as a
political organization shortly afterward. Being
sincere in his suppart of the Compromise measures,
and honestly believing that the differences between
the two sections could be amicably and honorably
adjusted by carrying out the provisions of the compromise
he endeavored, by the use of such force as
was at the command of the Government to compel
acquiescence at least, if not coöperarion
on the part of the North, in the enforcement
of the odious Fugitive Slave law
Resistance having been made to the execution of the
law in Boston, Syracuse, Christiana, Penn., and soveral
other places, the President by proclamation of
Feb. 18, 1851, announced his purpose to enforce it, and
called upon well-disposed citizens to sustain him.
On the following day, in response to a resolution
of the Senate, calling for information, he sent to
that body a special message communicating these
facts, and repeating his determination to execute
faithfully the laws, and suppress all forcible opposition
to them.
  The weakness of the statesmanship of that period
—the closing hours of the old whig party—was in
its failure to comprehend the absolute incompatibility
of the two systems of labor and the impossibility
of ever adjusting any terms upon which the two
could exist together. The efforts of the great political
leaders of the term, and all the resources of
statesmanship were directed to devising plans of
reconciling the two and compromising the
constantly recurring collisions between the
two sections growing out of Slavery. Mr.
Fillmore was of a naturally conservative
temper, and all his training, associations, and habits
of thought led him into sympathy with the great
body of conservatives in his party, and into a hostile
relation to that class whose convictions upon the
subject of Slavery were more intense, and who were
first then beginning an aggressive, uncompromising
war upon the institution itself. The attempt to
execute the Fugitive Slave law widened the breach
between the two elements in the party, and Mr.
Fillmore's well meant efforts to consolidate the
party upon what he deemed a measure of fair
and honorable adjustment, and to preserve the
Union by restoring peace between the warring and
discordant sections, resulted only in weakening
and eventually disintegrating the party and intensifying
at the North the hostility to
Slavery, which a few years later, under the stress of
new encroachments by the slave power crystalized
in the political organization which came into possession
of the Government in 1860 and put an end to
the whole monstrous system.  [*2579*]
  The adoption of the compromise measures of 1850
and the subsequent attempts to enfore the Fugitive
Slave law, were the chief features of Mr. Fillmore's
administration. Events have shown how utterly
futile were these endeavors to reconcile the two
systems of free and slave labor. The compromise
of 1850 embodying the wisest and most sagacious
to bear upon national affasrs. He is regarded as the
author of the Tariff of 1842. One of the most valuable
measures passed during this session and through
his advocacy, was that which requires the Departments,
in submitting estimates of expenses, to accompany
them with references to the laws which authorize 
them.
  In the Whig National Convention of May 1, 1844, 
Mr. Fillmore was a candidate for the nomination
for Vice-President; in the Fall of the same year he
received the Whig nomination for Governor of this
State, but was defeated by Silas Wright, 
at the time when the action of the so-called
Liberty party threw the vote of the State
for Polk, Texas, the Mexican war and the extension
of Slavers. In 1847 he was elected Controller of this
State by a larger majority than any State officer had
received for many years, and to fill the duties
of this office in 1848 he removed to
Albany. The triumph of our arms in Mexico
made Zachary Taylor the most available man in thə
nation to lead the Presidential ticket, and at the
Whig National Convention of that year Taylor and
Fillmore became candidates, and were elected
triumphantly.
  As Vice-President Mr. Fillmore, on taking the
chair in the Senate, announced his purpose to preserve
order and, if occasion required, to revise theusage of his predecessors, which had been in accordance
with the rule established by Mr. Calhoun
that the presiding officer had no power
to call Senators to order.  The announcement met
with the unanimous approval of the Senate, which 
ordered his remarks to be entered at length upon its
journal.  During the long and angry controversy
over the several propositions for the organization of
the territories and the discussion of the compromise
measures introduced by Mr. Clay, known as the "omnibus
bill."  Mr. Fillmore presided over the Senate
with marked impartiality and fairness.  The quality
of his mind and the characteristics of his subsequent
administrative policy were fairly indicated
by the fact that during this long
period of controversy, when the country
was agitated through its whole extend by the questions
under discussion, and the bitterness of party
strife ran higher than ever before.  No one except
President Taylor knew which policy he approved.
To the President he privately stated that should he
be required to give the casting vote it would be in
favor of Mr. Clay's bill.

The new Administration had been in office a little
more than 16 months, seven of which had been 
full of the noise and bitterness of the great Slavery
debate when on the 9th of July, 1850, Gen. Taylor
died.  On the 10th Mr. Fillmore took the oath as 
President and entered at once upon the duties of
the office.  President Taylor's Cabinet resigned 
immediately, and President Fillmore soon after
announced a new one, in which Daniel Webster was
Secretary of State, Thomas Corwin Secretary of
the Treasury, and John J. Crittenden Attorney-General. 
The selection of the Cabinet was an 
indication of the Executive approval of the Compromise
measures Mr. Clay, which were passed 
substantially as proposed by him during the following 
month.  The several acts comprising the compromise
with which this memorable contest
closed provided for the admission of California
as a Free State; defined the boundaries
of Texas, paying her $10,000,000 for 
relinquishing all claim to jurisdiction outside 
those limits; organized the territories of New-Mexico 
and Utah by bills which were silent on the
subject of Slavery;  prohibited the slave trade
in the District of Columbia; and granted more
summary and effective provisions for the recovery
of fugitives from slavery.  With this settlement
of the questions at issue neither of the parties to the
dispute were satisfied.  Mr. Webster had alienated
his life-long friends and supporters in Massachusetts
by his advocacy of the compromise measures, 
and defeated, as afterward appeared, the
cherished ambition of his life.  The South
was sullen over its defeat on the main question, and
not at all disposed to accept gracefully the concession
of the Fugitive Slave law as an adequate com-

statesmanship of the political period which claimed
Clay and Webster as shining lights, was not
only fatal to the party which adopted it, 
but was the means of embittering the conflict
it was intended to allay, and of
hastening the final attempt at separation and resort 
to arms.  With that the period of compromises 
passed; the game between the two systems was
from that time forward a life and death struggle.  It
was Mr. Fillmore's administration that made
the last great effort to avert a rupture and go on
peaceably.  Whatever may have been the errors of
that policy it cannot be denied that its authors 
were sincere and that in all their acts they
evinced a patriotic purpose.  No other
measure of Mr. Fillmore's Administration 
was especially unpopular.  Many of his recommendations
to Congress were disregarded both
branches having an opposition majority.  Having 
learned that an attempt was to be made to invade
Cuba by lawless citizens of the United
States, he promptly on the 25th of April, 
1851 issued a proclamation warning them of the
consequences and enjoining upon the law officers of
the Government the duty of arresting and holding
for trial all persons so engaged.  By the connivance
of the Collector of the Port of New-Orleans
the Lopez expedition did sail from that port on the
4th of August.  Those engaged in it were captured, 
and some of them executed.  The Collector of the 
Port was removed, and the steamer in 
which the expedition set out was seized and
condemned for violation of the Neutrality
laws.  The foreign policy of Mr. Fillmore's Administration 
was dignified and self-respecting, and by 
the character of its representatives abroad, as well
as by its manly independence, did much to give the
Government position and influence with other nations.

There were many other admirable features in his
Administration, not the least among them being the
countenance he gave to important exploring expeditions, 
such as that of Commodore Perry to Japan, 
that to the La Plata River;  Lynch's exploration of
the Dead Sea;  Ringgold's expedition to the Chinese
Sea;  and Herndon and Gibbon's to the Amazon. 


After the expiration of his term of office, March 4, 
1853, Mr. Fillmore visited Europe, and while there
received the nomination of the American or Know-Noting
party for the Presidency, for which he received
a large minority vote, but a majority only of
the State of Maryland.  The degree of D. C. L. was
tendered to him by the University of Oxford, 
but he declined the honor.  In more 
recent years he has frequently presided
over large commercial conventions and other
public gatherings, being admirably qualified
for the control of such assemblies both by his
widely extended knowledge, his broad views, and a
personal urbanity which nothing could distrurb.
His conciliatory measures won him hosts of friends, 
and he leaves a record of assiduous industry and
spotless integrity.     [*2579  A*] 


[*Frank Leslies' Ill 
May 9  '85*] 

CANADA.—MAJOR CROZIER, COMMANDER OF THE
MOUNTED POLICE AT DUCK LAKE. 
FROM A PHOTO. BY BROCK & CO., BELLEVILLE. 
[*2580*]
 

GENIUS—VICTOR HUGO—GEORGE SAND—EMERSON.
—I call it one of the chief arts of art, and the
greatest trick of literary genius (which is a higher sanity
of insanity), to hold the reins firmly, and to preserve the
master in its wildest escapades.  Not to deny the most
ecstatic and even irregular moods, so called—rather
indeed to favor them—at the same time never to be
entirely carried away with them, and always feeling, by a
fine caution, when and wherein to limit or prune them, 
and at such times relentlessly applying restraint and
negation.  Few even of the accepted great artists or
writers hit the happy balance of this principle—this 
paradox.  Victor Hugo, for instance, runs off into the
craziest, and sometimes (in his novels) most ridiculous 
and flatulent, literary blotches and excesses, and by almost
entire want of prudence allows them to stand.  In his
poems, his fire and his fine instincts carry the day, even 
against such faults; and his plays, though sensational, 
are best of all.  But his novels, evidently well meant, in
the interest of Democracy, and with a certain grandeur
of plots, are frightful and tedious violations of the principle
alluded to.

I like Madame Dudevant much better.  Her stories
are like good air, good associations in real life, and
healthy emotional stimuli.  She is not continually putting 
crises in them, but when crises do come they invariably
go to the heart.  How simply yet profoundly they are
depicted—you have to lay down the book and give your
emotions room.

Coming, for further illustration, to R. W. Emerson, is
not his fault, finally, too great prudence, too rigid a
caution?  I am not certain it is so.  Indeed I have
generally felt that Emerson was altogether adjusted to
himself, in every attribute, as he should be (as a pine 
tree is a pine tree, not a quince or a rode bush).  But, 
upon the whole, and notwithstanding the many unsurpassed
beauties of his poetry first, and prose only second 
to it, I am disposed to think (picking out spots upon 
the sun) that his constitutional distrust and doubt—
almost finical in their nicety—have been too much for
him—have not perhaps stopped him short of first-class
genius, but have veiled it—have certainly clipt and pruned
that free luxuriance of it which only satisfies the soul
at last.     [*2581*]A discovery has been made in this State which is certain to produce a world-wife sensation. The Hon. Ignatius Donnelly, of Hastings, Minn., author of "Atlantis" and "Ragnarok," found, four years ago, in the writings of Francis Bacon, a description, twice repeated, of a cipher, whereby one writing could be unfolded and hidden in another, "omnia per omnia---the writing infolding holding a quintuple relation to the writing infolded." 
He also noted in Bacon's "De Augmentis" (Book 6, Chap. 2), that he was in favor of removing certain "secrets of knowledge" by "obscurity of delivery," from the "capacities of the vulgar," and to "reserve them to selected auditors, or wits of such sharpness as can pierce the veil." 
As Mr. Donnelly was a convert to the theory that Francis Bacon was the real author of the real author of the plays attributed to Shakespeare, and as he did not believe that the writer of such works could forever renounce them, it occurred to him that this cipher rule was intended by Bacon as a hint that there was such a cipher in the plays, in which he asserted his authorship of them. Mr. Donnelly has worked for four years past with the greatest industry and perseverance, and has at last, within the last three months, found the rule and solved the problem.
Lately Mr. Donnelly was visited at his residence by Appleton Morgan, author of "The Shakespearean Myth," and himself a disbeliever in the Shakespeare authorship, though, as he expressly stated, by no means committed to a [Baconi???] [??thorship]. Mr Morgan looked at first [?] skeptically at Mr Donnelly's work, but ultimately expressed himself as satisfied that, "if it was not a cipher---written into the plays examined by the method described by Bacon in the Sixth Book, Chap. 2, of his 'De Augmentis'---it is a most marvelous sequence of identical coincidences, and one forbidden by any known or conjectured law of chances." 
The law of chances, in fact, makes it impossible that whole consecutive, coherent sentences could be worked out by a constituent rule if there was no cipher. [*2582*]
The words of the hidden story hold a fixed and regular relation to the scenes and acts of the plays, to be determined by counting; hence the results are not matter of guesswork, but as demonstrable as a sum in arithmetic. 
The play Mr. Donnelly has been principally working on is the first part of "Henry IV." He was attracted to this play by the fact that within a few pages (act 2, scenes 1, 2 and 4, and act 4, scene 2), he found the words "Francis," "Bacon" (twice repeated), "Nicholas" (twice repeated), "Bacon's," "son," "mas-[??]" "St. Albans" 

1606 Asks for---
"Night dropped her sable mantle down," etc. MacDonald Clarke wrote---
"Whilst twilight's curtain gathering far, Is pinned with a single diamond star." 
A few words regarding this eccentric American may be of interest to readers of this department. He was born in New London in 1798 and died in New York in 1842. He was celebrated for his very odd ways, although they were all amiable. He was always regular in his seat at church and he was well known for many years on Broadway by his blue cloak, cloth cap and erect military air. His death was a very melancholy one. Being picked up by a policeman late at night, in an apparently destitute condition, he was placed in a cell of the city prison, and in the morning found drowned by the flow of water from an open faucet. He was buried in Greenwood Cemetery, where a handsome monument was erected with the inscription, "Poor Macdonald Clarke." [*2583*]
Bost. [Tra???]: 
Oct 12 '91

---The natural rate of respiration is from sixteen to twenty-four breaths per minute, the average being twenty; and Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes has explained the popularity of the octosyliablic verse by the fact that it follows the natural rhythm of respiration more exactly than any other. Experiments with the poetry of Scott, Longfellow and Tennyson show that an average of twenty lines will be read in a minute, so that one respiration will suffice for each line. The articulation is so easy, in fact, that it is liable to run into a sing-song. The twelve-syllable line, on the other hand, as in Drayton's "Polyolbion," is pronounced almost intolerable on account of its unphysiological construction. From this it follows that while the poets disregard science in many ways with impunity, nothing in poetry or in vocal music is likely to win favor that is not calculated with strict reference to the respiratory functions. [*2584*]

"IN art and poetry," says GOETHE, "personal genius is everything; yet we have seen amongst modern critics and connoisseurs certain persons not of the strongest type of intellect, who will have it that in a great work of art the personality of the artist is only a small adjunct in the general result. But the fact is, in the great work the great person is always present as the great factor; only, to appreciate the presence of a great somebody iu any work of genius, the person who would appreciate must himself be a somebody."  [*2585*] 

LEDGER AND TRANSCRIPT. 
Philadelphia, Saturday, Nov. 15, 1873. 
GERMAN LITERATURE 
The wide spreading study of the German language and its literature has created a demand for books on the subject, and to meet this want in part, we have "Outlines of German Literature," by Joseph Gostwick and Robert Harrison, recently reprinted in New York, in a stout volume of nearly 600 pages. Important as has been the influences exerted on the world by the fifty millions of Germans, their literary history, in its antiquity and its growth, has been one of the most striking. With Germany's nineteen universities, its thousand professors, its fifteen thousand students, and its thorough system of schools and education spread broadcast, and enforced alike upon rich and poor, it would indeed be surprising if the results had not been seen alike in the world of thought and the world of action. The men who have been foremost in the one have also been active in the other. Moltke, the greatest General of our day in Europe, was a teacher before he planned the campaign against Austria in 1868, and France in 1870. Von Roon, the great War Minister, and the organizer of Prussian victories, began his career by publishing a handbook of geography for schools. The schoolmaster prepared the way for the place that Germany now occupies in the world of politics, by giving it the pre-eminence in literature and science, and in the traits of character that have made the Germans a most valuable element of the countries in which they have been successful colonists. Even the defects of style among their scholars, excess of learning, abstruse profundity, and that minuteness of detail which never leaves anything unsaid, are in some degree characteristic of the mental peculiarities produced by the extreme care exacted of them; and yet under the pressure of the great business of a growing empire, they are beginning to write as they act, with both depth and clearness. In retracing the history of German literature to its early development, it is not surprising to find that, while the monks were writing their dialectical and controversial books, and the nobility singing and reciting tales of chivalry (a dreamy and fabulous sort of literature), the people of the great towns, the guilds or trade unions, were the chief factors in education and modern civilizations. The Troubadours or poets of the nobility had left unnoticed the lives and interests of the common people, and in their turn the people took their revenge by a literature of their own. The schools or guilds of master singers for the composition and recitation of verse were established in Mayence, Ulm and Nuremberg, and lasted in one shape or another down almost to our own times. The chronicles of the towns are among the most valuable contributions to real history, and as late as 1765-80 the History of Osnabruck, written by Justus Moser, furnished a model book for the people, pointing out that political institutions must grow up out of the history of a people, not out of abstract theories or upon paper. [*2586*] 
In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries there was a strong bond of union in the literary societies which were established throughout the great towns---Hamburg, Leipsie, Halle, Zurich---so that States which were otherwise independent, were brought together by a common literature, growing out of a common language. Although the Leibnitz wrote in Latin and Frederick, the Great in French, yet both of them contributed in their way to the unity of Germany, and when under the sixty petty princes who misgoverned the country, true political aspirations were at an end, literary culture kept alive the pure flame of patriotism and prepared the nation for that heroic effort by which alone it withstood the ruin of the invasion of Napoleon. The great and shining marks in German literature are Goethe and Schiller, but, closely as their names and works are united in the general opinion, there was little in common in the two men, or in their modes of thought and expression. Schiller's short life---he died at forty-five---was full of care and suffering, his works were inspired by a love of country and a lofty purpose, while Goethe lived out more than eighty years of an existence almost undisturbed by a single personal anxiety. His literary career covered the period of three generations, and his "Faust" was in preparation for fifty years. But his services were not to literature alone, for in art 
and in science he was one of the most original thinkers, and in this wonderful breadth of study few men of any country have equalled him. But while he left untouched the wide domain of mental or intellectual philosophy or of patriotic poetry, his contemporaries reckoned up a new philosophy every ten years, and even kings and emperors have acknowledged the influence of the great song writers on the spirit of the German people in their long struggle for liberty. To the strong stand taken by the authors of Germany may clearly be traced and attributed much of the power that the German people showed in their anxiety to secure and their readiness to accept the Empire. The unity of Germany is not merely political, it is actual and potential in language, in literature, in art, in science, and in the latter especially the distinction gained by great authors, great chemists and great discoverers of every kind has gone far to overthrow the imaginary barriers of political lines and to build up the German nation. [*2586*]

QUEEN MARY: a drama. By Alfred Tennyson. 
Boston: J.R. Osgood & Co. For sale by Franklin Philp. [*2587*] 
The appearance of the poet laureate as a dramatist is the literary sensation of the day. The interested excited by the simple announcement of the work would be sufficient to insure Mr. Tennyson's drama an immense sale, but to this natural curiosity of the literary world comes a powerful reinforcement in the indorsement of the London Times, that nothing equal to it has appeared since Shakspeare. The New York Herald in an elaborate estimate of the merits of this work says: "The most surprising thing about this drama is its complete unlikeness to everything the critic could have anticipated. In spite of its few Tennysonian lyrics and conceits it is not Tennsyonian. It has none of the mawkish sentimentality of "The Princess" and none of the morbid and obsure transcendentalism of "In Memoriam." In thought and treatment it is simple to severity. Even when it is most beautiful it is almost bald from the want of adornment. There is not a careless line nor an ill-considered speech from the first act to the last. Sometimes the constraint is too constrained and severity too severe, but this is true only in the dramatic, not the literary sense. As the work of a poet it may be said to be faultless, and if its dramatic triumph has been equally assured, the laureate might well contest with Shakspeare the palm of greatness. Could Mr. Tennyson have been an actor without losing his gift of song, it is quite possible his work would have been a play as well as a drama. Its fault is in its failure to present to the eye what it reveals to the imagination, and yet its very clumsiness of construction is its perfection as a picture. The stage carpenter's hand would mar its beauty and yet fail to give it life. If we should see it on the stage we should miss in that which is most exquisite, and find no recompense in the multitude of its scenes, natural enough in a poem, but shifting awkwardly in a play. It is dramatic in form, but not in fact: but while we regret the loss of the play we are not condemning the drama. As a poem even the dramatic form was necessary to the poet's purpose, and if he has cheated the playhouse he has enriched player and playgoer alike. As an historical study, as the picture of a reign and an age in some respects the most marvelous in the world's annals, his work is unsurpassed---we might say unsurpassable. No other, not even Shakespeare himself, could have done better were the materials at his command; and this much we may say of Tennyson's "Queen Mary," that if it is not the highest effort of genius, it is at least the ripest fruit of intellectual culture."QUEEN MARY.

SCENES FROM TENNYSON'S NEW DRAMA.

Mr. Tennyson's long-promised drama of "Queen 
Mary" will be published to-day by J. R. Osgood & Co. 
of Boston.  From advanced sheets furnished to the 
newspapers we print portions of two scenes which illustrate 
in some degree the character and manner of 
the work. The first extract, from act i., scene iv., presents 
the Princess Elizabeth and her lover, Lord Courtenay.

COURTENAY.
So yet am I, 
Unless my friends and mirrors lie to me, 
A goodlier-looking fellow than this Philip.
Pah!  
The Queen is ill-advised; shall I turn traitor?  
They've almost talk'd me into; yet the word 
Affrights me somewhat; to be such a one 
As harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in it.  
Good now, my Lady Queen, tho' by your age 
And by your looks you are not worth the having, 
Yet by your crown you are.
[Seeing ELIZABETH.
The Princess there?  
If I tried her and la—she's amorous.
Have we not heard of her in Edward's time, 
Her freaks and frolics with the late Lord Admiral?  
I do believe she'd yield.  I should be still 
A party in the state; and then, who knows—
ELIZABETH.
What are you musing on, my Lord of Devon ?
COURTENAY.
Has not the Queen— 
ELIZABETH.
Done what, sir?
COURTENAY.
—Made you follow 
The lady Suffolk and the Lady Lennox, 
You, 
The heir presumptive?
ELIZABETH.
Why do you ask?  You know it.
COURTENAY.
You needs must bear it hardly.
ELIZABETH.
No, indeed!  
I am utterly submissive to the Queen.
COURTENAY.
Well, I was musing upon tha t; the Queen 
Is both my foe and yours ; we should be friends.
ELIZABETH.
My Lord, the hatred of another to us 
Is no true bond of friendship.
COURTENAY.
Might it not 
Be the rough preface of some close bond?
ELIZABETH.
My Lord, you late were loosed from out the Tower, 
Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis, 
You spent your life ; that broken, out you flutter 
Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now would settle 
Upon this flower, now that; but all things here 
At court are known; you have solicited 
The Queen, and been rejected.
COURTENAY.
Flower, she!  
Half faded ? but you, cousin, are fresh and sweet 
As the first flower no bee has ever tried.
ELIZABETH.
Are you the bee to try me? why, but now 
I called you butterfly?
COURTENAY.
You did me wrong, 
I love not to be called a butterfly:  
Why do you call me butterfly?
ELIZABETH.
Why do you go so gay then?
COURTENAY.
Velvet and gold.
This dress was made me as the Earl of Devon 
To take my seat in; looks it not right royal.
ELIZABETH.
So royal that the Queen forbade you wearing it.
COURTENAY.
I wear it then to spite her.
ELIZABETH.
My Lord, my Lord; 
I see you in the Tower again.  Her Majesty 
Hears you affect the Prince—prelates kneel to you.
COURTENAY.
I am the noblest blood in Europe, Madam, 
A Courtenay of Devon, and her cousin.
ELIZABETH.
She hears you make your boast that after all 
She means to wed you.  Folly, my good Lord.
COURTENAY.
How folly? a great party in the state 
Wills me to wed her.
ELIZABETH.
Failing her, my Lord, 
Doth not as great a party in the State 
Will you to wed me?
COURTENAY.
Even so, fair lady.
ELIZABETH.
You know to flatter ladies.
COURTENAY.
Nay, I meant 
True matters of the heart.
ELIZABETH.
My heart, my Lord.
Is no great party in the state as yet.


COURTENAY.
Great, said you? nay, you shall be great. I love you, 
Lay my life in your hands.  Can you be close?
ELIZABETH.
Can you, my Lord?
COURTENAY.
Close as a miser's casket.
Listen; 
The King of France, Noailles the Ambassador, 
The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter Carew, 
Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some others, 
Have sworn this Spanish marriage shall not be.  
If Mary will not hear us—well—conjecture— 
Were I in Devon with my wedded bride, 
The people there so worship me—Your ear; 
You shall be Queen.
ELIZABETH.
You speak too low, my Lord; 
I cannot her you.
COURTENAY.
I'll repeat it.
ELIZABETH.
No!  
Stand farther off, or you may lose your head.
COURTENAY.
I have a head to lose for your sweet sake.
ELIZABETH.
Have you, my Lord?  Best keep it for your own.  
Nay, pout not, cousin.  
Not many friends are mine, except indeed 
Among the many.  I believe you mine; 
And so you may continue mine, farewell, 
And that at once.
Enter MARY, behind.
MARY.
Whispering—leagued together
To bar me from my Philip.     
COURTENAY.
Pray—consider—
ELIZABETH (seeing the QUEEN).
Well, that's a noble horse of yours, my Lord.  
I trust that he will carry you well to-day, 
And heal your headache.
COURTENAY.
You are wild; what headache?  
Heartache, perchance; not headache.
ELIZABETH (aside to COURTENAY).
Are you blind?
COURTENAY sees the QUEEN and exit.  Exit MARY.
The next (from act iii., scene vi.,) shows up Philip 
II of Spain and his English Queen:  
Enter MARY.
MARY.
O Philip!  
Nay, must you go indeed?
PHILIP.
Madam, I must.
MARY.
The parting of a husband and a wife 
Is like the cleaving of a heart; one half 
Will flutter here, one there.
PHILIP.
You say true, madam.
MARY.
The Holy Virgin will not have me yet 
Lost the sweet hope that I may bear a prince.  
If such a prince were born and you not here!
PHILIP.
I should be here if such a prince were born.
MARY.
But must you go?
PHILIP.
Madam, you know my father, 
Retiring into cloistral solitude 
To yield the remnant of his years to heaven, 
Will shift the yoke and weight of all the world 
From off his neck to mine.  We meet at Brussels.
But since mine absence will not be for long, 
Your Majesty shall go to Dover with me, 
And wait my coming back.
MARY.
To Dover? no, 
I am too feeble.  I will go to Greenwich, 
So you will have me with you; and there watch 
All that is gracious in the breath of heaven 
Draw with your sails from our poor land, and pass 
And leave me, Philip, with my prayers for you.
PHILIP.
And doubtless I shall profit by your prayers.
MARY.
Methinks that would you tarry one day more 
(The news was sudden) I could mould myself 
To bear your going better; will you do it?
PHILIP.
Madam, a day may sink or save a realm.
MARY.
A day may save a heart from breaking, too.
PHILIP.
Well, Simon Renard, shall we stop a day?
RENARD.
Your Grace's business will not suffer, sire, 
For one day more, so far as I can tell.
PHILIP.
Then one day more to please her Majesty.
MARY.
The sunshine sweeps across my life again.  
O, if I knew you felt this parting, Philip, 
As I do!
PHILIP.
By St. James I do protest, 
Upon the faith and honor of a Spaniard, 
I am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty.
Simon, is supper ready?
RENARD.
Ay, my liege, 
I saw the covers laying.
PHILIP.
Let us have it.                            [Exeunt.

25882   NEW-YORK DAILY TRIBUNE, FRIDAY, JUNE 25, 1875. - TRIPLE
TENNYSON'S DRAMA.
QUEEN MARY. A DRAMA. BY ALFRED TENNYSON.
EXTRACTS FROM THE NEW WORK OF THE POET
LAUREATE.
the new poem of Alfred Tennyson's is a historical
drama in five acts, constructed upon the familiar
Shakespearean model, with a long catalogue of
dramatis personae and a frequent change of scene.
The action takes place principally in London, now
in the royal palace, again in the streets, or at
Whitehall, or in St. Mary's Church; but
at the beginning of the Second Act it is
laid at Allington Castle in Kent.  The personages
introduced include some of the most conspicuous and
intrinsically dramatic figures of the sixteenth century.
The Mary of the poem is the dark and bloody
daughter of Henry and Katharine of Aragon, and the
whole period of her reign is used by the poet in unfolding
his story.  Philip of Spain, Elizabeth, Cardinal 
Pole, Sir Thomas Wyatt, Cranmer, Gardiner,
Bonner, and Courtenay, Earl of Devon, are among
the prominent actors, and the incidents of the Spanish
marriage, the insurrection of Wyatt, the outbreak
of the persecution, are some of the incidents which
illustrate the gradual development of Mary's character
and the tragedy of her last hours.
The poem is of course republished in this country
by J. R. Osgood & Co., whom everybody recognizes
as Mr. Tennyson's American representatives; and
we present some extracts from advance sheets of
the handsome volume in which this house will issue
the poem to-morrow.
The first scene contains touches of a Shakespearean
humor which appears in many parts of the book.
ACT I.
SCENE I. - ALDGATE RICHLY DECORATED.
CROWD. MARSHALMEN.
MARSHALMAN.
Stand back, keep a clear lane! When will her Majesty 
pass, sayst thou? Why now, even now; wherefore draw 
back your heads and your horns before I break them, 
and make what noise you will with your tongues, so it
 be not treason. Long live Queen Mary, the lawful and
 legitimate daughter of Harry the Eighth! Shout, knaves!
 CITIZENS. 
Long live Queen Mary!
FIRST CITIZEN. 
That's a hard word, legitimate; what does it mean?
SECOND CITIZEN. 
It means a bastard.
THIRD CITIZEN. 
Nay, it means true-born.
FIRST CITIZEN. 
Why, didn't the Parliament make her a bastard?
SECOND CITIZEN.  
No; it was the Lady Elizabeth.
THIRD CITIZEN. 
That was after, man; that was after.
FIRST CITIZEN. 
Then which is the bastard?
SECOND CITIZEN. 
Troth, they be both bastards by Act of Parliament and
Council.
THIRD CITIZEN. 
Ay, the Parliament can make every true-born man of us 
a bastard. Old Nokes, can't it make thee a bastard? 
thou shouldst know, for thou art as white as three Christmasses.
OLD NOKES (dreamily). 
Who's a-passing? King Edward or King Richard?
THIRD CITIZEN. 
No, old Nokes.
OLD NOKES. 
It's Harry!
THIRD CITIZEN. 
It's Queen Mary.
OLD NOKES. 
The blessed Mary's a-passing! [Falls on his knees.
NOKES. 
Let father alone, my masters! he's past your questioning.
THIRD CITIZEN. 
Answer thou for him, then ! thou art no such cockerel
thyself, for thou was born i' the tail end of old Harry the 
Seventh.
NOKES.
 Eh! that was afore bastard-making began. I was born 
true man at five in the forenoon  i' the tail of old Harry, 
and so they can't make me a bastard.
THIRD CITIZEN. 
But if Parliament can make the Queen a bastard, why, 
it follows all the more that they can make thee one, who 
art fray'd i' the knees, and out at elbow, and bald o' the 
back, and bursten at the toes, and down at heels.
NOKES. 
I was born of a true man and a ring'd wife, and I can't 
argue upon it; but I and my old woman 'ud burn upon 
it, that would we.
MARSHALMAN. 
What are you cackling of bastardy under the Queen's 
own nose? I'll have you flogg'd and burnt too, by the 
Rood I will.
FIRST CITIZEN. 
He swears by the Rood. Whew!
SECOND CITIZEN. 
Hark! the trumpets.
[The Procession passes, MARY and ELIZABETH 
riding side by side, and disappears under the gate.
CITIZENS.
 Long live Queen Mary! down with all traitors! God 
save her Grace; and death to Northumberland!
                                 [Exeunt.
 SCENE V.—A ROOM IN THE PALACE.
MARY with PHILIP'S miniature. ALICE.
MARY (kissing the miniature).
Most goodly, Kinglike, and an Emperor's son,—
 A king to be,—is he not noble, girl?
ALICE. 
Goodly enough, your Grace, and yet, methinks,
 I have seen goodlier.
MARY.                 
Ay; some waxen doll
Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike;
 All red and white, the fashion of our land.
 But my good mother came (God rest her soul)
 Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself,
 And in my likings.

 ALICE.             
By your Grace's leave
Your royal mother came of Spain, but took
To the English red and white. Your royal father
(For so they say) was all pure lily and rose
in his youth, and like a lady.
MARY.                          
O, just God!
Sweet mother, you had time and cause enough
To sicken of his lilies and his roses.
Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, forlorn!
And then the King—that traitor past forgiveness,
The false archbishop fawning on him, married
The mother of Elizabeth—a heretic
Ev'n as she is; but God hath sent me here
To take such order with all heretics
That it shall be, before I die, as tho'
My father and my brother had not lived.
What wast thou saying of this Lady Jane,
Now in the Tower?
ALICE.           
Why, Madam, she was passing
Some chapel down in Essex, and with her
Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady Anne
Bow'd to the Pyx; but Lady Jane stood up
Stiff as the very backbone of heresy.
And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady Anne,
To him within there who made Heaven and Earth?
I cannot, and I dare not, tell your Grace
What Lady Jane replied.
MARY.                   
But I will have it.
ALICE. S
he said—pray pardon me, and pity her—
She hath hearken'd evil counsel—ah! she said,
The baker made him.
MARY.               
Monstrous! blasphemous!
She ought to burn. Hence, thou (Exit ALICE). No—
being traitor
Her head will fall: shall it? she is but a child.
We do not kill the child for doing that
His father whipt him into doing—a head
So full of grace and beauty! would that mine
Were half as gracious! O, my lord to be,
My love, for thy sake only.
I am eleven years older than he is.
But will he care for that?
No, by the holy Virgin, being noble,
But love me only: then the bastard sprout,
My sister, is far fairer than myself.
Will he be drawn to her?
No, being of the true faith with myself.
Paget is for him—for to wed with Spain
Would treble England—Gardiner is against him;
The Council, people, Parliament against him;
But I will have him! My hard father hated me;
My brother rather hated me than loved;
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy Virgin,
Plead with thy blessed Son; grant me my prayer:
Give me my Philip; and we two will lead
The living waters of the Faith again
Back thro' their widow'd channel here, and watch
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as of old,
To heaven, and kindled with the palms of Christ!
There is but a faint foreshadowing in this passage
of the fierce and savage Queen whose whole life is
by degrees destroyed and whose very virtues are
turned into scourges under the influences of blind
infatuation, bigotry, and cruel domestic disappointment.
It is thus she breaks forth in passionate exultation 
when she fancies that she is to become a
mother:

MARY.
He hath awaked! he hath awaked!
He stirs within the darkness
Oh, Philip, husband! now thy love to mine
Will cling more close, and those bleak manners thaw,
That make me shamed and tongue-tied in my love,
The second Prince of Peace--
The great unborn Defender of the Faith,
Who will avenge me of my enemies--
He comes, and my star rises.
The stormy Wyatts and Northumberlands,
The proud ambitions of Elizabeth,
And all her fieriest partisans--are pale
Before my star!
The light of this new learning wanes and dies:
The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius fade
Into the deathless hell which is their doom
Before my star!
His sceptre shall go forth from Ind to Ind!
His sword shall hew the heretic peoples down!
His faith shall clothe the world that will be his,
Like universal air and sunshine! Open,
Ye everlasting gates;  The King is here!--
My star, my son!
     There is a fine scene in the 3d Act, where Gardiner
sustains Mary in her resolution to begin a burning of
heretics, and Pole withstands such evil counsels;
POLE.
Indeed, I cannot follow with your Grace,
Rather would say--the shepherd doth not kill
The sheep that wander from his flock, but sends
His careful dog to bring them to the fold.
Look to the Netherlands, wherein have been
Such holocausts of heresy! to what end?
For yet the faith is not established there.
GARDINER.
The end's not come.
POLE.
No--nor this way will come,
Seeing there lie two ways to every end,
A better and a worse--the worse is here
To persecute, because to persecute
Makes a faith hated, and is furthermore
No perfect witness of a perfect faith
In him who persecutes; when men are tost
On tides of strange opinion, and not sure
Of their own selves, they are worth with their own selves,
And thence with others; then, who lights the fagot?
Not the full faith, no, but the lurking doubt.
Old Rome, that first made martyrs in the Church.
Trembled for her own gods, for these were trembling--
But when did our Rome tremble?
PAGET.
Did she not
In Henry's time and Edward's?
POLE.
What, my Lord!
The Church on Peter's rock? never! I have seen
A pine in Italy that cast its shadow
Athwart a cataract; firm stood the pine--
The cataract shook the shadow.  To my mind,
The cataract typed the headlong plunge and fall
of heresy to the pit:  the pine was Rome.
You see, my Lords,
It was the shadow of the Church that trembled;
Your church was but the shadow of a church,
Wanting the triple miter.
     A bitter quarrel between Gardiner and Pole 
ensues, and is interrupted by the Queen:
MARY.
I come for counsel and ye give me feuds,
Like dogs that set to watch their master's gate,
Fall, when the thief is ev'n within the walls,
To worrying one another. My Lord Chancellor,
You have an old trick of offending us;
And but that you are art and part with us
In purging heresy, well we might, for this
Your violence and much roughness to the Legate,
Have shut you from our counsels.  Cousin Pole,
You are fresh from brighter lands.  Retire with me.
His highness and myself (so you allow us)
Will let you learn in peace and privacy
What power this cooler sun of England hath
In breeding Godless vermin.  And pray Heaven
That you may see according to our sight.
Come, cousin. 
[Exeunt Queen and Pole, &c.
     The growing coolness and the brutality of Philip
are shown in several highly dramatic scenes.  Here,
in the 5th Act, when the King has deserted Mary,
we approach the pitiful end:
 Mary
(seeing the paper dropt by Pole.)
There, there! another paper!  Said you not
Many of these were loyal?  Shall I try
If this be one of such?
LADY CLARENCE.
Let it be, let it be.
God pardon me!  I have never yet found one. [aside.]
MARY (reads).
"Your people hate you as your husband hates you."
Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? what sin
Beyond all grace, all pardon?  Mother of God,
Thou knowest never woman meant so well,
And fared so ill in this disastrous world.
My people hate me and desire my death.
LADY CLARENCE.
No, Madam, no.
MARY.
My husband hates me, and desires my death.
LADY CLARENCE.
No, Madam; these are libels.
MARY.
I hate myself, and I desire my death.
LADY CLARENCE.
Long live your Majesty! Shall Alice sing you
One of her pleasant songs?  Alice, my child,
Bring us your lute (ALICE goes).  They say the gloom of
Saul
Was lighten'd by young David's harp.
MARY.
Too young!
And never knew a Philip (reenter ALICE). Give me the
lute.
He hates me!
(She sings.)
Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing!
Beauty passes like a breath and love is lest in loathing:
Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but sAY THE world is
nothing--
Low, lute, low!
Love will hover round the flowers when they first
awaken;
Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken;
Low, my lute!  oh low, my lute!  we fade and are forsaken--
Low, dear lute, low!
Take it away! not low enough for me!
ALICE.
Your Grace hath a low voice.
MARY.
How dare you say it?
Even for that he hates me.  A low voice
Lost in a wilderness where none can hear!
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea!
A low voice from the dust and from the grave (sitting on
the ground).
There, am I low enough now?
ALICE.
Good Lord! how grim and ghastly looks her Grace,
With both her knees drawn upward to her chin.
There was an old-world tomb beside my father's
And this was open'd, and the dead were found
Sitting, and in this fashion; she looks a corpse.
Enter LADY MAGDALEN DACRES.
LADY MAGDALEN.
Madam, the Count de Feria waits without,
In hopes to see your Highness.
LADY CLARENCE (pointing to Mary).
Wait he must--
Her trance again.  She neither sees nor hears,
And may not speak for hours. 
LADY MAGDALEN.
Unhappiest
of Queens and wives and women,
LADY MAGDALEN.
It seems her Highness hath awaken'd. Think you
That I might dare to tell her that the Count--
MARY.
I will see no man hence forevermore,
Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole.
LADY MAGDALEN.
It is the Count de Feria, my dear lady
MARY.
What Count?
LADY MAGDALEN.
The Count de Feria, from his Majesty
King Philip.
MARY.
Philip!  quick! loop up my hair!
Throw cushions on that seat, and make it throne-like.
Arrange my dress--the gorgeous Indian Shawl
That Philip brought me in our happy days!--
That covers all.  So--am I somewhat Queenlike,
Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon earth?
LADY CLARENCE.
Ay, so your Grace would bide a moment yet.
MARY.
No, no, he brings a letter.  I may die
Before I read it.  Let me see him at once.

Enter COUNT DE FERIA (kneels).
FERIA.
I trust your Grace is well. (Aside) How her hand burns.
MARY.
I am not well, but it will better me,
Sir Count, to read the letter which you bring.
FERIA.
Madam, I bring no letter.
MARY.
How! no letter?
FERIA.
His Highness is so vexed with strange affairs--
MARY.
That his own wife is no affair of his.
FERIA.
Nay, Madam, nay! he sends his veriest love,
And says, he will come quickly.
MARY.
Doth he, indeed?
You, Sir, do you remember what you said
When last you came to England?
FERIA.
Madam, I brought
My King's congratulations; it was hoped
Your Highness was once more in happy state
To give him an heir male.
[2589]MARY. 
Sir, you said more ; 
You said he would come quickly.  I had horses 
On all the road from Dover, day and night ; 
On all the road from Harwich, night and day ; 
But the child came not, and the husband came not ; 
And yet he will come quickly. . . .  Thou hast learnt 
Thy lesson, and I mine.  There is no need 
For Phillip so to shame himself again. 
Return, 
And tell him that I know he comes no more. 
Tell him at last I know his love is dead, 
And that I am in state to bring forth death-- 
Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth, 
And not to me !
FERIA.
Mere compliments and wishes, 
But shall I take some message from your Grace ?
MARY.
Tell her to come and close my dying eyes, 
And wear my crown, and dance upon my grave.
FERIA.
Then I may say your Grace will see your sister ? 
Your Grace is too low-spirited.  Air and sunshine. 
I would we had you, Madam, in our warm Spain. 
You droop in your dim London.
MARY.
Have him away, 
I sicken of his readiness.
LADY CLARENCE.
My Lord Count, 
Her Highness is too ill for colloquy.
SCENE V.--LONDON.  A ROOM IN THE PALACE.
A. Gallery on one side.  The moonlight streaming through 
a range of windows on the wall opposite.  MARY, 
LADY CLARENCE, LADY MAGDALEN DACRES, ALICE. 
QUEEN pacing the Gallery.  A writing-table in front. 
QUEEN comes to the table and writes and goes again, 
pacing the Gallery.
LADY CLARENCE.
Mine eyes are dim : what hath she written ? read.
ALICE.
"I am dying, Phillip ;  come to me." 
LADY MAGDALEN.
There--up and down, poor lady, up and down.
ALICE.
And how her shadow crosses one by one 
The moonlight casements pattern'd on the wall, 
Following her like her sorrow.  She turns again. 
[QUEEN sits and writes, and goes again.
LADY CLARENCE.
What hath she written now ?
ALICE.
Nothing ;  but "come, come, come," and all awry, 
And blotted by her tears.  This cannot last.
[QUEEN returns,
MARY.
I whistle to the bird has broken cage, 
And all in vain.       [Sitting down. 
Calais gone--Guisnes gone, too--and Philip gone !
LADY CLARENCE.
Dear Madam, Philip is but at the wars ;
I cannot doubt but that he comes again ;
And he is with you in a measure still.
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness
As your great King in armor there, his hand
Upon his helmet.
[Pointing to the portrait of PHILIP on the wall.
MARY.
Doth he not look noble ? 
I heard of him in battle over seas, 
And I would have my warrior all in arms. 
He said it was not courtly to stand helmeted 
Before the Queen.  He had his gracious moment 
Altho' you'll not believe me.  How he smiles 
As if he loved me yet.
LADY CLARENCE,
And so he does.
MARY. 
He never loved me--nay, he could not love me.  
It was his father's policy against France. 
I am eleven years older than he, 
Poor boy.       [Weeps.
ALICE.
That was a lusty boy of twenty-seven ;       [Aside
Poor enough in God's grace !
MARY.
--And all in vain ? 
The Queen of Scots in married to the Dauphin, 
And Charles, the lord of this low world is gone ; 
And all his wars and wisdoms past away ; 
And in a moment I shall follow him.
LADY CLARENCE.
Nay, dearest Lady, see your good physician.
MARY.
Drugs--but he knows they cannot help me--says 
That rest is all--tells me I must not think-- 
That I must rest--I shall rest by and by. 
Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when he springs 
And mains himself against the bars, say "rest:" 
Why, you must kill him if you would have him rest-- 
Dead or alive you cannot make him happy.
LADY CLARENCE.
Your Majesty has lived so pure a life, 
And done such mighty things by Holy Church, 
I trust that God will make you happy yet.
MARY.
What is the strange thing happiness ?  Sit down here: 
Tell me thine happiest hour.
LADY CLARENCE.
I will, if that 
May make your Grace forget yourself a little. 
There runs a shallow brook across our field 
For twenty miles, where the black crow flies five, 
And doth so bound and babble all the way 
As if itself were happy.  It was May-time, 
And I was walking with the man I loved. 
I loved him, but I thought I was not loved. 
And both were silent, letting the wild brook 
Speak for us--till he stoop'd and gather'd one 
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, 
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it me, 
I took it, tho' I did not know I took it, 
And put it in my bosom, and all at once 
I felt his arms about me, and his lips-- 
MARY.
O God!  I have been too slack, too slack ; 
There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards-- 
Nobles we dared not touch.  We have but burnt 
The heretic priest, workmen, and women and children. 
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath,-- 
We have so play'd the coward ; but by God's grace, 
We'll follow Philip's leading, and set up 
The Holy Office here--garner the wheat, 
And burn the tares with unquenchable fire ! 
Burn !--
Fie, what a savor !  tell the cooks to close 
The doors of all the offices below. 
Latimer ! 
Sir, we are private with our women here-- 
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow-- 
Thou light a torch that never will go out ! 
'Tis out--mine flames. Women, the Holy Father 
Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole-- 
Was that well done ?  and poor Pole pines of it, 
As I do, to the death.  I am but a woman, 
I have no power.  Ah, weak and meek old man, 
Sevenfold dishonor'd even in the sight 
Of thine own sectaries--No, no.  No pardon !-- 
Why that was false : there is the right hand still 
Beckons me hence. 
Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason, 
Remember that ! 'twas I and Bonner did it, 
And Pole ;  we are three to one--Have you found mercy 
there, 
Grant it me here : and see he smiles and goes, Gentle as in life.
ALICE.
Madam, who goes ?  King Philip ? 
MARY.
No, Philip come and goes, but never goes. 
Women, when I am dead, 
Open my heart, and there you will find written 
Two names, Philip and Calais ;  open his,-- 
So that he have one,-- 
You will find Philip only, policy, policy,-- 
Ay, worse than that--not one hour true to me ? 
Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice ! 
Adulterous to the very heart of Hell. 
Hast thou a knife ?
ALICE.
Ay, Madam, but o' God's mercy--
MARY.
Fool, think'st thou I would peril mine own soul 
By slaughter of the body ?  I could not, girl, 
Not this way--callous with a constant stripe, 
Unwoundable.  They knife !
ALICE.
Take heed, take heed ! 
The blade is keen as death.
MARY.
This Philip shall not 
Stare in upon me in my haggardness; 
Old, miserable, diseased, 
Incapable of children.  Come thou down.
[Cuts out the picture and throws it down
Lie there.  (Wails.)  O God, I have killed my Philip.
ALICE.
No, 
Madam, you have but cut the canvas out, 
We can replace it.
MARY.
All is well then ;  rest-- 
I will to rest ;  he said, I must have to rest.
[Cries of "ELIZABETH" in the street.
A cry !  What's that ?  Elizabeth ?  revolt ? 
A new Northumberland, another Wyatt ? 
I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave.
LADY CLARENCE.
Madam, your royal sister comes to see you.
MARY.
I will not see her. 
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister ? 
I will see none except the priest.  Your arm.
[To LADY CLARENCE]
O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile 
Among thy patient wrinkles--Help me hence.  [Exeunt
Of the episodical passages in this poem the most 
remarkable probably are the sketch of Sir Thomas 
Wyatt--for the scene of the Kentish insurrection is 
a sketch of character quite as much as an incident
of the story--the execution of Cranmer, the description
of the death of Lady Jane Grey, and the scene
of Elizabeth at Woodstock.  Wyatt's address to the
men of Kent is a noble specimen of lusty English
prose :
WYATT.
Open the window, Knyvett ;
The mine is fired, and I will speak to them.
Men of Kent;  England of England ;  you that have
kept your old customs upright while all the rest of En-
gland bow'd theirs to the Norman, the cause that hath
brought us together is not the cause of a county or a 
shire, but of this England, in whose crown our Kent is
the fairest jewel.  Philip shall not wed Mary ;  and ye
have called me to be your leader.  I know Spain.  I 
have been there with my father ;  I have seen them in
their own land ;  have marked the haughtiness of their
nobles ;  the cruelty of their priests.  If this man marry 
our Queen, however the Council and the Commons may
fence round his power with restriction, he will be King,
King of England, my masters ; and the Queen, and the
laws, and the people, his slaves.  What ? shall we have
Spain on the throne and in the Parliament ; Spain in the
pulpit and on the law bench ; Spain in all the great offices
of State ; Spain in our ships, in our forts, in our houses,
in our beds ? 
CROWD.
No ! no ! no Spain.
WILLIAM.
No Spain in our beds--that were worse than all.  I have 
been there with old Sir Thomas, and the beds I know.  I
hate Spain.
A PEASANT.
But, Sir Thomas, must we levy war against the Queen's
Grace ? 
WYATT.
No, my friend ;  war *for* the Queen's Grace--to save
her from herself and Philip--war against Spain.  And 
think not we shall be alone--thousands will flock to us.
The Council, the Court itself, is on our side.  The Lord 
Chancellor himself is on our side.  The King of France 
is with us ;  the King of Denmark is with us ;  the world
is with us--war against Spain !  And if we move not now,
yet it will be known that we have moved ;  and if Philip 
come to be King, O, my God ! the rope, the rack, the
thumb-screw, the stake, the fire.  If we move not now,
Spain moves, bribes our nobles with her gold, and creeps,
creeps snake-like about our legs till we cannot move at
all ; and ye know, my masters, that wherever Spain hath
ruled she hath wither'd all beneath her.  Look at the
New World--a paradise made hell ; the red man, that
good helpless creature, starved, maim'd, flogg'd, flay'd,
burn'd, boil'd, buried alive, worried by dogs ; and here,
nearer home, the Netherlands, Sicily, Naples, Lombardy,
I say no more--only this, their lot is yours.  Forward to
London with me ! forward to London !  If ye love your
liberties or your skins, forward to London !

Here is a little song from the Woodstock scene:
MILKMAID (singing without).
Shame upon you, Robin,
Shame upon you now !
Kiss me would you ? with my hands
Milking the cow ?
Daisies grow again,
Kingcups blow again,
And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow.

Robin came behind me,
Kiss'd me well I vow;
Cuff him could I ?  with my hands
Milking the cow ?
Swallows fly again,
Cuckoos cry again.
And you came and kidd's me milking the cow.

Come, Robin, Robin,
Come and kiss me now ; 
Help it can I ? with my hands
Milking the cow ?
Ringdoves coo again,
All things woo again.
Come behind and kiss me milking the cow !

And here is the description of the death of Lady
Jane :
BAGENHALL.
Seventeen--and knew eight languages--in music 
Peerless--her needle perfect, and her learning
Beyond the churchmen ; yet so meek, so modest,
So wife-like humble to the trivial boy
Mismatch'd with her for policy !  I have heard
She would not take a last farewell of him,
She fear'd it might unman him for his end.
She could not be unmann'd--no, nor outwoman'd--
Seventeen--a rose of grace !
Girl never breathed to rival such a rose ;
Rose never blow that equal'd such a bud.
STAFFORD.
Pray you go on.
BAGENHALL.
She came upon the scaffold,
And said she was condemned to die for treason ;
She had but follow'd the device of those
Her nearest kin : she thought they knew the laws.
But for herself, she knew but little law,
And nothing of the titles to the crown ;
She had no desire for that, and wrung her hands,
2589A6 NEW-YORK DAILY TRIBUNE, FRIDAY, JULY 2, 1875. --WITH SUPPL[Y?] 
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
TENNYSON'S QUEEN MARY.
QUEEN MARY.  A DRAMA.  By ALFRED TENNYSON.
12mo.  pp. 284.  James R. Osgood & Co.
The memorable scenes of English history which
have stamped the reign of Mary with such lurid
colors, are reproduced in this new poem of the Eng-
lish laureate with a virile power of delineation and
a severe simplicity of expression which must be regarded
as a consummate triumph of literary art.  In
this production, Mr. Tennyson has made little use of
the dainty devices which throw a seductive charm
around so considerable a part of his poetry, but has
trusted rather to the masculine vigor of portraiture
with which he has vivified the fading lineaments of
the past with the freshness of a living presence.  His
studies of the character of Mary, Elizabeth, Philip,
Cardinale Pole, Archbishop Cranmer, and other actors 
in the eventful drama which he describes, have
had less reference to the analysis of the human passion,
than to its artistic purposes.  The soundness of his 
conclusions, in many cases, may be doubted by the
historical critic, but no one can call in question the
aptness and felicity with which he has seized the
elements of dramatic power in the incidents of the 
ghastly record.  The union of a passionate zeal for
the Catholic faith with a womanly infatuation for the
image of Philip, which were the dominant springs of
action in the character of Mary, is set forth with
masterly skill.  In a few words, the secret of her
heart and the dream of her life are presented, in a 
manner which reveals and explains the course of her
subsequent history.
------Holy Virgin,
Plead with thy blessed son; grant me my prayer:
Give my my Philip; and we two will lead
The living waters of the Faith again
Back through the widow'd channel here, and watch
The parched banks rolling incense, as of eld,
To Heaven, and kindled with the palms of Christ!
An interview with Gardiner takes place in the
early part of the drama in which the Queen meets
the congratulations of the Lord Chancellor on the
prosperous state of the kingdom, with the assurance
that her heart is fixed upon Philip, and the she will
listen to no proposals for any other as a husband.
The supple official informs her Majesty of the growing 
affection of her subjects.
Your people have begun to learn your worth.
Your pious wish to pay King Edward's debts,
Your lavish household curb'd, and the remission
Of half that subsidy levied on the people,
Make all tongues praise and all hearts beat for you.
But as the country is poor and the exchequer at a 
low ebb, their attachment would be increased if
Calais were relieved of a part of its garrison.  To
which Mary replies:
Caläis!
Our one point on the main, the gate of France !
I am Queen of England;  take mine eyes, mine heart,
But do not lose me Calais.
The Chancellor wishes to adjourn the discussion of 
that point, and cautiously prepares the way for approaching 
the Spanish marriage.  The Queen anticipates 
the question, whether she would marry Philip,
even if all of England hated him, by proposing another, 
Is it England, or a party?  The answer of the
Chancellor is not reassuring.
I wear beneath my dress
A shirt of mail: my house hath been assaulted,
And when I walk abroad, the populace,
With fingers pointed like so many daggers,
Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and Philip;
And when I sleep, a hundred men-at-arms
Guard my poor dreams for England.  Men would murder
me,
Because they think me favorer of this marriage.
Still he professes his readiness to help the Queen
to the utmost of his power.  The Church is grateful
that she has ousted the mock priest, restored the
Shepherd of St. Peter to the pulpit, raised again the
hold rood, and brought back to the faithful the sacrament
of the mass.  For this the Queen is the subject
of most fervent thanks from himself, and from the
people.  But they will not brook the presence of a 
tyrant, whether Pope or Spaniard, in church or 
commonwealth.  If she marries Philip, whose character 
is well known in Spain and Flanders, she will
become the stepmother of a score of sons.  But the
Queen has sworn upon the body and blood of Christ
to wed none but Philip.
The French Embassador now appears upon the
scene, and reiterates the expostulations of Gardiner.
If she marries Philip, England will be forced into
war with France, which is the enemy of Spain.  Nor
does she graciously accept the description of her future
husband.
MARY.
Have you seen Philip ever?
NOAILLES.
Only once.
MARY.
Is this like Philip?
NOAILLES.
Ay, but nobler-looking.
MARY.
Hath he the large ability of the Emperor?
NOAILLES.
No, surely.
MARY.
I can make allowance for thee,
Thou speakest of the enemy of thy king.
NOAILLES.
Make no allowance for the naked truth.
He is every way a lesser man than Charles;
Stone-hard, ice-cold--no dash of daring in him.
MARY.
If cold, his life is pure.
NOAILLES.
Why (smiling), no, indeed.
MARY.
Sayst thou?
NOAILLES.
A very wanton life indeed (smiling).
MARY.
Your audience is concluded, Sir.      (Exit NOAILLES.
You cannot
Learn a man's nature from his natural foe.
A different character of Philip is given by the
Spanish Embassador, who now enters as the Frenchman 
withdraws, and in reply to the question of Mary
why people talked to foully of his Prince, proceeds
to deck him with all the colors of the rose and the
lily.
RENARD.
The lot of Princes.  To sit high
Is to be lied about.
MARY.
They call him cold,
Haughty, ay, worse.
RENARD.
Why, doubtless, Philip shows
Some of the bearing of your blue blood--still
All within measure--nay, it well becomes him.
MARY.
Hath he the large ability of his father?
RENARD.
Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him.
MARY.
Is this like him?
RENARD.
Ay, somewhat; but your Philip
Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun.
This is a daub to Philip.
MARY.
Of a pure life?
RENARD.
As an angel among angels.  Yea, by Heaven,
The text--Your Highness knows it, "Whosoever
Looketh after a woman," would not graze
The Prince of Spain.  You are happy in him there.
Chaste as your Grace!
MARY.
I am happy in him there.
In spite of all forebodings and forewarnings, the
fatal marriage at length took place, but before the
lapse of a twelvemonth, the Prince finds the unwelcome 
union wholly intolerable, his hopes of an 
heir are frustrated, he is sick of the detestable
climate of England, and makes up his mind to return 
to Spain, in spite of the feelings and protests 
of the Queen.  The parting scenes afford full
scope to the dramatic genius of the poet.
PHILIP.
But, Renard, I am sicker staying here
Than any sea could make me passing hence,
Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea.
So sick am I with biding for this child.
Is it the fashion in this clime for women
To go twelve months in bearing of a child?
The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, the led
Processions, chanted litanies, clash'd their bells,
Shot off their lying cannon, and her priests
Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair prince to come,
Till, by St. James, I find myself the fool.
Why do you lift your eyebrow at me thus?
RENARD.
I never saw your Highness moved till now.
PHILIP.
So, weary am of this wet land of theirs,
And every soul of man that breathes therein.
RENARD.
My liege, we must not drop the mask before
The masquerade if over-- 
PHILIP.
--Have I dropt it?
I have but shown a loathing face to you,
Who knew it from the first.
Enter MARY.
MARY (aside).
With Renard.  Still
Parleying with Renard, all the day with Renard,
And scarce a greeting all the day for me--
And goes to-morrow.       (Exit MARY.
PHILIP (to RENARD, who advances to him.)
Well, Sir, is there more?
RENARD (who has perceived the QUEEN).
May Simon Renard speak a single word?
PHILIP.
Ay.
RENARD.
And be forgiven for it?
PHILIP.
Simon Renard
Knows me too well to speak a single word
That could not be forgiven.
RENARD.
Well, my liege,
Your Grace hath a most chaste and loving wife.
PHILIP.
Why not? The Queen of Philip should be chaste.
RENARD.
Ay, but, my Lord, you know what Virgil sings,
Woman is various and most mutable.
PHILIP.
She play the harlot! never.
RENARD.
No, sire, no,
Not dream'd of by the rabidest gospeller.
There was a paper thrown into the palace.
"The King hath wearied of his barren bride."
She came upon it, read it, and then rent it,
With all the rage of one who hates the truth
He cannot but allow.  Sire, I would have you--
What should I say, I cannot pick my words--
Be somewhat less--majestic to your Queen.
PHILIP.
Am I to change my manners, Simon Renard,
Because these islanders are brutal beasts?
Or would you have me turn a sonneteer,
And warble those brief-sighted eyes of her?
RENARD.
Brief-sighted tho' they be, I have seen them, sire,
When you perchance were trifling royally
With some fair dame of court, suddenly fill
With such fierce fire--had it been fire indeed
It would have burnt both speakers.
PHILIP.
Ay, and then?
RENARD.
Sire, might it not be policy in some matter
Of small importance now and then to cede
A point to her demand?
PHILIP.
Well, I am going.
2590
RENARD.
For should her love when you are gone, my liege,
Witness these papers, there will not be wanting
Those that will urge her injury--should her love--
And I have known such women more than one--
Veer to the counterpoint, and jealousy
Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse
Almost into one metal love and hate--
And she impress her wrongs upon her Council,
And these again upon her Parliament--
We are not loved here, and would be then perhaps
Not so well holpen in our wars with France,
As else we might be--here she comes.
Enter MARY.
MARY.
O Philip!
Nay, must  you go indeed?
PHILIP.
Madam, I must.
MARY.
The parting of a husband and a wife
Is like the cleaving of a heart; one half
Will flutter here, one there.
PHILIP.
You say true, Madam.
MARY.
The Holy Virgin will not have me yet
Lose the sweet hope that I may bear a prince.
If such a prince were born and you not here!
PHILIP.
I should be here if such a prince were born.
MARY.
But must you go?
PHILIP.
Madam, you know my father,
Retiring into cloistral solitude
To yield the remnant of his years to heaven,
Will shift the yoke and weight of all the world
From off his neck to mine.  We meet at Brussels.
But since mine absence will not be for long,
Your Majesty shall go to Dover with me,
And wait my coming back.
MARY.
To Dover? no,
I am too feeble.  I will go to Greenwich,
So you will have me with you; and there watch
All that is gracious in the breath of heaven
Draw with your sails from our poor land, and pass
And leave me, Philip, with my prayers for you.
PHILIP.
And doubtless I shall profit by your prayers.
MARY.
Methinks that would you tarry one day more
(The news was sudden) I could mould myself
To bear your going better; will you do it?
PHILIP.
Madam, a day may sink or save a realm.
MARY.
A day may save a heart from breaking too.
PHILIP.
Well, Simon Renard, shall we stop a day?
RENARD.
Your Grace's business will not suffer, sire,
For one day more, so far as I can tell.
PHILIP.
Then one day more to please her Majesty.
MARY.
The sunshine sweeps across my life again.
O if I knew you felt this parting, Philip,
As I do!
PHILIP.
By St. James I do protest,
Upon the faith and honor of a Spaniard,
I am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty.
Simon, is supper ready?
RENARD.
Ay, my liege,
I saw the covers laying.
PHILIP.
Let us have it.       (Exeunt
With the progress of the plot, Philip returns to
England, intent on urging the Queen to declare war
against France, and to announce the Princess Elizabeth 
as her successor to the throne, in order to defeat 
the schemes of the French monarch in behalf
of Mary Stuart.  The struggle in the heart of the
Queen between her passion for Philip and the true
English policy is the subject of one of the most powerful 
scenes in the drama.  A specimen of its stately
vigor is as follows:
QUEEN, SIR NICHOLAS HEATH.
HEATH.
Madam,
I do assume you, that it must be look'd to:
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes
And scarce two hundred men, and the French fleet
Rule in the narrow seas.  It must be look'd to,
If war should fall between yourself and France;
Or you will lose your Calais.
MARY.
It shall be look'd to;
I wish you a good-morning, good Sir Nicholas:
Here is the King.       (Exit HEATH.
Enter PHILIP.
PHILIP.
Sir Nicholas tell you true,
And you must look to Calais when I go.
MARY.
Go! must you go, indeed--again--so soon?
Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the swallow,
That might live always in the sun's warm heart,
Stays longer here in our poor north than you:--
Knows where he nested--ever comes again.
PHILIP.
And Madam, so shall I.
MARY.
O, will you? will you?
I am faint with fear that you will come no more.
PHILIP.
Ay, ay; but many voices call me hence.
MARY.
Voices--I hear unhappy rumors--nay,
I say not, I believe.  What voices call you
Dearer than mine should be dearest to you;
Alas, my Lord! what voices and how many?
PHILIP.
The voices of Castile and Aragon,
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan,-- 
The voices of Franche-Comté, and the Netherlands,
The voices of Peru and Mexico,
Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines,
And all the fair spice islands of the East.
MARY (admiringly).
You are the mightiest monarch upon earth,
I but a little Queen; and so, indeed,
Need you the more; and wherefore could you not
Helm the huge vessel of your state, my liege,
Here, by the side of her who loves you most?
PHILIP.
No, Madam, no! a candle in the sun
Is all but smoke--a star beside the moon
Is all but lost; your people will not crown me-- 
Your people are as cheerless as your clime;
Hate me and mine: witness the brawls, the gibbets.
Here swings a Spaniard--there an Englishman;
The peoples are unlike as their complexion;
Yet will I be your swallow and return-- 
But now I cannot bide.MARY. [*2590 A*]
Not to help me?
They hate me also for my love to you, 
My Philip; and these judgments on the land--
Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, plague--
PHILIP.
The blood and sweat of heretics at the stake
Is God's best dew upon the barren field.
Burn more !
MARY.
I will, I will ; and you will stay.
PHILIP.
Have I not said?  Madam, I came to sue
Your Council and yourself to declare war.
MARY.
Sir, there are many English in your ranks
To help your battle.
PHILIP.
So far, good.  I say
I came to sue your Council and yourself
To declare war against the King of France.
MARY.
Not to see me ?
PHILIP.
Ay, Madam, to see you,
Unalterably and pestering fond !       [Aside.
But, soon or late you must have war with France ;
King Henry warms your traitors at his hearth.
Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford there.
Courtenay, belike--
MARY.
A fool and featherhead ! 
PHILIP.
Ay, but they use his name.  In brief, this Henry
Stirs up your land against you to the intent 
That you may lose your English heritage.
And then, your Scottish namesake marrying
The Dauphin, he would weld France, England, Scotland,
Into one sword to hack at Spain and me.
MARY.
And yet the Pope is now colleagued with France ;
You make your wars upon him down in Italy:--
Philip, can that be well ?
PHILIP.
Content you, Madam;
You must abide my judgment, and my father's,
Who deems it a most just and holy war.
The Pope would cast the Spaniard out of Naples :
He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, Saracens.
The Pope has push'd his horns beyond his mitre--
Beyond his province.  Now,
Duke Alva will but touch him on the horns,
And he withdraws; and of his holy head--
For Alva is true son of the true church--
No hair is harm'd.   Will you not help me here?
MARY.
Alas! the Council will not hear of war.
They  say your wars are not the wars of England.
They will not lay mere taxes on a land
So hunger-nipt and wretched; and you know 
The crown is poor.  We have given the churchlands
back :
The nobles would not; nay, they clapt their hands 
Upon their swords when ask'd: and therefore God
Is hard upon the people.  What's to be done ?
Sir, I will move them in your cause again,
And we will raise us loans and subsidies
Among the merchants; and Sir Thomas Gresham
Will aid us.  There is Antwerp and the Jews.
PHILIP.
Madam, my thanks.
MARY.
And you will stay your going ?
PHILIP.
And further to discourage and lay lame
The plots of France, altho' you love her not,
You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir.
She stands between you and the Queen of Scots.
MARY.
The Queen of Scots at least is Catholic.
PHILIP.
Ay, Madam, Catholic; but I will not have
The King of France the King of England too.
MARY.
But she's a heretic, and, when I'm gone,
Brings the new learning back.
PHILIP.
It must be done.
You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir.
MARY.
Then it is done; but you will stay your going
Somewhat beyond your settled purpose ?
PHILIP.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         
No!
MARY.
What, not one day ?
PHILIP.
You beat upon the rock.
MARY.
And I am broken there.
PHILIP.
Is this a place
To wail in, Madam? what! a public hall.
Go in, I pray you.
MARY.
Do not seem so changed,
Say go ; but only say it lovingly.
PHILIP.
You do mistake.  I am not one to change.
I never loved you more.
MARY.
Sire, I obey you.
Come quickly.
PHILIP.
Ay.       [Exit MARY.
Among the tragic descriptions of the drama,
the death of Cranmer holds a prominent place,
summoning the supreme art of the poet to represent
its heroic grandeur, without impairing the
awful simplicity of the scene by inopportune rhetorical 
embellishment.  The preliminary acts in St.
Mary's Church, when Cranmer is summoned to
make profession of his adherence to the Catholic
faith, afford the theme for a masterly representation.
COLE.
Behold him--       [A pause ; people in the foreground
PEOPLE.
Oh, unhappy sight !
FIRST PROTESTANT.
See how the tears run down his fatherly face.
SECOND PROTESTANT.
James, didst thou ever see a carrion crow
Stand watching a sick beast before he dies ?
FIRST PROTESTANT.
Him perch'd up there ?  I wish some thunderbolt
Would make this Cole a cinder, pulpit and all.
COLE.
Behold him, brethren : he hath cause to weep !--
So have we all : weep with him if ye will,
Yet--
It is expedient for one man to die,
Yea, for the people, lest the people die.
Yet to wherefore should he die that hath return'd
To the one Catholic Universal Church,
Repentant to his errors ?
PROTESTANTS murmurs.
Ay. tell us that.

COLE.
Those of the wrong side will despise the man,
Deeming him one that thro' the fear of death
Gave up his cause, except he seal his faith
In sight of all with flaming martyrdom.
CRANMER.
Ay.
COLE.
Ye hear him, and albeit there may seem
According to the canons pardon due
To him that so repents, yet are there causes
Wherefore our Queen and Council at this time
Adjudge him to the death.  He hath been a traitor,
A shaker and confounder of the realm ;
And when the King's divorce was sued at Rome,
He here, this heretic metropolitan,
As if he had been the Holy Father, sat
As if he judged it.  Did I call him heretic ?
A huge heresiarch ! never was it known
That any man so writing, preaching so,
So poisoning the Church, so long continuing,
Hath found his pardon ; therefore he must die,
For warning and example.
Other reasons
There be for this man's ending, which our Queen
And Council at this present deem it not
Expedient to be known.
PROTESTANT murmurs.
I warrant you.
COLE.
Take therefore, all example by this man,
For if our Holy Queen not pardon him,
Much less shall others in like cause escape,
That all of you, the highest as the lowest,
May learn there is no power against the Lord.
There stands a man, once of so high degree,
Chief prelate of our Church, archbishop, first
In Council, second person in the realm,
Friend for so long time of a mighty King ;
And now ye see downfallen and debased
From councilor to caitiff--fallen so low,
The leprous flutterings of the byway, scum
And offal of the city would not change
Estates with him ; in brief, so miserable,
There is no hope of better left for him,
No place for worse.
Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad.
This is the work of God.  He is glorified
In thy conversion : lo ! thou art reclaim'd ;
He brings thee home : nor fear but that to-day
Thou shalt receive the penitent thief's award,
And be with Christ the Lord in Paradise.
Remember how God made the fierce fire seem
To those three children like a pleasant dew.
Remember, too,
The triumph of St. Andrew on his cross,
The patience of St. Lawrence in the fire.
Thus, if thou call on God and all the saints,
God will beat down the fury of the flame,
Or give thee saintly strength to undergo.
And for thy soul shall masses here be sung
By every priest in Oxford.  Pray for him.
CRANMER.
Ay, one and all, dear brothers, pray for me ;
Pray with one breath, one heart, one soul, for me.
COLE.
And now, lest any one among you doubt 
The man's conversion and remorse of heart,
Yourselves shall hear him speak.  Speak, Master Cranmer,
Fulfill your promise made me, and proclaim
Your true undoubted faith, that all may hear.
CRANMER.
And that I will.  O God, Father of Heaven !
O Son of God, Redeemer of the world !
O Holy Ghost ! proceeding from them both,
Three persons and one God, have mercy on me,
Most miserable sinner, wretched man.
I have offended against heaven and earth
More grievously than any tongue can tell.
Then whither should I flee for any help ?
I am ashamed to lift my eyes to heaven,
And I can find no refuge upon earth.
Shall I despair then ?--God forbid !  O God,
For thou art merciful, refusing none
That come to Thee for succor, unto Thee,
Therefore, I come ; humble myself to Thee ;
Saying, O Lord God, although my sins be great,
For thy great mercy have mercy !  O God the Son,
Not for slight faults alone, when thou becamest
Man in the Flesh, was the great mystery wrought ;
O God the Father, not for little sins
Didst thou yield up thy Son to human death ;
But for the greatest sin that can be sinn'd,
Yea, even such as mine, incalculable,
Unpardonable,--sin against the light,
The truth of God, which I had proven and known.
Thy mercy must be greater than all sin.
Forgive me, Father, for no merit of mine,
But that Thy name by man be glorified,
And Thy most blessed Son's, who died for man.
Good people, every man at time of death
Would fain set forth some saying that may li ve
After his death and better humankind ;
For death gives life's last word a power to live,
And, like the stone-cut epitaph, remain
After the vanish'd voice, and speak to men.
God grant me grace to glorify my God !
And first I say it is a grievous case,
Many so dote upon this bubble world,
Whose colors in a moment break and fly,
They care for nothing else.  What saith St. John :--
"Love of this world is hatred against God."
Again, I pray you all that, next to God,
You do unmurmuringly and willingly
Obey your King and Queen, and not for dread
Of these alone, but from the fear of Him
Whose ministers they be to govern you.
Thirdly, I pray you all to love together
Like brethern ; yet what hatred Christian men
Bear to each other, seeming not as brethren,
But mortal foes !  But do you good to all
As much as in you lieth.  Hurt no man more
Than you would harm your loving natural brother
Of the same roof, same breast.  If any do,
Albeit he think himself at home with God,
Of this be sure, he is whole worlds away.
PROTESTANT murmurs.
What sort of brothers then be those that lust
To burn each other ?
WILLIAMS.
Peace among you, there,
CRANMER.
Fourthly, to those that own exceeding wealth,
Remember that sore saying spoken once
By Him that was the truth, "how hard it is
For the rich man to enter into Heaven ;"
Let all rich men remember that hard word.
I have not time for more : if ever, now
Let them flow forth in charity, seeing now
The poor so many, and all food so dear.
Long have I lain in prison, yet have heard
Of all their wretchedness.  Give to the poor,
Ye give to God.  He is with us in the poor.
And now, and forasmuch as I have come
To the last end of life, and thereupon
Hangs all my past, and all my life to be,
Either to live with Christ in Heaven with joy,
Or to be still in pain with devils in hell ;
And, seeing in a moment, I shall find [Pointing upwards.
Heaven or else hell ready to swallow me,
[Pointing downwards.
I shall declare to you my very faith
Without all color.

COLE.
Hear him, my good brethren.
CRANMER.
I do believe in God, Father of all ;
In every article of the Catholic faith,
And every syllable taught us by our Lord.
His prophets, and apostles, in the Testaments,
Both Old and New.
COLE.
Be plainer, Master Cranmer.
CRANMER.
And now I come to the great cause that weighs
Upon my conscience more than any thing
Or said or done in all my life by me ;
For there be writings I have set abroad
Against the truth I knew within my heart,
Written for fear of death, to save my life,
If that might be ; the papers by my hand
Sign'd since my degradation--by this hand.
[Holding out his right hand.
Written and sign'd--I here renounce them all ;
And, since my hand offended, having written
Against my hear, my hand shall first be burnt,
So I may come to the fire.       [Dead silence.
PROTESTANT murmurs.
FIRST PROTESTANT.
I knew it would be so.
SECOND PROTESTANT.
Our prayers are heard !
THIRD PROTESTANT.
God bless him!
CATHOLIC murmurs.
Out upon him! out upon him !
Liar! dissembler! trailor! to the fire !
WILLIAMS (raising his voice).
You know that you recanted all you said
Touching the sacrament in that same book
You wrote against my Lord of Winchester ;
Dissemble not; play the plain Christian man.
CRANMER.
Alas, my Lord,
I have been a man loved plainness all my life ;
I did dissemble, but the hour has come
For utter truth and plainness ; wherefore, I say,
I hold by all I wrote within that book.
Moreover,
As for the Pope I count him Antichrist,
With all his devil's doctrines; and refuse,
Reject him, and abhor him.  I have said.
|Cries on all sides, "Pull him down !  Away
with him."
COLE.
Ay, stop the heretic's mouth. Hale him away.
WILLIAMS.
Harm him not, harm him not, have him to the fire.
The manner in which the great Protestant martyr
welcomed his fate is thus recited by an eye-witness :
Enter PETERS.
HOWARD.
Peters, my gentleman, an honest Catholic,
Who follow'd with the crowd to Cranmer's fire.
One that would neither misreport nor lie,
Not to gain paradise ; no, nor if the Pope
Charged him to do it--he is white as death.
Peters, how pale you look ? you bring the smoke
Of Cranmer's burning with you.
PETERS.
Twice or thrice
The smoke of Cranmer's burning wrapt me round.
HOWARD.
Peters, you know me Catholic, but English.
Did he die bravely ?  Tell me that, or leave
All else untold.
PETERS.
My Lord, he died most bravely.
HOWARD.
Then tell me all.
PAGET.
Ay, Master Peters, tell us.
PETERS.
You saw him how he past among the crowd ;

and so past martyr-like--
Martyr I may not call him--past--but whither ?
PAGET.
To purgatory man, to purgatory. 
PETERS.
Nay, but, my Lord, he denied purgatory.
PAGET.
Why then to heaven, and God ha' mercy on him.
HOWARD.
Paget, despite his fearful heresies,
I loved the man, and needs must moan for him ;
O Cranmer !
PAGET.
But your moan is useless now :
Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools.
The bloody Queen of England, by which name
Mary is familiarly known in English history, would
hardly seem to present the qualities which appeal to
the imagination of the poet, or tempt the skill of the
artist.  She is usually represented as a coarse, commonplace
character, with slender intellectual gifts,
devoid of all tender sentiments, except a blind passion
for the sensual and cruel Spaniard, who sought
her hand, but did not bestow his love, for purposes of
an ambitious and grasping State policy, the passive
victim of a stern religious fanaticism, whose apparent
firmness was only a cynical obstinacy, whose
devout aspirations were blended with a gloomy
superstition and a vindictive ferocity, and with
whom all the sweet and pure affections of a benign
womanhood were swallowed up in the absorbing lust
of power and the indulgence of a demoniac temper.Mr. Tennyson has made no attempt to soften the ungracious
lineaments of this portraiture.  He uses no 
subtle illusions to disguise the traditions of history. 
He accepts the bloody Mary, not as the heroine of
romance, but as she is known by her deeds, the aspiring, 
crafty, selfish woman, whose religion was a tragedy, 
and whose love enkindled the fires of martyrdom. 
At the same time she is environed by the poet
with the elements of infinite pity.  No one can listen 
to her mournful wail of disappointed maternity and
crushed affection without a pang of sympathy.  Her
bleeding heart is revealed in a way that almost suggests
an apology for the blood of martyrs that was 
shed by her imperious will.  Her sorrows are painted, 
not as the gush of a shallow sentiment, but as the
genuine agonies of a wounded heart.  This, no doubt, 
partly explains the secret of the weird charm which 
this wonderful poem exercises over the imagination 
of the reader.  He is tempted to a fellow-feeling for
the unhappy Queen in spite of himself, and his indignation 
at her crimes is tempered with pity for her
sufferings.  It is like one of those singular transformations, 
in which the portrait of a desperate criminal 
is changed into an image of smiling beauty, and
a face of placid tenderness is revealed beneath a haggard
and repulsive countenance. 
The judgment pronounced by an English journal
that nothing equal to this drama has appeared since
the time of Shakespeare, if intended to suggest a comparison
between the two great masters, betrays a lack
of sound discrimination as to the peculiar merits of
each.  There is no common standard by which to 
estimate the qualities of Shakespeare, the child of
Nature, and of Tennyson, the offspring of culture and
art.  The attempt to weigh them in the same balance
would be the revival of the ancient feud between
genius and talent.  If Tennyson is unapproachable
among modern poets, it cannot be pretended
that he has himself approached the hights of
inspiration which formed the habitual atmosphere 
of Shakespeare.  The former has too much genius 
for mere imitation, but any resemblances that may
be fancied to England's divine dramatic prophet 
must be the fruit of imitation, and not of spontaneity. 
If Nature after creating Shakespeare "broke
the mold in which he was formed," it was not reconstructed
for the composition of Tennyson.  The two 
poets, if they may be said to live in the same world,---
for human passion in all its manifestations is identical
with itself---do not breathe the same air, do not
feed on the same meats, do not clothe in the same
flesh and blood the progeny of their minds.  The exquisite
refinements of Tennyson, wrought out with 
all the dainty felicities of Art, ripened in the tender
warmth of artificial sunshine, and painfully elaborated
as through a discipline of fasting and prayer, 
belong to another order than the free, cordial unconscious
utterances of Shakespeare, which, however 
quaint in fancy and often coarse in expression, are no
less the genuine acts of Nature than the growth of
flowers, or the journeys of planets.  When Shakespeare, 
"Fancy's child, warbles his native wood-note
wild," we are as little reminded of the polished and 
stately measures of Tennyson as the song of forest-birds
echoes the music of an orchestra.  The laureate 
has too peculiar and admirable merits of his own to
make him the subject of impossible comparisons.  He
is wronged by being compelled to stand face to face
with the unique genius that had no precedent, and
will have no successor.     [*2590  B*] 

George Sand in Her Old Age. 
Paris letter to London Truth.     [*'84*]
I never saw George Sand until her face was
that of an old woman, so that I cannot say
to what extent her statue resembles what she
was at 40.  To the end she had fine eyes.  They
did not express what she felt, but conveyed
the impression that there was behind them 
a camera obscura where impressions were
stored up silently and reacted upon by some
occult power.  George Sand was a night bird. 
She wrote best when every one else in her
house was asleep;  she liked to ramble
alone in the moonlight, and had a
preference for the flower which the French
call belle de la nuit.  In company she stared 
and seemed to mope, seldom talked, and if she
ever laughed it was internally.  There was
much in her that was akin to the tranquil patient
steer.  Were there such a thing as a 
winged cow in the Nineveh remains, it might 
answer as her symbol.  Her letters in her old
age are greatly superior to her novels, many of
which teem with eloquent fustian.  They are, 
however, studded with aphorisms which deserve
to be classed with the noblest "thoughts"
of Pascal.  No other French author paints a
landscape with so much grace or truth.  She
had also a healthy sympathy for the peasant
who repaired all the mischief done by ambitious
and greedy "statesmen" and saviors of
society.     2591 


[*Aug. 1884*] 
STATUE OF GEORGE SAND. 
The statue represented in our engraving was
unvailed on the 10th instant at La Châtre, the village
nearest Madame Sand's beloved Nohant.  It
is of Carrara marble, and is the work of M. Aimé
Millet.  The sculptor has represented the novelist
clad in the loose robe which she habitually wore at
Nohant, and seated in an attitude of reverie upon 
a flowery bank.  Her right hand holds a pen, her
left an open book.  The inscription on the front
face of the pedestal is:  "George Sand, Amantine
Lucile Aurore Dupin, Baronne Dudevant.  Paris, 
1804;  Nohant, 1876."  The sides of the pedestal 
are inscribed with the titles of her works.  The
statue was paid for by public subscription, the
marble being given by the State.     2592 

Matthew Arnold's Estimate of George
Sand. 
In a letter to the Pall Mall Gazette Mr. 
Matthew Arnold says:  To-day a statue of
George Sand is unveiled at La Châtre, a little
town of Berry, not far from Nohant, where she
lived.  She could hardly escape a statue, but
the present is not her hour, and the excuses for
taking part in to-day's ceremony prove it.  Now
is the hour of the naturalists and realists, of the
great work, as it is called, and solid art of Balzac, 
which M. Daudet and other disciples are
continuing;  not of the work of humanitarians
and idealists like George Sand and her  
master, Rousseau.  The work, whether of 
idealists or of realists, must stand for
what it is worth, and must pay the penalty
of its defects.  George Sand has admirably 
stated the conditions under which Rousseau's
work was produced:  "Rousseau had within 
him the love of goodness and the enthusiasm 
for beauty, and he knew nothing of them to
start with.  The absence of moral education 
had prolonged the childhood of his spirit beyond
the ordinary term.  The reigning philosophy
of his time was not moralist;  in its
hatred of unjust restraints it left out the chapter
of duty altogether.  Rousseau, more logical
and more serious than the rest, came then to
perceive that liberty was not all, and that philosophy
must be a virtue, a religion, a social
law." 
Of George Sand herself, too, we may say that
she suffered form the absence of moral education, 
and had to find out for herself that liberty
is not all, and that philosophy must be a 
virtue, a religion, a social law.  Her work, like
Rousseau's has faults due to the conditions 
under which it arose---faults of declamation, 
faults of repetition, faults of extravagance. 
But do not let us deceive ourselves.  Do not let 
us suppose that the work of Rosseau and
George Sand is defective because those writers 
are inspired by the love of goodness and the
desire for beauty, and not, according to the approved
recipe at present, by a disinterested 
curiosity.  Do not let us assume that the work 
of the realists is solid---that the work of Balzac, 
for instance, will stand;  that the work of M. 
Daudet will stand, because it is inspired by a
disinterested curiosity. 
The best work, the work which endures, has
not been thus inspired.  M. Taine is a profound
believer in the motive of disinterested
curiosity, a fervent admirer of the work of 
Balzac.  He even puts his name in connection 
with that of Shakespeare, and appears to think 
that the two men work with the same motive. 
He is mistaken.  The motive of Shakespeare, 
the master-thought at the bottom of Shakespeare's
production, is the same as the master-thought 
at the bottom on the production of
Homer and Sophocles, Dante and Moliere, 
Rousseau and George Sand.  With all the
differences of manner, power and performance 
between these makers, the governing thought
and motive is the same.  It is the motive 
enunciated in the burden to the famous chorus
in the "Agamemnon"---"Let the good prevail."
Until this is recognized Shakespeare's work is
not understood.  We connect the word morality
with preachers and bores, and no one is
so little of a preacher and bore as Shakespeare; 
but yet, to understand Shakespeare aright, the
clew to seize is the morality of Shakespeare. 
The same with the work of the older French
writers, Moliere, Montaigne and Rabelais. 
The master-pressure upon their spirit is the
pressure exercised by this same thought:  "Let
the good prevail." And the result is that they
deal with the life of all of us---the life of man in 
its fullness and greatness. 
The motive of Balzac is curiosity.  The result
is that the matter on which he operates 
bounds him, and he delineates not the life of
man but the life of the Frenchman, and of the
Frenchman of these, our times, the homme
sensuel moyen.  Balzac deals with this life, delineates
it with splendid ability, loves it, and is 
bounded by it.  He has for his public the lovers 
and seekers of this life everywhere.  His imitators
follow eagerly in his track, are more and
more subdued by the material in which they 
work, more and more imprisoned within the
life of the average sensual man, until at last
we can hardly say that the motive of their 
work is the sheer motive of curiosity---it has
become a mingled motive of curiosity, cupidity, 
lubricity.  And these followers of Balzac, in 
their turn, have some of them high ability, and
they are eagerly read by whosoever loves and
seeks the life they believe in. 
Rousseau with all his faults, yet with the
love of goodness and the enthusiasm for beauty
moving him, is even to-day more truly alive
than Balzac, his work is more than Balzac's a 
real part of French literature.  A hundred 
years hence this will be far more apparent than 
it is now.  And a hundred years hence George
Sand, the disciple of Rousseau, with much of 


Rousseau's faults but yet with Rousseau's great 
motive inspiring her---George Sand, to whom 
the French literature of to-day is backward to
do honor---George Sand will have established
her superiority to Balzac as incontestably as 
Rousseau.  In that strenuous and mixed work
of hers, continuing from "Indiana," in 1832, to
her death in 1876, we may take "Mauprat,"
"La Petite Fadette,"  "Jean de la Roche," 
"Valvedre," as characteristic and representative
points; and, re-reading these novels, we shall 
feel her power.  The novel is a more superficial
form of literature than poetry, but on that
very account more attractive.  In the literature 
of our century, if the work of Goethe is the
greatest and wisest influence, if the work of 
Wordsworth is the purest and most poetic, the
most varied and attractive influence is, perhaps, 
the work of George Sand.  "Bien dire, 
c'est bien sentir,"  and her ample and noble
style rests upon large and lofty qualities.  To-day,
with half-hearted regard, her countrymen
will unveil her statue in the little town 
by the meadows of the poplar-bordered Indre, 
the river which she has immortalized--- 
Still glides the stream, and shall not cease to glide---
while she, like so many of "the great, the
mighty, and the wise," seems to have had her
hour and to have passed away.  But in her
case we shall not err if we adopt the poet's
faith.     2593 
And feel that she is greater than we know.20     FRANK LESLIE'S ILLU

The Pictorial Spirit of the Illu 


[*2594*]
[*1884*] 
FRANCE.-----STATUE OF GEORGE SAND, INAUGURATED AT LA CHÂTRE, AUGUST 10TH. 



[*N Y Tribune Sunday
Aug 31 1884*] 

PAGES.      3

DUPIN-----DUDEVANT-----SAND. 

HER STATUE AT LA CHATRE AND HER
HOME AT NOHANT. 
[*2595*] 
FROM THE REGULAR CORRESPONDENT OF THE TRIBUNE. ]
PARIS, Aug. 5. 
The George Sand celebration at La Châtre was
unworthy of her muse.  It was got up by the Mayer
of that town, who wanted to give himself prominence
and to obtain a decoration.  At La Châtre
George Sand was held, through the greater part of
her literary career in holy horror, was often hooted
at, and was once pelted with stones.  The old
leaven of bourgeois animosity towards her is yet
strong in that pretty little town, on the outskirts 
of which she resided part of the time she was at
law with her husband.  Her father was killed near 
La Châtre by a fall from a horse, so that she had 
many disagreeable and few pleasant memories connected
with the place.  The day before the
celebration, fear was entertained that the
"Philistine" population might be led by their
wish to vindicate "the proprieties" ---which Madame
Sand outraged in her youngdays and, indeed
in the prime of life also---to mutilate the
beautiful statue of her which Aimé Millet
has executed.  He represents her seated 
with one foot over the other and the
fore finger of one hand in a nearly closed book
and a pen in the other hand.  Her skirt and a kind
of Arab peplum or gondonrah which covers the bust 
but leaves the arms bare, drape her amply and
gracefully.  The pose is natural and the resemblance
to the novelist striking.  Aimé Millet reppresents 
her as what he conceives her to have been at the
age of forty. 
There were not many notable personages at
the celebration.  M. de Lesseps, being
in the neighborhood and a member
of the Academy, presided.  Some literary ladies
came in a representative capacity.  Mme. Henri
Greville, who is stout, short, plain and singularly
prosaic---at least in appearance,---was one.  The
other was from Italy. M. Arséne Houssaye---a man
who would if he could drown the fragrance of 
sweetbriar in oppoponax, and who gives to all the 
fine ladies he writes about the physiognomies of
courtesans---was the chief speaker.  Madame Adam 
was prevented by her mother's death from coming, 
Victor Hugo by his great age and a care for his 
health, Jules Claretie by business at Versailles, 
and Eugéne Pelleton by his duties as a questor 
of the National Assembly.  Prince Napoleon, too, 
was among the absentees.  He was a very intimate 
friend of George Sand and took her son Maurice on
a trip to Iceland.  He was, in a free-thought sort
of a way, the godfather of her eldest surviving
grand-daughter Aurora, who is now grown up, and
a pretty, sprightly-looking young girl.  Gabrielle, 
the second grand-daughter, is also a very charming
rosebud.  They were, along with their father, 
mother and Aunt Solange, widow of Clesenger, the 

sculptor, at the unveiling of the statue.  This ceremony
was bright, noisy and had a 14th-of-July air. 
Berri is no a tourist's province.  A great part of
it is flat and boggy.  The canton in which Nohant
is situated is rich and rolling table land. 
A wood shelters from the northern blasts
an alley which was a favorite walk 
of George Sand in her old age.  It borders a little
pond, near which she had a turf seat.  The overplus
water flows across a dam which she and her
step-brother constructed when they were children. 
George Sand was all her life fond of going and seeing 
the moon's rays reflected on this little cascade, 
which, she said in a letter to Flaubert, seemed to
her to be carrying away diamonds from the pool. 
Her grave is at the verge of the churchyard and the
garden and marked by a flat stone on the top of a
green mound.  The inscription gives her maiden 
name "Lucille Aurore Amantine Dupin," her married
name, "Baroness Dudevant," and her assumed 
name, "George Sand," which she took because her
mother-in-law had requested her not to 
disgrace the second one by affixing
it to newspaper articles and novels. 
An English nun was the teacher of Aurore Dupin 
at the Convent dos Anglaises in the Rue St. Jacques, 
and used to tell her about her patron saint of Merry
England who slew the dragon.  The imaginative 
pupil was led to invoke him as a patron.  She
thought him a chivalrous hero, little suspecting 
that he was a roguish army contractor.  His name 
came back to her after she had run away from her 
husband, from Nohant to Paris, to lead an independent
life. 
"Sand" was half the name of Jules Sandean, to
whom she ran and with whom she led a Bohemian
life until she threw him off to make a trial of the
poet De Musset, which ended in a bitter quarrel. 
He grew to hate her, and published an attack on 
her in one volume.  It was entitled "Lui et Elle,"
or "He and She;" and led her to write "Elle et
Lui," or "She and He," in which she strove to
show that she was not a cold vampire, 
who, when she had ruined him physically 
and morally, cast him aside and took up with a Venetian 
doctor.  Her story was that he had hypersensitive
nerves which he utterly destroyed with
drink, and that she left him (as she always told
him she should do were her experiment a failure) 
because it was impossible for her to love him, or
to feign that passion.  Perhaps there was truth in 
both the indictment and the defence.  There are 
some natures which in youth go through a period 
of very active fermentation, to become in after
life mellow and generous, like fine wine.  George 
Sands was one of these.  All the peasants about
Nohant, in her old age, called her "la Bonne
Dame," or "the good lady."  Her son, to whom she
had ever been a tender and watchful mother, venerated
her;  his wife and children adore her memory
and loved her when she was with them, and she
had, to the last, numerous friends who held her in 
affectionate regard.  Some of them were old lovers,others were platonic admirers and sympathizers. She
used to call Dumas fils her son.  Louis Blanc, Victor
Hugo, the negrophile Schœlcher, Emmanuel Suago, 
Dupont de Bussac, M. Brisson, Charles Edmond, the 
Egyptologist;  Paul Meurice, Vacquerie, Aimé
Millet, and Millet the rural painter, enjoyed her
friendship to the end, and she theirs.  Mme. Adam
and Jules Claretie were latter day friends.  M. de 
Lesseps only knew her slightly, and after he was
married a second time.  He was a warm admirer of
her genius, and called two of his second batch of
children Consuelo and Solange, after characters in 
her novels. 
George Sand did not, when young, generally agree
with persons to whom she was attached closely by
laws of convention or nature.  No sooner did she
gain the love of a man than she tossed him off.  Her
answer to those who blamed her was that the ideal 
she had formed was so different from the reality
that she could not do otherwise.  Her husband was
a dense, good-natured and coarse swash-buckler.  He
also drank.  As she was silent and moody even
with those she loved, her companionship did not
tend to elevate him from his military ways.  M. 
Edmond About in giving me his impressions of her, 
said:  "She was dull, dull, dull, to an unimaginable
degree."  I only saw here when she was a very old
woman, and though she was taciturn she did not
strike me as being stupid in manner. 
In society she took in and rarely gave out. 
The big, black eyes stared and absorbed.
She had a healthy waxen complexion and
pretty little sunburnt hands, for she never 
would wear gloves.  The gift of conversation 
was denied her.  I believe that all her
cerebral power flowed from her brain through her
fingers into her pen and that none was left to animate
the tongue.  The eyes were owlish, but fine, 
and her tastes were nocturnal.  Generally
she only lived at night.  When Baron Dudevant, 
who was fond of shooting and rough country sports, 
was dropping asleep in the evening' she began to
wake up.  Her favorite amusement was the silent
contemplation of the stars and moon and the effects 
of moon-shine on the tranquil landscapes about
Nohant.  All this was taken by the
obtuse husband for sulkiness.  Her grandfather on
the maternal side was a professional bird catcher
and bird tamer.  She inherited his love for the 
feathered tribe and was a providence to robin-red-breasts 
and other small birds.  Dudevant cut
down the brambles and other scrub in 
the park which afforded them shelter, not because
he wished to be cruel but because he
wanted to make the best of the property his wife
brought him.  She cried and retrenched herself in
angry silence.  One morning in a rage, he killed a
robin which was in the habit of coming to a window-sill
to feed from her hand.  This was too
much.  Jules Sandeau presented himself at
the house as a tourist and was hospitably
received by the Baron.  He was young, fair, ingenuous, 
very amiable, witty, good-natured, and fell
violently in love with the Baroness.  The Revolution 
of 1830 had just taken place.  She was inspired
by it with a spirit of revolt, and a few days
after the pet robin was killed broke away from Nohant, 
taking with her Solange, her daughter, for
whom she had never much sympathy. In her suit
for a judicial separation her attorney was M. Brissen, 
of Bourges, the father of the actual President
of the Senate. 
George Sand was the great-grand daughter of

Marshal de Saxe, the victor of Fontenoy, and
one of the innumerable illegitimate children 
of Augustus, King of Saxony and of Poland.  This 
monarch was a degree nearer to Louis Seize than to 
the "good lady of Nohant.  She had the heavy contour
of face of the house of Saxony.  It is very
strong in her statue.  The black eyes and hair were 
propably derived from Aurora Koenigsmark, the 
bold, enterprising mother of Marshal Saxe.  That
siren's picture is at Nohant, and one sees in comparing
it with those of George Sand that her vigorous
blood descended to the novelist.  She aspired to 
make a conquest of Charles XII, of Sweden.  But
he fled from her.  Marshal Saxe was at the age of
thirteen a soldier of fortune.  He entered young the
service of Louis XV, of France, and was granted for
a residence the chateau of Chambord.  Like his 
royal father, he was addicted to gallantry.  A 
daughter whom he had by a singer of the opera was
first married to a Comte de Horn.  But as he was, 
from a life of debauchery, in miserable health, he
did not ask her to be his wife unless in public. 
When he died she married a M. Dupin, stepson of
the famous Madame Dupin, of Chenonceaux, the
patroness of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and had by
him a son whom she called after her father, Maurice. 
He was conscribed in 1793, and served as a
private soldier and then as an officer in Flanders, 
Germany, Italy and Spain.  At Milan he picked up 
a kind of unattached vivandiere.  She was already
the mother of the girl Usurle, who was such a kind
sister to George Sand.  To give the baby a regular
status he married her mother.  George Sand was
born in the Rue de Meslay, in Paris, on the evening
of a gay party, at which her father, who had inherited
from the royal family of Saxony, and the
opera singer a passion for music, was diverting his
guests as a violinist.  Her grandmother, who had 
with the wreck of a very large fortune bought 
Nohant, ill-brooked the ex-camp follower.  But for
the sake of the little Aurora, toward whom, when
she haw the child, her heart warmed, she accepted 
the daughter-in-law.  George Sand's mother was a
clever, hot-headed, explosive and extremely handy
Parisienne.  She could never agree with her mother-in-law, 
and was always fighting with George Sand
after she grew up. 
There is much in the family history of "the
good" chatelaine of Nohant to justify Galton's
theory of hereditary faculties and instincts.  One
finds in her life and writings the German love of
nature, the amorous propensities of King Augustus, 
the taciturnity of Marshal Saxe, the shamelessness
of Aurora Koenigsmark, who was a Jewess, the bird
fancier's love of birds, and the irritable nerves of
the camp follower. 
All the old family clocks at Nohant were stopped
when George Sand died, and now mark the hour of
that event.  Her house is regarded by the family as
a sacred place, and although they use it freely, they
take the utmost care of everything associated with 
her, and keep the furniture of her sitting and bedrooms, 
exactly as they were in her time.  The chairs
bear the date of the Eighteenth Century, and of the
Restoration.  Portraits of Marshal Saxe, a German-looking

soldier, in a full bottomed wig, or Aurora
Koenigsmark, and the grandmother who bought
Nohant, are in the sitting-room.  Old Madame
Dupin has a complexion of roses and lilies, and an
air of high breeding.  She is extremely blonde, 
refined, sweet and courtly, and looks as if made of
Dresden china.  Her son is olive complexioned, 
black-eyed, oval faced, very handsome and resembles 
the Koenigsmark ancestress and the illustrious 
George, of whom there are many likenesses. 
Two represent her in the Bohemian stage of her
evolution, when for "economy, convenience and decency," 
she wore men's clothing.  The one by Delacroix
gives her a Royal Hanoverian profile.  The
eyes are splendidly imaginative, but the heavy
mouth and retreating chin are sensual to the degree
of bestiality.  This expression disappeared as her
mind developed and her passions cooled.  In Charpentier's
portrait (a three-quarters one), there is an
expression of marvellous eloquence in the eyes, and
there is beauty in the somewhat heavy profile   In 
the likeness by Couture she is tranquil, strong and invested
in an easy majesty which was a characteristic
of her old age.  Her piano, which she often 
played for hours in the evening, is a grand one.
The cottage piano beside it is for her son and grandchildren. 
There is a big doll, which the illustrious
old lady dressed for her second grandchild, which is
kept along with some puppets, also clad by her, as
a relic.  The dining-room is wainscotted and 
roomy.  An antique eight-day clock stands on the
stairs.  The bedroom is just as it was in her life, and
has remained empty since her death.  Books load
the shelves around it.  Most of them are unbound. 
Her collection of dried herbs and flowers is kept in
a cabinet. 

2595  [*A*] 

LIFE AT BAR HARBOR. 
[*2595  B*] 
HOW MR. BLAINE SPENDS HIS TIME. 

A RESORT FREE FROM DISORDERLY VISITORS---PECULIARITIES 
OF THE PLACE. 
[FROM A STAFF CORRESPONDENT OF THE TRIBUNE.] 
BAR HARBOR, Me., Aug. 27.—The callers at Mr. 
Blaine's modest cottage here would have no reason 
to think it the abode of a Presidential candidate. 
There is a pleasant home look about the place, 
which, to a stranger, would almost preclude the
suggestion of political topics.  Surrounded by his
family, and playing with his little grandchild, 
Mr. Blaine appears to be in his happiest mood, and
hours will pass without a reference to the pending
canvass.  In a little back room some smooth pine 
boards have been made into a table, and there Mr. 
 Blaine spends a short time each day dictating to a
stenographer and answering the numerous letters
sent to him from all parts of the
country.  The greater part of his mail, 
however, goes to Augusta, where his secretary remains
to care for it.  Only the more important
communications and a few newspapers are forwarded
to him here.  He goes riding on pleasant
days and spends his vacation much the same as
any hard-worked person would who was seeking 
rest. 
Mr. Blaine has no secretary at Bar Harbor, but
employs a stenographer to facilitate work on the
second volume of the history.  His oldest son, Emmons, 
is engaged in professional work as a civil engineer 
in Iowa.  Walker is at home, and assists his
father some when his services are needed, but the 
young iadies at Bar Harbor appear to be occupying
a good deal of Walker's attention at present.  Mr. 
Blaine spends his evenings in conversation with his 
wife and family and such callers as happen in.  His
genial powers of conversation are well known, but
he seems to be more than ever fond of illustrating
a point by a good story, of which he has a great 
fund. 
In this quiet, unassuming way does the man who 
is certain to be the next President spend his
time.  He is so easily approached by all who desire 
to see him that it is a fortunate thing that 
he chose, before his nomination, this
out-of-the-way place in which to spend
the summer.  Any person who imagines 
that Mr. Blaine is exhibiting anxiety over the canvass
would, if in Mr. Blaine's presence, soon discover
his mistake.  It is only when the dastardly
conspiracy to besmirch his family is alluded to that 
Mr. Blaine shows his fiery spirit, and then it takes 
the form of righteous indignation.  With the regular
work of the canvass he has little to do.  The 
nomination came to him unsought, and the election 
will apparently come about in the same way.  Mr. 
Blaine, of course, believes too much in the 
Republican party not to be deeply interested in its
success.  But it is evident that he wishes as much 
as possible to avoid taking a part that would indicate
an ardent desire for his own success.  Hence
he has declined many urgent demands upon him 
by party leaders for his presence at meetings.  He
has made only three trips so far in the canvass---
those to Portland, Maranacook and Strong. 
Great efforts are being made to get
him to visit other States, but so far 
without success.  Those close to him here say
that to oblige old friends in other States he may
yet be induced to overcome his reluctance to go
away from home, but there is nothing decided 
about it. 
The season at Bar Harbor is now in its height, 
and the exodus began with this week.  The season 
will be unusually short this year.  In the early part
of the summer the weather was cold and uncomfortable. 
During August up to this week 
it has been delightful, but now the
cold seems to have returned and the nights this
week have been frosty.  There are fifteen hotels at
Bar Harbor, and they are all kept by "islanders," 
with one exception, and that one is "run" by a
Bangor landlord. 
Some persons find fault because there is
no sea-bathing here, but the lack of it is 
not felt much, as the weather is nearly always 
cool.  Boating, canoeing, driving, 
dancing and lawn tennis take up the time.  There 
is not an orchestra at any of the hotels and no
provision for evening entertainments except hops. 
The pleasant walks and drives, however, are well 
patronized.  "Spoony" couples are numerous and
every favorable nook at convenient walking distance
from the village is generally occupied in the
afternoons.  If Oscar Wilde would see the number 
of young men and old men who throng the hotel 
piazzas in knee breeches and "baby" coats his 
aesthetic soul would no doubt be made happy. 
There are many attactions about Bar Harbor, not
the least of which is its freedom from disorderly
persons of every kind.  The boats which ply about 
the bays and islands are well patronized and
the entire absence of bars, and the unpleasant
smell of bad liquors, so common on
New-York boats makes an agreeable change.
The carriages are all of the buck-board pattern, 
and the drivers are honest.  Indians paddle the
canoes.  The "help" is of the Down-East type. 
"Where are you going to teach this year?" said a
sweeper at the Newport the other day, to the young
man who was blacking boots. 
"Wall, I don't know," was the reply.  "They 
want me here in Bar Harbor."PROSPECTUS
OF THE WORKS OF
EDGAR ALLAN POE
COMPLETE EDITION
In 4 Vols. Crown 8vo, Price 6s. each
EDITED BY JOHN H. INGRAM
With Memoir, Portrait, and Endex

EDINBURGH: ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
LONDON: LONGMANS AND CO.

2596
[*1874*]NOTICES
IT is pleasant to have Edgar Poe rescued from the reputation
of something like infamy, to which his first biographer had
consigned him.--Spectator.
This edition promises to be at once the most complete,
and the most handsome that has yet been.--Scotsman.
The present edition is thoroughly handsome and creditable.
--Civil Service Review.
We believe that this work will cause considerable sensation
in the literary world.  The biography prefixed to the
first volume is an ardent apology for, or moral eulogy of the poet.--
Echo.
Our own impression, after reading the singularly tender and
affectionate Memoir which opens the volume before us, and contrasting
it with other biographies of this unfortunate but highly-gifted
man, is that he stands alone in the sphere which he may be said to
have created ; not only alone, but in many respects unapproachable.
-- Derby Mercury
The publishers have done well to issue this, the first complete
edition of the works of Edgar Allan Poe, in a most attractive form.
-- Daily Review.
No writer upon the Western Continent has exhibited so original
or, it may even be said, so startling a genius.--Standard.
Although for many years past Poe's writings have exercised a
powerful fascination on thousands of English readers, yet, as far as
we are aware, no complete edition of his works has hitherto been
published on this side of the Atlantic ; and his numerous admirers
have been dependent on fragmentary volumes for their knowledge
of his compositions.  Messrs. Black's edition will supply this want.
--The Graphic.
We hail this new edition as the most complete, as well as
handsome, collection of the most extraordinary and unfortunate
man who ever wrote in the English tongue.--Dundee Advertiser.[*Bryants Homer*]
REVIEWS AND NOTICES.
THE ILIAD OF HOMER.  Translated into English Blank Verse by William
Cullen Bryant.  Vol. I.  Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co.  1870.
It certainly gives an agreeable impression of dignity and maturity in
American literature, that our two foremost poets, after middle life, should
produce elaborate translations of the two great poems of the world.  That
Longfellow's "Dante" and Bryant's "Homer" should be published within
a few years of each other,--in the same superb style of execution, and by
the same bookselling house, -- is an exquisite piece of poetic fitness, and
takes rank with the simultaneous death of Adams and Jefferson on the
Fourth of July, or with any of those remarkable American coincidences
which give joy to schoolboys.
Professor Longfellow's career as a translator has been more continuous
than Mr. Bryant's, though it dates back no earlier.  For this work the Cambridge
poet has gifts so peculiar, that he is scarcely likely to find a rival in
this age ; and though it is very likely that the original poetry of Bryant may
outlive that of Longfellow, by reason of greater depth and fineness of quality,
yet Bryant's laurels in the minor service of translation are, by comparison,
yet to be won.  But he bravely "puts them to the touch ;" for, however
great the difficulties of translating Dante may be, it is impossible to compare
them with those of translating Homer.
Yet the translator of Homer has one advantage, at least, to set against
many disadvantages.  He is trying to do something which nobody ever did
well, and in which, therefore, a little success goes a great way.  There are
always the two points of view: shall we simply ask that the translator
should do no worse than Pope and Cowper and Derby and Newman? or
shall we set all these aside, and compare him with Homer?  It is safe to
say that no lover of the Iliad ever read with great pleasure any version
except Chapman's, and much of the pleasure which that yields is not of the
kind yielded by the original.  Speaking from the Homeric point of view, we
must maintain that a page of Chapman gives more conception of the Iliad
than a hole library of translations beside, even if the catalogue include
Bryant's ; yet, after all, Chapman is very unlike Homer.
As we view it, Mr. Bryant's is a faithful, patient, simple version ; never
daring, always moderately good, often graceful, never in the slightest degree
grand or commanding.  It is free from the pettiness of Pope, from the
craggy epithets of Chapman, and from the tiresome eccentricities of Newman.
Nothing is ever added to Homer, and is a merit to refrain from
that attempt.  But there is something wanting on every page, something
which is in Homer, and without which Homer is not himself.  After all is
11
[*2597*]426                                         The Radical.

said and done, there is a certain tameness about the version.  Now Homer
is never tame: he is sometimes minute and prolix, it may be, and often
repeats himself; but he is never tame.  He has wealth and fire and vigor; 
there is blood in him; there is massive power everywhere; there is nothing
insipid.  To represent this quality of power, Chapman has tossed heaven
and earth together, and hence the sense of magnificent novelty and discovery
with which Keats and all others look into his version for the first time.
To Chapman Homer seems an ocean; and his translator also must heave
mighty rocks about and toss foam to the stars.  To Newman he seems a 
mountain brook, that dashes as eagerly, but more slenderly, over the stones.
To Bryant he seems a smooth canal, that must glide between regular banks
and amid softest rural verdure from one Green River to another.  It is a
charming representation, — but is it Homer?
     It is not due to the use of blank verse, mainly, this aspect of inland
repose.  In the hands of Milton, or of Shakespeare, or of Keats, blank
verse becomes Homeric.  The measure is sufficient; but it is one which,
for some reason or other, no man living can use in the spirit of Homer.
Tennyson himself, the only great living master of this verse, has ventured
to attempt but a very few lines of Homer.  And blank verse of merely
average excellence certainly leaves us farther from heroic poetry than the
hexameter or the ballad metre, which, even in ordinary hands, retain at
least vivacity.
     Compare, for instance, Bryant's version of the famous description of Hector
and his child with the version of Newman.

"So saying, mighty Hector stretched his arms
To take the boy; the boy shrank crying back
To his fair nurse's bosom, scared to see
His father helmeted in glittering brass,
And eyeing with affright the horse-hair plume
That grimly nodded from the lofty crest.
At this both parents in their fondness laughed;
And hastily the mighty Hector took
The helmet from his brow and laid it down
Gleaming upon the ground, and having kissed
His darling son and tossed him up in play,
Prayed thus to Jove and all the gods of heaven."
Iliad, vi. 466-475.

Now hear how Newman handles this.
"Thus saying, gallant Hector stretched          his arms towards his infant;
But back into the bosom of                             the nurse with dapper girdle
The child recoil'd with wailing, scared            by his dear father's aspect,
In terror dazzled to behold                               the brass and crest of horse-hair
Which from the helmet's topmost ridge        terrific o'er him nodded.
Then did his tender father laugh,                   and laughed his queenly mother.
And gallant Hector instantly                             beneath his chin the helmet
Unfastened; and upon the ground                 he laid it all resplendent;
Then pois'd his little son aloft,                         and dandled him, and kissed him,
and rais'd a pray'r to Jupiter                             and other gods immortal."Reviews and Notices.              427

The two versions are about equally literal; Bryant's is simpler, but how
much more of heartiness and animation in Newman's!

In the minor details of such passages Bryant is always delicate and pleasing 
and moderate.  When he makes Hector address Andromache,--

     "Sorrow not thus, beloved one, for me,"

The epithet "beloved one" seems, indeed, wholly inadequate to the noble
and solemn impressiveness of Homer's favorite epithet,  Δαιμονίη (Daimonie), 
which expresses neither love alone nor reverence alone, but something
due to one who partakes of the divine element, for good or for evil --
in this case for good.  But as there is no single English word which translates
it, -- though "divine" comes nearest, -- it is better to call Andromache
simply "beloved" than "elf-possessed," which Newman prefers.  So Bryant's
"weeping as she smiled" is far better than Newman's "laughing amid
her tears."  On the other hand, Newman's "soothing her with hand and
voice." although the last two words are unnecessary, is far superior to
Bryant's--

        "Soothed
  Her forehead gently with his hand,"

Inasmuch as Homer simply speaks of caressing with the hand, and does
not mention the forehead at all.  Surely it would have been possible to give
a rendering at once more literal and more tender.  Even Greek warriors
had their moments of affection, and did not part from their wives for the last
time with a mere touch upon the brow.

This, however, does not rank among the heroic passages of Homer.
When we come to these, Newman is apt to be weak, and we should hardly
know how to illustrate what a translation from the Iliad might be made, were
it not for a fragment of a version which strayed to us long ago, through the
hands of that man of only too universal talent, Edward Hale, and which
appears (though not in an improved shape) in his "If, Yes, and Perhaps."
Let us first take Bryant's version of the famous passage, "The Descent of
Neptune."  This first volume does not quite cover it; but it appeared in
the "Atlantic Monthly" for January last.

                "There, coming from the ocean-deeps, he sat,
                And pitied the Greek warriors put to rout
                Before the Trojans, and was wroth with Jove.
                Soon he descended from those rugged steeps,
                And trod the earth with rapid strides : the hills
                And forests quaked beneath the immortal feet
                Of Neptune as he walked.  Three strides he took,
                And at the fourth reached Ægæ, where he stopped,
                And where his sumptuous palace-halls arose
                Deep down in ocean, -- golden, glittering, proof
                Against decay of time.  These when he reached
                He yoked his fleet and brazen-footed steeds,
                With manes of flowing gold, to draw his car,428                                        The Radical.

                 "And put on golden mail, and took his scourge,
                 Wrought of fine gold, and climbed the chariot-seat,
                 And rode upon the waves.  The whales came forth
                 From their deep haunts, and gamboled around his way;
                 They knew their king.  The waves rejoicing smoothed
                 A path, and rapidly the coursers flew;
                 Nor was the brazen axle wet beneath.
                 And thus they brought him to the Grecian host."
                                                                                Iliad, xiii. 15-31

     This is Mr. Bryant, clear, pleasing, unexceptionable.  But now come to
Homer.

                 "There sat he high retired from the seas;
                 There looked with pity on his Grecians beaten;
                 There burned with rage at the god-king who slew them.
                 Then rushed he forward from the rugged mountain;
                 He bent the forest also as he came downward,
                 And the high cliffs shook underneath his footsteps.
                 Three times he trod; his fourth step reached his sea-home.

                 "There was his palace in the deep sea-water,
                 Shining with gold and builded firm forever;
                 And there he yoked him his swift-footed horses
                 (Their hoofs are brazen and their manes are golden)
                 With golden thongs: his golden goad he seizes;
                 He mounts upon his chariot and doth fly;
                 Yea, drives he forth his steeds into the billows.

                 "The sea-beasts from the depths rise under him, --
                 They know their king; and the glad sea is parted,
                 That so his wheels may fly along unhindered.
                 Dry speeds between the wheels his brazen axle:
                 So bounding fast they bring him to his Grecians."

     What a life, what a freshness is there; what a vigor!  You feel the very
breeze of the motion; the air and the water play on you: it is poetry instead
of prose.  Now this life and freshness and vigor constitute Homer: to omit
them is to leave Homer out.  Bryant's is a shade more literal; and yet
he evidently does not make a controlling point of literalism, as Longfellow
does, or he would not have substituted "Grecian host," instead of "Grecian
ships," at the close.  Again, his "wroth with Jove" is less literal, as well as
infinitely less vivid, than the "heard with rage" of the other version.  And
observe how much is gained by the more poetic translator in breaking up
the narrative into "There was his palace," and "there he yoked him," instead
of the more deliberate and consecutive "where" and "these" of Mr.
Bryant.  Yet the more graphic version is here the more literal also, and
Hale's use of particles corresponds far better to Homer's.  And were it
otherwise, he keeps higher laws than he breaks; for, after all, it is the first
essential of a translator, not merely to avoid faults, but to give a positive
impression of the characteristic qualities of the original.
     No translation of Homer that we have seen has exhibited a continuousReviews and Notices.              429

vigor and vivacity such as mark this last fragment.  The best parallel to
it -- and perhaps the very best American translation of a Greek poem --
is to be found in the admirable version of the "Hylas" of Theocritus by
Mr. E.C. Stedman, to be found at the end of his "Blameless Prince and
Other Poems."  This is almost a literal rendering of Greek into English,
and shows extraordinary freshness and vigor.
     The introductory essay of Mr. Bryant does not, we fear, add much to the
value of the book, -- it suggests so readily a comparison with the recent
essays of Mr. Gladstone, and is so much inferior to them in comprehensive
appreciation.  Nor can the reasons given for the use of the Latin names of 
the deities, instead of the Greek, seem satisfactory at the present time.
Twenty-five years ago they would have had weight.  But the Greek names
are now so generally reinstated in the histories, dictionaries, and schoolbooks, 
that it seems a pity to go back to the associations of Lempriere's
Dictionary and Tooke's Pantheon.  It was long since admitted that the difference 
was not one of names, but of things.  The Roman deities were different 
conceptions, personalities of whom Homer never dreamed.  We
might almost as well look for his deities in the Scandinavian mythology, into
which they were also imported, and where we find them combined with
Noah and Zoroaster.  Newman, in his preface, takes a much better view of
the subject, though in his practice he is inconsistent and impulsive on this
point, as on most others.

     We have spoken frankly in regard to this great national work, because no
criticism is of any value except in proportion to its frankness.  It only remains
to repeat that, while thus open to question at some points, Mr. Bryant's
Homer is an honor to our literature, in its thoroughness, its simplicity,
and its fidelity.  It is obviously superior to Pope or Cowper; it is better 
than Lord Derby's version, for it is a poet's version, and that is not; it is
better than Newman's, because it is simple and unaffected, and that is not;
and if it gives far less of the Homeric sensations than Chapman's, it gives
no sensation that it not Homeric.  It is only that  there is a limit to the
power of the English language in representing the Greek; to the power of
ten-syllable blank verse in representing the hexameter; and to the power
of a pleasing and meditative poet in representing the fire and grandeur of
Homer.
     In short, Mr. Bryant's translation affords the same kind of pleasure with
Mr. Booth's Hamlet; and this to many persons will seem all-sufficient 
praise.  Careful, tasteful, almost perfect in execution, each lights up agreeably
all the minor scenes and the subordinate passages, and so affords continuous
pleasure.  The only trouble is, that, when the poets rouses himself 
and puts his glory on, the heights and depths find no echo: the interpreter
has exhausted his resources, and can offer nothing more.  Tested by this
highest standard, he who can act Hamlet is still to seek, and so is he who
can translate Homer.                                                                          T.W.H.

2599430                                          The Radical.

GOETHE'S HERMANN AND DOROTHEA.  Translated by Ellen Frothingham.
        With illustrations.  Boston.  Roberts Brothers.  1870.
     The first thing that takes the eye about this last issue of Roberts Brothers
is the nice binding with the dainty archaic title in gold upon the cover.
Then, on opening, the illustrations next give pleasure, because they really
belong to the text and lend it color: not mere vague pictures indifferently
executed, like those which disfigure so many Tennysons and other editions
of poets, where only cheapness gets illustrated.  But the style of these is
superior, and they match points of interest in the poem.
     When we begin to read, we admire to notice how Miss Frothingham has
caught and transferred the peculiar tone of Goethe's famous idyl, its level
and restrained feeling, its delicate unfolding of Hermann's love for the
unconscious Dorothea, its light touches upon all the simple objects that
compose the scenery of the story.  For a translation must render tone as
well as words.  Other English words, that might subserve the German
meanings, would yet impair or exaggerate the tone.  Other words would
alter the whole coloring of the poem.  Here is a kind of faithfulness that
is not profusely bestowed upon translators.  Indeed, the object of most
modern translators seems to be to get their books published in advance of a
rival.  It is a scramble to reach a market: no wonder, then, that the wares
are rumpled and damaged.
     Miss Frothingham has bestowed great pains and judgment upon her
translation.  Goethe's poem is peculiarly in need of these qualities; for
its movement is moderate, the pulse seldom quickening to hoist passionate
red to the cheeks.  Its charm is cool and steeped with morning dew in the
open country.  No rush, no climaxes, bear the translator along.  Every step
of the journey that carries simple love to its goal is modestly taken.
     It is a poem that should certainly re-appear in hexameters.  The verse
belongs to its German mood.  The story is deliberate enough to justify and
select it.  So that, whether people fancy the English hexameter or not, they
have no choice in the matter.  The poem would be spoiled if it appeared in
any other form.
     We have seen only one other attempt to deliver this poem in English
hexameters.  Miss Frothingham's verse bears the marks of patient labor, and
of a nice ear for the rhythm.  If sometimes the accent of the alternate lines
seems to fall too monotonously, we have only to compare it with the original
to find that it is a characteristic of the German verse.  The task of composing
original hexameters is sufficiently difficult in any modern language.
They suggest chanting or measured recitative.  There is no English or
German lyre strung to accompany the delivery to the popular ear of epics
thus composed.  But we think that very few faulty lines can be pointed out
in Miss Frothingham's rendering.  The intrinsic difficulty can never be
overcome.  We can as soon reproduce Phidias as Homer.  The time of
day on the world's clock points to different combinations, such as flow intoReviews and Notices.                 431

the speech of Beethoven and Mozart.  The world has invented more 
complicated sentiments, and rhythms full of new surprises.

We hope that all the patience, fine taste, knowledge of languages, and
poetic feeling which have gone into this translation will be rewarded by
speedy appreciation.  There is no volume published this season that will be
more appropriate for a present to a friend.  Roberts Brothers put their
writers into famously good type and paper.                                    J. W.

WAY, TRUTH, AND LIFE.  Sermons by Nahor Augustus Staples, with a 
       sketch of his life, by John W. Chadwick.  Boston: William V. Spencer.
       1870.

     We have found something very fresh and sweet in this little book.  It is
a faithful and affectionate testimony to a life which was not great nor extraordinary, 
but which, in an ordinary enough sphere, was yet full of rich juices
and had a wonderfully healthy and bracing tone.  There was a refreshing
sincerity in Mr. Staple's character, which flavored all his work.  He had a
natural aversion to cant and hypocrisy.  Only once does this clear sincerity
appear to have been clouded; and that was when his natural religious
aspirations, in his later boyhood, got entangled for a short time in the
meshes of an Orthodox revival.  And even then he was doubtless making
an effort that seemed to himself sincere and honest.  But it is evident from
his diary at that time that no deep places in his character were touched by
this experience; and the "revival" was hardly past before he was bravely
over its effects.  And then came very shortly his separation from Orthodoxy,
his acceptance of Unitarian views, his entrance upon the ministry,
and his steady progress, to the end of his days, towards the most radical
positions of Unitarianism; and, parallel with this progress in theological
thought, a steady deepening of religious life and increasing power of
utterance.  Indeed, the most noticeable and encouraging fact in Mr. Staples' life,
perhaps, was his rapid growth, especially in his later years, both intellectually
and spiritually.  He was not quite thirty-four years old when he died; yet
he had leaped to a position of large influence, and in his last two years surprised
even his intimate friends with the new capacities that seemed to be
born within him.  It is well to have the points of such a life preserved:
and Mr. Chadwick, who now preaches in the church where Mr. Staples had
his best success as a minister, has in his biographical sketch done this work
well.  The character is honestly and vividly drawn.
     The sermons and extracts from sermons that are printed in the volume
will perhaps disappoint some readers who only knew Mr. Staples through
his growing fame as a preacher; for he was one of those preachers to
whom, as the editor says, the man is much more than the manuscript.
Yet there is good food in these sermons; healthy thought and healthy
sentiment.  The following brief extract will indicate both the theology and
the religion they contain.

[*2600*]432                                        The Radical.

"Do not understand me as wishing to undervalue churches, nor the Bible,
nor the worth of Christ to the soul.  Heaven forbid that I should do either !
I would only say that the church cannot give us religion; the Bible cannot
give us religion; Christ cannot give us religion.  These are all our helps,
our teachers; but they are of no avail unless they lead us directly to the
Father; unless they teach us to look to Him daily for the law of our lives,
and enable us with joy to commune with our own hearts and be still.  The
moment we so regard all outward means, the questions of inspiration, of
church authority, of apostolic succession, are practically settled.  The words
which feed my soul are the words of God; the church which fills me with
awe, and leaves me to silent communion, is the church which has divine
authority; the ministry which teaches me to live in harmony with this world
and all worlds, -- to find God in my daily life; to feel that he is ever coming
to me in the joy of my home; in the love of my loved ones; in the mercies
fresh every morning and renewed every evening; in the sorrows  which make
me still and thoughtful; in the pleasures which make me grateful and glad;
in the beauties of every season, and the wonder of everything: the ministry
which can teach me all this is the apostolic ministry, whether it began yesterday 
or two thousand years ago."

The publisher has given this matter a fitting form, and the book is graced
by a fine likeness of Mr. Staples' manly face.

AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL.  By Louisa M. Alcott, author of "Little
Women."  Boston: Roberts Brothers.

Miss Alcott makes "The Old-Fashioned Girl" to be a most winsome and
attractive little body.  But we protest that she is not "old fashioned" in the
sense of a passed away fashion.  The folly of ill-bred and would-be-elegant
"young misses," whom weak parents abandon to their own absurdities, is
drawn in a vein of fine satire that hides a sigh under its sneer.  Perhaps
these "new-fashioned girls" are exaggerated or generalized a little too
much, for the sake of making a good background for "Polly's" sweet
naturalness.  We must hold that such children are not the rule in our
"new civilization."

Polly's brave, independent efforts to win money for her brother's college
expenses make a good picture of the type of girl and woman we all know
and love.  One can almost see her cozy little room in the back street, with
its book-shelf and roses, leaves, grasses, and pictures, and the dozy old
pussy before the blazing fire.  Such a little womanly soul makes beautiful
surrounding as a necessity.  The spirit of Polly's prayer for "the strength
of an upright soul, the beauty of a tender heart, the power to make her life
a sweet and stirring song, helpful while it lasted, and remembered when it
died," passes into her life, and we see it fulfilled.  There is plenty of fun in
the book, and it has room for tears besides.  We recommend the book as
more healthful reading to thoughtful parents than to impressible children.
Its free use of "slang," and frequent looseness in style, make it questionable
whether all young people would be improved by it, though the purpose
of the book is high.  It is hardly likely to be so popular as "Little Women"
among our young folks, though its Polly and Tom, good old Miss Mills, and
little Jimmy, are sure enough of warm recognition and welcome.      E. C. P.LIVERWORTS AND FERNS.            335
_________________________________________________________________
[?sporangia] containing spores.  The whole sorus
is generally covered by an outgrowth of the
leaf.  In Fig. 9, L, the epidermal cells of
the midrib—the leaf being seen
in a vertical section—have developed
into a plate of tissue
which incloses the mass of sporangia.
In this case, the investing
portion is called the true
indusium.  Sometimes the spore-cases 
are covered over by an
outgrowth, not only of the surface
layers of cells, but of the entire
leaf; it is then called the false
indusium.  In some species, Pteris
serrulatus, for instance (Fig. I0,
A), the whole edge of the leaf is
doubled over, and so holds the
sori.  In the highly magnified
portion (Fig. I0, C). the sporangia
may be distinctly seen.  The
spores are contained in a closed
sac, formed of a single cellular
layer, and surrounded by a ring
of peculiarly developed cells,
called the annulus (C, a, a).  By
the contractions of this ring, when
dried, the sac holding the spores
is ruptured, and the spores themselves 
are liberated.

Spore-cases are not, as a general thing,
formed upon all the leaves of the plant.
There are sterile leaves and fertile leaves;
on some varieties, these two kinds of leaves
regularly alternate on the stem.  The sori
are also very differently distributed over the
fertile leaves.  Sometimes they are regularly
distributed over the whole under surface of
the leaf; sometimes they are collected in
definite spots, and sometimes, again, they
are arranged in beautifully reticulated patterns.
The Osmunda regalis—or flowering
fern, as it is incorrectly called—bears what
appear to be panicles of flowers or fruit; but
this appearance is due to the fact that the
fertile leaves are all at the upper extremity
of the frond, and that all portions of the leaf
disappear, except the veins and other parts
which bear the fruit (Fig. I2).

Ferns which in our climate an era form
so insignificant a feature in our vegetation,
attain to enormous proportions in tropical
countries.  The erect stem in the great tree-ferns 
of the torrid zones not infrequently
rises to the height of fifty feet before the great
fronds which crown their tops spring from
the columnar trunk.  In the woods of the
carboniferous era, the enormous trunks and
plumy foliage of gigantic tree-ferns form a

conspicuous feature ; but, like many of the
monsters which ruled in the animal and
vegetable world in those old days before

FIG. II.  ADIANTUM CUNEATUM.—END OF LEAF FOLDED OVER TO HOLD SORUS.
S. sporangia containing spores.

man had come upon the earth, they have
since sunk into comparative obscurity and
insignificance, and have given place to a
life which, if it be not more luxurious, and
beautiful, and wonderful, at least approaches

FIG. I2.  OSMUNDA REGALIS WITH ORDINARY AND
FERTILE LEAVES.

more and more nearly to the ideal type of
perfection, toward which nature, animate
and inanimate, has been reaching through
infinite ages ; spelling out slowly, but surely,
the Divine purpose in creation, which is forever
at one with itself.

[*2601*]336                                                     JOHN BURROUGHS.
_________________________________________________________

                                                            JOHN BURROUGHS.
[sketch of Mr. Burroughs]
[caption below sketch:  JOHN BURROUGHS.]
[first column]
  SOME years ago, in the palmy days of the
"New York Leader," I remember falling
upon an essay or two by John Burroughs.
There was something in his unusually vigorous
and thoughtful style that arrested
attention at once, and piqued curiosity.  It
certainly stood in curious contrast to most
of the rapid work which goes to fill the 
insatiate columns of even the weekly press.
The "Leader" could scarcely be accused
of dullness; it has a coeterie of brilliant and
sparking writers; but Mr. Burroughs, who
was then a very young man, had evidently
struck a solid and assured note of his own
that was very distinctly audible in the midst
of their almost contagious levity.  It seemed
to me at the first look--though Mr. Burrough's 
name was then entirely new--that
here was a writer who had something to say
to the world, and must eventually be heard
from.  He was to be followed presently
into "The Atlantic" and "The Galaxy,"--
and, after is establishment, into SCRIBNER'S
--and through these and other periodicals

[second column]
he has won the well-recognized position,
which no one has held so well since 
Thoreau's death, of our Prophet of Outdoordom.
"The Nation" says, "Mr. Burroughs
is a sort of reduced, but also more humorous,
more available, and more sociable
Thoreau."
  Yet, if I remember rightly, Mr. Burroughs's
earlier essays were not so preponderately
on topics relating to Nature as are
those which have given him his deserved
place.  I recall an essay which appeared in
"The Atlantic"--it must be ten or more
years ago--on "Expression," in which he
was as metaphysical as Emerson, and which
must have been mistaken for Emerson's by
more than one reader.  This, though, was
when the magnetism of the great name was
deflecting more or less nearly all the young
and rising writers, and making them, by
necessity, talk through a medium in which
they had been powerfully quickened, and
had learned how to think,--I might say,
through which they could hardly escape anJOHN BURROUGHS 337

effort to mold their thoughts. Curiously 
enough, Mr. Burroughs's first book* was
not about Nature,—except as Mr. Walt
Whitman represents Nature,—and in this
the author confesses that when he was a
" well-grown country youth" he was "curious
about books—fond even then of the
Emersonian essays and poems, and all of
that ilk ; but my life was mainly occupied in
farm-work in the summer, and with a little
study, offset by much hunting and trapping
of wild animals in winter." As his confession
is so illustrative of what I wish soon to
say, I will quote him still further at this
point :

" From childhood I was familiar with the homely
facts of the barn, and of cattle and horses ; the
sugar-making in the maple woods in early spring ; 
the work of the corn-field, hay-field, potato-field ;
the delicious fall months, with their pigeon and
squirrel shootings ; threshing of buckwheat, gathering
of apples, and burning of fallows ; in short,
everything that smacked of, and led to, the open air
and its exhilarations. I belonged, as I may say, to 
them ; and my substance and taste, as they grew,
assimilated them as truly as my body did its food.
I loved a few books much ; but I loved Nature, in 
all those material examples and subtle expressions,
with a love passing all the books of the world."

This monograph on Walt Whitman is still 
a most readable little volume, and on many
points that concern modern poetry, is exquisitely
stimulating and suggestive. It is a 
robust and sweeping theory that is laid
down ; but it is worth attention as a pungent
and ringing protest against poetry of
the overdone-dainty and confectionery kind. 
Together with Mr. O' Connor's " The Good 
Gray Poet," and Mr. Emerson's premature 
compliment , the book gave Whitman a 
"send off" that soon reverberated from 
England in the loud welcome of the Swinburne
and Rossetti fraternity. Without 
sharing all this enthusiasm, I can yet see its 
considerable basis; and think those who
still look upon the "Leaves of Grass" bard 
in bewilderment, as what a friend of mine 
calls " the literary Nebuchadnezzar," cannot
do better than to take up before they
finally decide what he is, this earnest and 
sympathetic explosion of him. Mr. Burroughs
says the literacy hints in the book
are "experimental"—they come partly from 
personal experience with the author, and 
" will show the standard of Nature more 
than the standard of books." His first acquaintance 
with Walt Whitman's writings—
*Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and Person.
By John Burroughs. New York : American News 
Company.   1867.
       Vol.   XIII.—22.

the "Leaves of Grass"—is interesting
enough to be narrated ; for he says " it produced
the impression upon me in my moral
consciousness that actual Nature did in her
material forms and shows." He found the
book in a friend's hands in 1861, while on
a nutting excursion, and says :  " I shall
never forget the strange delight I had from 
the following passage, as we sat there on
the sunlit border of an autumn forest : "

" I lie abstracted, and hear beautiful tales of things,
           and the reasons of things ; 
They are so beautiful, I nudge myself to listen.
I cannot say to any person what I hear—I cannot
          say it to myself—it is very wonderful.
It is no small matter, this round and delicious globe,
            moving so exactly in its orbit forever and
            ever, without one jolt, or the untruth of a
            single second;
I do not thing it was made in six days, nor in ten 
           thousand years, nor ten billions of years ;
Nor plann'd and built one thing after another, as
           an architect plans and builds a house."

I hope all this, which I have been saying
somewhat tangentially to my theme, will
not seem out of place ; for it serves to give
a hint of Mr. Burroughs's tendency and
mental sympathy, and will, perhaps, help
the reader to understand him better as he
appears in his later books. The book on
Whitman was published in 1867 ; " Wake
Robin," in 1871 ; and " Winter Sunshine,"
his latest, has but just appeared. The last
two are from the press of Messrs. Hurd &
Houghton, who are about to publish a new
edition of " Wake Robin," with illustrations,
What first strikes me in Mr. Burroughs's
work, even above its well-acquired style, is the
unqualified weight of conscience it exhibits.
You are sure he feels precisely what he says,
There is no posturing for effect ; an admiration
he does not have he never mimics. We
find in him, therefore, a perfectly healthy and
hearty flavor. Apparently, he does not put
his pen to paper hastily, or until he is filled
with his subject. What has been aptly termed
the secondary, or final stage of thought, has
with him full play. The omnivorous newspaper
which skims off, in its daily hunger,
the surface of so many quick minds, has never
drawn him within its vortex by force, and
though he resorted to it in his tentative efforts,
it was only in the most casual way. A natural
observer of things, he summons all the
facts, near or remote,—there is no side-light
too small,—and, when the material is all in,
it seems to undergo a long incubation in his
mind ; or shows at least that reflection has
done its perfect and many-sided work.
Under his careful treatment and keen eye

[*2602*]338     JOHN BURROUGHS. 

for the picturesque, the details get the proper
artistic distribution, and stand forth in 
poetic guise.  The essay, when it appears, 
comes to us freighted with "the latest news" 
from the meadows and the woods, and bears
the unmistakable imprint of authenticity. 
He has alert senses—the sixth sense of
the naturalist, so to speak—and a faculty
for the minutest things.  The bird is usually
the pivot of his walk and observation, or is
mingled with them;  but he notices also the
larger setting and furniture which Nature
throws around it.  The humblest way-side
incident does not elude him;  and yet the
view to the horizon is ever open and is seen 
through vistas of enchantment.  He defends
the song of the hermit-thrush against the
discriminating silence of Wilson and Audubon; 
he discovers the fact that the bobolink
goes southward in the night, which Audubon 
had testified against,—though he acknowledges
this to be the only misstatement he
has been able to find in the voluminous
observations of this eminent naturalist;  and, 
whether it be the architecture of a bird's
nest, or the song, or whatever the habit, 
he is patiently accurate in reporting it.  Of
the song of a bird he shrewdly says: 

"It seems to me that I do not know a bird till I
have heard its voice;  then I come nearer it at once, 
and it possesses a human interest to me.  I have 
met the gray-cheeked thrush (Turdus Alicice) in 
the woods and held him in my hand:  still I do
not know him.  The silence of the cedar-bird throws 
a mystery about him which neither his good looks
nor his petty larcenies in cherry-time can dispel. 
A bird's song contains a clew to its life, and establishes
a sympathy—an understanding—between itself 
and the listener." 

He remarks a "human significance" in 
the songs of most birds: 

"The song of the bobolink to me expresses hilarity; 
the song-sparrow's, faith;  the blue-bird's, love; 
the cat-bird's, pride;  the white-eyed fly-catcher's, 
self-consciousness;  that of the hermit-thrush, spiritual 
serenity;  while there is something military in 
the call of the robin." 

I have come upon these passages almost
at random.  They are neither better than, 
nor greatly different from, the average matter
of the author's books;  but they betray 
the intimate acquaintance with, and sincere 
study of, his subject, which I have already 
alluded to.  And it is this absence of diletanteism 
and sham that gives to everything
he has to offer its prime importance and
charm.  "Winter Sunshine" is mainly his
description of winter and autumn experiences, 
and the habits of such of the smaller
animals as keep open house at this time of 


year.  Besides these, however, we have a
juicy and appetizing essay on the apple; 
a eulogy of walking;  and some seventy 
pages describing England and English characteristics, 
an excursion over to France, 
and the trip from London to New York.  It
is interesting to notice that Mr. Burroughs's 
travels among men are not less humorously
and acutely marked than are his incursions
into field and forest.  Along with much
evidence of culture, they have the most
naive and frequently insouciant manner; 
they tell you—what is even better than the
facts—how it all seemed to him;  and he
takes no pains to keep back his intense delight
and surprise over the wonders and
newness of his experience.  He jumps ashore
and says: 

"Go to!  I will be indulged.  These trees, those
fields, that bird darting along the hedge-rows, those
men and boys picking blackberries in October, those
English flowers by the road-side,—(stop the carriage
while I leap out and pluck them),—the homely domestic
looks of things, those houses, those queer 
vehicles, those thick-coated horses, those big-footed, 
coarsely clad, clear-skinned men and women;  this
massive, homely, compact architecture;—let me
have a good look, for this is my first hour in England, 
and I am drunk with the joy of seeing!  This
house-fly even, let me inspect it;  and that swallow
skimming along so familiarly,—is he the same I
saw trying to cling to the sails of the vessel the third 
day out?—or is the swallow the swallow the world 
over?  This grass I certainly have seen before, and
this red and white clover;  but the daisy and dandelion 
are not the same;  and I have come three thousand
miles to see the mullein cultivated in a garden, 
and christened the velvet plant." 

He speaks of the humanized and domestic
character of all the trees, "as if they were 
betaking themselves from the woods to the
orchard," the half-tameness of the game, 
and, of course, the enormous number of 
birds.  He doubts if "a scraping together 
of all the birds in the United States into any
two of the largest States would people the
earth and air more fully."  The British crow, 
he observes, is only a duller American one
(would it be a true parallel to say the Briton 
himself is only a more sedate Yankee?); 
and the bird which Tennyson apostrophizes: 

"O Black-bird!  sing me something well; 
While all the neighbors shoot thee round, 
 I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, 
Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell,"— 

is, "in size, form, manner, note, call," merely
a black robin.  The English lark, he
thinks, is no better singer than our bobolink. 
English clouds "are never sharply defined, 
and deeply dyed like ours, but soft, fleecy,JOHN BURROUGHS. 339

vapoury, indistinguishable." The architecture
is milder in color—not a single white
house with green blinds—the voices of the
people, even the street cries are less aggressive;
the locomotives do not scream so;
the street gamins are more respectful. In
respect to the railways, the English roadbeds
are solid, but the cars are dingy; while
we have finely upholstered cars and shabby
roads. Our method, in this comparison, he
does not commend. "It is like a man wearing a ruffled and jeweled shirt-front,
but too poor to afford a shirt itself." He
met a little girl on his walk to Stratford, who
had been in America, and had lately returned.
Her voice gave "a sweet and novel
twang to her word," ** I hardly recognized
even the name of my own country
in her innocent prattle; it seemed like
a land of fable; all had a remote, mythological 
air, and I pressed my inquiries as if I 
was hearing of this strange land for the first
time." He thinks the magpie is either a Celt 
or a Catholic, because he saw it in France, 
and again in Ireland, but not once in England.
Some of these experiences, and others 
that he records, have, as he acknowledges, 
been made before by various people; but
he wishes to tell them, and we are glad to
hear them told this way. The essay on
the Exhilarations of the Road is a very choice 
piece of description, and might well be issued 
as a separate tract to the non-walkers. The 
opening paragraphs in the discourse about
Snow-Walkers are worth notice as giving the 
key-note of his latest book; but I must resort 
to abbreviation, and leave the reader to
supply or find what is omitted.
"It is true that in winter we miss the pomp and
pageantry; but there is at least the presence of the
infinite sky. The stars rekindle their fires, the moon
achieves a fuller triumph, and the heavens wear a 
look of more exalted simplicity. Summer is more
wooing and seductive, more versatile and human;
winter is of a more heroic cast, and addresses the
intellect. The tendinous part of the mind is more 
developed in winter; the fleshy in summer. The
former is a return to simple habits after a career of
splendor and prodigality. It is the philosopher
coming back from the banquet and the wine to a
cup of water and a crust of bread. And then this
beautiful masquerade of the elements—the novel
disguises our nearest friends put on! Here is another
rain and another dew,—water that will not flow
nor spill, nor receive the taint of an unclean vessel.
All sounds are sharper in winter; the air transmits
better. The words are rigid and tense, keyed up
by the frost, and resound like a stringed instrument.
The clouds are pearly and iridescent; the
old dilapidated fence is set off with the most fantastic
ruffles—the world lies about me in a trance of
snow."

In another place he depicts, with a few
strokes, the ocean: 
"It is a wide and fearful gulf that separates the
two worlds. The landsman can know little of the
wildness, savageness, and mercilessness of nature,
til he has been upon the sea. It is as if he had
taken a leap off into the interstellar spaces. In
voyaging to Mars or Jupiter he might cross such a
desert—might confront such awful purity and coldness.
An astronomic solitariness and remoteness 
encompasses the sea. The earth and all remembrance
of it is blotted out; there is no hint of it
anywhere. This is not water, this cold, blue-black,
vitreous liquid. It suggests not life but death. Indeed,
the regions of everlasting ice and snow are 
not more cold and inhuman than the sea."
Mr. Burroughs's style is racy, full of blood,
vascular and bristling with just the words
for the description in hand. It is idiomatic;
original, but individual still more; and has
been melted out by the strong heat of
thought. It was not brought from the
academy or college, or from wide reading
of classic lore; it is, rather, the outcome of
his own robust circumstances and moods.
It is certainly not finished, in the way that
Hawthorne's is, or as Addison's is, or as
Macaulay's is; but this is what you might,
but would not be likely to say of Emerson's
or of Carlyle's. If it is not specially limpid,
it readily assumes a bright and prismatic
shape—a form that is suggestive like poetry.
Our author's passion for the bird seems
to be acknowledged in some sort even by 
the aërial tribe. They come nearer his eye
and ear than to the rest of us; and he takes
them, as the trout-fisher sometimes takes the
trout, in his hands. It is a kind of cousinly
reciprocity born of a subtile psychic, if not
fully understood, affinity. I remember
showing him once near my home a little
bird perfectly white (an albino), which to an
untrained eye might pass for either the chipping-bird
or one of the ground-sparrows,
whose general characteristics of form are
quite similar. Of course, when Nature
chooses capriciously to whitewash one of
these, it is not easy to tell, when it is on the
wing, to which of the kinds it belongs. I
had noticed it for a year or two, at different
times, occupying a certain limited habitat
along the Webutuck, a poetic branch of the
Housatonic River; and one day I took our
author, and a friend, in pursuit of the curiously
clothed singer. Mr. Burroughs pronounced 
it the ordinary "ground bird" at
once, and came so near it, with his outstretched
hand, that if some dry bush on
which he was compelled to step had not
crackled briskly under his tread, he would

[*2603*]340     JOHN BURROUGHS. 

have picked the little fellow off the branch
overhanging the stream, about as easily as
one might pick from the orchard tree the
neighborly and coveted apple.*  The bird
acted, to all appearance, as if he was thoroughly
conscious of the fact that the one
who could look under his mask, and classify
and name him, had at last arrived. 
As an observer, Mr. Burroughs teaches 
us once more the needful, and never too emphatic
lesson, that, if we are to see much, it 
is not so great a matter where we stand as
it is what eyes we bring with us.  Like
Thoreau, he can be happy walking through 
a swamp in the snow-porridge and desolation 
of a winter night, and find more rapture 
than most of us extract from a perfect morning
in June.  This temper and habit give
to his writings that "natural magic" which 
Lowell ascribes to White's "History of Selborne,"
of which he said:  "Open the book 
where you will, it takes you out-of-doors." 
Mr. Burroughs's masterly essay on Emerson 
is remarkable as a piece of intelligent appreciation 
and exhaustive statement brought 
within a narrow compass, and focused with
the clearest light.  It comes near being as
good a criticism as has been made of Emerson 
by any one.  His superior "attar of
thought," his wide-eyedness, his condensation, 
the electric play of his mind, his perfect 
culture, his fine manners, his cogent 
emphasis, his pungent apothegms, and his
perpetual poetry and surprise, are summed
up in a most pictorial and discriminating
delineation.  But, while I do not fail to see
that even Emerson is not orbicular,---that he
lacks dramatic power, and is a little bereaved 
on the side of moist humor, who could
wish him much other than he is?  In fact, 
is there such a possibility at all as the Whitman
school insists upon of parallel entirety, 
in respect to nature and art?  Can the 
latter be made to include the former in any
way except by partiality?  The cosmos, 
the all, can be comprehended by no single 
force or man, for it comprehends all.  The
best of us can merely go to nature with our
small dippers, and take up a little.  Even 
great Thor, when he struggled with the
giants of Jotunheim, could only drink off
the surface of one bay through their horn; 
the great ocean lay undiminished behind 

*  I am not ignorant of the fact that the albinoes, 
which are common to various species---even to crows
and robins---possess a defective vision;  but they
can see sufficiently to avoid capture, even if not
minutely enough to enjoy the aesthetic qualities of
the landscape. 


him.  What we take becomes art, which is
simply a segment of nature put in the
crucible of, and modified by, man.  We
may be so dainty and finical, of course, as to
leave some strong elements out.  There is 
Pope's manner, and there is Wordsworth's, 
and there is Whitman's.  But the song of
the sparrow on the "alder bough," in its
plenitude, is only to be got by going where 
it carols.  No mere book, no author can
give it.  As it is a different tune he sings
in the cage, so is man's chant of the ineffable
different.  Who shall---who can---"bring
home the river and sky?" 
But in saying this---which I venture to do
here, since, while I write, the question of
Whitman's claims is being discussed by
English and American critics with some
asperity---one must not forget that art sometimes
justifies itself by some part of its performance, 
when the theory for which it is
supposed to stand falls to the ground.  It
seems to me, therefore, about equally idle
ot assume on the one hand that Whitman
has no claim at all to be called a poet, and
to assert on the other that he is the great
cosmic bard---the poet-herald of the future, 
who puts the universe in his rhyme, and
who has set the fashion that must henceforth 
displace the whole tuneful choir from 
Homer to Tennyson.  It will be a long time 
yet, I fancy, before Homer and Milton---to
use Emerson's late suggestion---shall become
tin-pans. 
I do not take it that Mr. Burroughs expects
exactly this.  I know, in fact, that he
is an appreciative reader of all kinds of
verse, and has 

"Eyes to find the five
Which five hundred did survive." 

In his attitude to Whitman, he has been 
simply loyal to force that gave him in the
outset a strange and welcome stimulus;  that
put no restraint on his widest thought or
most vagrant mood;  that took him at one
stroke from the faint tuberose-scented parlor, 
and set him in the resinous woods, and
under the vocal sky.  He would have no 
rhythm or time-beat that obscured for him 
the ripple of the brook.  He was tired of
the pert iteration of finished forms, and here 
came the primitive picturesqueness that
tallied with, and seemed like, the outer
world, among whose mysteries he is most
at home.  If I understand him, it is his
belief that Mr. Whitman has already disclosed
his secret, and put forth what thought
is in him, and has nothing more to say;  but,JOHN BURROUGHS.     341 

of the value and validity of his chief work, he
has no possible doubt or question.  To him, 
it is grand and aggressive, and we may well 
allow so competent a mind to declare how, 
and in what direction, he has been helped. 
It may be interesting now to ask, since
Mr. Burroughs has written so well about
poetry, how far the divine impulse has directly
touched his own pen.  I find that 
he has produced a few poems, which were
turned off in the contagion common to youth, 
though not all of these have strayed into 
type.  One of them appeared, I think, in 
the old "Knickerbocker Magazine," about
fourteen years ago.  The sentiment it
breathes is born of the same transcendental 
quality as that which animates Mr. Wasson's
rare lyric of "All's Well,"---though it is
molded in a quite different measure, and
can stand bravely alone.  It seems almost
a pity that his muse should furl her wings
after so promising an effort. 

WAITING. 

Serene I fold my hands and wait, 
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea; 
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, 
For lo!  my own shall come to me. 

I stay my haste, I make delays; 
For what avails this eager pace? 
I stand amid the eternal ways, 
And what is mine shall know my face. 

Asleep, awake, by night or day, 
The friends I seek are seeking me; 
No wind can drive my bark astray, 
Nor change the tide of destiny. 

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years; 
My heart shall reap where it has sown, 
And garner up its fruit of tears. 

The waters know their own and draw 
The brook that springs in yonder heights; 
So flows the good with equal law 
Unto the soul of pure delights. 

Yon floweret nodding in the wind
Is ready plighted to the bee; 
And, maiden, why that look unkind? 
For lo!  thy lover seeketh thee. 

The stars come nightly to the sky, 
The tidal wave unto the sea; 
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, no high, 
Can keep my own away from me. 

Mr. Burroughs was born in Roxbury, 
Delaware County, N. Y., April 3d, 1837,---
coming from English stock on his father's
side, and inheriting a strong dash of Irish
blood on his mother's.  At seventeen, he
shouldered his movables;  left the paternal
roof, and---as some one has aptly said---

"looked for a place where the crust was
pretty thin to break through into the world."
This brought him first to Olive, Ulster
County, where he played the pedagogue,---
we have no doubt with success.  He married
before he was twenty-one.  In 1863, he
received an appointment in the Treasury
Department at Washington, where he remained
until 1873, acting at first as vault-keeper, 
and afterward as chief of the
organization division in the Bureau of National
Banks.  During the last three years
he has been filling the position of Receiver 
of the broken-down National Bank at Middletown, 
Orange County---a task of much
delicacy and complication.  He also does occasional
service from time to time as Special 
National Bank Examiner.  In this sort of
work the cashiers who have to do with him 
find him extremely competent;  and, what 
he does not see in their various columns of
figures in a single afternoon, must be a very
inert of infinitesimal quantity.  This expertness
is worth mentioning, because it is seldom 
found with so much ideality of the
poet's sort as that which we are tempted to
call one of his chief endowments.  In 1871, 
with two other Treasury clerks, he went to
Europe in charge of $15,000,000 of U. S. 
bonds to be delivered to the Syndicate. 
Mr. Burroughs's predominant gift must
be termed that of a clear and powerful eye; 
but there is, of course a working brain behind
it.  From a boy he saw everything
without conscious effort.  As Thoreau, when
some one on a walk asked him for an Indian's
arrow, immediately stooped down and
picked one up, so his visual sense seems to
respond to every interrogation the spirit
prompts.  I should ask him with perfect
confidence to show me any bird that the
horizon incloses, and expect the verbal draft
to be honored at once. 
His books do not so much spur you to
read and write, as make you observe for
yourself, and go tramping about with a
pocketful of apples.  If Schiller's play of
"The Robbers" ever did make any of the
German youth take to the woods as free-booters, 
it is by an equally magical contagion 
that Mr. Burroughs's work inspires 
the true literary and scientific prowler.  Prof. 
Dowden, of Dublin, testifies eloquently to
this characteristic quality of our essayist's
thought.  The receptive reader does not
give it his languid assent;  but, laying the
book down, finds a new robustness entering
his blood, and feels that he, too, "must go
and fight Philip."

[*2604*] 342     GHOSTS. 

GHOSTS. 

"THERE'S that confounded dividend come
again!" said the Deacon. 
If the Deacon had entered his order by
way of the regular canon, he would probably
have been more guarded in the choice 
of his expressions;  but he had never been 
canonized, only dubbed, and if he called 
something by a doubtful name now and then 
it was compared to the fashion of his former 
way, only like the mild snapping at flies of 
an old bull-dog whose fighting days are past. 
And those fighting days of the Deacon's! 
Misty and dim now is the haze of that blue 
ocean he had roved so long;  shadowy and
far away as the visions of spice-trees and
coral reefs that rose before his listeners
many a winter night, as they gathered 
round their Moloch,---the stove in the village 
store,---the fire-light and their feeble faith 
flickering together in the Deacon's face, and
the sharp scream of an occasional sleigh-iron 
running a mocking accompaniment outside. 
"Come, now, Deacon," the stammering
wag of the village was sure to say, whenever, 
by a rare miracle, the stream of gossip 
ran low, "tell us about the sp---sp---sp---" 
An s and a p together formed a fatal reef
that nothing could tide the stammerer over; 
but he always beat desperately upon it until 
some one called out, "Come, John, we 
can't wait,---try something else!" 
"Well, then, Deacon, tell us which place, 
of all the places you ever saw, you'd like best
to stay in forever?  Which one was most like 
P---Paradise?  It wasn't Lucinda's was it?" 
This last suggestion always sent a merry
glance round the circle, and brought the 
Deacon to his feet in the midst of it, like
a little bursting bomb, and for the hundredth 
time the spice-trees waved, the coral 
reefs plashed, and the cocoa-nuts flew in a 
meteoric shower across the rather murky 
spirit of his listeners' dream. 
But after the burst was over, and the
Deacon had pinned his overcoat-collar together, 
and set his face like a flint toward 
Lucinda's once more, the feeling was pretty 
sure to creep over him that he had been 
fibbing after all.  The pin kept guard 
bravely against a temperature of 20° below 
zero, but crisp, tingling memories slipped past 
it as lightly as ghosts through bolted doors, 
and sent the stammerer's question thrilling
through his veins again:  Which place
would he rather have staid forever in?  Which
place was "most like Paradise," after all? 


The Deacon always gave an extra pull 
at his coat-buttons then;  for if ghosts of this
kind were in the air at all, he preferred to
keep them safe within himself.  The colors 
of the picture they brought up had not lost
a gleam in the fifty years they had stood, 
but he had never sketched a single outline of
it to any soul in the village.  Every day was
open as the sunlight since he came among 
them, but before that it was his own affair. 
But buttons are no stronger than locks for
laying ghosts;  and perhaps at that very 
moment a knowing whisper was going the
round of the Moloch-worshipers: 
"Yes they say the Deacon lived high, 
down at the Hub itself, when he was young; 
and his folks were a kind that don't stray
this way very often.  Rich, too, and free
with it, and their house full of company 
such as the most of us wouldn't know how
to pass the time of day with.  And the 
Deacon was as spirited and handsome as a 
young colt, among them all." 
"Yes, and covered with laurels, to the
college where he was studying, too,---that's 
what they call it, I believe," said the little 
postmaster, popping a brown face (crossed 
with more lines of latitude and longitude
than the Deacon had ever sailed over)
through the delivery-window of his corner.
"Well, I don't see anything exactly c---
coltish about the Deacon, just now," said
the stammer;  "but if there ever was, it
isn't so strange he should have taken a fancy
to wild oats." 
Wild oats, indeed, sown broadcast over
every ocean, and grown tall in every sunny
port, with seed-time and harvest treading 
on each other's heels,---that was the shadow
under which the bright morning "down at
the Hub" had faded away, and crumbled
into such dust as only specters rise from. 
For when the Deacon "came to himself," and 
found that wild oats and husks were much 
the same after all, he came home to work 
out his penance as a hired servant indeed. 
"They say he never went nigh the old
place again when he got home," the whisperers
went on, "but just gave it a wide
berth, and steered straight up here, and
hired out to Lucinda.  And when she
asked him what his name was, he said he'd
disgraced it, and would never go by it 
again, for the sake of them that bore it. 
She might call him what she liked.  'Twas
you, John, of course, that catched the nameGHOSTS.     343 

of Deacon onto him, while Lucinda was
taking her time to think.  We thought 'twas
a poor fit at first, but he's somehow settled
into it at last, as he has to that small overcoat
of hisn.  The Deacon was quite a tall
figure when he first came to Lucinda's, but
he's shrunk to a little old man at last.  They 
say he had a sister, too, in those times gone
past, that was the belle of all the Hub, and he
set the world by her;  but he's never seen her
since." 
Never seen her since?  But what was
that fair oval face, tender, sorrowful, and 
sweet, with glinting auburn hair binding it
like a crown, and eyes like violets, that
gazed into the Deacon's, and floated steadily
before him at that very moment, as he
plowed after the one solitary sleigh-track 
that had broken the road to Lucinda's!  Was 
it only a haunting memory, that came so
many times, crowding with all the rest, and
yet standing always apart and by itself? 
Only a haunting memory---that was all. 
Cold that will snap iron rails did not
last forever, even in this chilly refuge of the
Deacon's.  "Nine months winter, and the
rest very l---late in the fall," as the stammerer 
said;  but June came really once a
year, and then such waving, branching
elms, such broad greenswards, where the 
velvet bent under the Deacon's feet as he
drove Lucinda's cows to pasture;---such 
great foaming, creamy pails of milk as they
gave up to him when he had followed them 
faithfully home at night! 
"There's nectar and ambrosia fit for
Olymp,"---the Deacon began, as he let
down the pasture-bars one morning;  but
he started at the sound of his own words, 
and dropped the rail and the last syllable
together.  The cows stepped over, the
beautiful white heifer, with only the linings
of her ears dipped brown to match her eyes, 
following last of all.  The Deacon picked up 
the rail, and the proper vernacular with it. 
"That there brook has raised two foot
since the spring rains, and that last sprinkling
of herd's-grass got a good ketch, that's
certain," he said;  and picking up his tall 
walking-stick, he brushed and thudded 
away through the velvet again;  for there 
were ten acres of corn to be planted that
week, and Lucinda did not like hiring
extra hands.  But the corn-field lay two 
miles the other way, and the velvet did not
last forever;  so he struck into the dusty
road again just in time to see the old yellow
stage crawling away like a great bumble-bee 
from the post-office door, three 

2605 


quarters of a mile ahead.  But the distance
melted fast, for the Deacon was walking, as
they said there, "spry." 
"It will be a great help to Lucinda if I
can get that there lot planted alone," he
said;  though "what in nature he wanted 
to help her for, beyond what his bare bread-and-butter
were worth," the Moloch-worshipers
could not conceive.  But the Deacon 
had narrowed down in his views of life, 
as he had in his small overcoat, since he 
came to the village;  or brought them to a 
focus, rather, the one concentrated idea of
which was to "help" somebody;  and Lucinda
found this so very convenient about
the farm, that his whole time and strength 
were exhausted within its bounds. 
Sorting the mail was not an arduous task 
at the post-office, and the Deacon's scurrying
step was fast making the dust fly in front
of it, when he heard his name called, and
there was the little postmaster at the door, 
his face all distorted with the sidewise look 
he was giving a letter in his hand. 
"Here's a letter for Lucinda, no mistake," 
he said, still giving it one more hesitating
glance, as if he couldn't quite trust his senses. 
"Hadn't you better take it over to her?" 
The Deacon halted, and gazed at the
postmaster with wondering eyes. 
"A letter for Lucinda!" he repeated. 
"I guess not.  It's going on seventeen years
now, and I never took one to her yet."
"Well, it's hers, that's certain.  You'd 
better give it to her,---there might be news, 
you know." 
The Deacon took it almost awkwardly, 
with a strange feeling at his heart.  How
many years, how many years, since his
fingers had closed over written words to
him or his!  How strangely they had forgotten 
the touch for such a thing!  The
hoe-handle waiting for him at the corn-lot
would have slipped into them much more
naturally;  and, moreover, shadows of those
ghosts that belonged to winter nights seemed
mistily gathering in the summer morning air. 
"I'll see to it!  I'll see to it!" he said; 
and fumbling the envelope into his breast-pocket, 
he hurried on a little way, then
turned and walked a few steps toward teh
maple-shaded house, then wheeled again, 
and shot like a bee toward the corn-field. 
" 'Twould never do," he said.  "It isn't 
her time of day to let anybody in, and 'twill 
help her more if I get the corn started." 
The Deacon got hold of his hoe-handle
again, and the corn gleamed out of the sunshine 
into its still chilly bed;  but the letter 
344     GHOSTS. 

burned in his pocket, and the terrible question 
whether Miss Lucinda would like it if
he took it home to her, or wouldn't like it
if he didn't, grew too tormenting.  She had
never liked anything particularly, that he
could remember, since he had known her; 
but when she didn't like a thing, it seemed
to sharpen the sharp edge of matters in a
way the Deacon desired devoutly to avoid. 
The thick green leaves of the rock-maples 
rustled outside Miss Lucinda's house, but
nothing ever stirred from its place inside of
it.  "P'ison neat" was the only phrase to
express her views of housekeeping;  and lest
even a grasshopper, the only tramp who had 
ever discovered the village, should take her
unawares, every door was locked, and not even 
the Deacon could enter or emerge without
Miss Lucinda's vestal services at the bolt of
the little back door through which he was allowed
to cross the sacred bounds.  But the
letter burned too much at last.  "I'll take
it and be done with it," said the Deacon, 
and, dropping the hoe-handle, he hurried
homeward and knocked at the little door. 
No answer, and the Deacon knocked
again.  The tall moon-faced clock whirred
eleven in the sitting-room, and then only 
the maple-leaves rustled,---there was not
another sound.  "Strange," said the Deacon, 
and knocked again, a little louder, but still 
apologetically, for he was not due till precisely
three minutes of twelve. 
Still no answer, no movement, no step 
within the house.  The Deacon felt a chill 
creeping over him under that June sunshine. 
"It can't be possible Lucinda's had a
stroke!" he said. 
He stood still upon the broad door-step 
and listened.  This was the only home he
could ever hope to have,---he was too old 
to change;  and who would ever want his
services if Lucinda were to be taken away! 
At that instant there was a sound, a step
coming deliberately toward the door, and a
well-known voice saying, "I'm coming!  I
heard you all the time, but there was a fly in 
the closet, and I had to---what---is it you?" 
as her eyes fell upon the Deacon, and then 
turned a lightning glance toward the tall clock. 
"Yes, 'tis me," said the Deacon, with a
little tremble in his voice.  "I'll make it all
up on the corn, but I've brought you a letter." 
Before the next five minutes were passed, 
Miss Lucinda had had her shock, and then 
the Deacon had his, and before night-fall the 
whole village had had theirs in turn;  for the
letter was from one of the best-known lawyers
at the Hub, and announced that by 


the will of a much-respected client, recently
deceased, the whole property disposed of
was bequeathed to a brother, whom, the
writer was informed, had at one time lived
with Miss Lucinda under an assumed name. 
As the information was uncertain, and some
years past in date, Miss Lucinda would confer
a favor if she could confirm the report, 
and still more if she could give her humble
servant the present address of his new client. 
Spite of Miss Lucinda's bolts and bars, 
the same ghosts that had passed the Deacon's
frosty pin, and whispered to the worshipers
before their fiery shrine, had crept
into her best parlor one summer afternoon, 
years gone by, and she knew the name the
letter gave the Deacon was his own! 
All that was nearly a year and a half ago 
now, and the village had given up looking
for the great changes that they had been
sure of with the Deacon.  He did not
leave the town,---he went on "helping" 
Miss Lucinda just the same, and nothing
whatever happened, with the slight exception 
that he paid her regularly a handsome
price of board, and quietly took part of a
day now and then for a trip to the city, just
ten miles away.  It was too much for the 
Moloch-worshipers.
What in nature did the Deacon want
to be such a fool for?  The world was 
wider than the village, at least!  And at last, 
one evening when the December fire was
glowing bright and warm, and the annual
basket of oranges and boxes of fresh raisins
on the counter told that Christmas itself was
getting pretty near, the stammerer broke
forth:
"If you like living at Lucinda's so much, 
why don't you and she get---sp---sp---" 
He could not finish the word, but it was 
easy for an old sailor to finish it for him, 
and the little bomb flew into the crowd 
again, and burst with an explosion such as 
they had never seen or felt before. 
"Never mind, Deacon," called the postmaster
from his window;  "here's a letter
waiting for you." 
The Deacon took it.  He knew the cut of
its jib without even looking at the address. 
"There's that confounded dividend come
again!" and, picking up a huge frozen
turkey he had bought to help Lucinda
make something seem like Christmas, he
pushed out of the door and through the
light, already-fallen snow  The next morning
the Deacon came down with his "store-clothes" 
on, and Miss Lucinda knew the
signal. 
GHOSTS.     345 

"Yes, I'm a-going---into the city.  I've 
got to make some kind of a beginning with 
that con"----- the Deacon stopped;  for he
never spoke even so strong a word in the
presence of the gentler sex. 
"There's that," he said, laying the weekly
stipend on the table;  "there's so much got
rid of." 
"I wonder you don't tire of that ride,"
stiffly remarked Miss Lucinda, who had
taken a notion never to go anywhere, for the
last twenty-three years, and had only seen 
the new house build within a stone's throw
for her brother's marriage, from her skylight
window. 
"Well, it helps the railroad, you know," 
he answered;  and with a nervous pull at
his last mitten, he disappeared down the
snowy road again. 
The little city toward which the train 
whirled the Deacon, the sea had long worn 
set as a jewel on the most graceful fold in 
the hem of her sweeping skirt.  A rare
jewel, too, for from its long avenues of
elms it gleamed all the deep verdure of the 
emerald back into the bosom of the bay;  it
glowed ruby, and garnet, and gold through 
the autumn frosts;  and flashed millions of
diamond rays from every roof, and spire, 
and branching twig where the fetters of 
winter locked sea and gem in close embrace
together.  The jewel had crystallized
cuneiform, and lay stretched upon the bay
like a finger that the wooing water loved 
to circle;  so that from either side, the first
approach was steep, and the arch of elms
rose in a belting curve before you. 
Right into the midst of the cobblestones, 
walking-stick and all, the Deacon 
struck, as earnestly as if he saw Miss Lucinda's
cows before him, and trailed along
as unconscious as any other comet of the
apparition he presented to the more heavenly
bodies on the sidewalks.  His first 
course was to the Bank, where he was well
known by this time.  It was one step taken
when the troublesome money was fairly in his
pocket, and he was just stuffing it in a thick 
wad into his purse (a strange old thing, 
netted, and beaded, and open-worked, with 
slides in the middle and a rusty tassel hanging
from each end;  round the world with
the Deacon many a time, and with a ghost
of its own that he did not care to raise), 
when a few words behind him caught his ear. 
"So you don't decide to take the rooms? 
Best front rooms in that upper-ten old street, 
you know.  I'm afraid my client will have to
sell the whole if she can't rent them."
 2606 


"No," was the answer.  "I'd like the
rooms, but I can't afford it.  I'm sorry for
the lady, too.  It's hard enough, I suppose, 
to be left a beautiful young widow
without a penny;  but to find yourself disinherited 
a month after, for being the widow 
of as fine a fellow as we ever had among
us, must be the last drop!  A year and a
half now, since the fortune she ought to
have had went some other way, isn't it?" 
"Look here," said the Deacon, starting
toward the speaker, "if 'twill help the lady, 
I'd like to take the rooms myself.  I seem 
to need some one to put me up when I'm 
in town," he added, half frightened at what
he had done. 
The first speaker took a long, amused look
at the Deacon, and then turned one of inquiry
toward the Cashier.  The Cashier answered
with a nod, while the Deacon added: 
"I'm keerful of furniture, and I'll go in
at the back door if she likes." 
The preliminaries were soon settled, and, 
with feet wiped and rewiped, he was ushered 
into his new parlor, and its door was 
closed upon him, sole possessor. 
"There's so much gone, and they say it 
will help the lady, too!" the Deacon had
said joyfully, as he returned the diminished 
wad to his purse, after paying a liberal 
"three months in advance;" but now he
stood silent and bewildered in the middle of
the room.  It is said that when a lost memory
---quite lost and gone for many a year--- 
suddenly returns, it is with a sharp pain; 
and the Deacon put his hand quickly to his
head, and wavered a little where he stood. 
What a strange feeling the thick velvety 
carpet had under his feet!  What a strange
touch stole upon him, like a familiar odor, 
from every graceful object about the walls, 
every luxurious piece of furniture, every sign 
that some slender hand, delicate and faultless 
in its choice, had appointed every one! 
The soundless clock on the mantle ticked
minute after minute away, and yet the Deacon
had not stirred;  then he groped about 
with his hand a moment, as a half-drowned 
man begins to feel for a solid world around
him;  he gave one hesitating look at a tempting
chair, then walked toward it and sat
down.  The minutes ticked into hours before 
the Deacon rose;  when he did, his eyes
were wet, but there was a shining in his face
beside, and it was time to go, or it would be
too late to help the railroad by a return trip. 
An hour later, Miss Lucinda was startled
by a clear firm knocking at the locked front
door.  She opened it, and there stood the 

346     GHOSTS. 

Deacon as quietly as if his hand had ever
lifted that sacred brass before. 
"I have brought your things," was all he
said, as he handed her an armful of bundles, 
and then walked deliberately through her
best parlor, before her dilating eyes. 
"Goodness!" said Miss Lucinda, gazing
after him with the door-knob still in her
hand, but the Deacon only went up the narrow
back stairs to his own room just as usual. 
Miss Lucinda took her knitting, but the
stitches dropped;  she watched the tall clock 
with snapping little glances; it moved on, 
but the Deacon did not come down. 
"What on earth is he doing up there?  It's
nearer dark than he ever got home before!" 
The Deacon was doing something Miss
Lucinda could never have guessed;  bringing
from the depths of his battered and
faded sailor's-chest one secret that she never
had discovered;  a rare, inlaid flute, mellowed
with time and the breath of a famous
artist before it ever came into the Deacon's
hands.  They took it out gently now, as
tenderly as if they had not left if for so many
years without a touch, carefully separated 
every part, and set to work cleansing, softening, 
oiling and polishing,---so busily,---time
was nothing, and the early winter sun might
go down if it wanted to.  Down went Miss
Lucinda's stitches with it, and still no footstep
on the crooked stairs.  She could bear
it no longer.  She pricked the needles into
the ball and opened the stair-way door. 
"Deacon!" she called. 
The Deacon started.  He had forgotten the 
cows!   The first time in seventeen years and
more!  He gathered up the pieces of the
flute, put them together, and laid the whole
gently under his pillow, and then went downstairs. 
Miss Lucinda never allowed a light
in her stable, but she had to hold one there
for the Deacon that night! 
The next day, the Deacon's pass-key let
him noiselessly into his solitary rooms again--- 
almost the only home-rooms in the city that
were solitary, too;  for, in three days more, 
Christmas bells would be ringing, and everywhere 
but with the Deacon, greetings and
happy widening circles were beginning already. 
Whiffs of goodies came creeping in, 
and merry voices mocked at the snow that 
tossed against the window-panes outside.  A 
good solid snow this time that meant something; 
the winds had flirted the first feathery
sprinkling and the last autumn leaves together
a full six weeks ago;  and it was coming now
in thick, clustering pads and rattling whirls, to
lie as a foundation for fifty following storms, to 


drowse away gradually into solid ice, and to
be dragged from its bed at last impatient
city pickaxes after the April sun had blinked 
and nudged at it two or three weeks in vain. 
Meanwhile, fur-lined cloaks and gay sleigh-robes 
warmed the streets with bits of fire
and light, the church vestibules were littered 
with laurel and trailing pine, and in all the
poultry-yards round about, the geese were 
drawing up on one leg with dreary premonitions
that made their flesh creep in spite of
them.  Yule-logs were out of fashion in the
city, so the Deacon only laid the thin little
overcoat, with the many pin-holes at the collar, 
carefully over the sofa, and sat down by
the "hole in the floor," in the same chair he
had left the previous day.  Silently at first, 
---he was used to keeping pretty still at
Miss Lucinda's,---but this time he was busy 
following with one more long, lingering look 
every object in the room (as you strain your
eyes at the faces of friends who are so far off
you can't quite catch what they are saying). 
Then he slipped his hand into an inner
breast-pocket, and drew out the pieces of
the precious flute,---Miss Lucinda's ears were 
always on the prick, and not a sound had
he dared to make with it at home, but
would any one hear it here?  He was sure
the house was empty. 
So he raised the flute to his lips, and one
long, liquid not floated through the room, 
and one more quiver of old, new life ran
with it through the Deacon's veins. 
Had he ever hoed a field of corn, or
driven a cow to pasture?  Never!  He
had never seen one!  He did not even 
know hoe a pasture looked;  he was away 
on the broad ocean, young, free, light-hearted, 
and beloved once more! 
Who knows whether time makes a flute
better or worse, or whether fingers can remember 
fifty years?  No matter.  One
after another the old sea-tunes floated and
rippled out into the echoing rooms;  now
something lingering and sweet that the
Deacon had used to play when the oars of
the captain's gig dripped diamonds into the
moonlight between their long, sweeping 
strokes;  now something brave and gay, 
that the old ship had rollicked to when the
sea crested before a ten-knot breeze.  Now 
this, now that, and then long, dreaming
pauses, until at last it was time to go again; 
and still there had not been a voice of a
footstep through the house. 
"I believe the Deacon's gone, clear beside
himself," said Miss Lucinda, as the
front door shut behind him the next day. 

GHOSTS.     347 

for a third trip to the city;  and it was more
positive still when he started for a fourth, 
and she could get only the old reply, "It
helps the railroad, you know." 
But it did not seem so to the Deacon, as
he made his way to his room again, and sat
down in the familiar chair.  He had taken the
afternoon train this time, and the early twilight
of Christmas Eve was gathering already. 
What would Miss Lucinda have felt if
she could have seen what came out of the
pocket this time!  A miniature and a little
bundle of yellow letters;  and the flute lay 
forgotten on the table, while the same oval
face, the same violet eyes that had so often 
retreated before him along the lonely village
road, gazed once more at the Deacon from 
the faded little case the gas-light fell upon. 
But solid paint and ivory made no difference
about one thing.  The face was first, 
as it always was;  but the same haunting
crowds that never failed to gather round
it came trooping in, just the same again. 
They had found the Deacon out in his new
rooms, and not a moment had he had farily
to himself since he had ventured that first
quavering whisper through the old flute. 
But if the Deacon's rooms were filling
up, the rest of the house seemed more uninhabited 
than ever. 
"Wonderful empty!" thought the Deacon, 
with a queer little feeling round his
shoulders.  "If there's any one here, they're 
having a terrible still spell,---stiller than"---
and his eyes turned again to meet the face
that still looked yearningly up from the table. 
He caught up his flute with a sudden determination. 
"Yes, I'll play it once more," he said, and
softly the notes of an old-fashioned little
song floated out into the room;  a little 
tremblingly at first,---the Deacon didn't
quite "fetch it," as they said in the village, 
---but the strains grew clearer and truer with 
every touch;  he had it all right at last. 
But what made him snatch his hat and
clang the front door after him, the next moment, 
without ever stopping to think of the
pin in the overcoat-collar?  It was a strange
influence that drove him away and called
him back resistlessly at the same instant;  but 
he stopped, hesitating, on the very door-step. 
There was a whole hour yet before the
train started, and he re-opened the door and
went noiselessly back to his table again;  he
must try the old tune once more. 
But hark!  What was that!  An echo in 
this echoless house at last! 
The Deacon felt a little shiver running 

2607 

down to the very heels of his boots;  for a
voice low, sweet, and true, was taking up 
the song just where he had left it.  Muffled, 
indeed, by the walls it had to pass
through;  but he could catch it all, and 
every refrain, every fiber of the voice itself, 
came thrilling so old a whisper of the past! 
"She's got every word," gasped the Deacon; 
"and there was no one else that knew 
it;  only we two together,---my music to her
words---and it's her own voice, too.  Don't 
tell me!" 
Had she come back?  Was she not dead
to him, after all? 
The last verse ow, and the Deacon held
his breath!  Would there ever be any more? 
Yes;  for, with scarcely a rest, the voice had
gone back to the very first, and was beginning
softly all over again! 
The Deacon started wildly toward the
door, but he stood still there, and the shiver
ran down and then up again;  for there was
another sound,---a footstep overhead,---
light, gliding, but steadily coming near! 
It was one the stair-way now, and the rustle
of a trailing dress was sweeping closer at
every step! 
The Deacon threw open the door, and at
the lower step the vision met his eyes,---the
same slender, swaying form, the same oval 
face, the same eyes gazing into his. 
The Deacon stretched out his arms with
a sharp little cry: 
"Millicent!" 
For one moment more the eyes looked
earnestly into his, and then the figure reached
its hand toward him with a smile the Deacon 
would have felt sure was flesh and
blood, only that he had seen nothing so
beautiful for so many years. 
"My uncle!  My poor lost uncle!  Is it
possible it is you?  I have kept so still all 
this time to hear you play,---never dreaming
until to-night,---but I thought you went
away just now!  No, I am not your Millicent, 
but I am Millicent, her child.  Oh! 
where did you learn that song?  She told
me no one remembered it but herself!" 
The Deacon stood still and cleared his
throat,---his boots did not feel just right yet. 
"Could you set in this cheer,---could you
favor me by taking a seat---a spell?" he
stammered doubtfully;  it was so many
years now, that all his visitors had seemed
to prefer their seances in mid-air.  "I want
to understand about this."
"Of course I will," said Millicent, with 
another smile;  and she drew him to a seat
by her side. 

348     THE ENGLISH WORKINGMAN'S HOME. 

The hour was gone before the Deacon
knew he had lost a moment. 
"I must go!" he said, starting up.  "Tomorrow
is Christmas-day, and I shall want
to help Lucinda!" 
"But will it not help me more, if you
come here?  Have you not been lonely
enough to guess how hard it is for me?" 
"Now I shall know what to do with that
---that---blessed dividend!" said the Deacon, 
as he walked steadily down the sidewalk 
to the train. 

And so it seemed.  From that day the
focus refracted three distinct prismatic rays, 
and sent the Deacon twinkling over them 
continually, like a three-pointed star,---Miss
Lucinda, the railroad, and Millicent;  they
kept his heart full all the time, and brought
his purse nearly empty before each divident
came again.  With the second one, 
June came too, and the village brought out
her velvet gown for her "owner short"
holiday. 
"I'm set to have you come and see it,"
said the Deacon, and Millicent promised: 
but one morning, a sudden message was
brought---she must come at once.

Miss Lucinda herself unbolted the front
door before Millicent had time to find out
how the sacred brass knocker worked, and
showed her to the narrow back-stairs. 
"The Deacon never asked for a change,"
she said, apologetically, for Millicent looked 
like a lost princess as she felt her way up 
their crooks and turns;  but the Deacon's
smile rewarded her when she found him at
last. 
"Can the window open any wider?  I
smell spice-trees," he said.  "Don't mind
it that I'm going, Millicent.  I've left you
all the dividends.  Only promise that you'll 
think of something to help Lucinda now
and then." 
That was all the Deacon said for a while, 
and then he started up and strained his ear
to listen. 
"Hark!" he said.  "She's singing it
again!  The old song!  And she's coming
nigher, too.  The Lord must be pitiful if
He's sent her to fetch me away!"  And he
lay down again and closed his eyes, shining
with content. 
Yes, the messenger was coming "nigher;"
he could hear quite plainly now,---nearer
still,---he had felt the touch at last! 


THE ENGLISH WORKINGMAN'S HOME. 

AND HOW HE PAID FOR IT. 

THE lowly thatched cottage of the English
laborer has been much sung by poets; 
but when the Parliamentary Committee-man 
tried to find the house, he announced in blue-books
that the poet had described a cottage 
that never existed.  The thatch was the
harbor for vermin, the diamond window-panes 
only shut out light and air, and the
sheltering vine or tree sheltered dampness
and decay.  Within, the poet had numbered
the family but had omitted to notice 
the two guests, typhoid and consumption, 
who ever sat unbidden by the hearth-stone.
At last, the shame of the Committee-man's
statistics worked a partial cure.  The
cottage was invaded by that modern gospel-bearer, 
the sanitary inspector.  The 
absurd windows were righteously smashed, 
and the drainage was attended to. In fact, 
the cottage of the poet disappeared and a 

new workingmans' home took its place.
Moreover, the former rent-paying tenant
was invited to become his own landlord. 
Located in a suburb of the city of Leeds
is a block of eight houses designed for
artisans and small traders.  The houses are
each two stories high, with a basement below 
and a garden in front.  They have a 
front door and a large bay-window on the
first floor, and two windows on the second
floor.  The roof has a gently slope and is
covered with slate, while the cornice is tastefully
ornamented.  Each door has a broad 
stone step before it;  the gardens are inclosed
by neat railings and are well stocked 
with flowers, and, in front, is a brick sidewalk 
with a row of trees on the curb.  As
the street is upon a slope, the roof is broken
between the fourth and fifth houses, and the
fourth house has an ornamental gable with 


THE ENGLISH WORKINGMAN'S HOME.     349 

gilded finials and a sign---"Alexandra Terrace." 
The houses are all occupied, and
there is an air of substantial comfort and
even of elegance about the Terrace that is encouraging. 
If the outside is so neat, wholesome
and artistic, the inside ought to be 
healthful, sweet and home-like.  From the
looks of the sturdy children playing about, 
and the rosy matron at one of the windows, 
it would seem as if the modern English workman
was happily housed.  And these houses 
he has built himself and for himself, for they
make one of the many blocks erected by
the Leeds Industrial Co-operative Society, 
already described in this magazine.  But it
is not every workingman who can live in a
terrace, and we must leave this block to
examine other and cheaper houses built by
the same society. 
Located in the immediate neighborhood
is a block of six houses, each two
stories high, with an extension in the rear. 
They are 4.27 meters (14 feet) wide, 7.93 
meters (26 feet) deep, and 6.40 meters (21 
feet) high, from sidewalk to eaves.  The roof
is of slate and the chimneys are finished in 
terra cotta;  in the rear is a small yard inclosed 
by a brick wall.  The cellar is only
half the size of the house, but is large enough 
to contain a pantry and a coal-bin.  The first 
floor has one door and a window, and there
are two windows in the second story.  The
front door opens upon a hall-way having an 
inclosed stair-way leading to the two chambers
above.  A door in the hall opens directly 
into the kitchen, which occupies the entire 
first floor;  and in the extension are a "scullery" 
and a closet.  From the scullery there is
a door leading into the yard and in the yard
is a sunken pit for ashes.  The inside of the
house is neatly plastered and finished, and
water is brought into the kitchen from the 
street, while gas is taken all over the house. 
The house is thoroughly drained, and is substantial, 
warm, and in a sanitary sense, safe. 
For heating, there is a range in the kitchen 
and an open gate in one of the chambers. 
A bath-room can be built in one of the
chambers, or in a bay over the extension, 
if wanted.  The house is open to the front
and rear, and compared with the cottage the
British workman once lived in and the London 
tenement he still lives in, or compared
with a New York tenement, it is luxury
itself.  It cost £135 10 shillings.  The
tenant pays no rent.  The society built it
for him and he is paying for it in installments
of about 5 shillings and 5 pence per
week.  There are also the ground rent, rates, 

taxes and insurance, but these will vary with
the location, and in no case will they be
burdensome.* 
This is the cheapest kind of house ever
erected by such societies.  It is just enough
for man and wife, with perhaps a child or
two, and it is quite enough for shelter, 
comfort, decency and health.  It is hardly
possible to imagine anything cheaper, and
nothing less will satisfy the sanitary inspector. 
In other parts of Leeds we may
see every grade of house from this up to the 
Alexandra Terrace.  The usual pattern is
represented by a two-story house of brick, 
with a yard in the rear opening into the next 
street.  Such a house will usually have a
cellar under the whole house, a sitting-room, 
kitchen, scullery and closet on the first floor,
and three chambers above, and the cost will
range from 150 to 250 pounds, according
to the finish and ornamentation. 

THE BUILDING COMMITTEE. 

WHEN co-operative societies were first
started it was not thought that they would
do more than supply groceries, coal, etc., to
the members.  As some of the stronger
societies advanced in membership and capital, 
they undertook other matters, including
house-building.  So we find that the "Leeds
Industrial" has a building committee, whose 
duty it is to erect---out of the funds of the
society---such houses as may be in demand, 
and to sell the same at cost to their members. 
This committee is elected by the members
at some general meeting, and has full
control of the purchase or rental of the
land, the purchase of material and the erection 
of the buildings.  The society votes a 
fixed sum, estimated to be sufficient for the
number of houses called for, and holds the
committee responsible for its judicious expenditure. 
A number of persons, members 
of the society, apply to the committee for
assistance in procuring houses.  The applications
are all heard, and if possible they are
grouped together so as to bring the houses 
into blocks, and thus save expense.  However, 
 if the member wishes, he can have a
single house of any design he may desire
and is willing to pay for;  and in every case
the wants of each one are consulted as far as
is consistent with economy and the best
interests of all concerned.  The applications
having been adjusted, the committee calls 

*  These houses were designed by Thomas Howdell, 
architect, 12 South Terrace, Leeds.

[*2608*]350 THE ENGLISH WORKINGMAN'S HOME. 

for ten per cent. of the estimated cost of
each house, and the members pay this in
cash, or give good security for the money.
This done, the committee proceeds to erect
the houses, finishing each as nearly as may
be in accordance with the wishes of the
future owners.  When finished, the committee
declares the houses tenantable and the
purchaser takes possession, and from that
date begins to pay back the nine-tenths of
the cost then unpaid, with interest thereon, in
quarterly installments.  The amount of this
installment is adjusted by tables prepared by
an actuary, so as to bring the payment of 
the whole within a fixed number of years.
The usual rate for such payments is three
pounds five shillings per quarter, which includes
principal and interest.  In case security
is given instead of cash for the first payment,
the security is held by the committee
till a certain portion of the cost is paid up in
money.  These payment may be anticipated
to any extent, and in default of payments
by reason of sickness, the committee has
power to grant a release of three months
for every ten per cent. of the cost that has
been paid.  This, for people who depend
upon their labor for their support, prevents
hardships, and enables the society to "lend
a hand' to its unfortunate members.  If
the anticipations of payment are large the
committee may allow interest on the money,
and in no case can the installments be called
for till the advanced payments are exhausted.
To reimburse the society for the services
of its committee, each purchaser pays,
in addition to the installments, a sum not
exceeding five shillings per annum for
"working expenses."  The purchaser also
pays the ground rent, rates and insurance;
and if the society pays the ground rent to
the owner, he pays the society the rent and
one shilling extra for the accommodation.
For neglect of payment of installment there
is a fine, and if the neglect continues, fines
are added every two weeks till the fines and
interest amount to one-fifth of the cost of 
the house, when the society may use legal
measures to collect the dues.  If the purchaser
fails altogether to comply with his agreement
with the society, the committee can evict
him and take the property; and after deducting
all charges, may return the money
he may have paid, without interest, at the
end of six months.  Simple provisions are
also made for the sale or transfer of the
house at the death of the member, or to suit
his convenience during life.  It will be seen
that such societies as this do a vast deal of

good in this way, and provide hundreds of
houses for people who could not perhaps
obtain them in any other manner.  The cooperative
society at Oldham is reported to
have erected over three hundred dwellings
for its members, and this at Leeds and many
others have done as well or better. 

BUILDING AND INVESTMENT SOCIETIES.

The co-operative societies of Great Britain
have done much to give the British workman
a good home; but their efforts have
been far exceeded by the societies known
as building and investment societies.  The
name, building society, is misleading.  Such
societies in England, like those in this
country, are really banks and loan associations.
They do not erect buildings, and
consequently we need not pause to examine
the houses put up through their agency,
because they have no voice in the matter,
and the houses are only expressive of the
taste and ability of the people who live in
them.  They are generally very much like
the houses we noticed in Leeds,---merely
two-story brick or stone houses in blocks;
and having from five to ten rooms each,
with such conveniences as can be afforded
or as the local inspector of buildings may
dictate.
While the building societies of Great Britain
have a common aim, they differ somewhat
in matters of detail.  Many have only a
limited membership and small means; others
are very wealthy, have expensive and elegant
offices and abundant capital, and count
their members by thousands.  The original
plan upon which they were all founded was
known as the "terminable system."  This
is now obsolete, and may be briefly mentioned
to show the general idea that still
underlies them all.  One hundred persons
wishing to build, formed an association and 
agreed to contribute (say) one pound each 
every month.  The first payment having
been made, 100 ballots were put in a box
and one was drawn.  The fortunate holder
was then entitled to the hundred pounds,
and with the money he bought or built a 
house, gave a mortgage to the society, and
began to pay back the money in monthly
installments.  At the next meeting the
ninety and nine had another ballot, and
thus the society proceeded till it was terminated
by limitation.  Naturally enough, such 
a system was wholly unsatisfactory, since it
was founded on chance.  Some members
paid regularly each month for years, andTHE ENGLISH WORKINGMAN'S HOME.     351 

failed to get a house.  Heavy fines were
added for neglect of payment, and there
was no interest paid on the investments. 
Balloting for the money was tried with
no better success;  and lastly, the money 
was put up at auction, precisely as is now
done in what is known as the "Philadelphia
system."  This, too, was finally given up, 
and out of these terminable societies grew 
the modern perpetual societies, having all 
the advantages of the others and none of
their disadvantages. 
The modern building societies of Great
Britain differ widely in amount of capital 
and in membership, but all have a common 
aim and the same general plan of operation. 
Such a society commonly consists of
two classes of members or subscribers:--- 
subscribers holding paid-up shares valued at
(say) £25. and earning interest at (say) 7 
per cent, per annum, and members holding 
"subscribing shares," on which they are
paying monthly installments of two shillings
and sixpence, and receiving interest at the
rate of 6 per cent.  Besides these there are
simple depositors who merely lend their
money, subject to call, to the society, and 
for which they are paid interest at the rate 
of perhaps 5 per cent.  The first two classes 
make the real members of the society, who
have each one vote in the election of officers, 
and are each liable for the society's 
debts to the extent of their shares.  The
depositors, on the other hand, have neither 
control nor liability.  There is usually no
entrance fee, and very often there are no
fines for neglected payments.  If the subscriber
seriously neglects his dues he is
simply permitted to withdraw.  He is an 
undesirable member and his money is returned
to him without interest and his account 
is closed.  Regular members and
depositors may withdraw at any time by
giving a month's notice, returning their
books and papers, and paying a small fee
for the adjustment of the accounts.  If the 
member needs the money at once, or if several 
wish to withdraw at once, their claims 
are heard and adjusted in this order:---first, 
depositors, then the claims of deceased members, 
and lastly the paid-up and subscription 
shares. 
If at any time a member holding a paid-up 
or subscription share wishes to buy or
build, he calls upon the secretary and enters
his name on a "list of applications," describes
the property he offers as security, 
and pays a fee to cover the expense of surveying
the property.  The directors then 
2609 


appoint a committee to examine the proposed 
security.  If their report is satisfactory, 
the member takes up as many subscription 
shares as may be needed to cover
the sum wanted, the money is immediately
advanced to him and the papers are signed
and exchanged.  The shares he may
already hold go so far to cover the debt, 
and he then begins to pay off the balance in
monthly installments.  In adjusting the ratio 
at which these installments are to be paid, 
reference is had to tables prepared by an
actuary.  The member selects any table he
pleases, pays large or small sums, extinguishes 
the debt quickly or slowly, as is most 
convenient;  but in all cases the rate is rigidly 
fixed by the tables, and by reference to them 
all disputes are instantly settled and both
the borrower and the society may ascertain 
at any moment just the amount paid and 
the balance due.  If he wishes, the borrower 
may at any time change his rate of payment 
and adjust his installments to another table
that in turn becomes the standard of reference
is settling his claims. 

WAYS AND MEANS. 

IN such a society the deposits and the
money received for paid-up and subscribing
shares make the chief part of the capital. 
To these may be added the interest, 
the repayments, and the fines and
fees.  The payments include the interest, 
the advances, and the shares and deposits
withdrawn.  The expenses are very light, 
and seldom exceed two per cent. of the capital 
employed.  The secretary is paid a shilling
a year on each share, and the directors
receive various sums according to agreement, 
and usually get less than five per cent. of the
profits.  The profits come from the difference
in interest paid by the borrowers and
that paid to some or all of the lenders. 
Though this is small it is sufficient, as the
society pays very small salaries and a smaller
rent.  All the legal expenses incurred are
paid by the borrower, and the subscriber and
depositor have no expenses whatever.  In 
dividing the profits the society takes one
half, which it holds in the form of a contingent
fund, and the other half is divided
among all the members according to their
interest in the concern. 
It may here be noticed, that while the
subscribers must pay their installments on a
fixed day, the borrower may call for an
advance at any time, and if his security is
approved may get the money without delay.

352     THE ENGLISH WORKINGMAN'S HOME. 

To enable the society thus promptly to make
any advance required, it must have access to
more capital than it may have in hand.  To 
do this, the society takes its securities to
any regular bank, and borrows the money
it wants upon them.  This it can do as
often as it wishes, or up to two-thirds of the 
total value of its assets.  For this accommodation
the society pays the bank a small 
fee, which is charged to the person requesting
the advance.  On the redemption of
any of its mortgages, or on the payment of 
any of its dues, deposits, or installments, 
the money borrowed of the bank may be 
restored in whole or in part.  Interest is
paid to the bank for the time the money is
out, and as this is less than the interest
charged to the borrower, the society makes
a small margin on the transaction.  This
account with the bank gives the society an 
elasticity and freedom of action that are invaluable. 
It can always meet the demands
of its borrowers, and it thus becomes the
"go-between" to bring together the small 
borrower wishing to build and the capitalist. 
The bank knows nothing of the small house-builder. 
The society it recognizes as a safe
and reliable institution.  Besides this, the
society in its original capacity collects and
makes available the small savings of the
laborer and artisan, and enables him to erect
and become master of his own house. 
Such societies are usually governed by a
president, secretary, treasurer, and a number
of trustees and directors, each elected annually
by all the members.  Each member has
one vote, and one only, without regard to 
his interest in the association.  Like all savings 
institutions, they are liable to a panic
among their depositors;  but this rarely happens, 
as the business is plain, above board, 
and easily understood;  the expenses are
low, and the security is of the best.  This 
sketch is not designed to describe any particular
building society, but to give the general 
plan on which all are founded.  Some
of these societies are very small, others, like 
the "Queen" of Manchester, the "Birbeck" 
of London, and the "Provincial" of
Leeds, occupy costly and spacious offices, 
and to a large and profitable business. 
Some of the Scottish societies admit another
class of lenders,---capitalists who invest 
for the sake of the resulting profits.  The
shares of these societies are regularly quoted 
in the stock market, and while they do
much to help the British workman to put 
up a decent roof-tree, they resemble joint-stock 
companies more than building societies.  
In all, there is, however, the same 
general idea. 

ENGLISH AND AMERICAN PRACTICE. 

THE English building societies were originally
started for political purposes.  They
were intended to make "householders," and
householders were voters.  They indeed 
made voters, but they did so much good in 
other directions that they survived and outgrew
their original design, and their present
aims are identical with those of the building
associations of this country.  Now, while
the building societies of England and this
country have a common aim, they conduct 
their business upon a somewhat different
basis, and it may be worth while to see 
wherein the difference lies.  In this country
the building societies are conducted 
upon one nearly uniform plan, and have 
an average capital of about $50,000, and a
membership of from two to four hundred. 
In England the societies range from one 
hundred to five thousand members each, 
and hold capital of from one thousand to five
hundred thousand pounds.  The majority, 
like our own, have no building, and meet 
in hired halls or in private houses;  but a
few of them own costly buildings equal to
the most expensive structures erected by our
savings banks. 
In our societies there are but two classes 
of members,---the lenders and borrowers. 
The lenders join the society by paying one 
dollar for every share they take up, and
agreeing to repeat this payment each month; 
and the money thus collected makes the 
capital of the society.  Some societies may
take money on deposit, but this is not commonly
recognized, and the lenders really
provide the capital.  The shares have not
fixed value till the ultimate value of $200 is
reached, nor are tables prepared whereby 
the subscriber may learn their value at any
desired month. 
The English system is more complicated
more liberal and more exact.  It has three
sources of income, three classes of persons 
who provide the capital, and it uses its assets 
to make its capital available.  It has paid-up 
shares or fractions of shares, and subscription 
shares, and it has deposits left on short
notice, or, practically, on call.  The member
may buy a share or fraction of a share
for a fixed sum, may pay two shillings and
sixpence a week, or ten shillings a month 
for one or more years, and he may stop 
payment when he has paid up any fifth part 

BEDS AND TABLES, STOOLS AND CANDLESTICKS.     321 

[illustration]
No. 1.  SANCTA SIMPLICITAS. 

china are all the time turning up, and those
of my readers who are interested in the
matter may be helped in finding what they 
want, if they know what to expect.  The blue
china I am recommending for daily use is the 
common variety which is now kept in stock
as an article of ordinary commerce by certain 
houses in the china trade,---by Collamore, 
of New York, and Briggs, of Boston, 
to name two places where people may 
always go with the certainty of finding pretty 
much everything that is going in the way
of pottery and porcelain.  This ware used 
to be very commonly met with in Boston, 
brought into use, I believe, in the time when 
the great India and China houses of that 
city were in their pride of place.  Speaking
mildly, there must be tons of it in the good
city and its suburbs to-day, though I dare 
say much of it is stowed away in garrets, 
VOL.  XIII---21. 
2610 


and cellars, and warehouses;  for it is no
longer in such general use, nor any longer
what it once was,---an external sign that you 
belonged to the elect, and were of the sang
azul.  But, it never can go out of fashion
entirely, for its pleasingness is something 
substantial, not a mere skin-deep good look; 
but good color, good form, though without
the least flourish in the world, and a solidity
that is almost proof against that pest of 
housekeepers---the maid who, in spite of 
threats, remonstrances, and tears, will put all 
her china into the dish-pan at once, and
rattle it round with the mop. 
No doubt many persons will be a little repelled
by the first blush coarseness of the
ordinary blue India china.  But, let them 
remember first, that this coarseness troubles 
them more than it would if they had not
been used to the impeccable smoothness of
the French porcelain, and then that it really 
is not the porcelain that is coarse, but
the decoration,---the china itself having a
very fine grain.  And as for the decoration, 
let our reader who is looking for a substitute
for white china boldly try the experiment
of a few pieces of this blue, and see if she
does not soon find its homely markings
more attractive than the smooth regular
bands and lines of color which is the general 
decoration of French porcelain, or even 
than the finely painted flowers and fruits
that are put upon the more expensive services. 
There will always be people who
will have a liking for these displays of dexterity, 
which do not deserve to be liked 

[illustration] 
No. 2.     CHINESE STAND---SOUTH AMERICAN WATER-JAR
---SIAMESE BOWL.322 BEDS AND TABLES, STOOLS AND CANDLESTICKS.

except as curiosities, and then only when
they are done with exceptional skill.  Even 
then, to my mind they are worst when they

are best, and I would give all I ever saw, if
I owned them, for a few pieces of ordinarily
good Oriental porcelain, Indian, Japanese,
or Chinese, or even for some good old earthenware
of Worcester, or Wedgwood, or
Rouen, or Nevers, or Strasbourg.  And I
am not afraid but that anybody with a good
eye, and a sense of the fitness of things,
would agree with me that these designers
knew what design is, while the decorators
of Sèvres know very little, if anything, about
it.  The only fruits and flowers I ever saw
painted on china—I mean "natural," not
conventional, fruits and flowers—are some
of those painted at the time when Martolini
was Director of the works at Meissen, and
when, as we are told by the authorities, the
art was on the decline.  Martolini's flowers
and fruits are not conventional, and they
are not natural; but they are enough like
the flowers they stand for to recall them,
and they are laid about the surface of the
piece in a careless, irregular way that is very
effective.  Mr. A. P. Hawkins, of No. 25
East 16th st.,—where often may be found
very nice pieces of English and European
ware,—had lately a few good plates with
the Martolini mark, but which, whether
genuine or forged—(the German, especially
the Dresden works, having made the discovery,
quite worthy of the Western Democrats,
of forging their own marks, and so
destroying their own credit!)—are worth

having by anybody who can enjoy a pretty
thing for its own sake.  Mr. Hawkin's plates
and dishes are flowered; but Mr. Sypher

has a number of plates that are decorated
with small fruits and vegetables rather more
finely finished than those of Mr. Hawkins,
but not so effective: rather curious, too,
than pretty, but much better than anything
I know of elsewhere.  It is surprising what
a character a little well decorated china will
give to a table; and yet not surprising either,
—it is as natural as the superiority of a well
papered wall, or a well covered carpet over
even that "sweet ashes-or-roses" or "delicate
pearl-gray" that people have been so
long almost compelled to take refuge in.

If you don't like white china, just vow
you won't have it, and stick to your purpose
like a man, or rather—a surer dependence—
like a woman, and you will find your way
clear enough, especially in these days.  Reform
might begin with a good India or
Dresden or Worcester cup, saucer and plate
for "papa," and the indifference of "the
better sex" (Lord Bacon's word—none of
mine, ladies!) to such trifles as china and
to "nonsense" in a general, would be quickly
shown by the playfully concealed jealousy
and mild snappishness of the owner, if any
one else should happen to get his cup by
mistake.  Mamma might then hint to the 
children that she would like to have just
such another as papa's "if she could afford
it," and if the children had had any training
to speak of, they would not long let
mamma pine for such a small matter.  And

[ILLUSTRATION]
No. 3.  "YOU HAVE WAKED ME TOO SOON, I MUST SLUMBER AGAIN."March 31. '86
THE NORTH AME
SPEAKING IN CONGRESS.
How the Members of the House Give
Warning of What is Coming.
From the Washington Star.
The most nervous moment for a new member
of Congress is just before he is to make
a speech.  Many of the old members, even,
are seized with "stage fright."  The idea
that the official reporters have ears for
the whole country gives every speaker
an uncomfortably large audience.  Some
members are anxious at all times to
get in the Record; but these men
generally do not make speeches.  They
simply interrupt others to ask questions--
sometimes very silly ones--or to make objections,
thus getting their names in the Record
with an appearance of great activity.
When he is about to make an ambitious
effort, the feeling of the member may be
judged by one watching from the gallery.
The moment the speech strikes him you can
tell, and it is interesting to watch it spread
through his system.
Each man has his peculiar way of going
about it. You can't tell when Randall or
Morrison are going to speak, until they are
pretty well on toward their remarks. Morrison
always stands for a moment half way
down the second aisle on the Democratic
side, with hands on the desks on either side.
Then he speaks with deliberation, always
taking two or three steps toward the Speaker
when much in earnest. He is always soon
through. Randall always speaks from behind
his own desk, and makes no preliminary
movement. Hewitt is probably the
only other who speaks entirely without
warning. He goes off like powder--all
in an instant. Some members load their
desks for a speech; some load themselves.
Sometimes three or four desks give warning
of [?}. They are piled up with Congressional
Records. Revised Statutes, official reports,
newspaper clippings, and on top of
all huge rolls of manuscript. These are always
threatening. When a speech is too
full of dry matter to find room inside the
orator, and must be given storage on his
desk, other members find it convenient to
be in the cloak-room.
Some members of experience put all this
material inside their desks, and look very
innocent, as if they were not going to say
much. Then they take out a little at a time.
There is a great difference in the bearing of
a man when he is loaded with a speech.
His entire manner is different from the
ordinary. Some men, ordinarily stiff, seem
to unhook all their fastenings, while loose-
jointed men get stiff. Butterworth, of Ohio,
is one of those who limbers up to a speech.
For a few moments before he begins
he seems to be engaged in unlacing
himself and limbering his joints, as an athlete
who is about to make a wonderful leap.
He crouches low in his desk and waits his
chance. His face brightens up, the part gets
out of his hair and one lock falls down on
his forehead. He stretches out his arms
and legs, works his shoulders to see that
every joint is free, and when he gets up to
speak he is like a willow. His body responds
to every expression, and he hurls himself at
his audience, and there is expression in
every motion.     2611
Last session there was a man in the House
who used to walk back and forth around the
semicircle back of the members' seats, running
hands through his hair, for fifteen
or twenty minutes before making a speech.
Some members walk two or three times
past the Speaker's desk before they try to
catch his eye. Some stand up in their
places, clear there throats several times,
pull up their sleeves, button their cuffs,
feel their tie, open and shut their desks
two or three times, and then walk down
the aisle a little way and say: "Mr.
Speaker." Some sit and rub their hands.
Others do nothing in particular, but you
can tell they are going to speak by the
nervous glances they throw up at the
Speaker. Some will make eyes at the
Speaker for half an hour before trying to
catch his. You can tell when some men are 
going to speak, because they look frightened.
Others you know are going to talk,
because they always do when they get a 
chance.Buffalo [?]
Aug 24, 1885
*ref. to Peter Doyle

2612They say a Babe this crystal morning
Was born to heal a hate-wracked earth;[ille] September 23d to 26th; at Cuba 15th
[?]th.
The oil excitement is on the increase in
the Clarksville field. Hotels cannot accommodate
the rush of people. 
Friendship brass band secured third
prize at the Eldred, Pa., band tournament,
Thursday, eleven bands competing.
Fall races at the Olean driving park occur
September 8th, 9th and 10th. Two
thousand dollars is offered in purses.
Gibson hose, Salamanca, will appear at
the Corry parade in new uniforms, consisting
of gray coat and pants and caps.
Mr. Stevens, of Marengo, near Clyde, has
invested a cider mill that will extract the
juice from a bushel of apples in one minute.
------
CORPORATION PROCEEDINGS.
---
[*2613*] CITY AND COUNTY HALL,
IN COMMON COUNCIL,
BUFFALO, MONDAY Aug. 24, 1883,
at 2 o'clock p. p. }
Present.—William Franklin, president of the
Council and Ald. Beasley, Benzinger,
Drake, Franklin, Ginther, Gorman, Greene,
[Hanba???], [Kennedy?], Loderer, Lockrow, Lyth,
McMaster, Pankow, Patridge, Ray, Richardson,
Roesch, Scheu, Summers, Twitchell
Walter, White, Wilson—10.
Absent—Ald. Callahan, Rogers.
The minutes of the last session were approved
FROM HIS HONOR THE MAYOR
BUFFALO, August 10, 1885.
In compliance with your instructions I have
advertised for and received the following proposals
for printing two thousand and five hundred
copies of the City Charter and Ordinances,
via:
Hass & Klein—For 2,000 copies, 500
pages, half roan, marble edges ...... $1,360 00
Haas & Klein—For 500 copies, 500
pages full, morocco red ...... 500 00
Courier Co., (by G. Bleistein, Pres.)
For printing 2,500 copies 500 pp. 60 lb
No. 1 book ...... 750 00
For binding 2,000 copies 1/2 roan
marble edges at 77c. ...... 750 00
For binding 500 copies full morocco red
edges at 70c. 550 00
$1,549 00
Respectfully submitted,
W. P. BURNS,
City Clerk,
Received and filed.
Whereupon Ald. CALLAHAN offered the
following resolutions and moved their adoption.
That it is hereby ordered that two thousand
five hundred copies of the Revised Charter and
Ordinances be printed and bound in accordance
with specifications on file in the City Clerk's
office.
Ald. WILSON moved as an amendment that
all the Charters and Ordinances be bound in
plain binding, and that the number be reduced
to 2,000 copies.
The question was first taken upon the amendment
offered by Ald. Wilson.
Carried. [*2614*]
The resolution as amended was then adopted.
[Yeas]—Ald. Benzinger, Callahan, Drake,
Franklin, Ginther, Gorman, Greene, Hanbach,
Kennedy, Lederer, Lockrow, Lyth, Pankow,
Patridge, Ray, Richardson, Roesch, Rogers,
Scheu, Summers, Twitchell, Walter, White,
Wilson—24.
Noes—None. [*2615*]
The above resolution passed by your Honorable
Body on the 27th of July, I return without
my approval for the following reasons:
Under date of June 1st., (see minutes page 611)
your Honorable Body passed the following:
"That Mr. E. C. Robbins be and he is hereby
requested to revise, compile and prepare the
Charter and ordinances of the City of Buffalo
for republication, eliminating such portions
as have been repealed, and connecting the
sections that have been amended; such revision
to be submitted to the City Attorney and
Committee on Ordinances for their approval,
the expenses of such revision to be paid from
the General Fund, and the sum not to exceed
[?] 500.
Under date of July 20th (see minute page 823)
the following was passed by your Honorable
Body.
Whereas this Common Council, did on the 1st.
day of June 1885, authorize and impower E. C.
Robbins Esq. to revise, compile and prepare
the Charter and Ordinances of this City for,
[?]ation, and [*2616*]
[?] the said E. C. Robbins has now
[?]pleted said work, and the same is
[?], therefore be it
[?] City [?]

Received and referred to Comm[?] Finance.
BUFFALO, August 10, 1885.
I return without my approval the following
resolutions:
That the Engineer be and he is hereby directed
to cause the sidewalk in front of 100 foot
lot on west side of Delaware avenue, south of the
late Thomas Chester's premises, to be repaired
at an expense not to exceed $20.
That the Street Commissioner cause the
ditches on both sides of Tifft street, between
the Lake Shore railroad tracks and the Hamburg
turnpike, to be opened, at an expense not
to exceed $[?]0.
My objections to each resolution is the same,
viz: The owners of the property should have
been notified in the first instance to do the
work, and then, if not done upon such notification,
the proper authority should be directed to
do it and not until then.
JONATHAN SCOVILLE,
Mayor.
Ald. TWITCHELL moved that so much of the
communication as relates to opening ditches on
Tifft street be referred to Committee on
Streets.
Carried.
The remainder of the communication was received
and filed.
BUFFALO, August 10, 1885.
On the 27th of July last your honorable body
directed warrants drawn in favor of the following
persons:
Haas & Klein, printing and binding
for No. 19 school ......$ 16 00
Haas & Klein, printing and binding
for No. 25 school ...... 14 40
Haas & Klein, printing and binding
for No. 23 school ...... 9 60
Haas & Klein, printing and binding
for No. 34 school ...... 11 70
Haas & Klein, printing and binding
for No. 17 school ...... 9 00
Haas & Klein, printing and binding
for No. 7 school ...... 27 20
Haas & Klein, printing and binding
for No. 33 school ...... 9 60
Peter Geyer, setting glass, school No. 
35 ...... 6 90
Jerry Gorman, filling around, school
No. 33 ...... 11 00
F. C. Hill, labor and material, school
school No. 20 ...... 16 00
Kreinheder & Co., lumber, school No. 
19 ...... 5 40
Jacob Miller, labor and material,
school No. 12 ...... 84 14
Jacob Miller, labor and material
school No. 12 ...... 21 99
Jacob Miller, labor and material
school No. 12 ...... 15 45
Jacob Miller, labor and material
school No. 12 ...... 34 63
Reinecke & Zesch, advertising school
No. 16 ...... 2 75
John Schwartz, labor and material,
school No. 11 ...... 85 87
Adam Spang, labor and material,
school No. 7 ...... 61 45
Thomas Thompson, lumber, school No.
19 ...... 27 57
George Tucker, labor and material, 
school No. 5 ...... 49 49
Conrad Bingel, Jr., labor and material,
school No. 13 ...... 29 16
Conrad Bingel, Jr., labor and material,
school No. 13 ...... 14 02
Conrad Bingel, Jr., labor and material,
school No. 13 ...... 60 07
Conrad Bingel, Jr., labor and material,
school No. 15 ...... 40 85
Conrad Bingel, Jr., labor and material,
school No. 15 ...... 38 82
Conrad Bingel, Jr, labor and material,
school No. 15 ...... 22 44
Peter Geyer, setting glass, school No. 
3[?] ...... 2 90
Moses Day, whitewashing, school No.
18 ...... 33 55
John Lynch, labor and material,
school No. 4 ...... 26 08
John Lynch, labor and material,
school No. 33 ...... 7 82
Jacob Stucki, building coal shed,
school No. 18 ...... 175 00
James Watson, labor, etc., school No.
35 ...... 14 75
Schneider & Kraft, partial payment on
contract for erection of [???ow]
building in district No. [?] ...... [?] 000 [??]

[????] on [????] crew,
which should number eight men or more but four
responded-- two on the steamer and two on the
horse cart, leaving really but two men for immediate
fire service, as the two drivers are of no
real active fire service at the start. The foreman
of the Company being daily detailed at 
Fire Head-quarters as a harness maker, had
not yet returned to his station for fire duty.
The assistant foreman and engineer were off at
supper. The stoker in charge of the steamer
claims the hydrant, one of the old low ones
was so covered with ice and snow that he was
fully ten minutes in chopping out ice to make
room for his suction pipe and attaching to the
hydrant after which time he discovered the
hydrant was frozen up, and another ten minutes
was lost in thawing it out and getting 
water. This was valuable time to loose, as the
Chief of the Department claims that if this
company had got to work without delay on its
arrival, he could have saved the church. In
this connection we must assume that there was
gross negligence somewhere in allowing this
hydrant, the nearest one to two large public
buildings, where thousands of our citizens congregated
daily, to be found in such a condition.
There is a conflict of testimony as to the exact
length of time before the first stream was 
placed upon the church, although conceded that
Engine 4 from Genesee St. below Michigan, had
the first water on the building, they taking suction
out of the old reservoir on Goodell near
Washington, working two streams. It is however
apparent that when the department did
get well at work upon this building, and before
its destruction seemed possible, its efficiency
was seriously weakened by the working of too 
many inefficient streams. We cannot but believe
that if a lesser number, and consequently
more powerful streams had been placed upon
the roof of St. Louis church at the start, together
with plenty of hook and ladder axe
men as auxiliary help, the result would have 
been different. [*2614A*]
At this fire twenty-one hydrants were opened
and four were found frozen. From the testimony
of the engineers of steamers with two or
three exceptions, all assert they had a fair to
good supply of water through the hydrants.
As regards the Morning Express establishment
fire, we find the department was no doubt
weakened at the start as the alarm was sounded
about meal hour, and we believe the department
even at its maximum strength would have
been short-handed at this fire. The apparatus
and men available, however, were well placed,
and effective work was accomplished. The
management was good, and in our opinion the
department is entitled to credit for their work
and efficiency at this fire, instead of censure or
detraction.
We find the department has been seriously 
crippled by the detail of officers and men of 
different companies for work at headquarters
in harness-making, pluming, joiner work, 
painting, etc. This is no doubt done with good
intent and in the supposed interest of economy,
but we seriously question its propriety or its
true economy. (Note the condition of Engine
9, on arrival at Music Hall fire without an officer
in command.)
A very important branch of our water supply 
for fire purposes, the eleven reservoirs in the
business portion of our city, which are always
available and never frozen, have been neglected
both the Water and Fire Rescue claiming
they [?????????????????????????????????????]
and in the words of the Water Board [???]
tendent: "These reservoirs are a bone of contention." 
This committee, however, have great
faith in their good service, and they should be
immediately placed under some one's care, attention
and responsibility.
We find a rule of the Fire Department, that
during the absence of the chief, the district engineer
in whose district a fire originates, takes
command. Under this rule the chief has lately
been absent from the city several weeks on account
of ill health. No notice was given to
company officers of such absence, neither was
any acting chief appointed. We believe that
this rule should be changed, so that in the absence
of the Chief there should be one supreme
head to the Department, in the management of
fires, and that every officer of the several companies,
should be immediately advised as to the 
absence of their superiors.
Water supply for fire purposes. The Watter
Board are vigorously pushing the work of replacing
the small, with larger street mains in
the older sections of the City, and generally
throughout the city replacing old with new hydrants
with four inch openings, in room of the
old ones with two and a half inch openings.
This [????] when completed -- probably by [November?]
[next?] --together with the new pumping

[?]eve the work of extinguishing
fires is a business of itself, that a good fireman
is worthy of fair pay, that active, intelligent,
and efficient length of service in the department
should be recognized by increased pay
and promotion to fill vacancies. That a system
of grading into three classes with an advanced
rate of pay when passing into higher grades, a
clean and faithful record as an active fireman
being made the condition of an advancement
yearly one notch, to the highest grade, when
the maxium of salary should be eight 
hundred dollars per annum. We believe
the present pay for new and inexperienced men
six hundred dollars per annum, to be ample
We believe that the foreman of a company,
should be fearless, capable and intelligent
both able to command men and still have their
respect and confidence, and that he should be
in direct line of promotion to fill vacancies in
the higher positions, when vacancies occur.
The responsibility of the officer in command of
a company should be paramount, that he
should receive the higher pay, and that they
present method of paying the engineer of a
steamer or fire engine more than the officer in
command is detrimental to the  service, and is
not known in other departments.
The water tower or stand pipe now in use in
New York and Chicago we consider a very effective
apparatus for use at first in high buildings.
It consists of a heavy apparatus drawn
by horses, with several sections of six to four 
inch stand pipe, spliced as length may require.
raised land properly guyed to the apparatus
and street. Its limit of length about seventy
feet. Into this stand pipe the water is forced 
up by one, two or three steamers, the outlet
pipe or nozzle above is worked from the apparatus
below and can be guided in all directions.
The apparatus is used more particularly for
wetting down upper floors, thus keeping the
building safe for interior work by the firemen
on the lower floors, and preventing fire from
gaining ascendancy above. With the Hayes
extension ladders in use by our department we
do not consider the adoption of the Water
Tower a necessity at present.
Whilst it is the duty of the District Engineers
to visit and inspect buildings in their respective
districts, this labor is not properly performed.
It should be thoroughly and regularly
done by the several District Engineers, who
with the foremen or assistant foremen of companies,
should inspect and be fully posted with
the ins and outs of all sizable buildings
within their respective stations, and thus be
prepared to intelligently place their forces
when fire occurs. The plan of placing iron ladders
on new and high buildings, making them
perfectly safe for Fire Department uses is acknowledged
to be of great service in other cities
and should be enforced here.
The system of arriving at the efficiency of a 
fire department by the actual loss or damage
sustained in dollars alone, we believe to be an
erroneous one, the number of buildings destroyed
should be partly the basis of its true efficiency. [*2614B*]
In closing we desire to call the attention of
every householder in the city to the very important
subject of each and all knowing the
locality of the nearest fire alarm call box to
their residence or place of business; and where
the keys can be obtained. The necessity of 
knowing how and where to give a [?????] alarm
[??????] zens is of very great i[????????]
[??????] mittee each with the [????????]
feeling [??ward] all connected with [?????]
important branches of [???] city's [??????]
Fire and Water Departments -- have based this
report upon facts as we found them, and if our
findings reflect upon either service, or any one
connected therewith, we can only say we have
honestly endeavored to conduct the investigation
without prejudice or favor, and consequently
stand by it without reserve or hesitation.
Very respectfully,
GEO. W. HAYWARD,
C.M FARRAR,
PETER C. DOYLE,
PETER P. MILLER, 
CHARLES S. PANKOW,
ALEX McMASTER,
F. L. A. CADY.
BUFFALO August 20, 1885
Note: Your committee employed MrGorgee
Macnoe as stenographer, He has taken some
three hundred pages of stenographic report of
our investigation. His account ninety-three
dollars is correct, and we have advised him to
present it to the Council for audit, knowing that
you will approve its payment. The other expenditures 
of the Committee are but [???]
and no item of expense is
Received

[?????] [?????] building bonds, issued
September 1st, 1875, payable
on the first proximo at this office,
forty three hundred and seventy-
five dollars ...... 4,375 00
6—On $50,000 five per cent, water
bonds, issued September 2d, 1878,
payable on the 2d prox. at this office,
twelve hundred and fifty dollars, . 1,250 00
7—On $100.000 four per cent. water
bonds, issued September 1st, 1880,
payable on the 1st prox. at the Galiatin
National Bank in the city of
New York, two thousand dollars, 2,000 00
8—On $940.20, four per cent. General
Fund, 1883, deficiency bonds, issued
September 1st, 1884, payable on the
1st proximo at this office, eighteen
and eighty one hundredth dollars,   18 80
9—On $175,000 four and one-half per
cent Bork Deficiency bonds, issued
March 2d, 1885, payable on the 2d
prox. at the Gallatin National bank
in the city of New York, thirty-
nine hundred and thirty-seven and
fifty one-hundredth dollars, ...... 38,37 50
------
Total, ...... $29,081 30
I recommend that warrants be drawn in my
favor with which to pay the same as follows:
On the General Fund, 1885, interest
on Federal Debt Department,
fifteen thousand, three hundred
thirty-one-hundredth dollars, ......$ 15,331 00
Upon the Water Fund Department,
thirteen thousand, seven hundred
and fifty dollars, ...... 13,750 00
------
Total above, ...... $29,081 30
Respectfully,
JOSEPH E. BARNARD,
Comptroller.
BUFFALO, Aug. 17, 1885.
The several Cashiers of the following named
banks have reparted to the undersigned, in
writing, that there was on deposit in such
banks to the credit of the Treasurer of the City
of Buffalo, at the close of business on Saturday,
August 15th, 1883, the sums of money as hereinafter
set forth, viz:
Bank of Commerce, ...... $132,815 75
Manufacturers' and Traders,' ...... 142,136 57
Bank of Att[???][, ......?] 131, 626 27
German [?????][, ......?] [?82,167 71 (?)]
Third National [???], ...... [???,??? ??]
Marine Bank, ...... 129,893 75
Bank of Buffalo, ...... 134,949 09
White's Bank, ...... 118,417 09
Farmers' and [Mechanics'?] National ... 126,066 21
Merchants' Bank ...... 133,718 48
German American Bank ...... 132,009 16
Buffalo Loan, [???ast] and Safe Deposit
Co. ...... 149,752 43
First National [???] (not reported,) ...... 16,724 22
------
Total, ...... $1,615,774 13
Respectfully
JOSEPH E. BARNARD,
Comptroller.
Received and [?????ed].
BUFFALO, Aug. 10, 1885.
The several [????ers] of the following named
banks have [?????d] to the undersigned, in
writing, that [????] [was?] on deposit in such banks
to the credit [??????] Treasurer of the City of
Buffalo, at [close?] of business on Saturday,
Aug. 8th, [1885?] [???] as of money as hereinafter
set forth[, viz: (?)]
[??????] ...... $132,815 75
[??????] ...... [???,??? ??]
[??????] ...... 131,626 27
[??????] ...... 132,167 71
Third National, ...... 135,497 40
Marine Bank, ...... 126,816 64
Bank of Buffalo, ...... 134,949 09
White's Bank, ...... 118,417 09
Farmers' and [Mechanics'?] National, ... 126,066 21
Merchants' Bank [??????], ...... 133,718 48
German-Amer[ican?][, ......?] 132,009 16
Buffalo Loan, [??????] [and?] Safe Deposit
Co., ...... 137,412 23
First National [not reported?,] ...... 16,724 22
------
Total,...... $1571,294 13
[Respectfully,]
[JOSEPH] E. BARNARD,
Comptroller.
Received [and submitted?.]
[BU]FFALO, Aug. 3, 1885.
The se [?] the following named banks hav[?] the undersigned, in writing, th[?] Treasurer of the City of Buf[?] se of be[?]eld, as hereinader [?] the suna of money as Bank of Ch[?]
[?]          $128,413.78
[?]      $118,043.[?]
[?]      $131,[?]
[?]      $[?]
[?]       $[?]342.[?]
[?] ts' National      $126,814.64
[?]       $126,141.68
[?]nk   $123,009.16
[?]and Safe De- $127,419.23
[?]orted)$16,724. 21
Total$1,657,878.59
JOSEPH E. BARNARD,
Controller.
August 24, 1875.
[?] at the following named
[?] to the undersigned, in
[?] was on deposit in such
[?] the Treasurer of the city
[?] business on Saturday,
[?] of money as herein-
[?] $151,515.[?]
[?] 1[?]1,475.[?]
[?] 134,853 [?]7
[?] 131,167.71
[?] 153,867.40
[?] 150,406.41
[?] 156,[?]09.53
[?] 147,940.33
[?] National 145,873.34
[?] 138,718.45
[?] Safe De-132 782.45
[?] ted) 16,771.21
[?] Total 1,878,713.90
[?] E. BARNARD,
Comtroller.
Warrants No[?]. 2[??]1. 4259
Warrant No. 7[??]. to pay
six months interest on
Water bonds due in
August..... 6700.00
Warrant No. 2795. to pay
six months interest on 
Funded Debt bonds due 
in August...... 2[?]625 ..... .... .... .... [?]4375
Warrant No. 2795, to pay
principal on Trunk
Sewer bonds issued 
February 1st, 188[?], due 
in New York, August 
1, 188[?]..... .... .... 150,000 00 .... .... .... 250,000 00
Warrant No. 1505 to bal-
ance account tax of 
Mrs. Celia F. Hamber-
ton, Roll No. 13[?]76.... ....  .... .... .... .... 1[?].[?]3 ....
Warrants in payment of
tax on Roll No 70[?] of 
extending and widen-
ing Delaware avenue, 
between the northerly 
line of Ferry street
and southerly line of
Delavan avenue, Nos.
1438, 1430, 1443,
1[???], 1[???], 1447, 
1[??]0, 1451, 1402, 1401
1455, 1[?]06, 1438, 1462,
1450, 1461, 1463, 1468, 
1467, 1469, 1471, 1475, 
1[?]79, 1472, 148[?], 1476, 
1488, 1480, 14[??], 148[?]
140[?], 1493 ...... ... .... ........ .... .... 8,221 82 ....
Warrant No. 2920 to can-
cel tax of E. Gates... .... .... .... .... .... 37.72
Warrant No. 2921 to can-
cel tax of Jacob Smith ..... .... ..... .... .... 51.04    14,787 42
Received from sundry
persons on trust fund
account during July... .... .... .... .... 10652 .... 1[????]
$35 21   $91,239 45   $374, 00 00   $3570 35   $1,858 00   $14,826 53   $483,850 [??]
June 1883   Cash   Or.
Items.  Pay roll ....   Coupons......   Taxes..........   Bonds.........   Trust Fund...   Miscellaneous.   Total..........
July 1, 1885
[???] pu
coupons during the
month of July, 1885..... ......   $49,3[?]7 50   .......   ......   ......   ......   ......
Redeemed Water Bonds
issued July 1, 18[?]3, and
payable July 1, 1885,
Nos. 70, 71, 225, 474, 475
and 41 to 53 inclusive 63,
64, 65, 66, 12, 13, 14, 15,
2[?]1, 405, 406, 407, 445, 446,
242, 62....................   ......   ......   ......   $1[?]0,600 00   ......   ......   ......
Redeemed Tax Loan
Bonds, issued July 1,
1880, and payable July
1, 1885, Nos. 37, 38, 472,
473, 474 and 475..........   ......   .........   ......   $24,000 00   .........   .........   ......
Deposited with the City
Treasurer proceeds of
Water Refunding bonds
sold to Daniel A. Moran
principal................   ......   .........   ......   $1[?]0,000 00   ......         .........
Premium..................   ......   ......   .. ..   ......         $61[?]8 00   ......
Paid warrants, Nos. 1,259,
1,260, 1,221, 2,525, 2,695,
2061, 2[???], [????], 2,920,
2,921.....................   ......   ......   ......   ......   ......   $403 70   $6,[?]04 10
Warrants to pay Local
Assessments and Taxes
on Schools and Jubilee
Water works, Nos. 2,520
on Rolls 5[??], [???], [?]06
[?]16, 66[?], 619, 606 and 730,
and warrants 1,222 to
1,251 inclusive........   ......   150,00 00   ......   ......   ......   ......   76,617 50
Paid sundry persons [???]
Trust fund C.B. folio
24.........................   ......   .......   ......   ......   19 86   .......   19 86
By cash on hand, pay roll
account........ .........   $35 22   .......   .......   ......   ......   .....[.]   [?? ??? ?]
By cash on interest and
coupon account.
National [????]    ......   ......   2,701 [??]   .......   ......   ......   ...   ......
[??????] interest and coupon
account, Whit[e's]
Bank....................   ......   11,920 00   .......   ......   ......   ......   ......
[?????] [???] Trust Fund
account, Bank of Commerce
....................   ......   ......   ......   ......   4,868 14   ......   ......
Warrants on Roll No. 7[?]6   ......   ......   ......   .........   ......   8,221 83   27,747 14
$35 22   $91,239 45   $37[?],000 00   $[?],874 [??]   $4658 00   $14826 52   $483,659 65
On motion of Ald. WHITE so much of rule
No. 2 was suspended for the remainder of this
session of the Coono[??]
FROM THE ATTORNEY.
August 24, 1885.
In the matter of the extension of Ellicott
stro[??], from Seneca to Exchange streets, Judge
Smith of the Superior Court has rendered a decision,
that the proceedings taken by the city
are legal and regular.
Respectfully submitted.
HERMAN HENNIG,
Attorney.
Received and referred to committee on
streets.
August 24, 1885.
In the matter of [????]ing of[? ???]inents
against awards in the matter of widening Delaware
avenue, the Attorney recommends that
warrants upon the assessment roll for said improvement
be drawn as follows, to wit:
Parcels Nos. 34 and 36,
Joseph E. Baruard, Comptroller, to
pay assessment upon same.........   $50[?] 00
Mary A. Alberger, owner..............   9 [?]2
G. N. Sherwood, mortgagee............   1 00
The Buffalo Savings Bank, mortgagee.   1 00
Louisa F. Alberger, mortgagee........   4[?]0 [00]
Esther M. Ross, mortgagee............   1 00
The City of Buffalo, for taxes..........   06
The foregoing was inadvertently omitted in
the former communications of the Attorney
upon the subject.
Respectfully submitted,
HERMAN HENNIG,
Attorney.
Received, filed, and warrants directed drawn.
BUFFALO, August 24, 1885.
There will be a large number of cases, affecting
the city, on the calendars of the different
courts holding terms in September.
It is recommended that a warrant for $100 be
drawn in favor of the City Attorney to be used
for subpoenaing witnesses and other incidental
expenses in such cases.
Respectfully submitted,
HERMAN HENNIG,
Attorney.
Received, filed and warrant directed drawn.
BUFFALO, August 24, 1885
The Attorney, pursuant to various [??????]ti[?]ns
adopted by the Common Council, has examined
the form of the following described deeds and
the sufficiency of the title of the grantors to the
premises therein described and thereby conveyed,
and hereby approves of the same and
recommends their acceptance, to wit:
Marshall N. Jones and Henry R. Jones and
wife, to the city, dated June 4, 1885, conveying
part of Jones street.
Henry W. Box and wife and Henry Koons to
the City; dated June 4, 1885, conveying part of
Jones and Lyman streets and a continuation of
Lewis street.
Alexander Brush and wife, and William C.
Brush and wife to the City; dated June 4, 1885,
conveying part of Jones and Lyman streets.
George W. Smith and wife, to the city: dated
April 13, 1885, conveying part of Zurbucher
street.
Continued Tomorrow.
[???????]m [?????]."
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Manufactured by
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At HOLLAND, N.Y.,
To whom all orders should be addressed,
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NAME PAPER. Chichester Chemical Co.,
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All Druggists. Trade supplied by Lyman &
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youthful color and vitality. Rev. H. P.
Williamson, Davidson College, Hecklesburg
Co., N. C., writes: "I have used
Ayer's Hair Vigor for the last ten years.
It is an excellent preservative."
BY the use of Ayer's Hair Vigor, Gen.
A. D[??]man, Waterloo, Mo., had
his hair restored to its original [??????]
condition. He was nearly bald, and very
gray. He writes: "Only four bottles of
the Vigor were required to restore my 
hair to its youthful color and quantity."
USING Ayer's Hair Vigor cures diseases
of the scalp. F. H.
Foster, Princeton, Ind., writes: "I had
been troubled for years with a disease of
the scalp; my head was covered with dandruff,
and the hair dry and harsh. Ayer's
Hair Vigor gave me immediate relief,
cleansed the scalp, and rendered the hair
soft and pliable."
Ayer's Hair Vigor,
PREPARED BY
Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass., U. S. A.
For sale by all Druggists.by the watch 
morning.
     John Sexton will rusticate at the Penitentiary
for the next forty days. John is 
a "Vag."
     A dangerous hole in the pavement is reported
on the corner of Virginia and 
Fourth streets. 
     Precincts No. 5,9 and 10 presented blank
reports to the Superintendent of police yesterday
morning.
     John L. Malloy a Canal street piano
player is locked up at No. 1 station house 
on a charge of vagrancy.
     John Fammon was arrested in the first 
precinct yesterday charged with non-support
by his wife Catherine. *2623*
     John Flanigan, charged with vagrancy,
was sent to the work house for 30 days by 
Justice Dayton yesterday morning. 
     John T. Raymond was int he police court
yesterday charged with assault on John W.
Constance. Raymond was discharged.
     The case of George E. Oatman came up
in the police court again yesterday and was
set down for a final hearing next Friday.
     Mary Krinken was brought before Judge
King yesterday charged with assault on 
Barbara Shanahan. Mary was discharged.
     Thomas J. Murray a drunken moulder
was arrested last night by Sergeant Kennedy 
on a chrage of disorderly conduct.
His is locked up at No. 1.
     John Coddington, who has been an engineer
on the New York Council railroad
for the past twelve years, died Sunday at 
his home on Fillmore avenue. He leaves a
widow.
"The Hidden Hand" is the attraction at 
the People's Theater this week. It will be 
presented with new scenery. Friday evening
a benefit will be tendered Jerome
Stansill. *2624*
     Byron Hancock, Jr. was charged in the
police court yesterday with attempting to 
defraud his boarding house keeper, Rachael
M. Brooks, out of $37.18. The case was adjourned
till September 7. 
     At a meeting of the police board yesterday
Patrolman Thomas [O'Hara?] was transferred
from precinct 5 to precinct 10. and 
Patrolman Michael Hammon from precinct
10 to precinct 6.
     An iron door to Barnes, Hengerer & Co-'s
store and the front door to Boardman's
barness shop on the tow path, near Eric
street, were found open early yesterday
morning and secured by the police. *2625*
     The play, which has met with great success 
elsewhere, "A Moral Crime," will open
the season at the Court Street Theater next
Monday. No expense has been spared to 
make its setting on the boards complete.
     Mrs. Annie Cunningham brought a sample
of diseased liver into the office of the
[?]

vacation. "Tourists in a Pullman Palace 
Car" will be the opening play.
     R.H. James of the Buffalo Bicycle club
claims to have made the best run on record
in New York. He started out at 2p.m. on
Saturday last, rode to North East Ps., from
there by a round-about way to Silver
Creek, making 206 miles in 29 hours.
     A horse attached to a buggy owned and 
occupied by Jacob Benzinger ran away on
Main street yesterday and threw out the 
occupant. He was not hurt. The horse
was caught at the corner of Main and Terrace
streets. *2626*
     Miss Annie Pixley will open the season
at the Academy of Music next 
Monday evening. August 31. The play is
"Elly," and is from the pen of Fred
Marsden [?}

and Christian Geiger to Charles [?]
were filed yesterday with the bond of the 
assignee for $2,000 as security for the faithful
discharge of his duties. The liabilities
of the firm are $4711 06. The nominal assets
$2573 48; the actual assets $1887 10. 

MISCELLANEOUS MENTION.
     Patti's spare moments are being devoted
to the writing of her memoirs.
     Michael Davitt's new book will detail his
impressions during an extensive traveling
tour.
     After [?uling] thirty years and attaining
the age of 114 years, the Sultan Abdul
Munin, of the kingdom Brunell, in the island
of Borneo, is dead. *2627*
     Among the animals eaten by different
nations which are not used as food in civilized
countries, Mr. P. L. Simmonds mentions 
monkeys, lemurs, bats, skunks, foxes,
lions, porcupines, crocodiles, salamanders,
snakes, caterpillars and ants.
     The name of the correspondent who represented
the Associated Press at Mount
McGregor during the last days of General
Grant and who so vividly described the 
death and journey down the mount is F.W.
Mack. He had represented the Associated 
Press in New York during General Grant's
last days in that city and was allowed free
access to the house.
     Oakville, Canada, brings forward the 
champion mean man in a resident to whose
dying wife the doctor prescribed wine.
Wine could not easily be had and the doctor
furnished some from his private stores. 
When he sent in his bill the sorrowing
widower laid an information against him
for selling liquor in a prohibition county
contrary to the Scott law. *2628*

[...?]

attendance of buyers from Pennsylvania and 
from adjoining it was was good, and as all of
them were in want of stock, the prices held
where they were. Mnuroe bought fairly liberal,
taking about 40 cars, but none of the New York
buyers were in the market. Among the offerings
were some fair to good 1200 to 1375 lb.,
steers, which brought $5 50 to $6 75; good burthers
steers of 1920 brought [$  00] while fair Missouri
steers of 1130 1200 lb. went at $5 00 to 
$5 30. There were several large lots of Texas
and Cherokee steers, weighing 



TOO LATE TO CLASSIFY.
WANTED - Five shoe salesmen.  Addres
Shoes, care this office.                        [?]

FOR SALE - All of household furniture, carpets,
etc. contained in house. [231?] Virginia
street. Inquire on premises afer 4 p.m.
8-25-81
S.B. Thing & Co. are selling out the
great New York bankrupt
shoes at 45 cents on the dollar as they must
[?] be sold at once.

THE DAILY TIMES will be delivered at
your residence every morning for 40 cents
per month. Give your order to the route
carrier, or send direct to the office, 191
Main street.

You will save money and get the best
satisfaction by buying your boots and shoes
of S.B. Thing & Co., the popular dealers at 
No. 813 Main street.

Be in Chicago This Evening
On the Michigan Central fast express; 
runs daily. No extra charge for fast time; 
dining car for breakfast. City ticket office,
47 Exchange street. 


Nervous [Debi?] Man
You are allowed a free trial of thirty [?]
the use of Dr. Dye's Celebrated Voltate Belt,
with Electric Suspensory Appliances, for the 
speedy relief and permanent care of nervous
debility, loss of vitality and manhood, and all
kindred troubles, also for many other diseases.
Complete restoration to health, vigor and manhood
guaranteed. No risk is incurred. Illustrated
pamphlet with full information, terms,
etc., mailed free by addressing Voltate Belt Co.
Marshall Mich.

THE DAILY TIMES will be delivered at 
your residence every morning for 40 cents 
per month. Give your order to the route
carrier, or send direct to the office, 191
Main street.

Dr. Frasier's Magic Ointment.
The greatest blessing that has been discovered
in this generation. A sure cure for Boils, Burns, 
Sores, Cuts, Flesh Wounds, bore Nipples, Hard
and Soft Cores, Chapped Lips and Hands,
Pimples and Blotches. Price [?] Sold by 
[?] Williams Mf'g Co., prop's, Cleveland
[?] and retail by Wm. H. [Tiabe?]

THE DAILY TIMES will be delivered at 
your residence every morning for 40 cents 
per month. Give your order to the route
carrier, or send direct to the office, 191
Main street.

The Cheapest and the Best.
WHEAT 
BAKING
POWDER.
Pure and WHOLESOME
It contains no injurious ingredients.
It leaves no deleterious substances in the
bread as all pure grade Cream of Tartar and 
Alum powders do.
It restores to the flour the highly important
constituents rejected in the bran of the wheat.
It makes a better and lighter biscuit than
any other baking powder.
For sale by all retail grocers throughout the 
city, and wholesale at the 255 Washington street.
Ask your grocer for Wheat Baking Powder.
Give it a fair trial, and you will use no other.
Manufactured by MARTIN KALELEISCH'S
SONS, 58 Fulton street, New
York, and 255 Washington street Buffalo.
[?]

AUCTION SALE.
OF
HOUSEHOLD FURNITURE
I will ell the entire contents of the late John
R. Wilhelm's residence, No. 110 South Division
street, on Thursday at 10 o'clock a.m. Carpets
in first-class order, plush upholstered furniture,
range, new style heating stove, bed-room furniture,
etc. TERMS CASH.
ROBERT McCANN.
Auctioneer.

[?]
Eric street depot at 8:30 a.m., connecting
with the steamer Jamestown, which has
been specially charted for the occasion.
The round trip fare is only $1, and all who 
attend may look for a thoroughly enjoyable 
time.

The Faith Cure.
If you do not value your health, and your
time is not worth anything, pin your faith to 
the "annointing oil," or the mortar from
"Knock Chapel." But if you do value health,
and have no time to waste in useless experiments,
take Dr. R.V. Pierce's "Golden Medical
Discovery" on the appearance of the first
symptoms of consumption, which are a loss of 
appetite and flesh, general debility, sight, dry
hacking cough, etc. Every day you de'er
treating your case in a rational manner, makes
the disease harder to combat. Send ten cents
in stamps to World's Dispensary Medical Association,
Buffalo, N.Y., for Dr. Pierce's 
Treatise on Consumption.

When you want bargains in boots and 
shoes go to S.B. Thing & Co., the popular 
dealers, at No. 313 Main street, opposite
the churches.

AMUSEMENTS
ACADEMY OF MUSIC.
Meech Bros. ....... Managers
Opening of the regular season Monday. Aug.
31, signalized by the appearance (after an absence 
of two years in Europe) of the favorite 
comedienne,
ANNIE PIXLEY!
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday
nights and Saturday matinees in Fred Marsden's
new comedy, EILY. Also Friday and Saturday
nights in the great Pixley success, M'LISS,
introducing new songs, medleys and dances,
assisted by the popular actor, MR. HARRY
MEREDITH, and an excellent dramatic company.

PEOPLE'S THEATER.
Corner Genesee and Michigan streets.
Monday, Aug. 24, every night - Thursday, Friday
and Sunday Matinees.
THE GREAT PLAY, IN FIVE A CTS.
THE HIDDEN HAND!
Or, The Haunted House Capitola, with songs,
Miss Lizzie Conway. Wool, with plantation
melodies, Charles Stanley. Old Hurricane, H.
B. Brooks, Black Donald, Edwin Varney, and 
a superior cast. Friday evening, Sept. 4, [?]
[?] benefit tender to Manager Jerome
[?] of novelties
[?] and 50 cents.

SPORTING ACADEMY.
PROF. WILSON, Proprietor.
816 Seneca street; Gilbert House Tuesday,
Thursday and Saturday evenings, Exhibitions
of SPARKING and WRESTLING by 
pupils and local experts. 8-9-[?]

SPORTING ACADEMY. 
Prof. James Haley, .. Proprietor
13 East Mohawk Street.
Monday, Wednesday and Saturday evenings, 
exhibitions of Sparring and Wrestling
by pupils and local experts.
Sample room attached. Choice Wines,
Liquors and Cigars

Linwood Glen.
[?]
to the glen. Committee will do well to examine
these grounds before engaging others.
For particulacs apply to 
J.W. McKAY
287 Main street, Buffalo.

M.E. Beebe & Son,
Architects and Superintendents.
CORNER MAIN & EAGLE STS.
BUFFALO. [?]-11-[?]

Dr. Lake. Oldest Specialist.
Office cor. Commercial and 
Canal street. Buffalo, N.Y.
Established 1841, for the treatment 
of all diseases of a private
nature. Recent cases
cured in a few days. Young 
men suffering from effects of 
Self abuse permanently cured.
Office hours from 7 a.m. to 
10 p.m. Take Notice - Office
up stairs.  May 7-1[?]

THE ONLY GENUINE
JOHANN HOFF'S
MALT EXTRACT
the BEST HEALTH BEVERAGE, Tonic and 
[?] CONTAINS
ONE-THIRD MORE in the bottle than the 
[?]
"I have used Johann Hoff's Genuine
Malt Extract during the last 5 years in 
my medical practice, and have found
it an admirable food and Tonic in 
[?] in cases of Dyspopals,
for the weak and debilitated, especially
Nursing Mothers, Weakly 
Children, Lung and Throat Diseases."
W.O. STILLMAN, A.H., M.D., Phila.

I have brought suit against [?]
Tarrant & Co., for bottling and selling
another preparation upon the 
reputation of my Genuine Malt Extract, 
for which I have received [?4]
Medals from, Exhibitions, [?]
Societies, etc. etc. 
Beware of Imitations!
None [?] without [?]
"Johann Hoff" a ["?"],
on the neck of every bottle. 
JOHANN HOFF. 
Berlin, Germany
LESNER & MENDELSON, Sole Agents for the 
U.S. [?] Philadelphia, Pa.

A BIG OFFER To introduce them
we will give away 
1,000 Self Operating Washing Machines
If you want one send us your name, P.O
and express office at once. The National Co.
21 Dey street New York 5-11-6m
Office No. 12 E. Seneca Street.

THE Buffalo Carting Company
Will run a 
LINE OF BUSSES
Direct to the 
Park Boat House!
On SATURDAYS and SUNDAYS, during 
July and August, Busses will run from corner
of Main, Edward and Delaware avenue
to the park, leaving corner of Main and Seneca
at [?] at 2, 2 30, 3, 3 30, 4, 4 30, 5, 5 30 p.m. 
Returning, leave Park park 3, 3 20, 4, 4 20, 5, 6, and 
8 p m. Fare 30e, children under five years of 
age, frac. Private parties can arrange for 
busses any time, calling Telephone No. 683, or 
at office No. 358 Seneca street. 7-18, 19, 23

[?]
TO CHAUTAUQUA LAKE.
@1.00 For the Round Trip.
The Buffalo, New York & Philadelphia R. R.
And the 
New York, Lake Erie & Western [B.?]
Will run Joint Excursions every Sunday 
leaving at 8.20 A.M. and returning in the evening.
Passengers going by the Buffalo, New 
York and Philadelphia will return by the 
New York, Lake Erie and Western, and Passengers
going by the New York, Lake Erie 
and Western will return by the Buffalo, New 
York & Philadelphia.
Passengers wishing to make a round trip
to either Mayville or Jamestown will be ticketed
over the line running to either of those
places at the low rate of $1 for the round trip.
Excursion tickets are sold on the boats from
Mayville or Jamestown to any point on the
lake and return Sundays for [?] 7-4-2m.

Wednesday Excursions 
To Chautauqua Lake
Vin the Buffalo, New York & Philadelphia R.
R. $1.00 Fare for the Round Trip. Train
leaves B. N. Y. & P. Depot, corner Exchange
and Louisiana streets, every Wednesday at 7.55
A.M; returning at 8:30 P.M. 7-4-2m

GRAND EXCURSION
OF THE 
LOCOMOTIVE FIREMEN!
To Chautauqua Lake,
Wednesday, Sept. 2nd, 1885.
Steamer Jamestown specially chartered for 
the occasion.
Fare $1 for the round trip. 
Train leaves Erie depot at 8:30 a.m.

West Shore Route.
EXCURSIONS
EVERY DAY on all Trains to the CATSKILLS,
BOSTON and NEW ENGLAND
SEASIDE RESORTS.
Coney Island, Manhattan Beach, Long
Branch [?] very
[?] with
[?] Company.

Five Through [?] Trains daily.
For low rates and [?] information call
at Company's office, [N?] Exchange street,
corner Main. 7-15--til 9.1

Steamer [?iagara]
Will leave foot of Main Street for Old Fort 
Erie Grove as follows: [?] 30 a.m., 1, 2.30,
4, 5.30, 7 p.m. Fair round trip, 15c, children 
10c. Any further [?] will be 
given at the B. & O Telegraph office, foot of
Main street. Also steam[?] Watertown runs
from the foot of Ferry street [?] from 6 a.m. until
10 p.m. to Fort Erie [?] Passengers
allowed to remain on board several trips
without extra charge. 7-11-2m

[?]

Lake [?]
Intended [?] CLEVELAND, DETROIT,
DULUTH [?rmediate] ports.
Leaves Buffalo, [?] week days
Friday excepted, 7 [?] time.
Tours via Lake, [?] Rail.
Dock and [?] street.
T.P. [CARP?] Agent.

STRE [?] PHY
For Ladies, [?] or Youths,
404 Main [?] Room Ed.
Classes will be [?] a certified
teaching and court [?] every Thursday
and Friday evenings [?] 7 to 8, 8 to 
9 and 9 to 10. All [?] out by the 
stenographer. In [?] $3.50.
Apply [?]
FERDINAND H[?]
ESQ.
Attorney [?] -at-Law.

JOSEPH LENNA[?] J. GLENN.
Standa [?] Co.
SERVIC
[?]
[?]
Between principal
passenger 25 cents. 
[?] 10 p.m., $1 first hour
secutive hour thereafter
per hour. No charge for
gage. Telephone order
to. Telephone No. [22?]

AMER
WATC
Best in the world for 
assortment in both 
Ladies and 
FINE D
At the lowest po
J.H. ISHAM'S.

J.H. ISHAM
14 E. [?]
Agent for Victor, 
& Jeffery's wheels.

EDWIN C
ATTORNEY au
No. 333 Main street
street [?]
6-12-1y


180 SENECA STREET is Licensed to do this work in Buffalo, and can be seen at the above Named Office.

Bunnell's Museum
WILL
OPEN MONDAY AFTERNOON,
AUGUST 31st, WITH
W.A. MESTAYLER'S POPULAR PLAY.
TOURISTS!
IN A PULLMAN PALACE CAR.

SICK HEADACHE
Positively Cured By 
CARTER'S CARTER's
[?]
they also relieve all the troubles incident
to a best rate of the system
such as Dizziness, Nausea, Drowsiness,
Distress after Eating,
Pain in the Side, etc., etc.
These perfect little pills [?] to all who use them. They
are entirely unlike all [?] must not be confounded with 
them. They cure Sick [?] where other remedies fail,
and their use is not followed by [?] purge or unpleasant after 
effect. You are no aware [?] taken any medicine, only that
your headache has left you [?] well. The dizziness on stooping
over, and the drowsing [?] both disappear; the pain in the 
side vanishes; the bile [?] channel and you are no longer
bilious; the bowels move [?] not become constipated; the 
digestion is improved, the [?] and the appetite good. All
this by taking just one or [?] a dose. No wonder [?re]
popular. If you try them [?] 

Cheapest Hat Store in the World
STAFFORD, FAUL & CO.,
271 Main St, Second Door Below Swan ST.
Boys' Polo Caps 20c, worth 50c.
Boys' Soft Hats 20c, worth 50c.
Boys' Soft Hats 50c, worth 75c
Boys' Stiff Hats 35c, worth 50c. 
Boys' Stiff Hats 50c, worth 75c.
Boys' Stiff Hats 70c, worth $1.00.
Men's Stiff Hats 35c, worth 50c. 
Men's Stiff Hats 50c, worth 75c. 
Men's Stiff Fur Hats $1.00, worth $1.50.
Men's Stiff Fur Hats $1.50, worth $2.52.
Men's Stiff Fur Hats $1.90, worth $3.00.
Men's Stiff Fur Hats $2.50, worth $3.50.
Men's Soft Working Hats 40c, worth 75c.

REED'S
SHAMPENE

A delightfully cooling and refreshing 
SHAMPOO LOTION
For [?]
[?]
Mrs. J. H. Reed, [?] House Block,
Manufacturer of Hair Goods and Cosmetics. 

HOEFFLER BROS,
Planing Mill and Lumber Yard
Contractors and Builders,
Houses for sale or exchange. Call and see us before purchasing
elsewhere.

Office in Planing Mill, Corner Main and Puffer Streets.
TELEPHONE NUMBER, [?260] [?2]

[?]cratic government, and who believe that the
administration of public trust by the Democratic
party in the Nation and in the State has
been such as to justify the confidence of the
people, are hereby requested to send three delegates
from each Assembly District to a Democratic
State Convention, to be held at Saratog
Springs on Thursday, September 24, at 12 o'clock
in[,?] of that day, to nominate candidates for the
State offices to be filled at the next election
and to transact such other business as may
come before the convention.
JOHN O'BRIEN, Chairman,
CHARLES K. GRANNIS, Sec'y.
[*2617*]
AN INTERESTING REPORT.
The committee of experts appointed by
the Mayor to investigate the fire and water
departments of the city filed their report
yesterday with Acting-Mayor Callahan,
who submitted it to the common council.
The committee as soon as appointed
went at its work in earnest and has devoted
considerable time and labor to thoroughly 
inquire into the personal equipment and
management of the fire department and the
actual facts regarding our water supply.
The St. Louis church and Morning Express
fires which led to the appointment of
the committee were carefully investigated
and the former was found to have
been badly managed while the 
latter is reported to have been
admirably handled. Some valuable 
suggestions for the better protection of the
city against fire, and for the improvement
of both the fire and water departments are
made by the committee that may be followed
to advantage. They advise an increase
of pay, more cordial co-operation
between the two departments
and that employes be more than thoroughly
drilled in the use of fire apparatus. Altogether
the report is an interesting and reliable
paper and if its recommendations are
heeded, the committee's appointment and
work will not have been in vain.
[*2618*]
A NOTABLE DEFECTION.
The Buffalo Express says: "A man in 
Toledo who was postmaster under Grant.
revenue agent under Hayes, and deputy
postmaster under Arthur, has announced
his conversion to Democracy. He has
gone where there are postmasters and
revenue agents." All the same Postmaster
Dowling, to whom our contemporary
refers, has been a power in
Ohio politics, and was an important factor
in the republicao party in that state long
before he held office. Moreover he is not
of the "bread and butter" pattern and will
not be accused by those who know him of
declaring for Cleveland in the hope of
retaining his office. But thers are some 
mighty small men at the head of the republican
machine in Ohio, and if the
truth was known Postmaster Dowling has
been tired of his political associations for
a long time. He is too broad gauged for
the little souls whom the Lord "for some
inscrutable purpose" permits to run the
the republican party in the Buckeye State,
THE FRUIT CROP.
The New England Homestead print a fruit
report from over 1,000 correspondents. New
[England New York N?]

[?]cago Times
reporter w[?] [?] him the other
day. "I will possitively say that I would
not have voted for the civil service law."
The Hoosier leader's democracy has never
been questioned, and he never fails to fairly 
reflect western democratic sentiment in his
acts and utterances.
THE customs receipts of Russia for 1884
amounted to $48,200,000—a slight decrease
as compared with the previous year. The
valuation of the European imports was
about $236,000,000, and the exports were
$31,000,000 in excess. Neither the imports
nor exports were as large as in the two
previous years. Under imports the class of
raw materials and semi-manufactured goods
constitutes more than one-half, while manufactured
make up one-fifth. Tea is the
chief article in food imports, and cotton is
the largest item in the raw material list.
The exports consisted mainly of the cereals.
The largest trade is done with Germany
which is to be credited with one-fourth of
the imports and one-third of the exports,
and Great Britain follows closely after.
SOME of our democratic exchanges seem
to have made up their minds that Governor
Hill has the lead for the nomination at
Saratoga next month and are endeavoring
to break him down. This is not the proper
spirit. That sort of work should be left to
the republican and mugwump journals that
inaugurated it. No good democratse paper
can afford to oppose Governor Hill's election
if he is nominated, and for that reason
they should not allow their preferences to
run away with them now. Let us have a
fair canvass of the merits of the respective
candidates before the nomination, and be
prepared to loyally ratify the selection of
the state convention. That is the way to
win.
THE Utica Observer has been taking notes
of the revival in business circles and remarks
that one of the most conservative of
financiers in Central New York, one who
ordinarily leans to the "bear" side in his
calculations, said a day or two ago that the
time for the turn in business had now
come. "If," he continued, "the newspapers
will stop dwelling on little failures
here and there and help to inspire confidence,
as they ought to do, business will be
booming and everybody busy in ninety
days."
This is a proper hint to the newspapers.
There is an improvement. It is felt. It is
not perhaps demonstrable, but it is here.
In the same connection the Brooklyn Eagle
declares it is "noticeable on all sides. The
merchants admit it; traders perceive it; 
the general community recognizes it.
THE republican press of Ohio is so busily
occupied in the work of tearing Dr. Leonard
the prohibition candidate for governor to
pieces, that it finds no time to devote to
Hoadly. According to these republican
papers Dr. Leonard is a very disreputable
sort of person who has been an arch hypocrite
in politics for many years. As the
the doctor is a graduate of the
republican party and received all
his education up to a few years
[?] [?]olitics we fear that
[?]m in the pres-
[?]tainly de-

The Flannel Department has been
removed to its old location up-stairs
to secure more room. New Fall
Goods are opened out and displayed
every day.
HOSIERY.
Our first shipment of Fall Hosiery
direct from France and Germany has
been received.
[*2617[?]*]
Ladies' four-thread Black Lisle Thread, extra
value, 65c and 75c per pair.
50 dozen Lisle Thread Hose, with unbleached
split foot, at 50c per pair—same value as we sold
for 65c this summer. It is the best value ever
offered in the city at 50c.
Ladies' light-weight Black and Colored Cashmere
Hose, newest shades.
Ladies' German Ribbed Hose in black and
colors, 25c per pair.
Children's Black and Colored Cashmere Hose
just received.
Children's Heavy French Ribbed Cotton Hose,
splendid for wear.
Children's German Ribbed Cotton Hose in 
black and white feet; very cheap.
100 dozen Men's Colored Cotton Half Hose,
with unbleached foot; splendid value at 25c per
pair.
Men's light-weight Cashmere and Merino
Half Hose at lowest prices.
Adam,
Meldrum &
Anderson.
396 to 402 Main st.
IKE
BOASBERG.
Licensed Pawnbroker, Room 2 and 3, 16 West
Eagle street. Money loaned on Clothing
Diamonds, Watches, and Jewelry of every
description. All business strictly confidential.
June 17-3m
[*2618A*] L. H. LOEPERE,
Real Estate Office,
903 WASHINGTON ST.
[?]-8m
THE ONLY OPTICIAN
In Buffalo that
fits Spectacles
upon examination
of the Eyes,
and the only Optician
in the state
that fits Astigmatic
lenses to
the eyes.
PROF. BURNHAM,
R moved to 390 Main street, next to Garsons.
may17-3m
A $35 Harness for $18
Is MONEY any object to you? Buy at wholesale
prices. Our No. 0 at $23, worth $45, No.
1 at $18, worth 35. No. 2 at $12, worth $20.
5,000 Sets sold last year. Goods sent on
approval to any place in the U. S. AGENTS
WANTED.
NATIONAL HARNESS CO.
14, 16, 18, 20 & 22 Wells st. Buffalo, N Y
PIANOS.
The celebrated DECKER & SON, New
York; SCHULER, Buffalo; PEEK & SON,
New York; E. H. McEWEN & CO. New 
York; also the PACKARD, Fort Wayne,
Ind., and STERLING, Derby, Conn.. Organs.
Orders received for Piano Tuning and
Repairing.
John M. Schuler, Office and Warerooms,
916 Main st.
5-31-3m
PIANOS.

Also CHEAP RESTAURANT. [?]
all hours. WM. SPELDER[?]
43 Lloyd Street., BUFFALO, [?]
BILL OF FARE.
Boarding and Lodging, per week....1 [?]
Lodging, per week ............ ........ 1.[?]
Rooms, per week...............$1.25 to 1.[?]
Meals, pork, beefsteak or eggs.........15 C[?]
Ham and eggs................. ..........25
Lodging, per night.......................15
Single rooms, per night.................25
Pork and beans..............................10
Milk and bread................................10
Coffee, bread and butter...........................5
Tea, bread and butter..............................5
Piece of pie........................................5
Sandwiches.....................................
FOR SALE.
On Sixteenth st., a 2-story new house, wil[?]
finished to suit purchaser. Sold very ch[?]
if sold soon. Lot 35x150.
17 Danforth st., cottage, suitable for la[?]
family; fruit. Lot 157x133 1/2.
252 Breckenridge st, a 2-story house suit[?]
for two families. Lot 33x150.
498 Porter avenue, 2-story frame house [?]
all modern improvements, fine location; [?]
cheap.
FOR RENT.
43 York st, 1 1/2-story house, all modern [?]provements;
also cottage. Call at 14 [?]
Swan street.
C. S. MURRAY [?]
FOR SALE OR TRAD[?]
TWO FARMS in Darien, 100 acres ea[?]
will trade for City Property or G[?]
Stocks.
52 feet on North Pearl street, between V[?]ginia
and Allen streets, at $110 per foot.
Trading in Real Estate a[?]
Securities
Made a specialty. Loans negotiated and [?]surance
placed in responsible companies.
A. W. PAUL,
8-13-eod-2w 529 Main st [?]
THE NUDGE
BULL & BOWEN [?]
Cor. Main & Chippewa S[?]
Bicycls
& Tricycl[?]
Repairing a Specialty [?]
may 31,3[?]
CITY CLERK'S OFFICE
Room No. 4, City and County Hall.
BUFFALO, August 22, 1885.
NOTICE is hereby given that the followi[n?]
entitled Assessment Rolls are on [fi?]
in this office, where persons in[?]
in can file objections thereto [?]
from the first publication o[?]
SEWERS [?]
6142—Constructing a 12 [?]
tile sewer in Dewitt s[?]
the sewer in Bird avenue [?]
99 feet northerly of Cli[?]
[?]nus, as a sanitary measu[?]
STREETS
6143—Grading DeWitt str[?]
width with a carriag[?]
wide from, Delevan a[?]
avenue....................
6145—Paving Washing[?]
wide with first [?]
sandstone and fl[?]
the north curb [?]
street to the s[?]
Goodell street.
6147—Repaving Mar[?]
point 110 feet n[?]
line of Virginia [?]
street, with fix[?]
sandstone..........[?]
aug22--5t
CITY CLER[?]
ROOM NO. 4, CITY AN[?]
BUFFAL[?]
NOTICE is hereby [?]
ing en itled Asse[?]
in this office where pers[?]
can file objections the[?]
from the first publication [?]
SEWER[?]
6126—Constructing a brick [?]
sewer from the Ferry s[?]
norther'y in the easterly [?]
Richmond avenue to th[?]
of Breckenridge street, an[?]
easterly in the center of [?]
[?]enridge street, to th[?]
[?]tre of Elmwood [?]
thence northerly through [?]
wood avenue to Clevelan[?]
nue thence easterly in the [?]
of Cleveland avenue to a [?]
300 feet westerly of Dela[?]
avenue...............................
W. P. BU[?]
aug19-5t
Horses for S[?]
Always on a Ball base and of
Canadian sad[?]
hunters thor[?]
[?]hing [?][?] investigating the
[?]ject thoy think that St. Louis church
[?]ould not have been allowed to burn, and
that the Express fire was well managed.
They find that the department is seriously
weakened by the detail of officers and men to
Headquarters where they are employed at
painting, repairing and other work. The
committee report that the eleven reservoirs
have not been attended to in the past and
should be in the future as they are of
greater service even than hydrants at a fire.
The commissioners recommends an increase
of the present force of men and an
INCREASE OF SALARIES
so that after three years of faithful service
a man will receive $800 per annum. They
went to New York and inspected the department
there and think very highly of
the tower used though it may not be a ne[?]essity
in Buffalo at present.
The report of the commission was signed
by all the members appointed by the
mayor, and upon motion of Alderman Pat[?]ge 
was referred to the committee on fire.
Josiah Ross appeared before the council
and complained of a sewer assessment. It
was of no avail and the roll was confirmed.
A large amount of routine business was
transacted and things were pretty dull until
4.43 p. m., when the council were forced
into hearty laughter by a resolution introduced
by Alderman Roesch. It was to
make William Togus and Thomas Collins
commissioner of deeds for the ensuing year
and was passed. Alderman Lockrow
moved to reconsider, but his resolution was
tabled on motion of Alderman White.
Alderman Benzinger of the committee
on public safety made a report showing
that Cutler's Rink was now in perfectly
safe condition. The council kept hard at
work until 6.30 and then adjourned.
Hard on the Old Lady.
Lawyer A. C. Caulkins obtained a judg[?]ent
sometime ago against Eva Warmuth,
a German lady about 60 years of age.
Hearing that she was about to leave for
Europe, he got out a warrant for her arrest,
and she was brought before Judge Hammond
yesterday. Her counsel maintained
that she had no money, and that as she had
[ne]ver been in jail before, she ought to be
[?] Caulkins claimed that she
[?]ewhere in her position.
[?]terest in some property on
[?]d upon her assigning this
[?] she was allowed to go, to
[?]y where else.
[?] son-in-law was an inter-
[?] He had the appearance
[?] 35th year. It is stated
[?]at she was induced by
[?] supposed was a will,
[?]o be a deed of all her
[?]ter. The daughter
[?]y reverted to her
[?]ried two or three
[?] is claimed tha the
[?]he information that
[?] AND PICNICS.
[?] When People May
[?]easant Time.
[?] Liedertafel excursion
[?]aturday evening.
[?]le's society of the Evan-
[?] will take a trip around
[?]t Friday.
[?] Uniformed Knights will
[?]ion over the Michigan Cen-
[?]ust 26, to Paradise grove.
[?]f the Cedar Street Baptist
[?]ave a moonlight excursion on
[?]le this evening, leaving the
[?] street at 7.45 o'clock.
[?]rnoon [?]e steamer Periwinkle
[?] her dock foot of Main street, at
[?]he Bedell house, [?] Sour Spring
[?]opping at Ferry street. Fare 25
[?]ents.
[?] and Social Club


fit of Music Hall fund was [?] yesterday
on account of the bad condition of the
weather. It has been postponed for a
week. It was given out unofficially that it
had been postponed until Wednesday, but
when the chairmen of the committees got
together last evening it was learned that
the grounds were engaged for every Wednesday
during the season, and that other
entertainments during the week interfered,
so that next Monday was the best day
available. The doors will open at 3 o'clock
in the afternoon. Next Sunday afternoon
the chairmen of the different committees
will hold another meeting at Tivoli Hall to 
make further arrangements.
The Plain Truth.
The Evening News of yesterday, under the
head of "Result of Bad Leadership—Only
Two Daily Papers of Buffalo are now in
Harmony With the Union," contains the
following:
President Heaton of the Typographical
Union says the foreman of the DAILY
TIMES is a "rat," and they "intend to run
him out of town." Mr. Heaton should remember
the attempt of Mr. Gawley, Franey
et al. to serve Foreman Schweigert of the
Courier in a like manner and the result. Its
a little strange, to say the least, that there
are only two union offices in this city—the
Evening News and Morning Express. Mr.
Thom and the Republic don't suit those exacting
printers, the Commercial is a "rat"
concern, and now the TIMES has had "all
the rope the union intends to give it." We
are sorry to see this state of affairs, but
publishers as well as printers are human
and cannot stand everything. The constant
nagging and petty annoyance to
which every publisher was subjected when
Gawley and Franey were running the 
union was enough to drive every office out
of the union, and the only wonder is that
any stadd in. The News believes in unions, 
and has always advocated them, but the
way the Printers' Union has been managed
in this city for the past two years has been 
a curse instead of a blessing to every member
of the craft. The disturbing element
should be rooted out and good men, of
whom there are plenty in the union, placed
in control.
Did Not Want the Place.
The Sunday Truth contained an account
of Mr. John Hanrahan's going to Washington.
and published an alleged report of his
application for Jack White's position as
mail transfer agent at Buffalo.
Mr. Hanrahan emphatically denies this.
He went to Philadelphia on business sometime
ago and also went to Washington.
Being well acquainted with the president
he gave him a call. He was well received
by the president who was glad to see his
old friend. Nothing however was said concerning
Mr. White's position, any report to
the contrary notwithstanding.
The Petition Denied.
Judge Lewis of the Supreme Court
handed down an opinion yesterday in the
suit of Dennis Sullivan, as administrator of
Thomas Sullivan deceased, against. The
Buffalo Grape Sugar Company. A petition
for a new trial and an extra allowance of
costs was denied. The suit was one to
recover $5,000 damages for negligence resulting
in the death of Thomas Sullivan,
one of the employes, in June 1881.
A New Minister Installed.
St. John's German Evangelical mission
chapel, on Detroit street, has a new pastor
in the person of Rev. T. H. Becker, who was
installed Sunday evening. Rev. J. Nicurn 
of Syracuse preached the sermon, Rev. F.
A. Kalcher and Rev. H. A. Kuever of Buffalo,
and Rev. L. Knapp of Lancaster assisted
in the ceremonies. The choir of 
St. John's Lutheran church furnished some
excellent music.
Bids for a New Police Station.
The following bids were opened yesterday
for the carpenter work on the new
police station at the corner of Seneca and
Babcock streets: J. Churchyard, $2,832;
Herman Lenz, $2,664; H. T. Baynes, $2,800;
Hofeller Brothers, $3,274; Conrad Kraft,
$2,650; John Feest, $2,636; Albert J. Hoffmeyer,
$2,819; Jacob Reiman, $4,152. The
contract was awarded to Mr. Churchyard.
Humboldt Parkway Land Company.
[?]rticles of incorporation of [?]
[?]y Land [?]

had [?]
tion and [?] the express
agreement that there should be no more
fairs. "I can prove" said Mr. Jewett
"that men were paid money for awarding
diplomas to certain parties. In the stove
department my stoves had no show for a
prize. The prizes one year were all awarded 
to stoves of inferior make and every
man on the awarding committee
RECEIVED A STOVE
for his house."
Mr. Delaney then told of an engineer
employed in his works. "When we were
working nights I suggested to him that he
send his wife up to the library as she would
be likely to become lonesome in the evenings.
He declined and alluded to the
library as a place where no decent woman
wanted to be seen." Mr. Delaney
explained this by telling of
Librarian Leavitt's little plan for obtaining
new members whose dues of $1 he pocketed
when paid. He used to go down to the
American block entrance when the Adelphi
band was playing and invite the spring
bottom pants dudes to come in. "Come
up, it will only cost you a dollar and you
can have all the fun you want. There is
lots of pretty girls upstairs." Other gentlemen
gave their ideas about the institute.
E. C. Hawks moved that the annual dues be
placed at $2, and half-yearly dues at $1.50,
which motion was carried. The meeting
adjourned without coming to any decision
conclusive as to the best plan for building
up the institute.
Surrogate's Court.
The will of Wilhelmina Boyes was probated
yesterday and letters granted to
Frederick Boyes.
In the matter of the estate of James M.
Hart, deceased, letters of administration
were granted to Catherine R. Hart.
The will of Catherine Helleck, late of
West Seneca was probated yesterday. The
administrator appointed is John Helleck.
The will of Calvin Hunt, late of Holland,
this county, was admitted to probate yesterday.
Letters testimentary were issued
to Horace Selleck.
Henry Fritsch, Sr., was appointed administrator
of the estate of his son Henry
Fritsch, who committed suicide some
weeks ago.
The will of Charlotte Moore was admitted
to probate yesterday afternoon and
letters issued to Henry F. Moore.
The will of Isaac Lapp was probated and
letters testimentary issued to Martha M.,
Charles H., and George A. Lapp and to
Eli Mensch.
Letters of administration of the estate of
Julia A. Wilson late of Buffalo were
granted to George and Francis W. Wright.
Letters of administration of the estate of
Charles A. Parker, late of Newstead, were
yesterday granted to Clarence E. Parker,
In the matter of the estate of Sophia
Detholf, letters of administration were
yesterday granted to Fred Detholf.
Flood at Silver Creek.
The heavy rains yesterday at Silver
Creek caused Silver and Walnut creeks to
be badly swollen. On Walnut creek an icehouse
belonging to H. J. Newton, and the
underpinning of the Dunkirk Street House
is partially washed away. Damage
about $100. On Silver Creek
a new dam, partially constructed by 
Howes & Ewell, was partially destroyed.
Loss $125.
A Good Patronage.
In spite of the cool weather Dennis'
swimming school on Allen street is patronized
daily by a large number of visitors.
As the water is heated before entering the
swimming pool, it makes very little difference
what the weather is like, as the temperature
of the water will remain the same.
Today the ladies w[?]
of the institution [?]
[?]
Lew[?]

[?] are now practically as
good as when first put on. It can be seen
in actual use in the following places: The
TIMES office, Urban Roller Mills, Courier
Co., Siegel's Brewery, Henz & Munschauer's
and several other places, where it is giving
entire satisfaction. Yates & Fordan, Buffalo,
N. Y., are the owners and patentees of
the article.
The Newspaper Thief Caught Again.
Robert Weed and Peter Joyce, each
aged 12 years, were arrested in the First
yesterday. They are charged with robbing
the money drawer of Charles Lapartine,
an Italian who keeps a fruit and peanut
stand in Spaulding's Exchange. Weed
has been before Justice King twice this
year, the last time about a week ago, when
he was convicted of stealing newspapers 
and fined $2. The police say he is a thorough
young "crook."
Charged With Abandoning Her Child.
Josie Moore, aged 20, a young colored
woman from Rochester, was arrested at
[5.15 yesterday] afternoon by Officers Lynch
and Ryan of the Third precinct. The police
received a telegram from Rochester a 
day or two ago, saying that Josie was
wanted there on a charge of abandoning
her child.
A Dangerous Practice.
A boy named John Marr stole a ride on a
Lake Shore freight train about 6 o'clock
last night. At the William street crossing
he fell from the cars and severely injured
his left side and neck. He was taken to his
home, 108 Fulton street.
PERSONAL
E. F. Leeds of Boston is at the Genessee.
L. H. Norvell of New York, is at the
Tifft.
W. S. Monk of Selma, Alabama, is at the
Tifft house.
G. W. Alexander of Chicago is stopping
at the Tifft.
W. E. Benson of Kansas City is registered
at the Tifft.
R. M. Smith of Starke, Florida, has a 
room at the Genesee.
Mrs. F. N. Forster of Fargo avenue, is
visiting in New York and vicinity.
W. W. Nevison and W. H. Nevison of
Lawrence, Kansas, have rooms at the Tifft
Mrs. A. J. Smith of Edenburg, Pa., is
visiting her sister Mrs. Thorner, of 244 
Ferry street.
Mrs. H. F. Rosier of the St. James hotel,
New York, is visiting Mrs. Kimberly of
Seventh street.
C. A. Stacey, a leading photographer of
Medina, N. Y., is the guest of George Conger
of York street.
J. J. Eaton and wife of Boston, and W.
H. Potter of the same place, are stopping at
the Genesee.
Quite a large party of New Yorkers is at
the Genesee, including Daniel W. Herman,
E. Titus and wife, and Misses Catterfield,
Turner and Jones.
City Calendar for Today.
Meeting of the West End Rowing club, 7 30
p m.
Meeting of Branch 15, C. M. B. A., St. Stephen's
hall, 8 p. m,
Cadets go into camp at North Collins. Leave
Erie depot at 8 a. m.
Nomination of officers of the Orpheus society,
Baecher's hall, 8 p. m.
Meeting of the Democratic committee of the
Second Assembly district for the purpose of
organization, at the house of Hon. Frank Glese
Pine and William streets, 8 p. m.
TALK OF THE TOWN.
Judge Childs' term begins to-day.
The storm signals along the Lake have been
ordered down.
C. M. Marsh of the firm of Burns & Marsh,
has returned from a trip to Coney Island.
The Citizens' Reform Association say they
have not [?] [?]e idea of making war on theliament should once more assemble in Dublin
it would develop the Healy clauses in
the land act, make tenants the owner of
their holdings and secure to laborers a
share in the land.
DUBLIN, Aug 24.--- Mr. Cliffors Lloyd's
recent article on Ireland and Irish affairs in
the London Times has provoked a scathing
rebuke from Earl Carnavon, which was issued
today.  Earl Carnarvan will shortly
visit the poorer districts of Donegal.
PARIS, Aug. 24.--- The French cabinet
officers officially apologized on Saturday
to the English embassy for the insult to
Lord Lyons in connection with the Pain
incident, Lord Lyons' secretary visited the
foreign office bearing an acceptance of the
apology.
AMSTERDAM, Aug. 24.---The socialist riot
which occurred here on Saturday, and
which was quelled by the police at the
point of the sword, was resumed today.
The mob charged the police; hurling a
shower of stones upon them.  The police
returned the charge, scattering the rioters
in all directions and seriously wounding
many of them.
Berlin, Aug. 24.---A number of placards
were posted on the walls and buildings
of Lousanne today urging the 
burning of the foreign embassies in this
city.  They were signed "The Swiss Secret
Anarchist Committee" and their appearance
has created a profound sensation.
MADRID, Aug 24---King Alfonso presided
over the council to-day..  The first official
note of protest by Spain against the occupation
by Germany of the Caroline Islands
was answerd by Germany offering to discuss
the question amicably.
A second protest of a more energetic
character was wired by the Spanish
government and to-day Germany replied
by wire that her attitude is entirely friendly,
and the Caroline affair should not interrupt
the ancient amity between Spain
and Germany.
The dispatch explains that Germany,
seeing no signs of Spanish domination, over
the Caroline islands assumed that Spain
had virtually abandoned them.  The German
government does not say whether any
of the island have been actually occupied.
Numerous anti-German demonstrations
growing out of Germany's annexation of 
the Caroline islands, were held throughout
Spain yesterday.
The ravages of the cholera throughout
Spain show no abatement; 5910 new cases
are reported for yesterday, and 1950 deaths.
TOULON, Aug. 24.---Fifty deaths from
cholera have occurred here during the past
twenty-four hours.
MARSEILLES, Aug. 24.---One hundred and
sixty deaths from cholera have occurred in
this city during the past forty-eight hours.
VIENNA, Aug. 24. The Emperor Francis
Joseph started for Kremsier today, where
he is to meet the czar.  His departure was
unattended by any incident of moment.
He was without escort, having declined the
services of a military escort.
A MAINE TRAGEDY.
A Shooting Affray Growing Out of the
Liquor Law.
Rockland, Me., Aug. 24.---Constable
Orne, who is hired by temperance people to
see that the liquor law is enforced and his
assistant, Jas. E. Clinton, recently made a 
seizure of liquors at the Lindsey hotel.
This noon Clinton and Severance, who is
proprietor of the Lindsey, met in the street
and exchanged hard words in reference to
the affair.  As they were walking along
[?] [?] applied an insulting epi[?]

[?ny] [im?]
[?untry].
The civil [?] [?] [?ers] have
written to the local [?] at Baltimore to
strike the name Frank A. Giese from
their list of persons who have passed the
examination and are eligible for appointment
as letter carriers.  Mr. Giese is the
young man who was recommended for appointment
as a substitute letter carrier on
an examination taken by his brother, who
impersonated him before the local board.
Judge Thoman of the civil service commission 
will conduct examinations for the
department service at Milwaukee September
3, St. Paul September 5, Bismarck
September 8, Helema, Mon., September 15, 
Portland September 19, Seattle, Wyoming 
Territory, September 22, and San Francisco
October 1.
Washington, Aug. 24---An inquiry has
been made at the post office department as
to whether the special stamp system which
is to go into effect October 1st will apply to
merchandise as well as to letters and as to
whether packages having this stamp will be
delivered.  Department officers held that
the intent of the law is to provide for the
prompt delivery of first class matter only
but that merchandise not to exceed four
pounds may be put up as first class matter,
and it would undoubtedly be specially delivered,
but it would cost the sender more
to send it by mail than by express, especially
if the distance is short.  Third and fourth
class mail matter can be sent long
distances more cheaply than by express because
the mail rates are the rates all over 
the United States while the express
are regulated by the distance to be travelled.
commissioner Atkins of the Indian Bureau
has returned to the city much improved by his vacation.
THE LOUISVILLE SUICIDE.
The Lady Who Took Her Life a Former
Society Leader.
LOUISVILLE, KY., Aug 24--- Further development
in the case of Miss Laura
Nourse, who drowned herself here last
Wednesday, reveals the fact that she came 
of a prominent family well known in the 
East.  The dead woman's aunt, who lives
at Buckner's, Kentucky, near this city, is
Mrs. L. S. Hagner.  Shewas at one time a 
leader in Washington's society, her husband
holding a high position in the army.  Mrs.
Hayner's daughter related the history
of the suicide's life and antecedents
to a United Press reporter as follows:
"Her mother was Miss Stansbuy, of Washington
and a sister of my mother.  She was
a member of one of the most prominent
families in Washington.  She married Henry
H. Nourse, a prominent lawyer of Washington,
and at one time editor of one of the
leading papers there.  Laura was born in
Washington.  After her husband's death it
was found that his estate was very much
involved.  My aunt then removed to New
York city and became a regular contributor
the leading magazines.  She died six
years ago, leaving three children.
After her mother's death Laura
mained in New York for three years, where
she supported herself by literary work.
She was a brillant woman, but her great
failing was her pride.  She would not be
dependent upon any one, and determined
to make her own living.  Laura's family
connections on both her father and mother's 
side is a large one.  The Rev. F. H. Wines
of Springfield is her cousin.  she has several
uncles in Washington, one of them is
Mr. Wm. Nourse, who is very wealthy.
Another is Prof. Newcomb of the National
Observatory.  She is also a nicec of Prof.
James Nourse of the Washington Observatory
[?] [?] numerous other relatives in

[?panies] [t?]
me.  I at once made arrangements to inform
the insurance companies, but the next 
day I read a statement that Maxwell had
confessed that the body was Preller's, and
that he had accidentally killed him with
chloroform.  In view of those facts I knew
not what to think.  Maxwell started for
the west two or three days after the
above mentioned incident.  Preller left
some days before Maxwell.  The latter
always passed as Maxwell in Boston, and
claimed to be an illegitimate son of Lord
Farnham.  He was an enthusiast on medicine,
but he never spoke of law, though he
seemed to boast of everything he knew.  I 
believe that Maxwell has something he is
holding back which will favor him and
possitively clear him.  If he is guilty he
certainly has a wonderful command over
his nerves, totally different from his characteristics
here, for the least thing always 
unnerved him.
U'VALDE, Texas, Aug. 24.---Samuel Marvels,
white, while intoxicated last night on the
street was very noisy.  His brother William
came along and persuaded him to
go home saying, "Sam you're too
full to be on the street."
Sam exclaimed: "Full, am I , then I'll
make you full," and drawing his pistol,
shot his brother three times in the abdomen.
His brother is dying and Sam escaped.
WILMINGTON, Del., Aug. 24.---The coroner's 
jury in the case of H. L. McGinnis,
who was shot and killed at Schutzen park
yesterday, have found that McGinnis was
murdered by Theodore Becker. lessee of
the park.  Becker is in custody.
LITTLE ROCK, Ark., Aug. 24.---News of a
sad tragedy near Eldorado Ark., yesterday,
is just received.  Two planters, George B.
Toole and James H. Jones, quarreled over
some neighborhood gossip in which a third
party was involved.  Toole and Jones
armed themselves with shot guns and went
to the house of the man implicated, when
Toole repeated a statement he had made
derogatory of the man's character, and
which he stated Jones had told 
him.  Hones called him a liar.
Toole fired at Jones but did not
hit him.  Jones returned the fire killing 
Toole.  The parties are highly respectable.
Jones' act has been declared justifiable.
EMPORIA, Kan., Aug 24.---The sudden
death of Hon. J. R. Walkeyr, president of
the city council and acting mayor, which
occurred on Saturday evening, has caused
intense excitement and his wife, a beautiful
young woman of 18, has been arrested
on suspicion of having poisoned him.  The
alleged object of the crime is to realize
on the husband's property and life insurance,
in all worth about $30,000.  A postmortem
examination was held yesterday at
which Mrs. Walkeyr admitted that she had
purchased strychnine and arsenic but used
the former for removing stains from
clothing and the latter for her complexion.
Pending a chemical analysis of the stomach
the jury adjourned until Monday.
BEECHER ALL RIGHT.
The Plymouth Pastor Will Hold the Fort
in Brooklyn.
NEW YORK, Aug. 24.---Rev. S. B. Halliday,
assistant pastor of Plymouth church,
was asked today if there was any truth in
the story published in a morning paper to 
the effect that Mr. Beecher's services were
likely to be dispensed with soon by
the Plymouth church.  Mr. Halliday
replied: "It is all nonsense.  It is preposterous.
No doubt some of Mr. Beecher's 
friends were disappointed at his course last
fall, but that's all over and nearly [forgot?]

the relationship at present [ecis?]
the two associations.
The conference lasted five hours [?]
one outside of the committee and [?]
[?taries] was allowed to be present. [W?]
End Rowing Club's house after their [?]
[?tory] Sunday.  After the race was finished
the winning crew went away on the Buffalo
rowing club's excursion.  The members
of the West Ends who remained behind
kept open house to their friends till late in
the evening.  Congratulations were
showered upon the friend of the lucky
crew and a most joyful day was passed.
When the crew first arrived at their boathouse,
C. A. Stacey, a Medina photographer
was among those on hand to congratulate
them.  Mr. Stacey was recognized by
friends in the club and requested to bring
his photographic apparatus.  he did so and
succeeded in securing four excellent negatives
of the winning crew in different positions.
THE BASE BALL CONFERENCE.
SARATOGA, N. Y., Aug. 24.--- The meeting
of the joint conference committee of the
National League and the American association
of baseball clubs, was held at the
Grand Union hotel today.  The league was
represented by A. H. Soden of Boston A. 
G. Spaulding of Chicago and J. B. Day of
New York , and Messrs. Chris Von Der [Ahe?]
of St. Louis,  C. H. Eyrne of Brooklyn and
Lewis Simmons of Philadelphia, represented
the American association.  After a
thorough discussion of the interests of the
two associations a definite and uniform
plan of action was adopted governing the
future course of all leagues and association
clubs, declining to pay to players advance
money on future contracts.
BAKER GETS PUNISHED.
ROCHESTER, N. Y., Aug. 24.---The [?]
Slattery fight came off this afternoon [?]
Troutsburg.  There were fully 200 persons
present.  Six rounds were fought, both men
rushed the fighting and straight slugging
prevailed throughout the fight.  Baker was
badly cut above the eye and nose, and had
his hand hurt.  At the end of the contest
Slattery showed little or no signs of punishment.
The fight was declared in favor
of Slattery on the sixth round, as Baker
made three straight fouls.  Betting started
at $10 to $1 on Baker, but soon changed to
good odds on Slattery.
BASE BALL GAMES YESTERDAY.
At Philadelphia.
Philadelphia........0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 - 0
Boston..................1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 - 2
Base hits - Philadelphia 6, Boston 6.
Errors - Philadelphia 4, Boston4.
Pitchers - whitney and Ferguson.
Umpire - Curry
At New York
New York...........[ ?] [?] 1 1 1 0 0 [?] [?] - [?]
Providence...........0  0   0 3 0 1 0 [?] [?] - [?]
Base hits- New York [?3], Providence 8.
Errors - New York 7, Providence 9.
Pitchers - Keefe and Radbourne.
Umpire - Ferguson.
NOTES.
The West End club requests the [pres?]
of every member at the boat house [?]
evening to assist in celebrating last [?]
day's victory.
The young Essex base ball club [?]
the young Exile's Sunday, by a score of [?]
to 8.  Quill's batting and playing was [t?]
special feature of the game.  The winners
are getting vain, and want any club whose
members are under 16 years of age to challenge
them.  If any club can see a chip [?]
the Essex's shoulder, let them [add?]
'Collins, 184 Carroll street."
BOARD OF HEALTH.














C. A. GATCHELL & CO.,
   Wholesale and Retail
ANTHRACITE
      AND             COAL
   BITUMINOUS
      And Coke Dealers:
OFFICE--ROOMS 8 AND 9 HAYEN
                 BUILDING.
Cor. Main and Seneca streets. Telephone
                              No. 179.                        -6m
[*2619*]
--------------------------------------------------------------
JOHN REARDON, Agent,
            DEALER IN
ANTHRACITE AND BLOSSBURG
                 COAL.
   Orders by mail promptly attended to.
Office and Yard, 47 Fulton St., near Market
   Buffalo, N. Y.                              daly 10-5rs
---------------------------------------------------------------
THOS. LOOMIS & CO.,


THRACITE,
   BITUMINOUS,              Coal
      BLOSSBURG
   Connellsville Coke:
OFFICE: Rooms 3 & 4 White Building, first
                               floor.      1-27-1y
----------------------------------------------------------------
A. J. PACKARD,
WHOLESALE
      AND                             Coal,
   RETAIL
      HARD AND SOFT
   200 Washington street, Buffalo, N. Y.
10-18-yr
----------------------------------------------------------------
[*2620*]             REAL ESTATE.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Hastings & Co
FOR SALE.
No. 5 Brown's Building.
   Elegant furniture and lease of boarding
house at half price.
   FOR SALE BELOW COST--210 E. Utica
story frs me, lot 87x197.
   RESIDENCE FOR SALE CHEAP--Property
4698 Main street, known as the Alberger
Homestead, 400 feet front, on Main street,
running through to Michigan, and 390 feet on
Michigan street, with frame dwelling and
barn. Fruits and shrubery all in good order
   Beautiful residence, Allen street; to be
sold at a bargain if applied for soon.
   89 Sixteenth, 2-story frame, lot 30x149.
   455 Vermont--1 1/4 story, cellar, lot 25x145.
   161 16th, 2-story frame; lot 27x131.
   108 Hampshire, 2-story frame, cheap.
                               TO RENT.
   Boarding house, 97 Ellicott, good chance.
   878 Pennsylvania, gas, water and cellar, $300.
   88 16the st, 1 1/2-st. fr., 4 bed rooms, $200.
   6 rooms, 218 Swan, centrally located, $14.
   510 Connecticut, 2-story frame cheap, $200.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
DR. DON, 178 E. Swan Street,
Buffalo, N. Y. treats successfully all diseases
of CHRONIC AND PRIVATE NATURE.
Happy relief of Nervous Debility, Lost Manhood,
Excesses and Abuse, causing Loss of
Memory, Unfitness for Business, Obstacles to
Marriage, Blood Poisoning, Disease of the
Throat, Skin and [Bu?es] radically [??? of C????]
[??????????] if [our????.] Advice free and [pri????]
     Books and private circulars and [medi????]
   sent everywhere. Send stamp. Office
[???rs,] 9 a. m. to 4 p. m.; 6 p. m. to 9 p. m.
[???days,] 2 to 3 p. m. Call or write.
[??????-1w]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
                            CITY NOTICE.
                               -----------
               CITY TREASURER'S OFFICE,
                  BUFFALO, Aug. 20, 1885.
[???ice] is hereby give that I have this day 
[????ed] from the City Comptroller the following
local assessment rolls, which can be paid
at my office in the City and County Hall. Said
[?olls] will be augmented by the addition of one
[??] per cent. thereto for every month the same
[??main] unpaid thirty (30) days after the above
[?ate,] viz:
                                DREDGING.      [*2622*]
[???3]--Dredging Peck slip and all obstructions
   removed, except rock, from Buffalo river to
   Blackwell canal, so as to create a depth of
   [?6] feet of water below low water mark, in a
   channel 140 feet wide in the center of said
   [??]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[?????????????????????????????????] Lost,
           Want to find owner of Anything,
              Want a Second hand Carriage,
Want to Sell a House,
   Want to Sell a Piano,
      Want to Sell a Horse,
         Want to Sell a Sewing Machine,
            Want to Buy a Horse,
               Want to buy a house and lot,
Want a Job at Plastering,
   Want a Job at Bookkeeping,
      Want a Job at Carpentering,
         Want a Job at Blacksmithing,
            Want to Find Anyone's Address,
               Want to Sell a Stock of Goods,
   ADVERTISE IN THE TIMES.
More News, More Readers and a greater
amount of advertising than any other morning
paper in the state excepting New York
City. Its advertising rates are very reasonable.
For information and rates address,
      The Times Co., Limited,
                                191 MAIN ST.,
   (Times Building.)            BUFFALO.
---------------------------------------------------------------------      
                 WANTED--Male Help
---------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED--Situation as coachman; understands
the care of horses perfectly; have
had years' experiences. Good references. Address
J. B., Times office.      8-23-21
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED--Reable business man with
$500 to $1,000 to take active interest in
business that is a monopoly. Goods sell to the
trade. For particulars address C. B., this office
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED--Situation as coachman; understands 
the care of horses perfectly; have
had years' experiences. Good references. Address
J. B., Times office.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
BUSINESS NIGHT SCHOOL.--Bryant's
College, German Insurance building,
opens September 1.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED--Situation, by a gentleman, as
private secretary, assistant editor or
bookkeeper or proof-reader; references and
testimonials; good address. B. C. R., 140 Delaware
ave., Black Rock,                   8-12-1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED--Two men who understand milking.
Inquire 896 Perry street.     8-22-1
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
COMMERCIAL NIGHT SCHOOL, corner
Main and Chippewa, reopens September
2. H. G. A. Smith, principal, 193 Glenwood ave.
                                                 8-12-14
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED--Boy; one who can set type, run
job press, and make himself generally
useful. Address A.                8-20-3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SITUATION WANTED--By a young man
to learn type-setting or drive a delivery
wagon. Address G. H., 68 Fremont Place.
                                                  8-16-23
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
                     HELP WANTED--Female
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED--Diningroom girls at the Fillmore
House. Apply at once.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
BUTTERICK'S fashions just received for
September. Call and see the new styles,
8 Eagle street.                 8-21-2
------------------------------------------------------------------
A DRESSMAKER--Who understands all
kinds of sewing, desires engagements in
families. Address No. 226 East Seneca street.
                                         8-21-4
-------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED-A good girl for general housework
in a family of two. No washing.
Colored girl preferred. Must be a good waitress,
good cook and come well recommended. Apply
at 86 Chippewa street.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
HELP WANTED--Eight or ten good, active
men or women at once. Two or three
German speakers. Call at 302 DeWitt street at
5 p. m. today.  [*2621*]    8-18-g
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
BRYANT'S BUSINESS COLLEGE.--German
Insurance building; open day and
evening. Sessions open September 1. Offers
unequalled advantages. Departments for
bookkeepers, actual business practice, penmanship,
stenography and English branches.
Send for fifty-page illustrated catalogue.
                                                                        8-15-20
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED--Immediately, on salary, a
number of energetic ladies and gentlemen
to introduce Grant's life. Call 86 E.
Eagle street.                       Z. T. WELLS,
   8-13-1                           General Manager.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
WANTED--At 78 Richmond avenue, a
washwoman for half day Tuesday or
Wednesday of each week.             8-13-6
--------------------------------------------------------------------
          FOR SALE OR TO RENT.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
IF you want your carpets thoroughly cleaned,
steamed and camphored and made as clean
as new, send to the Camphor Steam Carpet
Cleaning Works, 270 West Genesee street.
                                                                     8-21-tf
---------------------------------------------------------------------
FOR SALE.--A well established manufacturing
business, Will trade for city
or country property. Address "Knight,"
Times office.                                          8-15-7
---------------------------------------------------------------------
FOR RENT.--101 West avenue, two stories
gas, water and sewer. Inquire 137 Main

[??,] 70 and 72 Seneca Street.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Golden Grain
Whiskey
Distilled from the Best Selected Rye and Barley Malt
                                              BY--
E. N. COOK & CO.
   WARRANTED FREE FROM ALL IMPURITIES
                               FOR SALE BY
W. Laverick & Co.,                        Chas. Person
C. F. Nagle & Co.,                          A. Baetzhold
Dingens Broither,                          John C. Eagan
P. Becker & Co.,                             Powell & Plimpto
Keller & Boller,                               John R. Fero,
O. L. Harries,                                  Fuchs Brothers,
Henry Quinn,                                 A. Fornes & co
Gillig & Bernhardt,                        Charles J. Heinold,
                        And all other Wholesale Dealers.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Job Lots of Wall Paper!
   At any price, from the best Hand-made Gilt down to Brown
                                                        Blanks.
WINDOW SHADES, FIXTURES, ROOM MOULDING,
     Etc., at unusual low price. Call before purchasing elsewhere!
          A. NEUPERT & CO.
361 Main and 360 Washington Streets
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
     GREAT "MARK DOWN"
                --IN--
         STRAW HATS!
               --------
J. E. BERGTOLD, 293 Main St.
---------------------------------------------
     ATTENTION!
For balance of the season all Suits and Pants reduced from 10 to [?????]
                               cent   Suits to order [???????????????????????]
[??????????????????????????????????????????]

Summer Rain. 

Gentle dew, not vainly art thou sent, 
Oh! not alone to cheer the drooping flower
And thirsty land with its long yearning spent; 
But o'er a human heart that inly grieves
Has thou the greater and the nobler power. 

Sweet spirit, stirring all the joyous leaves, 
Thy tiny footsteps, like a Fairy train. 
Go softly stealing by the lattice eaves, 
Or lightly dash upon the casement pane, 
Whispering the rose, in language she doth know, 
For her fair face is turn'd to thee again. 

A pleasant song thy wondrous music weaves, 
For beauty's child, so lately faint and low, 
Bless'd in thy coming she, methinks, doth rise 
With mantling cheek and joy-inspiring eyes! 
What is thy secret power, sweet Summer Rain? 

Oh, art thou not the tear of Pity shed
From its pure fount within a mortal breast? 
Life's truest balm, the word of kindness spread 
In darken'd homes where sorrow seeketh rest; 
The dew of fond Affection deeply blest 
Above its own, in lavish freedom pour'd,
Or Mercy's gift to prayer and thankfulness
When health and peace united are restored. 

These, like heaven's moisture on the lifeless land, 
Creation's flower the folded mind expand, 
Till with the freshen'd herb we turn and bless
A power unseen, for happy days renewed, 
In our accepted songs of Gratitude. 
2629 


My Country. 

Nay, tell me not of each bright spot, 
Where Rome's proud eagle fled---
The martyr's peace of hopeless Greece, 
Where blood like rain was shed! 
For mem'ry lights fair Princeton's heights, 
Where freedom fought and won, 
And he who led to glory's bed, 
Was our own Washington. 

I know that fame hath many a name 
That time cannot destroy, 
And youth and age shall read the page, 
That tells of fallen Troy. 
But proudly hung a banner flung 
Out o'er the walls of Time; 
There shines as bright in living light, 
 The name of Brandywine. 

I oft have read of England's dead, 
Who slept at Waterloo---
Of those who lie 'neath India's sky, 
To king and country true, 
But never word my heart has stirred, 
Nor can its fibres thrill, 
As when I read of those who bled 
And died at Bunker Hill. 

The sons of France have lain the lance
Of haughty foeman low--- 
On many a plain of haughty Spain 
Still sleep the haughty foe, 
And Greece may boast of heroes lost, 
Of her own a Marathon, 
But there is not another spot
Hath reared a Washington.     2630 


Charity. 

Charity!  the vital air of heaven, 
The very life of all who dwell in bliss ! 
Those that world its blessed light hast given, 
When wilt thou reign as perfectly in this ?
Come to our bosoms,---to our senses come,--- 
Hold in our souls an undivided sway ! 
Make our dark spirits thine eternal home, 
Bright with thy presence as the realms of day.
Shed they sweet beams o'er all the realms abroad, 
To rouse enlighten, elevate and soothe; 
Warm griefs bleak dwelling with the smile of God, 
And cheer its darkness with the blaze of truth, 
Scatter the shades of selfishness and sin, 
And pour heaven's noonday sun, thine own effulgence
in.     2531 


Shades of Sadness. 
BY THOMAS HOOD. 
Oh! clasp me sweet, while thou art mine, 
And do not take my tears amiss; 
For tears must flow to wash away
A thought that shows so stern as this. 
Forgive me, if I somewhile shade
With woe to come the present bliss, 
As frightened Prosperine let fall 
Has flowers at the sight of Dis,
Even so the dark and bright will kiss. 
The sunniest things throw sternest shade, 
And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid ! 

Now let us with a spell invoke
The full orbed moon to grieve our eyes; 
Not bright---not bright---but with a cloud
Lapp'd all about her, let her rise 
All pale and dim, as if from rest
The shade of the late lurid sun 
Had crept into the skies. 
The moon!  she is the source of sighs; 
The very face to make us sad, 
If we but think of other times!
The same calm quiet look she had, 
As if the world held nothing base, 
Of vile and mean of fierce and bad; 
The same fair light that shone in streams, 
The fairy lamp that charmed the lad; 
For so it is, with spent delights 
She taunts mens' brains, and make them mad. 
All things are touched with melancholy, 
Born of the secret soul's mistrust, 
To feel her fair ethereal wings 
Weighed down with the vile degraded dust; 
Even the bright extremes of joy 
Bring on conclusions of disgust, 
Like the sweet blossoms of May, 
Whose fragrance ends in must. 
Oh, give her then her tribute just, 
Her sighs and tears, and musings holy ! 
There is no music in the life
That sounds with idiot laughter solely; 
There's not a string attuned to mirth, 
But has its chord in melancholy.     2632 


The night has a thousand eyes, 
And the day but one; 
Yet the light of a whole world dies 
With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes, 
And the heart but one; 
Yet the debt of a whole life dies 
When love is done.     2633 


From the Dublin University Magazine. 
The Embroideress at midnight. 
The following touching lines by Mrs. James Gray, 
on the employment of the ornamental seamstress 
will be read with interest: 

She plies her needle till the lamp
Is waxing pale and dim; 
She hears the watchman's heavy tramp 
And she must watch like him--- 
Her hands are dry, her forehead damp, 
Her dark eyes faintly dim. 

Look on her work---her blossom flowers, 
The lily and the rose, 
Bright as the gems of summer hours, 
But not to die like those: 
Here, fadeless us in Eden's bowers, 
For ever they repose. 

Once, maiden, thou wert fresh and fair, 
As those sweet flowers of thine; 
Now, shut from sunny light and air, 
How canst thou cheese but pine? 
Neglected flows thy raven hair, 
Like th' uncultur'd vine. 

Look on her work---no common mind 
Arranged that glowing group---
Wild wreaths the stately roses bind, 
Sweet bells above them droop---
 Ye almost see the sportive wind, 
Parting the graceful group! 

Look on her work!---but look the more
On her unwearied heart, 
And put aside the chamber door
That doth the daughter part
From that dear mother who before 
Taught her this conning art. 

She sleeps---that mother, sick and pale---
She sleeps---and little deems 
That she, who doth her features vail 
All day, in fitting gleams 
Of anxious hope, this hour doth hail, 
But not for happy dreams. 

God bless her in her lone employ, 
And fill those earnest eyes
With visions of the coming joy, 
Waiting her sacrifice, 
When they who give her this employ, 
Pay her its stinted price. 

Think how her trembling hand will clasp 
The treasure it will hold, 
With that which seems a greedy grasp, 
Yet not for love of gold; 
That look, that sigh's relieving gasp, 
Its deeper springs unfold. 

Think how her hasty feet will roam, 
The market and the street, 
To purchase for her humble home
The food and clothing meet, 
And with that gladness she will come, 
Back to this poor retreat! 

Poor maiden!  if the fair ones who
Thy graceful 'broidery buy, 
Only one-half thy struggles knew, 
And filial piety, 
Methinks some drop of pity's dew 
Would gem the proudest eye! 

It is not here its full reward 
Thy gentle heart will prove; 
Here, ever must thy lot be hard, 
But there is One above
Who sees and will not disregard
Thy consecrated love. 
2634 


[From the London Punch.] 
"The Three Births of France." 

Up from the coast post follows post;  each minute brings
its tale; 
Rumor meets rumor open-mouthed, and feverish and
pale;
Along the wires electric fires flash tidings to and fro; 
A great world-birth is breeding---France is again in throe. 

Two such births she had borne before---the first, an awful 
birth, 
A giant with a bloody hand, its stamp still stains the
earth; 
For blood, not milk, his mother's breasts he tore with 
hunger keen, 
His lullaby the Carmagnole, his toy the guillotine. 

But races twain met in his strain, with adverse workings 
strong. 
An angel and a devil---pure Right and hideous Wrong; 
This urged his red right hand to slay, that moved his left
to save, 
Half-murderer, half-martyr, half-hero, and half-slave. 

The tomb that closed upon him, closed on his evil, too; 
But the good bore fruit and flourished, and gave birth to
good anew; 
And the world sees in his memory, with wonder and with
awe, 
How bannings grew to blessings, and lawlessness to law. 

The great light of the future was gathered in his gloom; 
The great tree of the future hath its roots within his
tomb. 
And the wisdom of the wise has taught how, in that wintry
morn
Of the closing eighteenth century, a mighty child was
born. 

And forty years had sped away, and in the summer prime 
France was in child-birth pangs again, as in that earlier
time; 
And Europe watched around the bed where that fair
mother lay. 
And a second revolution came to the light of day. 

A milder, meeker, gentler child than that first giant he, 
No blood-stain on his hand was seen, to check the gossips' 
glee; 
Yet stern of look, and sinewy, more mighty, as more
mild, 
Was he the world then welcomed, a bland and blameless
child. 

No Ca Ira rang round his bed, no red cap decked his
brow, 
And the world said, "Surely France will be a happy 
mother now!" 
He had all his brother's beauty, but nothing of his frown, 
More than his strength for building up, if less for pulling
down. 

And for a nursing father they gave the child a king. 
And they girt him round with charters, and laws, a stately
ring, 
And they looked to see him grow to man in free, unchecked
advance, 
To be a blessing to the world, a glory unto France. 

A wily man that fosterer was---he had lessons learnt
enow, 
And men read Right and Law and Truth, writ on his
wrinkled brow.
And much he talked of honor, and much of Peace did
phrase, 
That Monarch of the Barricades, King of the glorious
Days. 

"I'll rear this child on truth," he said.  He reared it all 
on lies. 
"It's freedom I will strengthen."  He sapped its liberties. 
"I'll live for it and France."  Both France and it lived
but for him. 
"I'll make its name all glorious."  He stained its honor
dim. 

For the guard of law about the child, he placed a guard of
swords, 
Its craving for realities he fed with hollow words; 
For its loving friends of liberty he paid to despots court, 
And when it asked for guarantees, he built it up a fort. 

Whenever he said Principle, behold it turned to Pelf; 
Whenever he said Country, behold it turned to Self. 
Till the infant's strength grew weakness, its constitution 
shrunk, 
And helot-like it walked the world, with wine of falsehood
drunk. 

No wonder that the child grew sad, and sickened, day by 
day; 
No wonder those who loved it fell, one by one, away; 
No wonder all the hopes that smiled around it at its birth
Sunk, slow and silent, from its path, and left its heart a
dearth. 

We heard the tale with sorrow---yet dreamed we nought
the more
That the last hour was nigh at hand, the footstep at the
door; 
But so it is---its drink, its meat, empoisoned all with lies, 
That second child, at bare seventeen, a rotten carcase 
dies! 

And France is in the throes again, and who upon the
earth
May say what frame and feature will mark this latest 
birth? 
But take warning anguished mother, from the sad tale
we have told,     2635 
Beware such kings for fosterers---kings who love lies and
gold. 


THE EVENING MERCURY. 

THE WAGONER. 
I've often thought if I were asked
Whose lot I envied most---
What one I thought most lightly tasked 
Of man's unnumbered host--
I'd say I'd be a mountain boy,
And drive a noble team,  Wo, hoy! 
Wo, hoy!  I'd cry, 
And lightly fly
Into my saddle-seat; 
My rein I'd clack---
My whip I'd crack; 
What music is so sweet? 

Six blacks I'd drive, of ample chest, 
All carrying high the head; 
All harnessed tight and gaily drest, 
In winkers tipped with red---
Oh yes, I'd be a mountain boy,
And such a team I'd drive, Wo, hoy! 
Wo, hoy!  I'd cry, 
The hat should fly---
Wo, hoy!  you Dobbin!  Ball! 
Their feet should ring, 
And I would sing---
I'd sing my fol de rol. 

My bells would tingle, tingle-ling, 
Beneath each bear-skin cap! 
And as I saw them swing and swing, 
I'd be the merriest chap--- 
Yes, then, I'd be a mountain boy, 
And drive a tingling team,  Wo, hoy! 
Wo, hoy!  I'd cry---
My work should fly; 
Each horse would prick his ear
With tightened chain 
My lumbering wain 
Would move in its career. 

The golden sparks, you'd see then spring
Beneath my horses' tread;
Each tail, I'd braid up with a string
Of blue or flaunting red; 
So, does, you know, the mountain boy
Who drives a dashing team, Wo, hoy! 
Wo, hoy!  I'd cry---
Each horse's eye 
With fire would seem to burn! 
With lifted head
And nostrils spread
They'd seem the earth to spurn. 

They'd champ the bit, and fling the foam, 
As on they dragged my load; 
And I would think of distant home, 
And whistle on the road---
Oh!  would I were a mountain boy--- 
I'd drive a six-horse team,  Wo, hoy! 
Wo, hoy!  I'd cry---
Now by yon sky, 
I'd sooner drive those steeds
Than win renown 
Or wear a crown
Won by victorious deeds! 

For crowns oft press the languid head, 
And health the wearer shuns, 
And victory, trampling on the dead, 
May do for Goths and Huns---
Seek them who will, they have no joys
For mountain lads, and wagon-boys.     2636COMMON THINGS:---By Mrs Hawkshaw. 

The sunshine is a glorious thing, 
That comes alike to all, 
Lighting the peasant's lowly cot, 
The noble's painted hall. 

The moonlight is a gentle thing, 
It through the window gleams
Upon the snowy pillow where
The happy infant dreams. 

It shines upon the fisher's boat 
Out on the lonely sea; 
Or where the little lambkins lie, 
Beneath the old oak tree 

The dew drops on the summer morn 
Sparkle upon the grass; 
The village children brush them off,
That through the meadows pass. 

There are no gems in monarch's crowns 
More beautiful than they; 
And yet we scarcely notice them, 
But tread them off in play. 

Poor robin on the pear-tree sings, 
Beside the cottage-door; 
The heath flower fills the air with sweets, 
Upon the pathless moor. 

There are many lovely things, 
As many pleasant tones, 
For those who sit by cottage hearths
As those who sit on thrones.
[*2637*]


Love. 
Love was ever yet a martyr; 
Bred in sorrow, born in pain;
Tossed about on troubled waters; 
By a scornful arrow slain. 
Wherefore, then, O fairest lady,  
Bid me sing of love again? 

I was young, and I was dreaming, 
When a burning vision came, 
Lighted up my eyes with passion, 
Touched my cheeks with crimson shame, 
Smote my heart, that shrank and trembled, 
Till it burst abroad in flame. 

Long the Vision seemed to linger; 
Then, without a smile or sound, 
Passed beyond my humble region, 
Like the sun when seaward bound, 
Glorious---but content with having
Cast a glory on the ground. 

Now I dwell within the shadows, 
And the Dream that shone of yore 
Lighteth up another passion---
Lingereth on another shore; 
Leaving Love, that was the martyr, 
Master still, for ever-more! 
Barry Cornwall. 
[*2638*] 


While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting at the door, 
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say, 
Oh!  Hard times come again no more. 

CHORUS.
Tis the song and the sigh of the weary, 
Hard times come again no more, 
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door, 
Oh!  Hard times come again no more. 
Repeat. 

Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears, 
While we all sup sorrow with the poor, 
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears, 
Oh!  Hard times come again no more. 
Tis the song &c. 

There's a pale drooping maiden who toils her life away, 
With a worn heart whose better days are o'er, 
Though her voice would be merry, 'tis sighing all the day, 
Oh!  Hard times come again no more. 
Tis the song &c. 

Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave, 
'Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore, 
Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave, 
Oh!  Hard times come again no more. 
Tis the song &c. 
[*2639*]


MORAL COSMETICS. 
Ye who would save your features florid, 
Lithe limbs, bright eyes, unwrinkled forehead, 
From age's devastation horrid, 
Adopt this plan;---
'Twill make, in climates cold or torrid, 
A hale old man. 

Avoid, in youth, luxurious diet.
Restrain the passions' lawless riot; 
Devoted to domestic quiet, 
Be wisely gay; 
So shall ye, spite of age's fiat, 
Resist decay. 

Seek not in Mammon's worship pleasure, 
But find your richest, dearest treasure, 
In books, friends, music, polish'd leisure; 
The mind, not sense,
Make the sole scale by which ye measure,
Your opulance. 

This is the solace, this the science, 
Life's purest, sweetest, best appliance, 
That disappoints not man's reliance,
Whate'er his state; 
But challenges, with calm defiance, 
Time, fortune, fate. 
[*2640*]

Our Yankee Girls. 
BY ONE WHO HAS SEEN THEM. 
Let greener lands and bluer skies---
If such the wide world shows---
With fairer cheeks and brighter eyes
Match us the star and rose.
The winds, that lift the Georgian's veil 
Or wave Circassia's curls, 
Waft to their shores the Sultan's sail---
Who buys our Yanke girls.

The gray grisette, whose fingers touch 
Love's thousand chords so well; 
The dark Italian loving much 
But more than one can tell; 
And England's fair-hair'd, blue-eyed dame, 
Who binds her brow with pearls---
Ye, who have seen them, can they shame
Our own sweet Yankee girls. 

And what if court or castle vaunt 
Its children loftier born---
Who heeds the silken tassel's flaunt
Beside the golden corn?
They ask not for the courtly toil 
 Of jewelled knight's and earls---
The daughters of the virgin soil, 
Our free-born Yankee girls. 

By every hill whose stately pines 
Wave their dark arms above---
The home where some fair being shines 
To warm the wilds with love; 
From barest rock to bleakest shore, 
Where fartherest sail unfurls, 
The stars and stripes are floating o'er---
God bless our Yankee girls!
[*2641*]


DREAM OF SUMMER. 

Bland as the morning breath of June, 
The southwest breezes play; 
And through the haze, the winter moon
Seems warm as summer day. 
The snow-plumed angel of the north, 
Hath dropped his icy spear; 
Again the mossy earth looks forth, 
Again the streams gush clear. 

The fox his hill-side cell forsakes, 
The muskrat leaves his nook, 
The blue-bird in the meadow brakes 
Is singing with the brook. 
"Bear up, O mother Nature!" cry 
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free, 
"Our Winter voices prophesy 
Of Summer days to thee." 

So in those winters of the soul, 
By bitter blasts and drear, 
O'er swept from memory's frozen pole, 
Will sunny days appear. 
Reviving Faith and Hope they show
The soul its living powers, 
And how beneath the Winter's snow
Lie gems of Summer flowers. 

The Night is mother of the Day, 
The Winter of the Spring; 
And ever upon old Decay
The greenest mosses cling. 
 Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, 
Thro' showers the sunbeams fall; 
For God who loveth all His works, 
Has left His Hope with all. 
[*2642*]

"Beautiful in Death." 

Upon the marble brow there rests 
The sweet repose of peace, 
Upon the lips the seraph smile, 
Of a spirit's glad release. 

The sinless soul, it's beauty rare, 
Has chiselled on thy face
The work of years, and daily life
E'en death may not efface. 

A look which tells all gentle thoughts, 
The heart to each one kind; 
Affections tender, warm and true, 
Tastes pure and mind refined.

'Tis thus the beauty of a life, 
Finds image true in death; 
The halo faint of light revealed, 
As leaves the parting breath. 

Who turns the silver chord of life
Lo love's soft tender lay; 
Who utters no discordant note, 
May grate some heart alway. 

Who sweetly tunes his children's mind, 
The way himself would lead; 
His servants rules with gentle hand, 
And humble feelings heed. 

Who glad, in social life, extends 
The blessings freely given; 
The gifts of mind or grace of heart,
Gives all he is to Heaven. 

'Tis he requires no heavy hand, 
To lay the chastening rod, 
But calmly at a moment's word, 
Appears before his God.  
[*2643*]

ANGELS. 
Earth has her angels, tho' their forms are moulded 
But of such clay fashions all below; 
Though harps are wanting, and bright pinions folded, 
We know them by the love-light of their brow. 

I have seen angels by the sick one's pillow, 
There was the soft tone and the soundless tread, 
Where smitten hearts are drooping like the willow, 
They stood "between the living and the dead." 

And if my sight, by earthly dimness hindered, 
Beheld no hovering cherabim in air, 
I doubt not for their spirits know their kindred,
They smiled upon the wingless watchers there. 

There have been angels in the gloomy prison. 
In crowded halls---by the lone widow's hearth; 
And where they passed, the fallen have uprisen---
The giddy paused---the mourner's hope had birth. 

I have seen one, whose eloquent commanding,
Roused the rich echoes of the human breast; 
The blandisment of ease and wealth withstanding, 
That hope might reach the suffering and opprest. 

And by his side there mov'd a form of beauty, 
Strewing sweet flowers along the path of life. 
And looking up with meek and love-lent duty; 
I called her angel, and he called her wife. 

Oh, many a spirit walks the earth unheeded, 
That, when its veil of sadness is laid down. 
Shall soar aloft with pinions unimpeded. 
And wear its glory like a starry crown. 
[*2644*]


SONG OF THE QUILL. 

In attitude most grotesque, 
With eyes too weary to wink, 
The Parson sat at his old green desk, 
Applying his pen and ink. 
Write!  write!  write!
Like a horse that goes round in a mill--- 
And still with a voice of dreadful delight, 
He sang, the Song of the Quill! 

Write!  write!  write! 
When the eye of the morn looks red, 
And write!  write!  write! 
When honest folks are abed! 
It's oh!  to be wrecked and thrown 
On the shores of the barbarous Turk.---
Where a man can't say his soul's his own; 
If this is Christian work! 

Write!  write!  write; 
Till the brain begins to swim; 
Write!  write!  write! 
Till the eyes are heavy and dim. 
Text and context and theme--- 
And theme and context and text; 
Till I almost seem in a waking dream, 
And don't know what comes next. 

O my parishioners dear! 
That have human blood in your veins! 
It is not paper your wasting here, 
But human creature's brains! 
Write!  write!  write! 
(The parson cried aloud.) 
Sewing at once with a double thread, 
A sermon and a shroud. 

Write!  write!  write!
 Like a man doing penance for crime---
Write!  write!  write! 
Like a man that gets bread by rhyme, 
Text and context and theme, 
And theme and context and text--- 
Till I've splashed with ink half a ream, 
And still with doubt am vexed. 

Write!  write!  write! 
Till the brain is hot and numb---
And write!  write!  write! 
Till every finger's a thumb.
And oh!  there's one thought so dear, 
That makes my flesh to creep---
It is that calves heads should be so dear, 
And human brains so cheap. 

Oh, but for one month's space, 
Of leisure from book and pen! 
No hour to tish for the tiney race, 
But only to fish for men! 
A little crying would ease my heart, 
And eke my head, I think---
But my tears must stope, for every drop 
Makes a blur on the fresh laid ink. 

With brains all weary and worn, 
In attitude most grotesque, 
And a study gown faded and torn, 
The parson sat at his desk. 
Write!  write!  write!
Like a horse that goes round in a mill---
And still with a sort of a demon schreech, 
(Would that it might all parishers reach!) 
He sang the song of the Quill!
[*2645*]A Dirge 

Weep not for her!--Oh she was far too fair, 
Too pure to dwell on this guilt-tainted earth ! 
The sinless glory, and the golden air
Of Zion, seem'd to claim her from her birth; 
A Spirit wander'd from its native zone, 
Which, soon discovering, took her for its own: 
Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her!--her span was like the sky, 
Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and brights; 
Like flowers, that know not what it is to die; 
Like long-linked, shadeless months of Polar light; 
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, 
While Echo answers from the flowery brake; 
Weep not for her ! 

Weep not for her !--She died in early youth, 
Ere hope had lost its rich, romantic hues; 
When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth, 
And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant dews, 
Her summer-prime waned not to days the ireeze; 
Her wine of life was run not the the lees; 
Weep not for her! 

Weep not for her!--By fleet or slow decay.
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away; 
Her prospects wither: or her hopes grow dark; 
Translated by her God, with spirit shriven, 
She passed as 'there in smiles from earth to Heaven.
Weep not for her! 

Weep not for her!-- It was not hers to feel
The miseries that corrode amassing years;
'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,
To wander sad down Age's vale of tears.
As whirl the wither'd leaves from Friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry world alone to be;
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her!-- She is an angel now. 
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise,
All darkness wip'd from her her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes;
Victorious over death, to her appear The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year;
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her!-- Her memory is the shrine Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers,
Calm as on the windless eve the sun's decline,
Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers,
Rich as a rainbow with its hies of light,
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night;
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her!-- There is no cause for woe;
But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below,
And from earth's low defilements keep thee back:
So, when a few fleet severing years are flown,
She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate-- and lead thee on;
Weep not for her!
2646

THE SAW MILL
In yonder mill I rested,
And sat me down to look
Upon the wheel's quick glimmer,
and on the flowing brook.

As in a dream before me,
The saw, with restless play,
Was cleaving through a fir-tree
Its long and steady way.

The tree through all its fibres
With Living motion stirred,
And in the dirge-like murmur,
These solemn words I heard-

Oh! thou who wanderest hither,
A timely guest thou art!
For thee this cruel engine
Is passing through my heart :

When soon in earth's cold bosom,
Thy hours of rest begin,
This wood shall form the chamber,
Whese walls shall close thee in.

Four planks- I saw and shudder'd--
Dropped in that busy mill ;
Then as I tried to answer,
At once the wheel was still. 
2647

MORE DREAMS. 
I have no joy but in thy smile--- 
Save in thy frown, no pain, 
Come to my side a little while---
I'll never ask again
To see thee, and thy words adore. 
I never dreamed of more than this---
I'll dream of this no more. 

I know the idle tale I tell
Will wake no echo in thy breast; 
In thy heart's charmed circle-well 
I know mine cannot rest; 
But thou wert dear from earliest years, 
And dearer every day; 
And love that's nursed in thought and tears
Cannot be whiled away. 

If I could bid my heart be still, 
Of what avail were this? 
'Twill never cost thine own a thrill
Of anguish or of bliss; 
'Twill follow thee through life and death, 
True guardian by thy side, 
Yet never ask a single breath
Of fondness for its guide. 

Come to my side a little while---
I'll never ask again; 
My heart is sick for one sweet smile---
Hearts should not plead in vain.
Ah! but thine eyes are filled with tears---
They do not turn away; 
Thy hand---thy hand---the love of years
Has not been all astray.  2649  Mary. 

"THE BLESSED CHILD." 
"Oh!  I am happy as a bird!" 
Exclaimed a laughing child, 
As every warbler's strain she heard. 
She mocked in cadence wild. 

We stayed with in a forest green, 
Which to her wondering sight, 
Trees, flowers and waters, made a scene 
Of fairy-like delight. 

Within a chamber, dark to gloom, 
I heard her tones again; 
With noiseless step I trod the room, 
And sought to soothe her pain. 

"Oh, take me where the robin sings,"
She plead with tuneful voice---
"Where beautiful and lovely things 
Will make my heart rejoice!" 

When next that sweet face met my sight, 
The voice I did not hear; 
For round her was the robe of white, 
The coffin, and the bier.

I wept---it was not wrong to weep, 
That one so bright and gay
Should lie so early down to sleep, 
Within her bed of clay. 

Yet, if she only live to die, 
"T were best she should depart, 
With an undimm'd and joyous eye
And unclouded heart. 

Her mind, in human lore untaught, 
Would be a table fair, 
Which God would purify from blot, 
And write HIs wisdom there. 

And so I dashed the tear away, 
Nor mourned as others did, 
To hear the startling clods of clay
Fall on the coffin lid. 

I felt her destiny was blest---
So soon to be forgiven, 
And in her youthful beauty drest, 
To pass at once to Heaven!   2648 


Nature's Nobleman. 
Away with false fashion, so calm and so chill, 
Where pleasure itself cannot please. 
Away with cold breeding, that faithlessly still, 
Affects to be quite at its ease; 
For the deepest in feeling is highest in rank, 
The freest is first in the band, 
And nature's own nobleman, friendly and frank, 
Is a man with his heart in his hand. 

Fearless in honesty, gentle, yet just, 
He warmly can love and can hate, 
Nor will he bow down with his face in the dust 
To fashion's intolerant state? 
For best in good breeding, and highest in rank 
Though lowly or poor in the land. 
Is nature's own nobleman, friendly and frank, 
The man with his heart in his hand. 

His fashion is passion, sincere and intense, 
His impulses simple and true. 
Yet temper'd by judgment, and taught by good sense, 
And cordial with me and with you: 
For the finest in manners, as highest in rank, 
It is you, man! or you man! who stand
Nature's own nobleman, friendly and frank
A man with his heart in his hand! 

WIT AT A PINCH. 
A country girl one morning went
To market with her pig; 
The little curl-tail not content
Squeaked oat a merry jig. 

A gentleman, on passing by, 
Laughed much, and jeering spoke: 
"I wonder, miss, your child will cry, 
When wraped up in your cloak?"

"Why, sir," quite pert the girl replies, 
"So bad a breeding had he,
That ever and anon he cries, 
Whene'er he sees his daddy!"   2650 


THE LIP AND THE HEART. 
BY JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 
One day between the Lip and the Heart
A worldless strife arose, 
Which was expertest in the art
His purpose to disclose. 

The lip called forth the vassal Tongue, 
And made him vouch---a lie!
The slave his servile anthem sung, 
And bray'd the listening sky. 

The heart to speak in vain essay'd, 
Nor could his purpose reach---
His will, nor voice, nor tongue obeyed, 
His silence was his speech. 

Mark thou their difference, child of earth, 
While each performs his part. 
Not all the lip can speak, is worth 
The silence of the Heart.
[*2651*] 


From the Union Magazine. 
CHRIST IN THE GARDEN. 
BY MRS. C. L. MILLS. 
He trod the garden---sad and lone--- 
He, whose whole life was one of pain--- 
And in His agony He prayed
While sweat-drops fell like Summer rain. 
Those drops, oh, man! thy life-long tears 
Would scarce repay the treachery--- 
And yet He pardons, He who died, 
Who suffered to atone for thee. 

He trod the garden---those who came
At this command, together slept, 
Ay, those whose task it should have been 
To wake and weep, no vigils kept! 
How sad---how sad! to find the few, 
The chosen of His little band, 
Slumb'ring thus softly, when His words 
Foretold the final hour at hand. 

Twice to the sleepers' side He drew, 
Rebuking them in gentle tone; 
Bu heavier weighed their eyelids down, 
And still He watched and prayed alone. 
An hour passed by---He call'd---again---
But no rebuke His word expressed. 
'Sleep on,' in music strains He said, 
'Sleep on, sleep on, and take your rest.' 

The time had come---the garden fair, 
Where that meek sufferer humbly prayed, 
Became the scene of strife and blood.. 
And basely there he was betrayed! 
Offending man, strive, strive with faith, 
To make atonement for thy guilt, 
For 'twas for thee, and thee alone, 
The Saviour's precious blood was split. 
2651  [*A*] 

Are you fond of old things?  "When good,"
I hear you answer.   Well, here is a hymn from 
Sir Henry Wolton that is good.  It was sung at
the Cincinnati celebration on the 22d and produced 
from its appositeness a marked sensation. 
As the music sounded, and the words, in clear, 
melodious accents were shed over the dense mass, 
a thrill of joy animated it, and the thought uppermost
in every heart was, that the patriot of
the nineteenth century had lived out what the
bard of the sixteenth had sung. 

How happy is he born and taught, 
That serveth not another's will; 
Whose armor is his honest thought
And simple truth his highest skill! 

Whose passions not his master's are, 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame, or private breath; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Or vice, who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise; 
Nor rules of State, but rules of good; 

Who hath his life from rumors freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make oppressors great; 

Who God doth late and early pray, 
More of his grace than gifts to lend; 
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend; 
2652 

From Graham's Magazine for February. 
THE SAW MILL. 
(From the German of Kerner.) 
BY WM. C. BRYANT. 

In yonder mill I rested, 
And sat me down to look
Upon the wheel's quick glimmer, 
And on the flowing brook. 

As in a dream before me, 
The saw, with restless play, 
Was cleaving through a fir-tree 
Its long and steady way. 

The tree through all its fibres
With living motion stirred, 
And, in a dirge-like murmur, 
These solemn words I heard--- 

Oh, thou who wanderest hither, 
A timely guest thou art! 
For thee this cruel engine
Is passing through my heart. 

When soon, in earth's still bosom, 
Thy hours of rest begin, 
This wood shall form the chamber
Whose walls shall close thee in. 

Four planks---I saw and shuddered---
Dropped in that busy mill; 
Then, as I tried to answer, 
At once the wheel was still 
2653THE REWARD. 
BY J. G. WHITTIER. 

Who, looking backward from his manhood's
prime, 
Sees not the spectre of his misspent time; 
And, through the shade
Of funeral cypress, planted thick behind, 
Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind
From his loved dead? 

Who bears no trace of Passion's evil force? 
Who shuns thy sting, oh terrible remorse? 
Who would not cast
Half of his Future from him, but to win
Wakeless oblivion for the wrong and sin 
Of the sealed Past? 

Alas!  the evil which we fain would shun, 
We do, and leave the wished-for good undone; 
Our strength to-day
Is but to-morrow's weakness, prone to fall; 
Poor, bling, unprofitable servants all, 
Are we alway. 

Yet who, thus looking backward o'er his years, 
Feels not his eyelids wet with grateful tears, 
IF he hath been
Permitted, weak and sinful as he was, 
To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause, 
His fellow men? 

If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in 
A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin; 
If he hath lent
Strength to the weak, and in an hour of need, 
Over the suffering, mindless of his creed 
Or hue, hath bent. 

He has not lived in vain:  and while he gives
The praise to Him in whom he moves and lives,
With thankful heart, 
He gazes backward, and with hope before; 
Knowing that from his works he never more
2654     Can henceforth part. 


AGES OF LIFE. 

BY CAMPBELL. 

The more we live, more brief appear
Our life's succeeding stages; 
A day to childhood seems a year, 
And years like passing ages. 

The gladsome current of our youth, 
Ere passion yet disorders, 
Steals lingering like a river smooth, 
Along its grassy borders. 

When joys have lost their bloom and breath, 
And life itself is vapid, 
Why, as we near the falls of Death, 
Feel we its tide more rapid? 

It may be strange, yet who would change 
Time's course to slower speeding, 
When one by one our friends have gone, 
And left our bosoms bleeding? 

Heaven gives our years of fading strength 
Indemnifying fleetness; 
And those of youth a SEEMING LENGTH, 
Proportioned to their sweetness.     2655 


TIMES AND KEYSTONE. 
SWEET POETRY. 
Christian Anderson is an enthusiastic lover of Nature, 
and his translator, Mary Howitt, knows how to sympathise
with them.  What could be more touching than
his verses on the Dying Child?  Many a parent will
weep, as the recollection of his parting form the loved 
and lost comes freshly up to the mind with softened sadness
of feeling while he reads them: 

Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping; 
Let me repose upon thy bosom seek; 
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping, 
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.
Here is it cold:  the tempest raveth madly; 
But in my dreams all is so wond'rous bright; 
I see the angel children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut the light. 

Mother, one stand beside me now!  and listen! 
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord? 
See how his sweet wings beautifully glisten!
Surely those wings were given him by our Lord! 
Green, gold and red are floating all around me; 
They are the flowers the angel scattereth. 
Shall I have also wings while life has bound me? 
Or, mother, are they given alone in death? 

Why dost thou clasp me, as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine? 
Thy cheek is hot, and yet they tears are flowing:
I will, dear mother---will be always thine! 
Oh, do not sigh---it marreth my reposing; 
And, if thou weep, then I must weep with thee! 
Oh, I am tired---my weary eyes are closing! 
Look, mother look!  the angel kisseth me! 
2656 


A Gem---Youth and Age. 
I often think each tottering form
That limps along in life's decline, 
Once bore a heart as young, as warm,
As full of idle thoughts as mine!
And each has had its dream of joy, 
His own unequall'd pure romance; 
Commencing when the blushing boy
First thrills at lovely woman's glance. 

And each could tell his tale of youth, 
Would think its scenes of love evince
More passions, more unearthly truth, 
Than any tale before or since. 
Yes!  they could tell of tender lays
At midnight penned in carssic shades,
Of days more bright than modern days---
And maids more fair than modern maids. 

Of whispers in a willing ear, 
Of kisses on a blushing cheek; 
Each kiss, each whisper, far too dear, 
Our modern lips to give or speak.
Of passions too untimely crossed; 
Or passions slighted or betrayed--- 
Of kindred spirits early lost. 
And buds and blossom but to fade. 

Of beaming eyes and tresses gay, 
Elastic form and noble brow, 
And forms that have all passed away. 
And left them what we see them now! 
And is it thus---is human love 
So very light and frail a thing? 
And must youth's brightest visions move
Forever on Time's restless wing? 

Must all the eyes that still are bright, 
And all the lips that talk of bliss, 
And all the forms so fair to sight,
Hereafter only come to this!     2657 
Then what are earth's best visions worth,
If we at length must lose them thus? 
If all we value most on earth 
Ere long must fade away from us? 


More Dreams. 
I have no joy but in thy smile---
Save in thy frown, no pain; 
Come to my side a little while---
I'll never ask again 
To see thee, and thy looks to bless---
To hear thee, and thy words adore.  
I never dreamed of more than this---
I'll dream of this no more. 

I know the idle tale I tell 
Will wake no echo in thy breast; 
In thy heart's charmed circle-well 
I know mine cannot rest. 
But thou wert dear from earliest years, 
And dearer every day, 
And love that's nursed in thought and tears
Cannot be wiled away. 

If I could bid my heart be still, 
Of what avail were this? 
'Twill never cost thine own a thrill 
Of anguish or of bliss. 
'Twill follow thee through life and death, 
True guardian by thy side, 
Yet never ask a single breath 
Of fondness for its guide. 
2658
Come to my side a little while---
I'll never ask again; 
My heart is sick for one sweet smile---
Hearts should not plead in vain. 
Ah!  but thine eyes are filled with tears---
They do not turn away; 
Thy hand---thy hand---the love of years
Has not been all astray.     [Dublin Nation. 


[From the St. Louis Reveille.] 
A WISH.
BY EVERPOINT. 
I wish I had---I do indeed---
Some little snug retreat; 
A clam, blue sky above my head, 
Green earth beneath my feet; 
A little spot, however small, 
Where man might show his nature in 
A homely, manly way. 

I've got a wife---where all besides
Is questioning and cold---
Whose lips have ne'er reproaches breathed,
Whose eyes unkindness told; 
And children, twain, whose accents sweet 
To words I love to frame; 
Nor less for that they loved the first
To name their mother's name. 

I've got a friend---tho' distant now---
Who thinks as once he thought; 
The change to manhood in his breast 
No other change hath wrought 
A noble heart!  who still hath shared
Each change of grief and joy; 
And by whose honest side I'd walk
Again a careless boy. 

How much for happiness have I! 
How priceless is my all! 
How little, named with mine, the wearlth
Which happiness men call; 
How rich!  and yet, while man can say
To equal man "endure," 
The wealth I boast, but warns me I 
Am poor!---how very poor! 

Oh, hearts!  how might ye sing in peace; 
Lovely wert thou, O world, 
If never pride had been;  if ne'er 
The lip of scorn had curl'd; 
If---if---"much virtue in an if," 
And if we could but do
On earth as it is done in heav'n---
There'd be much virtue too. 

And so, I wish sweet competence; 
That, still unhating men, 
The vanity I cannot LOVE, 
I might not see again; 
A mountain path---a book---a cot---
Peace smiling at the door; 
"The world forgetting---the world forgot"---
But this---I ask no more!     2660 


An Evening Tale......BY MISS ALICE CAREY.
Come, thou of the drooping eyelid, 
And cheek that is meekly pale, 
Give over thy pensive musing
And list to a lonesome tale! 
For hearts that are torn and bleeding, 
Or heavy as thine, and lone, 
 May find in another's sorrow
Forgetfulness of their own: 
So heap on the blazing faggots 
And trim the lamp anew, 
And I'll tell you a mournful story---
I would that it were not true! 

The bright red clouds of the sunset
On the tops of the mountains lay, 
And many and goodly vessels 
Were anchored below in the bay---
We saw the walls of the city, 
And could hear its vexing din, 
As our mules with their nostrils smoking, 
Drew up at a wayside inn; 
The hearth was ample and blazing, 
For the night was something chill,
But my heart, tho' I knew not wherefore,
Sank down with a sense of ill. 

That night I stood on the terrace 
O'erlooknig a blossomy vale, 
And the gray old walls of a convent
That loomed in the moonlight pale---
Till the lamp of the sweet Madonna
Grew faint as if burning low, 
And the midnight bell in the turret, 
Swung heavily to and fro: 
When just as the last sweet music
Came back from the echoing hill, 
And the hymn of the ghostly friars, 
In the fretted aisle grew still. 

On a rude bench hid among olives, 
I noted a maiden fair, 
Alone, with the night wind playing
In the locks of her raven hair; 
Thrice came the sound of her sighing, 
And thrice were her red lips pressed
With wild and passionate fervor
To the cross that hung on her breast! 
But her bearing was not the bearing 
That to saintly soul belongs; 
Albeit she chanted the fragments
of holy and beautiful songs. 

'Twas the half hour after the midnight
And so like that it might be now, 
The full moon was meekly climbing 
Over the mountain's brow---
When the step of the singing maiden 
In the corridor lightly trod. 
And I presently saw her kneeling
In prayer to the Mother of God! 
On the leaves of her golden missal 
Darkly her loos locks lay,     2659 
As she cried, "Forgive me, sweet Virgin, 
And Mother of Jesus, I pray!" 
When the music was 
From the
Withi 
T 


[From Graham's Magazine for April.] 
THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 
Whose windows looking o'er the bay, 
Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Nor far away we saw the port,---
The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,---
The light-house---the dismantled fort,---
The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night 
Descending filled the little room; 
Our faces faded from the sight, 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spoke of many a vanished scene, 
Of what we once had thought and said, 
Of what had ben, and what might have been, 
And who were changed, and who were dead. 

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 
When first they feel with secret pain, 
Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again. 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 
That words are powerless to express, 
And leave it still unsaid in part, 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 
Had something strange, I could but mark; 
The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 
As suddenly, from out the fire
Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 
The flames would leap, and then expire. 

And as their splendor flashed and failed, 
We thought of wrecks upon the main,--- 
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed, 
And sent no answer back again. 

The windows rattling in their frames, 
The ocean, roaring up the beach---
The gusty blast---the bickering flames---
All mingled vaguely in our speech; 

Until they made themselves a part 
Of fancies floating through the brain--- 
The long lost ventures of the heart, 
That send no answers back again.     2661 

Oh flames that glowed!  Oh hearts that yearned, 
They were indeed too much akin---
The drift-wood fire without that burned, 
The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 

MISCELLANY. 

SOMETHING CHEAP. 

BY CHARLES SWAIN. 

There is not a cheaper thing on earth, 
Nor yet one half so dear; 
"Tis worth more than distinguis'd birth,
Or thousands gain'd a year; 
It lends the day a new delight; 
'Tis virtue's firmest shield; 
And adds more beauty to the night
Than all the stars may yield. 

It maketh poverty content, 
To sorrow whispers peace; 
It is a gift from heaven sent, 
For mortals to increase. 
It meets you with a smile at morn; 
It lulls you to repose; 
A flower for peer and peasant born, 
An everlasting rose. 

A charm to banish grief away, 
To snatch the frown from care. 
Turn to smiles, make dullness gay--- 
Spread gladness everywhere; 
And yet 'tis cheap as summer's dew
That gems the lillys breast; 
A talisman for love, as true
As ever man possess'd. 

As smiles the rainbow through the cloud 
What threatening storm begins---
As music 'mid the tempest loud, 
That still its sweet way wins--- 
As springs an across the tide, 
Where waves conflicting foam, 
So comes this seraph to our side,
This angel of our home. 

What may this wondrous spirit be, 
With power unheard before---
This charm, this bright divinity? 
Good temper---nothing more; 
Good temper!  'tis the choicest gift 
That woman homeward brings: 
And can the poorest peasant lift
To bliss unknown to kings.     2662 


THE CONFESSION. 
There's somewhat on my breast father, 
There's somewhat on my breast! 
The livelong day I sigh, father, 
At night I cannot rest. 
I cannot take my rest, father, 
Though I would fain do so; 
A weary weight oppresseth not, 
This weary weight of woe! 

'Tis not the lack of gold, father, 
Nor lack of wordly gear; 
My lands are broad and fair to see, 
My friends are kind and dear; 
My kin are leal and true, father, 
They mourn to see my grief; 
But, oh!  'tis not a kinsman's hand 
Can give my heart relief! 

'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 
'Tis not that she's unkind; 
Tho' busy flatterers swarm around, 
I know her constant mind. 
'Tis not her coldness, father, 
That chills my laboring breast; 
It's that confounded encumber 
I've ate, and can't digest. 
---[Blackwood's Magazine. 
2663 


THE CONQUEROR. 
BY SHIRLEY. 
The glories of our mortal state 
Are shadows, not substantial things: 
There is no armor against fate; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings. 
Scentre and crown
Must tumbler down, 
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield, 
They tame but one another still. 
Early or late, 
They stoop to fate, 
And must give up their conquering breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow; 
The boast no more you mighty deeds; 
Upon death's purple altar now, 
See where the victor-victim bleeds! 
All heads must come
To the cold tomb. 
ONLY THE ACTIONS OF THE JUST 
SMELL SWEET AND BLOSSOM IN THE DUST. 
2664 


Mr. Canning's Charade. 
We give riddle and answer at the same time for
the Boston Transcript has 'et the cat out of the
bag' altogether prematurely. 

There is a word of plural number, 
Foe to peace and tranquil slumber; 
Now any word you choose to take, 
By adding s you plural make; 
But if you add an s to this, 
Strange is the metamorphosis; 
Plurals is plural word no more,
And sweet what bitter was before. 
2665 
To minds weighed down by many cares, 
No peace nor rest can e'er be theirs; 
But if you wish to make them less, 
To that one word just add an---s, 
Lo, bitter cares all lose their might! 
One SWEET CARESS puts all to flight. 


DAILY WORK.---BY C. MACKEY. 

Who lags in dread of daily work, 
And his appointed task would shirk; 
Commits a folly and a crime; 
A soulless slave, 
A paltry knave, 
A clog upon the wheels of time, 
With work to do, and store of health, 
The man's unworthy to be free, 
Who will not give, 
That he may live. 
And die, as all should happily. 

No!  let us work.  We only ask 
Reward proportioned to our task. 
We have no quarrel with the great, 
No feud with back. 
With mill or rank; 
No envy of a lord's estate. 
If we can earn sufficient store 
To satisfy our daily need, 
And can retain, 
For age and pain, 
A fraction, we are rich in deed. 

No dread of toil have we or ours, 
We know our worth and weigh our powers; 
The more we work, the more we win; 
Success to trade! 
Success to spade! 
And to the corn that's coming in. 
And joy to him that o'er his task, 
Remembers toil is nature's plan; 
Who working, thinks 
And never sinks
His independence as a MAN! 

Who only asks for humble wealth; 
Enough for competence and health; 
And leisure when his work is done, 
To read his book, 
By chimney nook, 
Or stroll at setting of the sun,
Who toils as every man should toll, 
For fair reward, erect and free. 
These are the men     2666 
The best of men, 
These are the men we mean to be! 

THE LAND OF DREAMS. 
BY WM. C. BRYANT. 

A mighty realm is the land of dreams, 
With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, 
And weltering oceans and trailing streams, 
That gleam where the dusky valleys lie. 

But over its shadowy border flow
Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, 
And the nearer mountains catch the glow, 
And flowers in the nearer fields are born, 

The souls of the happy dead repair, 
From their bowers of light, to that bordering
land, 
And walk in the fainter glory there 
With the souls of the living, hand in hand. 

One calm sweet smile in that shadowy sphere, 
From eyes that open on earth no more--- 
One warning word from a voice once dear---
How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er! 

Far off from those hills that shine with day,
And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales, 
The land of dreams goes stretching away, 
To dimmer mountains and darker vales. 

There lie the chambers of guilty delight, 
There walk the spectres of guilty fear, 
And soft, low voices, that float through the 
night, 
Are whispering sin in the helpless ear. 

Dear main, in thy girlhood's opening flower, 
Scarce weaned from the love of childish play! 
The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower
That freshens the early blooms of May! 

Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow
Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, 
And I know, by thy moving lips, that now
Thy spirit strays in the land of dreams. 

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed they feet! 
Oh keep where that beam of Paradise falls; 
And only wander where thou may'st meet
The blessed ones from its shining walls. 

2667 
So shalt thou come from the land of dreams, 
With love and peace, to this world of strife; 
And the light that over that border streams, 
Shall lie on the path of they daily life. 


T H E 

BY 

It was past the hour o
But she lingers for him still; 
Like a child the eager streamlet
Leaped and laughed adown the hill; 
Happy to be free at twilight 
From its toiling at the mill.     2668 


Then the great moon, on a sudden, 
Ominous, and red as blood, 
Startling as a new creation, 
O'er the eastern hill-top stood,
Casting deep and deeper shadows
Through the mystery of the wood. 

Dread closed huge and vague about her, 
And her thoughts turned fearfully
To her heart, if there some shelter 
From the silence there might be, 
Like bare cedars leaning inland 
From the blighting of the sea. 

Yet he came not, and the stillness
Dampened round her like a tomb; 
She could feel cold eyes of spirits 
Looking on her through the gloom, 
She could hear the groping footsteps
Of some blind, gigantic doom. 

Suddenly the silence wavered 
Like a light mist in the wind, 
For a voice broke gently through it, 
Felt like sunshine by the blind, 
And the dread, like mist in sunshine, 
Furl'd serenely from her mind. 

"Once my love, my love for ever,---
Flesh or spirit, still the same, 
If I missed the hour of trysting, 
Do not think my faith to blame, 
I, alas, was made a captive, 
As from Holy Land I came. 

"On a green spot in the desert, 
Gleaming like an emerald star, 
Where a palm-tree, in lone silence, 
Yearning for its mate afar, 
Droops above a silver runnel, 
Slender as a seymetar;---

"There thoul't find the humble postern 
To the castle of my foe; 
If they love burn clear and faithful, 
Strike the gateway, green and low, 
Ask to enter, and the warder
Surely will not say thee no." 

Slept again the aspen silence, 
But her loneliness was o'er; 
Round her heart a motherly patience
Wrapt its arms for evermore; 
From her soul ebbed back the sorrow, 
Leaving smooth the golden shore. 

Donned she now the pilgrim scallop, 
Took the pilgrim staff in hand; 
Like a cloud-shade, flitting eastward, 
Wandered she o'er sea, and land; 
He soft footsteps in the desert
Fell like cool rain on the sand. 

Soon, beneath the palm-tree's shadow
Knelt she at the postern low;
And therest she knocketh gently,
Fearing much the warder's no; 
All her heart stood still and listened, 
As the door swung backward slow. 

There she saw no surly warder
With an eye like bolt and bar; 
Through her soul a sense of music 
Throbbed,---and like a guardian Lar, 
On the threshold stood an angel, 
Bright and silent as a star. 

Fairest seemed he of God's seraphs, 
And her spirit, lily-wise, 
Blossomed when he turned upon her
The deep welcome of his eyes, 
Sending upward to that sunlight
All its dew for sacrifice. 

Then she heard a voice come onward, 
Singing with a rapture new, 
As Eve heard the songs in Eden, 
Dropping earthward with the dew; 
Well she knew the happy singer, 
Well the happy song she knew. 

Forward leaped she o'er the threshold, 
Eager as a glancing surf; 
Fell from her the spirit's languor, 
Fell from her the body's scurf;--- 
'Neath the palm next day some Arabs
Found a corse upon the turf.     2668  [*A*] 


Calvin Harlowe,
SERGEANT 29TH MASSACHUSETTS.*
Fort Steadman slept at dead of night,
Its silent batteries frowning South,
Deep peace, amid the days of fight,
Still'd for an hour the cannon's mouth.

Suddenly crack'd a sentry's shot:
Too late - the Southern tiger-leap
Was swift and sure; the fight was fought
With scarce a blow, as, waked from sleep

Each soldier, rushing from his tent
To find the trenches throng'd with foes,
Threw down his arms in fierce consent,
Seeing it madness to oppose.

We blame them not.  Their country's good
Were rather badly served than well,
Had each man perish'd where he stood[*;*]
The thing was over - why rebel

Against accomplish'd Fate?  But one
Among the garrison there was,
Who bore beneath a new-world sun
The spirit of Leonidas. [*(over*]
*Vide Walt Whitman's Memoranda of the American Civil War, p. 45.
"A Yankee Antique."
[*2669*]2

He clutch'd his rifle from the ground, 
And saw the fort from end to end
Throng'd with the South, and all around
Saw no face of a single friend - 

"Surrender." "Never while I live,"
Said Calvin Harlowe. "Men, fight on!"
"Fight on? They're prisoners! Will you give
Your life for nothing?" Answer none

He made, but fired among the foe
A single shot, and ere the wreath
Of light smoke melted, he lay low,
Crown'd with the grace of glorious death.

Him, too, we blame not. 'Twas for some
To live well out their earthly span,
For him, to die in youth's full bloom,
A martyr for the cause of man:

The cause of man - the cause of God,
That knows the soul, and dares to say
That man is not a breathing clod,
Nor man's a perishable day.

Praise for the brave no duty bound
To waste their lives for valour's sake;
But who shall praise the dead who found
The word "I yield" too hard to speak?

For the world's heart, whose pulse sublime 
Beats with the blood of all her dead,
Since first began this dream of Time
With richer life was never fed

Than his, whose faith all powers defied
A man's strong spirit to compel;
Surely, within the sheltering Night, 
With thee, O brother, it is well.

T. W. H. R.
[*T W Rolleston, 
Ireland*][*Press Revise*]
THE LORD OF THE ISLES.
377

Ho! give them at your board such place
As best their presences may grace,
And bid them welcome free!'
With solemn step and silver wand,
The seneschal the presence scanned
Of these strange guests, and well he knew
How to assign their rank its due;
For though the costly furs
That erst had decked their caps were torn,
And their gay robes were over-worn,
And soiled their gilded spurs, 
Yet such a high commanding grace
Was in their mien and in their face
As suited best the princely dais
And royal canopy;
And there he marshalled them their place,
First of that company.

VII. 

Then lords and ladies spake aside,
And angry looks the error chide
That gave to guests unnamed, unknown,
A place so near their prince's throne;
But Owen Erraught said,
'For forty years a seneschal,
To marshal guests in bower and hall
Has been my honored trade.
Worship and birth to me are known,
By look, by bearing, and by tone,
Not by furred robe or broidered zone;
And 'gainst an oaken bough
I'll gage my silver wand of state
That these three strangers oft have sate
In higher place than now.'

VIII.

'I too,' the aged Ferrand said,
'Am qualified by minstrel trade
Of rank and place to tell; -
Marked ye the younger stranger's eye,
My mates, how quick, how keen, how high,
How fierce it flashes fell,
Glancing among the noble rout
As if to seek the noblest out,
Because the owner might not brook
On any save his peers to look?
And yet it moves me more,
That steady, calm, majestic brow,
With which the elder chief even now
Scanned the gay presence o'er,
Like being of superior kind,
In whose high-toned impartial mind
Degrees of mortal rank and state
Seem objects of indifferent weight.
The lady too - though closely tied
The mantle veil both face and eye,
Her motions' grace it could not hide,
Nor cloud her form's fair symmetry.'

IX.

Suspicious doubt and lordly scorn
Loured on the haughty front of Lorn.
From underneath his brows of pride
The stranger guests he sternly eyed,
And whispered closely what the ear
Of Argentine along might hear;
Then questioned, high and brief,
If in their voyage aught they knew
Of the rebellious Scottish crew
Who to Rath-Erin's shelter drew
With Carrick's outlawed Chief?
And if, their winter's exile o'er,
They harbored still by Ulster's shore,
Or launched their galleys on the main
To vex their native land again?

X.

That younger stranger, fierce and high,
At once confronts the chieftain's eye
With look of equal scorn:
'Of rebels have we naught to show;
But if of royal Bruce thou 'dst know,
I warn thee he has sworn,
Ere thrice three days shall come and go,
His banner Scottish winds shall blow,
Despite each mean or mighty foe,
From England's every bill and bow
To Allaster of Lorn.'
Kindled the mountain chieftain's ire,
But Ronald quenched the rising fire:
'Brother, it better suits the time
To chase the night with Ferrand's rhyme
Than wake midst mirth and wine the jars
That flow from these unhappy wars.'
'Content,' said Lorn; and spoke apart
With Ferrand, master of his art,
Then whispered Argentine,
'The lay I named will carry smart
To these bold strangers' haughty heart,
If right this guess of mine.'
He ceased, and it was silence all
Until the minstrel waked the hall.

XI.
The Brooch of Lorn.

'Whence the brooch of burning gold
That clasps the chieftain's mantle-fold,
Wrought and chased with rare device,
Studded fair with gems of price,
On the varied tartans beaming,
As through night's pale rainbow gleaming,
Fainter now, now seen afar,
Fitful shines the northern star?

'Gem! ne'er wrought on Highland mountain,
Did the fairy of the fountain

2670SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS.
380

A flush like evening's setting flame
Glowed on his cheek; his hardy frame
As with a brief convulsion shook:
With hurried voice and eager look,
'Fear not,' he said, 'my Isabel!
What said I - Edith! - all is well -
Nay, fear not - I will well provide
The safety of my lovely bride -
My bride?' - but there the accents clung
In tremor to his faltering tongue.

XX.

NOW rose De Argentine to claim
The prisoners in his sovereign's name
To England's crown, who, vassals sworn,
'Gainst their liege lord had weapon borne -
Such speech, I ween, was but to hide
His care their safety to provide;
For knight more true in thought and deed
Than Argentine ne'er spurred a steed - 
And Ronald who is meaning guessed
Seemed half to sanction the request.
This purpose fiery Torquil broke:
'Somewhat we've heard of England's yoke,'
He said, 'and in our islands Fame
Hath whispered of a lawful claim
That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's lord,
Though dispossessed by foreign sword.
This craves reflection - but though right
And just the charge of England's Knight,
Let England's crown her rebels seize
Where she has power; - in towers like these,
Midst Scottish chieftains summoned here
To bridal mirth and bridal cheer,
Be sure, with no consent of mine
Shall either Lorn or Argentine
With chains or violence, in our sight,
Oppress a brave and banished knight.'

XXI.

Then waked the wild debate again
With brawling threat and clamor vain.
Vassals and menials thronging in 
Lent their brute rage to swell the din;
When far and wide a bugle-clang
From the dark ocean upward rang.
'The abbot comes!' they cry at once,
'The holy man, whose favored glance
Hath sainted visions known;
Angels have met him on the way,
Beside the blessed martyr's bay,
And by Columba's stone.
His monks have heard their hymnings high
Sound from the summit of Dun-Y,
To cheer his penance lone,
When at each cross, on girth and wold -
Their number thrice a hundred-fold -
His prayer he made, his beads he told,
With Aves many a one -
He comes our feuds to reconcile,
A sainted man from sainted isle;
We will his holy doom abide,
The abbot shall our strife decide.'

XXII.

Scarcely this fair accord was o'er 
When through the wide revolving door
The black-stoled brethren wind;
Twelve sandalled monks who relics bore,
With many a torch-bearer before
And many a cross behind.
Then sunk each fierce uplifted hand,
And dagger bright and flashing brand
Dropped swiftly at the sight;
They vanished from the Churchman's eye,
As shooting stars that glance and die
Dart from the vault of night.

XXIII.

The abbot on the threshold stood,
And in his hand the holy rood;
Back on his shoulders flowed his hood,
The torch's glaring ray
Showed in its red and flashing light
His withered cheek and amice white,
His blue eye glistening cold and bright,
His tresses scant and gray.
'Fair Lords,' he said, 'Our Lady's love,
And peace be with you from above,
And Benedicite! - 
But what means this? - no peace is here! -
Do dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer?
Or are these naked brands
A seemly show for Churchman's sight
When he comes summoned to unite
Betrothed hearts and hands?'

XXIV.

Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal,
Proud Lorn first answered the appeal:
'Thou com'st, O holy man,
True sons of blessed church to greet,
But little deeming here to meet
A wretch beneath the ban
Of Pope and Church for murder done
Even on the sacred altar-stone - 
Well mayst thou wonder we should know
Such miscreant here, nor lay him low,
Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce,
With excommunicated Bruce!
Yet well I grant, to end debate,
Thy sainted voice decide his fate.'

XXV.

Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause,
And knighthood's oath and honor's laws;
And Isabel on bended knee
Brought prayers and tears to back the plea;The Lord of the Isles
381
And Edith lent her generous aid,
And wept, and Lorn for mercy prayed.
'Hence,' he exclaimed, 'degenerate maid!
Was't not enough to Ronald's bower
I brought thee, like a paramour, 
Or bond-maid a her master's gate,
His careless cold approach to wait? -- 
But the bold Lord of Cumberland,
The gallant Clifford, seeks thy hand;
His it shall be -- Nay, no reply!
Hence! till those rebel eyes be dry.'
With grief the abbot heard and saw,
Yet naught relaxed his brow of awe.

Where's Nigel Bruce? and De la Haye,
And valiant Seton -- where are they?
Where Somerville, the kind and free?
And Fraser, flower of chivalry?
Have they not been on gibbet bound,
Their quarters flung to hawk and hound,
And hold we here a cold debate
To yield more victims to their fate?
What! can the English Leopard's mood
Never be gorged with northern blood?
Was not the life of Athole shed
To soothe the tyrant's sickened bed?
And must his word till dying day

[*W. W.
on the stage
in charades
of abbot!
(as he might
look)? [!]
W.S.K.*]

XXVI.
Then Argentine, in England's name,
So highly urged his sovereign's claim
He waked a spark that long suppressed 
Had smouldered in Lord Ronald's breast;
And now, as from the flint the fire,
Flashed forth at once his generous ire.
'Enough of noble blood,' he said,
'By English Edward had been shed,
Since matchless Wallace first had been
In mockery crowned with wreaths of green,
And done to death by felon hand
For guarding well his father's land.
Be naught but quarter, hang, and slay! --
Thou frown'st, De Argentine, -- my gage
Is prompt to prove the strife I wage.

XXVII.
'Nor deem,' said stout Dunvegan's knight,
'That thou shalt brave alone the fight!
By saints of isle and mainland both,
By Woden wild -- my grandsire's oath --
Let Rome and England do their worst,
Howe'er attainted or accursed, 
If Bruce shall e'er find friends again
Once more to brave a battle-plain,

26722673SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS.
384

'Scaped noteless and without remark,
Two strangers sought the abbot's bark. - 
'Man every galley! - fly - pursue!
The priest his treachery shall rue!
Ay, and the time shall quickly come
When we shall hear the thanks that Rome
Will pay his feigned prophecy!'
Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry;
And Cormac Doil in haste obeyed,
Hoisted his sail, his anchor weighed - 
For, glad of each pretext for spoil,
A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil.
But others, lingering, spoke apart,
''The maid has given her maiden heart
To Ronald of the Isles,
And, fearful lest her brother's word
Bestow her on that English lord,
She seeks Iona's piles,
And wisely deems it best to dwell
A votaress in the holy cell
Until these feuds so fierce and fell
The abbot reconciles.'

V.
As, impotent of ire, the hall
Echoed to Lorn's impatient call -
'My horse, my mantle, and my train!
Let none who honors Lorn remain!' -
Courteous but stern, a bold request
To Bruce De Argentine expressed:
'Lord Earl,' he said, 'I cannot chuse
But yield such title to the Bruce,
Though name and earldom both are gone
Since he braced rebel's armor on -
But, earl or serf - rude phrase was thine
Of late, and launched at Argentine;
Such as compels me to demand
Redress of honor at thy hand.
We need not to each other tell
That both can wield their weapons well;
Then do me but the soldier grace
This glove upon thy helm to plac
Where we may meet in fight;
And I will say, as still I've said,
Though by ambition far misled,
Thou art a noble knight.'

VI.
'And I,' the princely Bruce replied,
'Might term it stain on knighthood's pride
That the bright sword of Argentine
Should in a tyrant's quarrel shine;
But, for your brave request,
Be sure the honored pledge you gave
In every battle-field shall wave
Upon my helmet-crest;
Believe that if my hasty tongue 
Hath done thine honor causeless wrong,
It shall be well redressed.
Not dearer to my soul was glove
Bestowed in youth by lady's love
Than this which thou hast given!
Thus then my noble foe I greet;
Health and high fortune till we meet,
And then - what pleases Heaven.'

VII.
Thus parted they - for now, with sound
Like waves rolled back from rocky ground,
The friends of Lorn retire;
Each mainland chieftain with his train
Draws to his mountain towers again,
Pondering how mortal schemes prove vain
And mortal hopes expire.
But through the castle double gard
By Ronald's charge kept wakeful ward,
Wicket and gate were trebly barred
By beam and bolt and chain;
Then of the guests in courteous sort
He prayed excuse for mirth broke short,
And bade them in Artornish fort
In confidence remain.
Now torch and menial tendance led
Chieftain and knight to bower and bed,
And beads were told and Aves said,
And soon they sunk away
Into such sleep as wont to shed
Oblivion on the weary head 
After a toilsome day.

VIII.
But soon uproused, the monarch cried
To Edward slumbering by his side,
'Awake, or sleep for aye!
Even now there jarred a secret door -
A taper-light gleams on the floor -
Up, Edward! up, I say!
Some one glides in like midnight's ghost - 
Nay, strike not! 't is our noble host.'
Advancing then his taper's flame,
Ronald stept forth, and with him came
Dunvegan's chief - each bent the knee
To Bruce in sign of fealty
And proffered him his sword,
And hailed him in a monarch's style
As king of mainland and of isle
And Scotland's rightful lord.
'And O,' said Ronald, 'Owned of Heaven!
Say, is my erring youth forgiven,
By falsehood's arts from duty driven,
Who rebel falchion drew,
Yet ever to thy deeds of fame,
Even while I strove against thy claim,
Paid homage just and true?' -
'Alas! dear youth, the unhappy time,'
Answered the Bruce, 'must bear the crime
Since, guiltier far than you,
Even I' - he paused; for Falkirk's woes
Upon his conscious soul arose.Adv.
Suman Board
Atlantic City
& elsewhere
[*2674*]

THE NEW THOUSAND ISLAND HOUSE,
Alexandria Bay, N. Y., on the River St. Lawrence, among the far-famed
Thousand Islands, containing 600 rooms, will open for guests
July 1. The most complete and largest house in the State; finest fishing
and boating in the world; pure are; splendid suites of rooms; bath-rooms,
water-closets, &c. to families who do not wish to pay the extravagant
prices of Saratoga and other places this hotel will be found the most
comfortable in the world. Terms moderate. Address STAPLES &
NOTT. Proprietors, Alexandria Bay, N. Y. [*2675*]

ORIENT Springs Health Institute, Amherst,
Mass., for treatment of Paralysis in all forms, Spinal Diseases,
Contracted Cords and Limbs, Crooked Feet and Hands, Enlarged Joints,
Wry Neck, St. Vitas's Dance, all Deformities, Lameness and Nervous
Diseases; Diseases of Brain, Heart, and Lungs, Hysteria, &c., G. W.
RHODES, M. D., Medical Director.     [*2676*]

ISLAND HOUSE,
        ATLANTIC CITY, N. J.
   The most elegant hotel at the seaside. Every comfort
and convenience for families.
   Hot and cold Sea Water Baths, Boats, &c.
   Carriages will be in attendance on the arrival of all
trains at Michigan avenue, to convey guests to the
house, free of charge.
   je22-4tS                     [*2677*]            M. A. RUCH.

SHELTER ISLAND,---GROVE AND
CAMP MEETING ASSOCIATION, SHELTER
ISLAND, L. I.--The most delightful family Summer resort
in the country. Beautifully situated, invariably healthful
and easily accessible by L. I. Railroad vis. Greenport,
or steamer J. B. SCHUYLER, from foot of Wall st, N. Y.,
direct.
   Cottages furnished or unfurnished, for sale or to let;
also splendid cottage sites for sale. Maps, circulars,
excursion tickets, &c., can be obtained at WYCKOFF
& JAMES, 189 Montague street; of JOHN
FRENCH, President, Brooklyn, or E. H. GARDNER,
Treasurer, 26 Cliff st, N. Y.     [*2678*]

GENTS OVER-GAITERS--CLOTH, LEATHER,
Linen; also, Shirts, Collars, Underwear,
Gloves, Ties, Bows, Scarfs. Prussian Salve, certain
cures for [?????] and Bunions. RICHFLUERFER,
1032 Chestnut st., southeast cor. of Eleventh,
formerly 13 Chestnut.     [*2679*]     2t*300

ORIENT POINT HOUSE, ORIENT POINT, L. I.--
Now open, situated in the extreme end of Long
Island, fronting on the sound and Bay; only a moment's
walk to the water; splendid sea bathing, sailing and
driving; fishing unsurpassed; reached per Long Island
Railroad twice a day; also per elegant steamer J. B.
Schuyler from foot of Wall street. Send for circular.
                     [*2680*]                M. B. PARSONS.

HEATH HOUSE, SCHOOLEY MOUNTAINS, N. J.--
Mountain scenery unsurpassed; no mosquitoes;
perfectly healthy; first class. Now open.
                                J. WARREN COLEMAN, Proprietor.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
KITTATINNY HOUSE, DELAWARE WATER GAP, PA
                                 ------  [*2681*]
   The most delightful mountain resort, eight miles
from New York, via Morris and Essex Railroad at 8 A. M.
and 4 P. M.; a convenient and agreeable place to spend
the 4th of July. For circulars address
                                     W. A. BRODHEAD & SONS.

EUREKA COTTAGE. CORNER OF ATLANTIC
and Virginia avenues, Atlantic City, New Jersey,
strictly private Boarding House, is now open 
for reception of Summer boarders; no better location
close to the depot and post-office; with shade
and splendid rooms, new furniture. Table set with
the best the market can produce. Board reasonable.
E. B. REILLEY, Proprietor. Post-office Box
235.     [*2682*]                                  s*
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
HOLDZKOM'S HOUSE, BRIGANTINE
Beach, N. J., is now open for the season; great
improvements made to the Hotel; will be kept in good
style, and the best Sea Bathing on the Coast. Capt.
Holdzkom's Yacht Tip-Top meets the cars at Atlantic
City to take passengers over to the Hotel. You
will always find her at the Inlet House, or the Captain
at the cars on the arrival of the train. Choice
Liquors, &c.
     CAPT. WM. HOLDZKOM, Proprietor,
   cod5t*               P. O. address, Atlantic City

THE SENATE HOUSE, ATLANTIC CITY,
N. J., is open for the reception of guests. It's
nearest the beach, and has hot and cold baths.
   stuth 6t* 2692  WM. WHITEHOUSE, prop'r

SHORTEST ROUTE TO THE SEA-SHORE!
ATLANTIC CITY,
THE POPULAR SEA-SIDE RESORT.
On the Coast of New Jersey, only 60 miles from Philadelphia,
REACHED BY
THE CAMDEN & ATLANTIC RAILROAD.
EXPRESS TRAINS
[*2683*] WITH WOODRUFF PARLOR CARS ATTACHED.
RUN THROUGH IN 1 3/4 HOURS.

[??ERE] TO GO FOR TROUT.
                -------
UP AMONG THE CATSKILLS.
THE TROUTING SEASON COMMENCED--NOW
   TO FIND THE BEST STREAMS IN THE
   WILDERNESS--THE ANGLER'S OUTFIT,
   HIS FARE, AND WHAT HE MAY EXPECT.
       From Our Own Correspondent.
                        KINGSTON, Ulster County,
                              Saturday, May 30, 1874.
   Trout fishing has fairly commenced in this
county, and though the season has been somewhat
backward, because of the unusual coldness of the
streams, caused by the snow-water running from the
mountains, the lovers of the sport are fast making
up lost time, and numbers of fishermen each day can 
be seen in the cars of the N. Y. K., and S. R. R. on
their way toward the mountains. The anglers are
generally successful, and seldom come home without
their baskets well filled. There are a large number
of streams in which trout are abundant, and in fact
there is hardly a stream among these mountains
where this fish cannot be found.
   The stream that lies nearest this city is a creek
called the Beaverkill, that runs from Mink Hollow, 
near the foot of the Overlook Mountain, in a westerly
direction, a portion of the way through rich
meadow land, and from thence into Duvall's Hollow,
down which it flows swiftly, emptying in the Shandaken
or Esopus Creek at Mount Pleasant. There
is some excellent fishing here, to reach which the
angler should take the cars from this city to Mount
Pleasant, a distance of twenty-four miles, then hire
a horse and wagon and drive up the stream seven or
eight miles, and fish down, coming out near the
hotel. If the fisherman prefers to fish up stream
then he can have the horse and wagon follow along
the road.                      [*2684*]
   About eight miles from Mount Pleasant, toward
the west, is another stream that comes tumbling
down Snyder's Hollow. To reach this creek by the
shortest route a high mountain must be climbed, but
when the stream is once gained the trout can be
taken out almost as fast as the hook can be thrown
in, though the fish are not usually of a large size.
   At Shandaken, which is thirty-three miles from
this city, is the Deep Hollow stream, where trout
abound, and where the angler will be treated to a
view of the finest mountain scenery in the Catskills.
Near the head of this Hollow is a deep out through
the range, barely the width of a carriage road,
while the mountains run up each side from 1,500 to
2,000 feet, so nearly perpendicular the top can be
seen while standing at the foot. In this place the
sun seldom shines, except in Winter, and ice can be
found a few feet from the carriageway during the
hottest days of August.
   Three miles above Shandaken is the mouth of the
Big Indian Hollow, from which flows a deep and
rapid stream. The trout in this creek are quite
large, but extremely shy, so that it requires a most
expert fisherman to take them. Near its source is a
high mountain that crosses the hollow, making it a
sort of cul de sac, while over this mountain is the
west branch of the Neversink, one of the best trouting
streams, and one of the roughest in this country.
Men have been known to stand in one spot and catch
fifty fish, some of them weighing over a pound.
   A few miles from this place, just around the base
of the Peekamose, which, by the way, is the highest
mountain of the Catskill range, being about 4,200
feet in height, is the stream called the "Head of the
Rondout." This creek runs through a deep gorge,
in places over a 100 feet in depth, and often forming
a canon by cutting through the solid rock. It is
very laborious work to fish here, as the angler necessarily
must wade in the water, which in places is
quite deep and very cold, even in July. On this
creek is a place called Sun Down, so called, I suppose,
because the sun is always down so far as the
settlers in this region are concerned. The scenery
[????] the wildest description, and quite satisfactory
even to the most poetically inclined.
   In the town of Hardenburg, which lies about
twenty miles further north, is the Mill Brook stream
that runs through a region of country so well
guarded on the south by mountains that it
is inaccessible from any part of Ulster County.
To reach this the fisherman must go on the
railroad to Dean's Corners, in Delaware
County, forty-eight miles from this city, and from
thence travel with a horse and wagon nineteen miles
over a high mountain, when he will be able to camp
on the banks of perhaps the best trout stream in the
State. Mill Brook is forty miles in length, and
trout can be caught anywhere in its waters. It is no
rare occurrence for an amateur to catch from 300 to
400 in a single day.
   In this part of the county are a number of small
lakes or ponds, being the sources of various streams
that run in different directions. They are named
Furlough Lake, Balsam Lake, Sand's Pond, Tunis
Lake, &c., and some of them trout have been
caught that weighed over four pounds. A few years
ago a trout weighing five pounds was taken from one
of these lakes, and exhibited for some time in Barnum's
museum, in New-York City.
   The expense of traveling to these streams and
lakes from Kingston, and remaining there a few
days, would be between 450 and $60. The trip is a
very pleasant one, and families from Newburg, Poughkeepsie,
and other places, camp out along these lakesoften for a month during the Summer season.  They
live in tents or log huts on the shores, and take provisions
enough with them to last until they return 
home. 
In regard to the equipment of the fisherman, a
small, stout pole, with a reel, is required, and he can use 
for bait the angle-worm, shad eggs, salmon eggs, or
anything of that kind that best suits his fancy and
the taste of the trout.  Of course, a variety of artificial
flied should be carried always.  When worms
are used, they should be put in the worm-box three
or four days before fishing, and placed on some wet
moss or a piece of sod, so that they will become
clean and tough for use.     [*2584  A*] 
The angler must expect to wade freely when he
fishes in the creeks, for the timber and brush grow
close to the water's edge so profusely that it is impossible
to fish from the bank.  A pair of extra boots, 
therefore, is a very useful part of a fisherman's outfit. 
Then, with a box of cigars, a flask of something in 
case of emergency, and plenty of food, a man may
have a great deal of enjoyment in taking a trip
among these mountains. 
The scenery is very fine---rough, it is true, but bold
and grand as any scenery among the Catskills, 
while catching the gamey fish is a most exhilarating 
pastime.  A month in these regions, breathing pure
invigorating air, drinking water that sparkles like
champagne, and exercising freely, will cure the 
most confirmed dyspeptic, and make the ailing hale 
and hearty.  The visitor must expect to rough it, 
for there are no accommodations except such as may
be found in the cabin of some bark-peeler---a single 
room for a whole family. Almost any one can put up 
in the woods a substantial resting place with a good 
bark roof in a couple of hours, and the exertion of a 
day's tramp, fishing in these streams, will bring 
sound slumber to the wearied body even though the
bed he made of boughs, and the pillow the soft end
of a log.  Bears and wild cats may prowl around, 
and there are plenty of them, but they will do no 
harm, and the angler can have all the excitement of
the wilderness, without experiencing any great
danger. 

Times and Dispatch. 

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1873. 

Local Affairs. 

TRIP THROUGH CENTRAL PENNSYLVANIA. 
2685 
Bellefonte and Vicinity---The Snow Shoe
Railroad---Iron Ore Operations---The
Bald Eagle Valley---Deer Hunting---
Lockhaven---The Lumber Trade, &c. 

On the morning of Wednesday, October 1st., 
we took a trip over the Show Shoe Railroad by
invitation of its courteous Superintendent Daniel 
Rhoads.  This road has been in operation for
about fourteen years, and was the first railroad 
built in        County.  It extends from 
Bellefont to the rich coal mines near
Snow Shoe on the summit of the Alleghanies. 
The length of the road is 22 miles, and it is one
of the most romantic in the United States, equal
to the celebrated Switch-Back Railroad at
Mauch Chunk, as an evidence of the superiority 
of American engineering skill.  Col. Scott, of 
the Pennsylvania Railroad, has been in the
habit of taking a ride over the Snow Shoe Railroad
every fall for a number of years.  We were 
fortunate in riding over the road during the 
best season of the year, when the trees have
changed their foliage, and the mountains
appear bedecked in resplendent colors. 

[*2*]     THE SNOW SHOE RAILROAD 
is owned by a stock company, many of the
members of which reside in Philadelphia.  They
are the proprietors in connection with the railroad
of the extensive mines of bituminous coal
near Snow Shoe, and of between 40,000 and
50,000 acres of timber lands.  In order to get
their coal and lumber to market the road was
built.  The road passes along Spring Creek 
through a gap in the Bald Eagle range, until it  
          to the west; it then 
passes south some five miles through the Bald 
Eagle Valley to Snow Shoe intersection, where
t strikes off to the north in the direction of the
Alleghanies.  The section between Milesburg 
and Snow Shoe Intersection is used by the
Tyrone and Lockhaven Railroad, which in 
consideration thereof runs all their trains into
Bellefonte.  After leaving the Bald Eagle valley
the Snow Shoe Railroad commences a steep
ascent of the Alleghanies in grades of as much 
as 120 feet to the mile.  The summit is reached 
by means of a number of switches along the side 
of the mountain by which an altitude of 1100 
feet is gained in a distance of seven miles. 
There are three switches, or six zig-zags, before 


the main track is reached at the summit. 
The first switch is half a mile in length, the second
three-quarters of a mile, and the third one
and a half miles.  As the elevations of these 
different switches are attained, the country to
the southward is opened to the view. 

GLEN HARRIS. 
The scenery between two ridges of the Alleghenies
looking through a long, deep glen known 
as Glen Harris, is sublime beyond description. 
The bottom of the glen appears hundreds of feet
below and as the cars continue to ascend 
the traveler feels the sensation, as he
looks out over Glen Harris, of being
suspended in the air.  Far to the south at the
termination of the glen is to be seen a high peak 
of the Alleghanies.  The sides of the mountain 
enclosing the glen were beautifully colored; 
not a single clearing, or dwelling, could be seen---
naught but a wilderness stretched before us.
There are but few views more grand in the 
United States than the view of Glen Harris, 
from the summit of the Snow Shoe Railroad. 

THE SUMMIT. 
Upon our arrival at the Summit we were surprised
to find a clearing, with a hotel, several 
houses, a fine orchard of apples, a garden and
several small fields.  A turnpike crosses the
railroad at this point, which in the earliest history
of the country was used as a wagon road
from Sunbury to Caledonia, and was one of the
few roads by which the Alleghany mountains
at that time could be crossed.  From the Summit 
the Snow Shoe Railroad descends on the
western side crossing deep ravines, by means of 
trestle bridges, over small tributaries of Beech 
Creek.  There are three of these bridges, each
about 600 feet long and 70 feet high.  A fourth 
bridge has been abandoned on account of its
insecure condition, by building a track around 
it, and as the bridges are expensive to maintain 
the others will no doubt be similarly abandoned 
in the course of a few years. 

[*2685  B*]     SNOW SHOE, 
on the crest of a range of the Alleghanies, at an 
altitude of 2,200 feet, is a thrifty town of about
600 inhabitants.  It is an important business
place in consequence of the considerable mining
population in its immediate vicinity.  There
is a large hotel, conducted by R. J. Haynes, 
which is one of the finest summer resorts in the
country.  The scenery is equal to that of the
White Mountains, and the pure and dry atmosphere
is very f[avorable] for invalids.  The hotel 
is generally filled every season with summer
boarders, who in this isolated spot are entirely
free from excitement and care.  There is a daily
mail to and from Snow Shoe. 

THE COAL MINES 
are situated to the west of Snow Shoe, and have
been operated for a number of years.  The
mountain appears to be a solid body of pure
free burning bitumious coal of superior quality. 
The coal is greatly in demand for forge and 
blacksmith purposes and is shipped to every 
section of the country.  The mines are worked 
in a comparatively inexpensive manner by
drifting into the side of the mountain. 
A large quantity of coal and lumber is transported
over the Snow Shoe Railroad annually. 
On account of the grades only from ten to twelve
cars are taken over the road at one time, ten
empty cars being taken up and twelve loaded 
ones down.  Fourteen cars are usually run to 
to the foot of the mountain, where the extra cars
are left upon a siding.  The Company owning 
the railroad are also associated together as a
land association, and the bulk of the trade of 
the railroad consists in transporting the coal and
lumber of the company to market.  The value 
of each share of stock is $8,700.  The master machinist
of the road is Harry D. Landis, formerly
of Reading, who has had charge of the shops of
the company for a number of years.  We are
indebted to Mr. D. I. Butts Assistant Superintendent, 
who accompanied us over the road for
the kind attention shown us. 

DEER HUNTING. 
The Snow Shoe Railroad passes through a section 
of country famous for its abundance of deer. 
Large numbers of haunting parties are out during
the fall and winter, however, and we were informed
that there are generally four hunters to 
every deer killed.  During the winter deer are 
frequently seen along the railroad, and upon 
several occasions they have been found lying
upon the track.  Still-hunting is the mode 
usually observed, and hunting with dogs is discouraged. 


Dogs found running about in the
mountains are generally killed by hunters. 
Log cabins are frequently met with in the forests, 
being the rendezvous places of hunters.  A
number of deer have already been killed this
fall by watching "deer licks" during the night., 
---pools of water to which the unsuspecting deer 
comes to slake his thirst, and then falls a victim. 
The nights have become too cold, however, to
make this mode of hunting desirable. 

A CHALYBEATE SPRING. 
On our return, in stopping at the foot of the
mountain, we discovered a chalybeate spring, 
sharply impregnated with iron.  We were told
of a much stronger spring opposite the Milesburg
iron works, between Milesburg and Bellefonte, 
which we afterwards visited and partook of its
waters.  The first mentioned spring is near the
water tank of the railroad, and we were informed
that the altitude at that point is exactly the
same as that of Altoona.  The telegraph wires 
are run directly up the side of the mountain 
from the water tank to the summit, only a few
poles being required to conduct the wires the
distance of 1100 feet, while a distance of se
miles is run by the trains to reach the same
vation. 
[*2685  C*] 

THE CARS 
of the Snow Shoe Railroad are somewhat unio
They are very little larger than street cars, 
will seat 24 persons.  The car is divided in
compartments, one of which is used by pa
gers, and the other is subdivided for the use o
the baggage master and express and main
messenger.  A passage way extends along the
outside of the latter division, guarded by a rail
ing at the side, from which an unobstructe
view can be obtained of the magnificent scener
of the mountains.  A passenger car is attached 
to a train of coal cars, and only one such train 
is run in each direction with each train.  These
consist of large frame, iron-bound cars, similar
to our long charcoal wagons, which are lifted 
from the railroad by means of a crane, transported
on wagons to the woods where coaling is
being dona, and then after being loaded they
are lifted again on the cars and carried to their
destination. 

AN ACCOMMODATING RAILROAD. 
The Snow Shoe Railroad is much frequented 
by visitors from every section of the Union. 
Most of the persons on our train had come for
the purpose of sight-seeing, and returned with
us at noon.  The company is very accommodating, 
and will stop for passengers or leave
them off wherever desired.  Du
season many persons take the trains of this
road to go huckleberrying along the mountain. 
Upon the occasion of our visit a party of ladies 
were unloaded about half way up the mountaiu
who had come from Bellefonte to gather chicken 
grapes.  The mountains are covered with dense 
underbrush, and rattlesnakes and other venomous
serpents are said to be numerous.  No
tickets are issued, the fare being collected by
the conductors.  The fare from Bellefonte to
Snow Shoe is 75 cents, while a merely nominal 
sum is charged persons who desire to stop between 
the two points. 

THE IRON ORE BEDS OF CENTRE COUNTY. 
We returned from our trip over the Snow
Shoe Railroad shortly after 12 o'clock in time
to take dinner at the hotel before starting out
with David B. Kaufman, Esq., to visit an extensive
bed of iron ore, of the quality known as 
pipe ore, which is being operated by that gentleman, 
about two and a half miles northeast of
Bellefonte.  Mr. Kaufman is a native of Berks 
county, being a brother of Samuel Kaufman, of
this city, and was at one time in partnership 
with the Messrs. Clymer Brothers, 
the Mount Laurel furnace.  Mr. Kaufman
has been residing for a number of years, however, 
at the Forest Iron works, in Union county, 
near White Deer Mills P. O.  These works are
seventy miles distant from the ore beds referred 
to, from which they are supplied.  The drive to 
the ore beds lay along a ridge, past a number of
very fine farms.  The beds are upon the farm of 
Mr. John Hoy, consisting of 212 acres.  There 
appears to be no limit to the quantity of the ore. 
Wherever examinations have been made re
has been discovered in abundance.  We walked
over a freshly plowed field and found lumps of 
ore almost as heavy as solid metal, lying in 
great profusion upon the surface where they had
been plowed up.  We gathered a number of fine 



specimens of ore found in this manner. The ore is of so rich a quality that it only requires 2 tons and 2 cwt. to make a ton of metal.  From 12 to 18 tons of ore are now being washed daily, although the quantity could be nearly doubled with an increased force of men.   Mr. William Lesher, formerly of this county, is Superintendent of the mining operations.  The engine house, buildings and machinery were erected by Capt. Charles Melcher, of this city, one of our committee.  It is one of the most complete, and perfect running establishments of which we have any knowledge, and is regarded in Bellefonte as the best operated mine in Centre county.
                                                                              THE CURTIN MINES.
    Adjoining the above ore bed are the works of the Messrs. Curtin Brothers, who have tow engine in operation and are taking out ore from the same range of beds. Their ore is hauled to their furnance at Curtin on the Tyrone and Bellefonte Railroad, on the north side of the Bald Ea[?] Mountain, about three miles distant,  T[?] Messrs. Curtin own a number of large farms [?] the vicinity of their present operations, all of which appear to have deposits of iron ore upon them. 
                                                                                  FINE FARMS.
     We returned to [???????n?e by a [?] [?] passing several as fine farms as are to be found in the State.  One of these was the farm of the late Hon. H. N. McAlllister, Delegate-at-Large to the Constitutional Convention, who died in Philadelphia while in attendance upon the Convention last winter.  The farm is supplied with substantial buildings.  The mansion house is an elegant structure, and is surrounded by a beautiful yard, will shaded with trees, and tastefully adorned with shrubbery and flowers.  The clover fields showed an astonishing growth, while the cornfields which were passed were the best we have seen this year.  The farm of Mr. John Hoy is also a model property.  The farm buildings are sufficient to form a village of ordinary size; while the premises are well stocked with fruit, special attention being paid to fruit culture by the proprietor.                                            C. T. F.
26850                                                                      (Conclusion to-morrow.)

                                                                                    EUROPEAN TRAVEL.
[IMAGE]
2686

                                                                               THE TOPLITZ OF AMERICA.
                                                                                    ____________________
ARKANSAS AWAKENING----INFLUENCE OF THE RAILWAY AND TELEGRAPH---ANTIQUITY OF THE SPRINGS---THEIR MADERN PROGRESS---TJE THERMAL WATERS---THEIR PROPER--TIES AND VIRTUES--THE BATHS--THE INNS AND THEIR ACCOMMODATIONS.
     HOT SPRINGS, GARLAND COUNTY, Ark., September 5. --If these estr[?] [?]rdinary Springs had been in almost any other State than Arkansas, their reputation would have been national instead of local.  Arkansas has been regarded as an odd and [??rbarous] corner of creation --a sort of Patagonia, where the natives feel obliged, for the sake of appeti[?]e, to kill at least one man before breakfast, and where indiscriminate slaughter with bowie-knives is deemed a pleasant pastime.  No part of the Southwest has gained so vile a reputation.  Whoever has had a story to tell too shocking to be believed of ordinary humanity has made this the scene of his narrative, and thereby it has gained credulity.
2687                                                                 A NEW ORDER OF AFFAIRS.
     Undeniable there has been some reason for such unenviable fame.  The region round about has been infested with outlaws and desperadoes who have delighted to spread terrorism through the community, and who have been vain of the notoriety they have acquired for brutality and bloodshed.  This was a condition almost inseparable from ignorance, slavery, and frontier life.  Slavery is no more, ignorance is disappearing, and the frontier has retreated. Material agencies work the greatest of moral changes.  The railway and telegraph are doing for the State what they have done for civilization and pregress everywhere.  The Missouri, Kansas, and Texas Railway running through the Indian Territory (the Indians will soon, no doubt, be placed on another reservation), the Cairo and Fulton, the Memphis and Little Rock (all completed), and the Little Rock an[?] Fort Smith Road (rapidly building) have opened the way to immigration, and happily altered the situation.  The future of Arkansas will be diametrically opposite to its past.  Abounding in agricultural and mineral resources, possessed of fine navigable rivers, like the Arkanasas, White, St. Francis, and Ouachita, it must, at no distant day, be one of the first of the States bordering on the Mississippi in population, wealth, and importances.
     The undevelopment of Arkansas and the difficulty of reaching the Springs have here[?]o-fore prevented many invalids, who knew of the virtues of the waters, from attempting to come here.  The difficulty is dissolved with the completion of the Cairo and Fulton Railway.  You can reach Malvern by rail from any part of the Union, via Vincennes (Ind.), Odin (Ill.), or St. Louis (Mo.0; and from Malvern you can take the stage, a distance of only twenty-five miles from this place.  The expense from New York is about [?]55, and the time sixty-five to seventy hours.  By St. Louis you can have Pullman drawing-room and sleeping cars, which are of great advantage to infirm persons.
2687A                                                                    THE SPRINGS.
     The Springs, if we may trust tradition, have been known for twenty centuries; were visited by the aborigines from the earliest period. There is historical evidence for believing De Soto was here a short time before he discovered the Mississippi, and that he and his followers were materially benefited by the baths.  The earliest Cancasion settlement was in 1805 by Jacques Prudhomme, a Frenchman, who, three or four  years  after,  sold his cabin  and a few  cultivated  acres to James  Percival. The  Springs  did  not,  however,  become  a resort until 1812, and then they were repaired to only by ailing planters in teh neighborhood. During half a century neearly the increase of visitors was slow, though about the beginning of the civil war a marked improvement occurred, as many as six hundred persons having been here in 1860.  While the rebellion went on, the Springs did not.  The State, especially this part, was occupied both by Confederates and Unionists, and the extinction rather than the prolongation of life was teh principal object in view.  Since the close of the struggle the place and the patronage are better.  In 1871, 3,500 patients came ; in 1872, 4,000 ; and this season, up to date, there have been some 9,500.
     The ailing public, particularly in the North, are finding out the remedial power of the waters, and it is thought that the next few years will show a vast increase in attendance.  The facilities of transportation will be of immense advantage, and teh well-nigh miraculous cures effected are yielding their natural fruit.  A number of prominent men, like Senator Morton, of Indiana, have undergone aqueous treatment,  and  have  received  such  lasting benefit that their testimony becomes the best    of   advertisements.  Morton  had been  abroad  and  in  the  hands  of  such eminent physicians as Dr. Brown-Sequard, without permanent advantage.  He had tested, too, the baths of Baden, Homburg von der Hohe, and Wiesbaden to little purpose; and yet, coming here with hardlyany hope, he has been almost entirely restored.  John Morrissey,  the scripturally-named  banker,  was  thoroughly used up in body, and still was rejuvenated by two months of bathing.  He was so delighted with the Springs that he was anxious to buy them, offering $1,000,000 for the fifty acres that contain them.  He would have turned them to excellent pecuniary account could he have purchased them  (he says he could easily have trebled his money) at anything like his figure.
                                                                             DISPUTED LAND.
     Unfortunately, the land on which the Springs are is claimed by the Government and half-a-dozen private parties.  Consequently, it is likely to be the subject of interminable litigation, particularly as its value is augmenting in an almost geometrical ratio.  It is a pity some enterprising man or company could not get hold of the place, which would then have the grounds laid out, fine hotels built, and modern improvements introduced  (I  do  not  mean  the kind which Morrissey might especially favor) to such a degree that it would become a fashionable not less than a hygienic resort. 
                                                                          ACCOMMODATIONS.
     Public and private boarding-huses abound here, and, albeit  they are fairly kept from the Arkansas angle of judgement, they are not quite what metropolitans would wish.  The scale of prices is moderate enough---from $50 to $75 per month.  Many coveniences and all luxuries are lacking ; but they who need health above aught else will accept a little less than they are accustomeed to for the substantial and inestimable  benefit they are conscious of securing.
                                                                          VIRTUES OF THE WATERS.
     The Springs, all thermal, are fifty-four (some say ther are fifty-eight)in number, ranging in temperature from 95 to 155 degrees, Fahrenheit---40 to 50 degrees higher than any of those of Germany, which have performed and still perform marvellous cures.   They are on the side of a hill, or mountain (Hot Springs) as it is called here, some 900 feet in altitude, and discharge some 340 gallons a minute---about 490,000 gallons every twenty-four hours.  They are very beneficial to stiff joints rheumatism, contraction of the muscles, gout, cutaneous diseases, scrofulous affections, ulcerations, glandular enlargements, general debility, spinal, neuralgic, nervous, paralytic, uterine, dyspeptic, liver, diarraetic, syphliltic, and nearly all complaints of chronic kind.  Bronchial, pulmonary, dropsical, vertiginous, apoplectic, and aneurismal troubles are not helped by the waters ; and the resident physicians distinctly  counsel sufferers from such ailments to stay away, as they will be more harmed than aided by treatment. Neuralgic, rheumatic, and syphilitic diseases have been and are almost invariable cured where medical advice has been faithfully followed.   26878
     Patients who have tried everything and despaired of recovery have come here and been healed.  It is astonishing to note the effect of the baths upon the sufferers, and still more to hear the accounts the sufferes give. Those who were on crutches a month ago either walk now with a cane  or  without any support. Those who have been tortured for years report that the baths have yielded them peace at last. [?] [?] [?] [?], I shoud say that no such springs exist anywhere else, and I have visited all those of note in the Old World.  Having invincible health myself, I must  bear vicarious testimony in behalf of these justly renowned waters.  I have seen enough, however, to convince me of their sovereign virtues.  If I had a friend suffering from any disease that the physicians here claim to benefit, I should not rest content until I had put him under treatment, with a cheerful assurance that he would not be disagreeable disappointed.
     Though the cause of the heat of the waters has not been satisfactorily ascertained, they have been repeatedly analyzed.  They contain bicarbonates of lime and magnesia, oxide of iron, carbonates of potash and soda, sulphate and chloride of magnesia, oxide of manganese, sulphate and arseniate of lime, with certain properties of bromine and iodine, and thorough impregnations of free carbonic acid gas.
                                                                                MISCELLANEOUS.
     The largest spring (155 degrees Fahrenheit discharges seventy gallons, and is one of teh most effective of the whole in the treatment of stubborn cases.  Teh water is drunk as well as bathed  in ; but  the external application is by far the more beneficial.  Some of the baths are altogether primitive, being holes  dug  in  the  ground  at  the  side of the springs, into which the patients plunge their suffering parts.  There are, besides, regular bath-houses--the water conveyed to them by iron pipes--with proper facilities and accompmodations for both sexes.  The price of baths is from twenty-five to fifty cents, on which a small discount is made for a course--usually twenty-one baths.
     The time required for the stay of a suffererer necessarily depends upon his constitution and disease.  Some patients are cured in three weeks, and three months is the extreme for the worst instances of chronic affliction.  On an average, four weeks may be mentioned as the time needed for healing, or at least for great benefit.
     The Season is at its height from June 1st to August last, thought it continues from May to the close of October.  The climate is very salubrious.  The days are often hot, the mer[?]ury rising to 85 and 88 degrees, but the nights and mornings are refreshingly cool, and mosquitoes are hardly known in this village, which has about 600 inhabitants proper; is situated in a narrow valley or defile among the Ozark Mountains, in the midst of a pleasant, picturesque, and rather wild region--an agreeable contrast to the conventionalities and artificialities of the Gomorrah on the Hudson.                                                                                                                OUDEIS.SAILING AND FISHING IN THE INLET.
2688 SEA VIEW EXCURSION HOUSE FOR THE EXCLUSIVE USE OF EXCURSIONISTS
BAND OF MUSIC - SPACIOUS BALL-ROOM - ELEGANT PARLORS - BROAD PIAZZAS? ?
           To
Atlantic City
IN 
?1/2 HOURS
?n train will run to 
[ATLAN]TIC CITY  
?DAY,
?day.)
?AMDEN & ATLANTIC RAILRO[AD]
GIV?
9 HO? 
AT TH?
SEA-SHOR[e]
Last Boat leaves 
VINE ST. WHARF
6.15 A.M.
SAFETY, SPEED, and COMFORT. 
During July and August, and part of September, the Excursion Train will run EVERY DAY, except Sunday.

ALIEN, LANE & SCO?[Phil Press  April 27 
'85*] 

SALT AND RELIGION. 

A Striking Parallel Drawn Between Material 
and Spiritual Forces. 
"Few realize the wide distribution of salt,"
said the Rev. Dean Henry Martyn Hart, of
Denver, Col., yesterday morning in the Trinity
Protestant Episcopal Church, Forty-second
Street and Baltimore Avenue.  "Its very appearance
in the earth," he continued, "is difficult
to explain.  In the salt mines of Poland, 
alone, which have been worked for 650 years, 
there still remains enough salt for the whole 
world for centuries to come.  Whence came those 
vast deposits?  From the sea?  Was it that 
lagoons every now and again filled up, as the
high tide swept over the sand bar which  separates 
them from the ocean, and then the waters, 
suffered for months to evaporate, gradually 
deposited their salty constituents?  This 
theory sounds plausible, but besides salt, the
water of the sea contains many other ingredients
and yet, in the salt mines we only find
pure salt.  The truth is, we do not know how 
the world became possessed of salt, and all we
can say is that the Creator placed it there as
one of the primary constituents of Nature. 
Seeing it is literally everywhere, we must believe
that, small though its quantity may be, 
yet the potency of its influence in the economy 
of Nature is only commensurate with its wide 
distribution;  and, with it you may be sure, 
lies one of the secrets of health, fertility and
life. 
"What is it in the spiritual life that answers 
to this great influence in the natural world?  I
answer, a certain deep, secret power of the
Spirit of God, acting generally through the 
world, upon the conscience, upon the intellect, 
the affections, the will of man;  whereby he is
in a state of inward life and purity, and whereby
again, he is among his fellow-men, with
whomsoever he comes in contact, a means a 
a channel of good, of truth, of sound stat 
vigorous life, of spiritual health, of hap
and of holiness.  The salt is the divine
the man." 
2689 

"Laughing in the Pulpit," said Mr. C-----, 
a Presbyterian minister of some notoriety, 
I never laughed in the pulpit only on one
occasion, and that came near procuring my
dismissal from the ministry.  About one
of the first discourses I was called to deliver, 
subsequent to my ordination, after reading
my text and opening my subject, my
attention was directed to a young man of
very foppish dress, and a head of exceeding
red hair.  In a seat immediately behind
this young gentlemen sat an urchin 
who must have been urged on in his deviltry
by the evil one himself, for I do not
conceive how the youngster thought of the
jest he was playing off on the spruced dandy
in front of him.  The boy held his fore 
finger in the red hair of the young man, 
about as long as a blacksmith would a nail
road to heat it, and then on his knee commenced
pounding his finger in imitation of 
a smith in making a nail. The whole thing 
was so ludicrous that I laughed, the only
time that I ever disgraced the pulpit with 
any thing like mirth. 
2690 


LING.---Plutarch tells a very amusing story
o[??]rk Anthony, who was a keen angler.  On
day while Cleopatra and he were indulging in this
sport, he was unusually unsuccessful.  Hurt at this
disappointment in the presence of his mistress, he
gave secret orders to some of his fishermen to dive
under water, and to fasten, unseen, to his hook, 
some of the finest and largest fishes, still alive, and
which they had lately taken in their nets.  With
nice execution they obeyed his orders.  Every
time he drew up his line he succeeded.  The cunning
Cleopatra, in rapturous language, extolled his
art, his address and his fortune.  Acquainted, however, 
with the artifice he was using, she had recource 
to the ingenious countermine of desiring one
of her own attendants to dive secretly, and attach 
to his hook a large dried Pontic fish.  At last, when 
pulling up the line, at the sight of the heavy salted
fish, the spectators expressed their surprise by a
loud laugh.  Anthony did not relish the joke, and
seemed highly displeased.  The queen observed 
him in this mood, immediately took him in her
arms, and fondly exclaimed, "Leave, dear general, 
angling to us petty princes of Pharos and Canopus; 
your game is cities, kingdoms, and provinces." 
2691 


Meanings in the Greek Mythology. 
[*2692*] 
The Prometheus Vinctus is the romance
of scepticism.  Not less true to all time are 
all the details of that stately apologue.  Apollo
kept the flocks of Admetus, said the poets.  
Every man is a divinity in disguise, a
god playing the fool.  It seems as if heaven 
had sent its insane angels into our world as
into an asylum, and here they will break 
out into their native music, and utter at intervals
the words they have heard in heaven; 
then the mad fit returns, and they mope
and wallow like dogs.  Antaeus was suffocated
by the gripe of Hercules, but every 
time he touched his mother earth his
strength was renewed.  Man is the broken 
giant, and in all his weakness, both his body
and his mind are invigorated by habits of 


conversation with nature.  The power of
music, the power of poetry to unfix, and, as
it were, clap wings to all solid nature, interprets 
the riddle of Orpheus, which was
to his childhood an idle tale,  The philosophical 
perception of identity through endless
mutations of form, makes him know the
Proteus.  What else am I who laughed or
wept yesterday, who slept last night like a
corpse, and this morning stood and ran?--- 
And what see I on any side but the transmigrations
of Proteus?  I can symbolise my
thought by using the name of any creature, 
of any fact, because every creature is man, 
agent or patient.  Tantalus is but a name
for you and me.  Tantalus means the impossibility
of drinking the waters of thought
which are always gleaming and waving
within sight of the soul.     2692 [*A*] 
The transmigration of souls;  that, too, is
no fable.  I would it were;  but men and
women are only half human.  Every animal
of the barn-yard, the field, and the forest, 
of the earth and of the waters that are under
the earth, has contrived to get a footing and
to leave the print of their features and form 
in some one or other of these upright heaven-facing 
speakers.  Ah!  brother, hold fast 
to the man and awe the beast;  stop the ebb
of thy soul---ebbing downward into the forms
into whose habits thou hast now for many 
years slid.  As near and proper to us is also
the old fable of the Sphinx, who was said 
to sit in the road-side and put riddles to every
passenger.  If the man could not answer, 
she swallowed him alive.  If he could solve
the riddle, the Sphinx was slain.  What is
our life but an endless flight of winged facts
or events.  In splendid variety these changes
come, all putting questions to the human 

spirit.  Those men who cannot answer, by
superior wisdom, these facts or questions of
time, serve them.  Facts encumber them, 
tyrannise over them, and make the men of
routine the men of sense, in whom a literal 
obedience to facts has extinguished every 
spark of that light by which man is truly
man.  But if the man is true to his better 
instincts or sentiments, and refuses the dominion
of facts, as one that comes of a higher
race remains fast by the soul and sees
the principle, then the facts fall aptly and
supple into their places;  they know their
master, and the meanest of them glorifies
him.     [R. W. Emerson. 

Classic Ideas of Death.---The Greeks
painted death under the likeness of a sleeping
child of beautiful youth.  In the Eastern 
countries, the death of persons was attributed 
to the attachment of particular deities, who
thus took their favorites to a better world. 
If one died in the morning it was attributed 
to the goddess Aurora.  She was represented
on tombstones of the departed, as
drawn in a rosa-colored charriot, by white 
horses, opening the gates of the East with 
her rosy fingers, pouring the dew upon the 
earth, and making the flowers to grow.  She
was covered with a veil.  Nox, the mother of
death, and Somnus, the god who presided 
over sleep, were represented as flying before
her. 
The Lacedemonians always placed the
image of Somnus near that of death.  He
is represented as asleep upon a bed of feathers, 
hung with black curtains.  The Dreams
stand by him, and Morpheus, his principal
minister, watches over him. 
When a person was drowned, it was imputed
to the love of Water Nymphs.  These 
were beautiful virgins that presided over lakes, 
rivers, and seas.  The drowned person, as
their favorite, was conducted under the water, 
by them, to some beautiful place, adorned
with evergreens and flowers.  If a person 
was killed by lightning, it was the love of
Jupiter who thus took him home to Heaven. 
---The Univercoelum     2693 

Marriage of Vulcan and Venus.--- 
public meeting at Sheffield, England, o
the occasion of laying a corner stone of the
new building for the Sheffield Athenaeum
and Mechanic's Institution, Lord Morpeth 
made an admirable speech, in the course of
which he made allusion to the fabulous story
of Vulcan and Venus in the following
happy manner:     [(2694*] 


"Those of you who have the opportunity
of consulting the old legends and classical
mythology, are aware that among the
fancied deities with which they peopled 
their world, one more especially was regarded
as the god of labor and of handicraft.  
Vulcan by name, who was always
represented as employed in huge smithies 
and workshops, hammering at heavy anvils, 
blowing huge bellows, heating funaces and
begrimmed with soot and dirt.  Well ladies 
and gentlemen, for this hard-working
and swarthy-looking divinity, they wished 
to pick our a wife, (loud laughter.)  And 
they did not select for him a mere drab---a
person taken from the scullery or kitchen
dresser, but they chose for him Venus, the
goddess of love and beauty. 
Now, ladies and gentlemen, pick out for
me the moral of this tale, for I believe that
nothing ever was invented---certainly nothing
by the polished and brilliant imagination 
of the Grecian intellect---which as
not its meaning and its moral.  I have no
doubt that all the legends of our own country
---that the one even of y our own neighborhood, 
the Dragon of Wantly, itself, has
some appropriate allegory and meaning--- 

if we only knew how to find them out.--- 
But what is the special meaning of the
marriage of Vulcan with Venus---of the 
hard-working artificer with this laughter-loving
queen---of labor with beauty? 
What is it, ladies and gentlemen, but
this:  That even in a busy hive of industry
and toil like this, even here, upon a spot
which is in many respects no inapt representation 
of the fabled workshop of Vulcan
---even here, amid the clang of anvils, the
noise of furnaces, and the sputtering of
forges---even here, amid stunning sounds 
and sooty blackness, the mind---the untrammelled
mind---may go forth, may pierce the
dim atmosphere which is poised around us, 
may wing its way to the freer air and purer 
light which are beyond, and my ally itself
with all that is most fair, genial, and lovely
in creation, (applause.)   So, gentlemen, I
say your labor, your downright, hard, swarthy
labor, may make itself the companion, 
the help-mate, and the husband of beauty. 
I dare say, and have reason to believe from 
the inspection which I am able even now
to command, and have no doubt a more intimate
acquaintance with your wives, sisters, 
and daughters, would enabled me to 
prove that I was not wrong in my illustration. 
But above this beauty, I say your labor 
may allay itself with intellectual beauty
---the beauty connected with the play of 
fancy, with the achievements of art, and
with the creation of genius---beauty such
as painting fixes upon the glowing canvass 
---such as the sculpture embodies in the
breathing marble---such as architecture developes
in her stately and harmonious proportions
---such as music clothes with the 
enchantments of sound.  But there is a beauty
of a still higher order, with which I feel 
more assured is still to open to it to unite
itself.  I mean with moral beauty---beauty
connected with the affections, the conscience, 
the heart, and the life.  (Good
cheers.) 
It is most true that in the busiest and
blackest of your workshops---in the most
wearying and monotonous tasks of daily
drudgery, as also in the very humblest of
your own dwellings---by the smallest of your 
firesides---you may, one and each of you, in
the zealous and cheerful discharge of the
daily duty, in respect for the feelings of
others---in a meekness and sobriety of spirit, 
 and in the thousand charities and kindnesses
of social and domestic intercourse---
even thus you may attain to and exhibit the
moral beauty of which I have spoken---a 
beauty beyond all others in degree and excellence, 
because in proportion as it can be
reached it makes up the perfection of man's
nature here below, and is the most faithful 
reflection of the will of his Creator, (applause;) 
and thus I close my explanation of
the marriage of Vulcan and Venus, of labor
with beauty.     2694  [*A*][????????ion] in the Reign of James the
    [*2695*]                            First.
   The reign of James was abundant in scheme
or the discovery of gold and hidden treasure [??]
charmes; and the general prevalence of such belief
may be imagined, when we find that Dave
Ramsay, known to our readers as the King
watchmaker in the Fortunes of Nigel, having
been told that a large quantity of treasure was
buried in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey,
begged permission of Williams, then dean, to
search for it. Williams with the proviso that
the church should have a share, gave his [con????]
   Now, David Ramsay [???] must go to work
   common manner, but, under the direction
  a cunning man, named John Scott, he, with
"several others," entered the cloister with hazel
rods, and "played them." On the west side of
the rods "turned the one over the other;: so,
thinking that the treasure was there, they began
to dig, but found only a coffin. Again and
again they tried, but were disappointed, until
David and his company, with "half-quarter
sack to put the treasure in," were compelled to
return no richer than they came. As John
Scott had prophesied success, a sufficient excuse
must be found, so, as a very "blustering
wind" arose before they had finished, the demons
who were unwilling the treasure should be discovered,
determined their search should be in
valu. these cunning men, who used the hazel
rod and crystal, were most indignant at being
confounded with wizzards and "such slaves of the
devil," for they pretend "to acquaintance with
angels." Such was old Mr. Wm. Hodges, under
whom the aforesaid John Scott studied.
   John Scott at length took leave of his master
"being to return to Loudon" to get married--,
Probably anxious to test the skill of Old Mr. William
Hodges, he requested him to show him
his lady in the crystal. Hodges complied, and
bade him say what he saw. "A ruddy-complexioned
wench, in a red waistcoat, drawing a
can of beer," is the reply. "She must be your
wife," said the owner of the crystal. "Never,"
replied the Scott; "I am to marry a tall gentlewoman
in the Old Bailey," was the oracular decision.--
Away went Scott, fully determined to take his
own way; but, when he arrived at the old Bailey,
he found the tall gentlewoman already married.
Two years passed; and then on a journey,
going into an inn at Canterbury, John Scott went
by mistake into the kitchen instead of the sitting
room, and beheld there was a maiden in a red
waistcoat drawing a can of beer! The stars
had certainly led him thither; and who, in the
seventeenth century could resist their influence!
So John Scott "became a suitor" to red waistcoat,
married her, and lived very happy ever
after, as the old stories say. In this case the
prediction undoubtedly wrought its own fulfilment,
and this was often the case when so much
faith was joined to so much credulity. The
belief in the crystal to foreshadow future evets
was held, however, by many a grave divine at
this period. The bold and ambitious mother of
James's last favorite was believed, when a mere
humble dependand in a noble family, to have
seen herself in this magic mirror, blazing with
gold and gems, just as she appearee at Whitehall,
when courted by the proudest nobles, and
complimented by the King himself.--British
Quarterly.     [*2695A*]
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
   We often hear it said that "the age of miracles
has ceased." What can be a greater miracle
than that people have their teeth pulled and
legs sawed off without experiencing the least 
pain.
                                     -------
   People are not so bad as misanthropes suppose,
nor so good as panegyrists would make them out
to be.
                                     -------
   "Of many evils, choose the least," as Tom
Thumb's wife said when she preferred him before
other men.
                                     -------
   A man at a foot race, the other day, ran so
fast as to leave his shirt behind him. He was
raised in the same country as the race-horse
that ran out of his hide and left it lying on the 
road.
                                     -------
   It is said that a man administered chloroform
to a pig which rendered him insensible while being
killed. Why not? "A merciful man is
merciful to his beast."
                                     -------
   "What are the fine art, husband?"
   "Making yokes for the Industrious Fleas, I
suppose. I don't know of any finer art then
that; but screwing on pins' heads comes next to
it."            
                                     --------
   In our life and love there is but one spring-time
--violets and forget-me-nots bloom but once.
Life's earliest and sweetest flowers take their
hue from heaven.
                                      --------
   A virtuous sentiment grows calm without being
weakened; a wrong passion is agitated,
though about to be extinguished. That which
is not in order is by its nature mortal; that which
belongs to virtue belongs also to immortality.
                                      --------
   It has wittily, but somewhat ungallantly,
been said, that a woman is the reverse of her
mirror--that one reflects without talking, and
the other talks without reflecting.
                                       -------
   The easiest way to get a  living is to sit on a
gate and wait for good luck. In case good luck
don't come along, you are no worse off than you
were before.
                                      -------
   Why would a horse be justified in biting a
man's leg?
   Because "all flesh is grass!"
   ]*2696*]                   -------
   Contentment is a pearl of great price, and
whoever procures it at the expense of ten thousand
desires, makes a wise and happy purchase.

                                Life's Pendulum.
   At every swing of the pendulum, a spirit goes
into eternity. the measure of life is a hand-breath;
it is a tale that is told; its rapidity is like
the swift shuttle or the flying arrow; it is brief
as the fading flower; it is a bubble, it is a breath.
At every swing of the pendulum a spirit goes into
eternity! Between the rising and the setting
sun, forty-two thousand souls are summoned before
their Creator! Death is very busy, night
and day, at all seasons, in all climes. True as
well as beautiful, are those lines of Mrs. Hemans:
      "Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers wither at the North-Wind's breath,
      And stars to set--but all,
Thou has all seasons for thine, O Death!"
   He is supplied with a boundless variety of
darts and arrows, with which he accomplishes
his work. Could all the forms in which death
comes to man be written together, what a long
and fearful catalogue would it make! Think of 
the innumerable number of diseases, all at the
command of Death. And as though these were
not sufficient, see how man is exposed to fatal
accidents on every hand, and at this very moment.
It was a favorite saying of Flavel, that
"the smallest pore in the body is a door large
enough to let in death." "The leanest gnat
in the air," says the same writer, with great pungency,
"may choke one, as it did Adrian,
the Pope of Rome. A little hair in milk may
strangle one as it did a counsellor in Rome. The
skin of a raisin may stop one's breath as it did
the lyric poet Anacreon."  A little hang nail on
a finger recently proved an avenue of death to
a physician in this city, who was in the vigor of
life and health. Even the food we eat to nourish
us, and the air we breathe, may introduce
death into our systems. And though every thing
else should fail to harm us, we might fall by our
own hands, should God permit a cloud to pass
over our reason. O, how insecure is life! how
near is death! What has been said to the mariner
in reference to his ship, that "he always
sailed within four inches of death," may be said
of the soul in relation to the body. If the ship
splits, the sailor sinks; if our earthly vessel
breaks, the soul is plunged forever into the
shoreless ocean of eternity. Were our senses
not benumbed and deadened, we should read a
warning in every sere leaf, and hear an admonition
in every wind that sighs. Even sleep, "nature's
sweet restorer," would be a monitor of
death--an ever present emblem of Mortality.
   [*2697*]                                                       Cycle.
                           --------------------------------
[*2698*]              WHAT IS LIFE?
   Professor Nicholson, of University College,
Toronto, in his excellent "Manual of Zoology,"
discusses the nature of life in a very interesting
manner, presenting the true points
in the case in a light which renders them of
easy comprehension even by readers not profoundly
versed in natural science. The
question has long been debated, "Is life the
cause or the result of organization?" The
author quotes Bichat, Treivanus, Duges, and
Becklard, all of whom have defined life in
terms implying that it is inseparably connected
with organization. This view he emphatically
repudiates. He thinks that at the
present time no rigid definition of life is possible.
It is safest merely to designate it by
one of its external phenomena, viz: "A tendency
in certain forms of matter, under certain
conditions, to pass through a series of
changes in a more or less definite and determinate
sequence." As to the connection between 
life and organization, he believes "that
whilst all organized bodies exhibit this tendency
to change, and are therefore alive, all
living beings are not necessarily organized."
Some of the lower forms of life, such as the
Foramsnifera, among the Protozoa, are destitute
of organs entirely, yet they manifest
"all the essential phenomena of life; they are
produced from bodies like themselves; they
eat, digest, and move, and exhibit distinct
sensibility to many external impressions."
"Furthermore, many of these little masses of
structureless jelly possess the power of manufacturing
for themselves, of lime, or of the
still more intractable flint, external shells of
surpassing beauty and mathematical regularity."
   In the face of such facts the author is impelled
to the conclusion that life is "the cause
and not the consequence of organization;"
that "organization is not an intrinsic and indidpensable
condition of vital phenomena."
For the manifestation of vital phenomena,
however, a uniform "physical basis" or
"protoplasm" is essential. The vital force
may exist, unmanifested, but it requires a
physical medium through which to demonstrate
itself to human senses. "The protoplasm
bears to life the same relation that a
conductor does to the electric current." Protoplasm
dos not necessarily assume organic
forms, or "differentiation into distinct parts."
It is composed of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen,
and nitrogen united in a compound ccalled
proteine, very nearly identical with albumen,
or the white of an egg. Upon this "physical
basis" the unknown principle of life may be
made to manifest what are called vital phenomena,
yet these are limited by certain extrinsic 
conditions: first, a temperature ranging
between the freezing point and 130° Fah.;
second, the presence of water; third, the
presence of free oxygen. Recent experiments,
however, seem to cast a doubt upon the indispensability
of these conditions. For instance,
the Rotifera or Wheel animacules, of
high organization of aquatic habits, may be
dried and pulverized; may be for many years
deprived of the necessary conditions of existence,
yet, on coming in contact with water,
they will resume their pristine activity.
   Again, "the simplest vital phenomena has
in it something over and above the merely
chemical and physical forces which we can
demonstrate in the laboratory." Digestion
presents phenomena which no chemistry will
explain. For instance the Amoeba, an animalcule 
presenting but little more of structure
than a lump of jelly, digests as readily
as does the most highly organized animal.
There is something above the physical or the
chemical in all this. The processes of selection,
separation, and assimilation involved in
digestion constitute a very complex function,
arguing the presence of a force above and
beyond that of the visible organism. hence
the conclusion that the effective agency must 
be something unseen and intangible. To express 
this impalpable element our author
justifies the use of the term "vital force," in
spite of adverse criticism. He simply employs 
it, however, like x in an algebraic
equation, as "a convenient expression for an
unknown quantity, for that residual portion
of every vital action which can not, at present,
be referred to the operation of any known
physical force."   [*2698A*]
   From the foregoing we gather that the
latest results of scientific investigation, as
expounded by this able naturalist, confirm
the distinction everywhere in human consciousness,
between the physical and the spiritual.
Science has, as yet, established nothing
which invalidates or contradicts the traditional
ideas that have come down to us
from the earliest antiquity in regard to our
twofold nature. On the contrary it has
drawn the lines more sharply and has broadened
the distinction between them by showing
a barrier beyond which its observation
and coordination of facts have failed to reach.
The chasm between the physical and the
spiritual still subsists, nor is there afforded
any ground to hope that any process will yet
be made practicable to the human mind in its
present state whereby that chasm may be
bridged.                        [*2698A*]       Nature is most industrious in adorning her domains, and man to whom this bounty is  addressed, should obey the lesson. Let him too be industrious in adorning his domain---in making his home, the dwelling of his wife and children, not only convenient and comfortable, but pleasant.  Let him, as far as circumstances will permit, be industrious in surrounding it with pleasant objects---in decorating it within and without, with things that tend to make it agreeable and attractive.  Let industry make home the abode of neatness and order--a place which brings satisfaction to every inmate; and which, in absence, draw back the heart by the fond associations of comfort and content.  Let this be done, and this sacred spot will become more surely the scene of cheerfulness and peace.  Ye parents who would have your children happy, be industrious to bring them up in the midst of pleasant, a cheerful and a happy home.  Waste not your time in accumulating wealth for them; but plant in their minds and souls the way proposed, the seeds of virtue and prosperity. 2699

   DEATH.    Death is mystery, we know we shall ere long close our eyes on all sublunary objects ; but the time and the manner of our death we cannot foresee.  Here one falls in his full strength, while another has been languishing for years.  The aged are passed by, and the turf is upheaved for the young and beautiful.  Our neighbor falleth by our side, just as we learned to appreciate his worth.  A friend sinks in our arms, as we take him to our bosom.  Yet these instances of mortality fail to leave suitable impressions on our minds.
     We follow our friends to the grave, and turn as anxiously as ever to engage in the business and turmoil of life.  To-morrow we forget the pleasant smile and cheerful voice, and put far away from our minds the thought of our own mortality.  Thus are we blinded ; but little as we dwell upon it, the day approaches when our voices will be hushed, our eyes closed, and our lips refuse to do their office.  Blessed shall we be, if we live for another world, by cherishing right feelings of heart, and living void of offence before God and man.
2700
                                                                               The Sum Of Religion.
     He that fears the Lord of heaven and earth, and walks humbly before him, and thankfully lays hold of the messages of redemption by Jesus Christ, and strives to express his thankfulness by the sincerity of obedience, that is, [?]orrow with all his soul when he comes short of duty: that walks wathchfully in the denial of himself, and dares not yield to any lust or known sin : he that, if he fails in the least measure, is restless till he has made his peace by true repentance ; that is true in his promises, just in his dealings, charitable to the poor, sincere in his devothion; that will not deliberately dishonor God, although with perfect security fromtemporal pumishmen; that has his hopes and conversation in heaven; that dare not do anythig unjustly, although ever so much to his advantage ; and all this because he so firmly believes Him that is invisible, and fears him because he loves him--fears him as well for his goodness as his greatness--such a man, whether he be an Episcopalian or a Presbyterian, an Independent or Ana-BAptist; whether he wears a surplice or wears none ; whether he kneels at the communion, or for conscience' sake stands or sits, he hath the life of Religion in him, and that life acts in him, and will conform his soul to the image of his Saviour, and go along with him to eternity, nowithstanding his practice of things indifferent.  On the other side, if a man fears not the eternal God, commits sin with presumption, can drink to excess, lie, swear vainly or falsely, loosely break his promises, such a man, although he can cry down Bishop, or cry down Presbytery ; although he be re-baptised every day, or declaim against it as heresy ; although he fast all Lent, or fast not out of pretence of avoiding supersition---yet, notwithstanding these and a thousand more external conformities or zealous opposition of them, he wants the life of Religion.--Chief Justice Hale. 2701
2702                                                                  PERSONAL REPUTATION.
     Probably the most sacred of all rights is the least regarded by the generality of persons---the right to a good personal reputation.  This is the paramount duty of each individual to all others, and probably it is the duty least of all observed.  We hold life to be a sacred possession, and shrink from  the criminal who, from malice or cupidity, destroys it.  Property is protected by public sentiment no less than by law, and we severely6 censure all attempts to defraud another of his rightful gains.  So also any effort to abridge the liberty which is now acknowledged as a universal right meets condemnation. But when we approach that most precious of all possessions, that most sacred of all rights, a man or woman's reputation, without which life itself is valueless, property but a collection of so much dust or ashes, libert itself but a mockery, it is strange to see how lightly it is held, and how seldom society visits any deep displeasure upon the persons who wantonly injure their neighbors in this respect.  It is true that where this species of injustice is attended with gross falsehood and extreme malice, it may not meet with so much indulgence, and may even be amenable to law ; but such are not the cases that most damage reputation.  By their very excess they over-reach their mark and only rebound to their own discomfiture.  The greatest real injury is accomplished in more insidious ways.  The discussion of others' faults, the exposure of their weaknesses, the imputation of unworthy motives, the laugh raised at their expense, the gesture of contempt, even the silence with which their praises are received--all these are the means by which they are robbed of the dearest of earthly possessions, a good name.  It may be done with intentional malice, or with thoughtless want of consideration.  The former, of course, incurs the greater guilt, but equally injurious consequences follow from the latter.  It is time that this contemptible watch kept by some narrow-minded people over their neighbor's habits and morals should be stopped.  It is our duty to keep our own character spotless, and to interfere with no other person unless he is interfering with another's rights who is powerless to protect himself. No one has a right even, to come down to the strict sense of right, to make public what is strictly true of his neighbor to his injury.  We all know some things of ourselves which, if others knew, would lessen us in their esteem.  How carefully we conceal such knowledge, never letting it unwittingly drop into the minds of others.  The law of kindness demands an equal reticence with regard to others' faults.  Though our knowledge may be accurate, though we may guard against exaggeration, yet we have no right to disclose it if it is calculated to abate the esteem or honor in which the one of whom we speak is held.  We can never fully realize the mischief, and in some cases even the ruin, that we may thus thoughtlessly inflict, by giving publicity to the faults of others.  Often it is the turning point with those who may be wavering between good and evil.  On discovering that their derelictions are matters of common talk, and that they have lost the respect of others, the next step is a loss of self-respect, and the downward road is easily trodden.  We should all remember that much more good is accomplished by speaking of the virtues instead of the vices of our neighbor.  Not only should we be silent concerning the small faults and follies of others, but we should give free utterance of what we know to be worthy and admirable in them.  If this point be gained it will do much to correct the practice we have been condemning.  An estimable Friend, who had once listened to the eager and flippant detraction of one yound lady by another, administered a fitting rebuke in the earnest question, "Can thee not think of something good in thy friend, of which thee can tell us?" All evil is best counteracted by the actual presence of its antipodal good ; and if we would overcome the habit of detraction, we shall find no surer method than by seeking the good points of those whom we depreicate, and giving them the publicity we have higherto given the evil.  In this way we shall accomplish a double purpose ; the encouragement of virtue in others, and the development of the lovely and benevolent parts of our own natures, thus most truly "overcoming evil with good." 2702

                                                                                     Goodness.
     To be constantly i the presence of a good person---of one whose words and acts tend to purity and elevate---how pleasant and useful it is?  We have no dispositon to speak an impure word, to perform a wrong act, or even think of evil.  The presence of the good is a guardian angel to keep and preserve us from the sins and temptations by which we are surrounded.  Suppose that being who moves about to bless, should be the companion of our bosoms--the one to whom we can make known our joys and sorrows; what a powerful influence for good it would have over our lives!  We should rejoice daily in feeling how blessed goodness is, and be so elevated in all our thoughts, that it would become a difficult task for us to sin.  Woman ! can you not exercise such an influence over your  erring husband?  If he loves the company of the idle and partakes of the inebriating glass, cannot you draw him by love and kindness away from sure destruction?  If his breath is polluted by profane words, who can be so serviceable as yourself, to break him from his wicked habit? We pray you, let the atmosphere around you be that of goodness and truth, and you will surely be ministering angels to save the lost. 2703The Social Law. 
The Law to which I allude, is the great Christian 
rule--"Love thy neighbor as thyself." I 
call it the Social Law, because it comprehends 
all that is right between man and man. It is 
the balance wheel in the complicated mechanism 
of society, the element that harmonized the 
great antagonist forces of Right and Interest. 
And to do this is indeed an immense work. If 
we consider the evils of society, war, oppression, 
fraud, we shall find that they are not the 
clashing of right, but of interest with interest. 
Men stepping beyond the limits in which the 
Right would assign them, crowd and jostle one 
another. This over-stepping, this crowding, 
this unlimited pursuit of interest, is the offspring 
of Selsfihness. But the Law of Love, as laid 
down by Christianity, brings us back to our legitimate 
spheres of action, brings us to consider 
the extent of our neighbor's sphere. Until we 
come under the influence of this Law, the whole 
world is beheld only in its relations to self--it is 
covered with our own shadow. It is a theatre 
for our pleasure, a market for gain, a field 
of selfish victories. Selfishness is at the foundation 
of all the wrongs that man inflicts upon 
man. It was this that inflamed the heart of 
Cain, and poisoned the soul of Judas. It is this 
that rends and overthrows and tramples. It is 
this that knots the last, and forges the chain, 
and fills the wine-cup, and plunders the purpose. 
It is this that shakes the earth with conflict and 
dyes it with slaughter.--Re. E.H. Chapin. 
[*2705*] 

A FACT FOR THE MILLION.--"Every 
man in difficulty, poverty, or despondency, 
should, think, when at the verge of utter despair, 
that there are others in the world, 
worse off than himself, who are happy and 
contented. A striking illustration of this 
fact occured for this edification of a poor 
friend of ours, a month since. 
"I was," said he, out of business entirely, 
I had exhausted all methods, the exercise of 
which was likely to procure the employment, 
I was walking down Broadway with a solitary 
sixpence in my pocket, and hunger 
knawing at my vitals, in that desperate 
mood at my vitals, in that desperate 
mood which may deemed partial insanity, 
and in the fullness of my woe was absolutely 
contemplating suicide, when a collection of 
people, gathered about the door of a princely 
mansion, diverted my attention. I beheld 
a decrepid old man, bent double with age, 
and so feeble that two surly domestics were, 
with their united strength aiding his trembling 
and uncertain steps: He was nearly 
blind, quite deaf, I was told, possessed to a 
limited extent only the faculties of taste an 
 smell. He was taking his customary morning's 
walk--hobbling from the door of his 
dwelling to the nearest corner." 
The man alluded to was the famous millionaire 
(Astor) about whom books have been 
written, and newspaper paragraphs innumerable 
concocted. 
"I thought," said our friend, that I, with 
my single sixpence, was in a glorious situation, 
compared with that of the individual 
before me, and I went away with a beaming 
countenance and a lightened heart, thanking 
heaven for the health and strength I then 
enjoyed; but had despised. I have never 
despaired since. " [*2706*] 

IMPORTANCE OF CHEERFULNESS IN CHILDHOOD. 
--It is highly essential to preserve in 
children a cheerful and happy state of temper, 
by indulging them in the various pleasure and 
diversions suited to their years. Those who 
are themselves, either from age or temperament, 
grave and sober, will not unfrequently 
attempt to cultivate a similar disposition in 
children. Such, however, is in manifest violation 
of the known laws of the youthful constitution; 
such period of life has its distinctive 
character and enjoyments, and gravity and sedateness, 
which fond parents commonly call 
manliness, appear quiet as inconsistent and unbecoming 
in the character of childhood, as puerile 
levity in that of age. This young, if unwisely 
restrained in their appropriate amusements, 
or too much confined to the society of 
what are called serious people, may experience 
in consequence such a dejection of spirits as to 
occasion a sensible injury to their health; 
and it should, furthermore, be considered that the 
sports and gaieties of happy childhood call 
forth those various muscular actions, as laughing, 
shouting, running, jumping, &c., which 
are in early life so absolutely essential to the 
healthful development of the different bodily 
organs. Again, children when exposed to 
neglect and unkind treatment, for to such they 
are far more sensible than we are prone to suspect, 
will not unusually grow sad and spiritless, 
their nervous system become enfeebled and deranged, 
and various other painful infirmities, 
and even premature decay, may sometimes owe 
their origin to such an unhappy source. [*2707*]

Developemnt of Humanity.
The lives of men constitute the collective life 
of Humanity; the interests of men constitute 
the collective interest of Humanity. It is true 
that Reason and Religion have as yet failed in 
producing a union of our interest; for, if that 
union existed, what could induce man to steal, 
the journeyman to strike for wages, or the government 
to levy oppressive taxes on the citizen? 
But our interests are dependent upon each other, 
and this mutual dependency increases in proportion 
to the developement of Commerce, Industry, 
and Art. At this moment the failure of 
certain commercial houses would shake the social 
world, and spread anguish and misery over 
a continent. The human race never being stationary 
in its developement, the ultimate result 
of that developement must either be a state of 
beastly selfishness, such as Hobbes seems to 
conceive, or a state of Universal Love, such as 
Christ and the Prophets have pointed out to us 
as the glorious Destiny of Humanity upon Earth. 
The former condition is unnatural, and therefore 
absurd and impossible as a perpetual state. 
The social affections, which some sophists consider 
as mere bubbles, have ever been active in 
inspiring the souls of men with enthusiasm for 
their fellow men; a soul without Friendship, 
without Love, without Religion, would indeed be 
a "degraded mass of animated dust;" a mother, 
who could look at her new-born babe without a 
single emotion being kindled in her breast, 
would be indeed beneath a brute, for even the 
beast loves its offspring. But why endeavor to 
refute theories which the whole past and present 
life of Humanity shows to be absurd, and 
contrary to the design of God? Why should 
we hesitate to acknowledge a truth which is 
written on every page of History, the Mutual 
Dependence and Responsibility of Men, or the 
march of Humanity onward to Social Unity 
through universal freedom? When we see the 
most exalted sympathies awakened by some national 
calamity which reduces thousands to poverty, 
can we then admit that man is a stranger 
to Man, or as Hobbes expresses it, that Man is 
to Man a wolf? When the citizens of different 
nations insure each other's property, when their 
vessels visit each other's ports in friendly intercourse, 
under the protection of universally recognized 
laws; when the nations of this globe 
take a constantly increasing delight in studying 
each other's language and acquirements in the 
arts and sciences; when the vessels which navigate 
the oceans, the steamboats that plough 
our inland waters, the cars which, fleet as the 
winged tribes, roll over plain and valley--monuments 
of human genius and power, and eloquent 
emblems of the socirl intercourse of man;--
when the very omnibusses which dash through 
the thoroughfares of our cities, diminish space, 
connect men more slosely with each other, multiply 
their relations and create new motives for 
peace and good will; when we see all this, may 
we not confidently expect that the law which 
regulates the development of Humanity, will ultimately 
lead to the union of our social and religious 
interests, and will substitute the government 
of Reason and Universal Love in the place 
of the despotism of prejudice, of false ambition 
and disgusting egotism, under which Humanity 
is yet writhing. [*2708*]

THE ADVANTAGE OF A RELIGIOUS EXPRESSION.
--A lively correspondent of the New York 
Mirror, professing to write from Rome, gives 
the following sketch of a character he meets 
there: 
'Every American artist that comes here 
sends home a dozen or two portraits of the beggars, 
in the character of the Apostles, or Virgin 
Marys. A sturdy old fellow, who blacks my 
boots, tells me that he has been painted twenty 
eight times in the character of Saint Paul, thirteen 
times as Joseph, nine times as Saint Peter--
he cannot remember how many times as the 
Roman Father, and as the Head of an Old man 
at least a thousand times. One would think 
that from assuming the characters so often, he 
would have attained to uncommon sanctity, but 
he is in truth the greatest rogue I have seen in 
Italy.' [*2709*]
The rascal prides himself a good deal on being 
sent so often to America; and the other day 
he told me that he believed there was not a 
gentlemen's parlor in my country in which he 
or one of his family were not hung up in a guilt 
frame. He said to me yesterday, 'my son and 
daughter have just been sent to America again--
one as a Peasant Boy of the Campagna, and 
the other as a Roman Lady.' Having detected 
him that week in an attempt to secrete 
one of his pocket handkerchiefs, to show his 
contrition he said he and his daughter, (who 
is quite as great a thief as her father) would 
sit to one of my countrymen for a holy family, 
if I would promise not to expose him. 'A 
precious pair you are, to be sure, for a family,' 
said I 'Why signor,' said the rogue, 'my religious 
expression is worth two cents an hour 
more than that of any other man in Rome.'

Energy of Character.
'A bold, vigorous man; what a tone he gives 
to the company he may be in--the society in 
which he lives--to the nation wherein he was 
born! Men seem inebriated with the atmosphere 
around him, so completely are they overcome 
by his presence. He is never weary, 
never languid; there is nothing enervating 
falls from him in action or speech. He strengthens 
and arouses; he sets men of confidence 
on their feet--not purposely, but by their own 
example. They see him one of themselves, 
the boy they played with, expanded into a 
man, and drawing all after him in the vortex 
in which he moves. he is a perpetual reproach 
to the sluggard, a joy to the timid, those 
who want confidence, and who fancy they are 
by temperament or situation precluded from possessing 
or manifesting that daring, animating 
power. Energy of character is continually 
renovating society; elevating men to a level 
whence they see how easily it is, or seems, to 
become as great and joyful, as strong and vigorous 
as he who by act or thought lifted them up.
It is animating to see men press on in the 
emulation, inspired by some noble fellow who 
figures in the past, or its present among them. 
The enthuiasm one man can create by bold and 
earnest action is astonishing. One jovial, free 
hearted, generous stranger, coming by accident 
or otherwise, among us, will often upset and 
reinvigorate a clique of friendship inured, completely 
trained in, to dulness and customary quiet. 
The enthusiasm of the moment overbears 
all our preconceived notions of order, and our 
silent respectful decorum, our fears of giving offence, 
pitiful but common vice, which makes us 
careful, even to folly, in what we say, is by the 
current of this man's spirit rolling though us, 
and forcing up ours, swept away; and the night, 
the time whenever it is, from thenceforth a 
bright spot in our history. It is from this, public 
meetings derive their intense interest, and 
their public opinion its force. We are sure of 
meeting some earnest man who will cheer us, 
give us keener, fuller sensations, and thus one 
or two beings, of sympathy, communicate the 
fire of their own minds to every man, until [?] 
powerful energy awakens the 
[?] of all. [*2710*]

REFLECTIONS.
Smiles are not always the sign of joy; nor 
is fine speech always the sermon of truth.--
Deep water often wears a placid surface.--
The roar of the wind is more dangerous 
when it suddenly changes. The dispositions 
of men, like the produce of trees, are best 
known by their fruits. That portion of the 
world which judges by mere appearance, is 
more likely to be decieved than the other, 
which forms its judgements carefully upon 
proof.-- J. R. Prior.

WHO IS A GENTLEMAN.
Whoever is open, generous and true; whoever 
is of human affable demeanor;--
whoever is honorrble in himself, and candid 
in his judgement of others, and requires no 
law but his word to make and fulfil an engagement. 
Such a man is deservedly entitled 
to the name of a gentleman. Where 
can he be found?

CANNING AND HIS MOTHER.
When Canning last saw his mother they 
were both in perfect health. The parting 
words of the deceased statesman were, 
"Adieu, dear mother! In August we shall 
meet again!" In July the mother died suddenly, 
and in the beginning of August her 
son followed her! [*2711*]From Jean Paul Richter 

"Of differing themes the veering song was mixed." 

A true comforter must often take away from 
the mourner ordinary topics of consolation, 
and lead him where only the highest can be of 
any avail. 
A perpetual calm would hinder the fructification 
of flowers. Let this console us under suffering. 
The involuntary sanctification in our minds 
of the dead-- wherefore? whence? Not from 
a life-long absence merely; for then a voyage 
to America would produce it. It is rather the 
idea of the change in the departed, the putting 
off of his body, his novel circumstances, his 
new relations, whence he looks down upon all 
here as earthly,    [2712] 

A good action shines out upon us in the deceased 
-- it is the precious stone which the Mexicans 
place amid the ashes of the dead, that it 
may represent the heart. 
How does human love still pine after, still 
stretch forth its arms to clasp its fading images 
that still elude its grasp! It would make for itself 
an eternity out of the transitory and the perishing!
Were there not a lurking disbelief of immortality, 
there would be far more courage in 
death, more content in life, and less overvalue 
for it. 
There are persons who, endowed with a 
higher sense, but with weaker powers than 
active talent, receive in their soul the great 
world-spirit, whether in outward life or in the inner 
life of fiction and of thought, who remain 
true and faithful to it, as the tender wife to the 
strong man, but who, when they would express 
their love, can only utter broken sounds, 
or speak otherwise than they wish. If the man 
of talent may be called the merry initiative ape 
of genius, these are the silent, serious, upright 
workmen to whom fate has denied the power 
of speech. If, as the Indians think, the animals 
are the dumb of the earth, these are the dumb 
of heaven. 
The spirit is an invisible as its speech, but 
what does there not lie, of all that is lofty, all that 
is life, in a single word? It is lost when the 
air on which it has been wafted has passed 
away! 
We speak of life being taken, when it is only 
years that are taken. 
There is something so great in a simple 
good action, that the man who, in his whole 
life, has performed even one, can never be 
wholly despicable. 
It is our eyes, and not the microscope, that 
deceives us. It could not create or show what 
is not. The earth may be infinitely greater. 
Let a man be ever so much upon his guard 
against a flatterer, there are still a few points 
at which he is accessible. 
How many thousands of little means must a 
man have recourse to, before he can accomplish 
anything great! 
We should sooner learn to know men if we
did not regard every action as the result of a
fixed principle.  Caprice prevents their aderence
to it;  and, therefore, we ought not to
draw any conclusion as to character from a
single action. 
A man in the enjoyment of any pleasure, 
may have only a delight of the senses, but he
who beholds that man's enjoyment with a sympahising
eye, has a heart-delight. 
He who has about ten things a single original
unhackneyed thought has many such about
a hundred things. 
It is one of the contradictions in man's nature, 
his knowledge that he has these contradictions. 
[*2712A*] 
He who is not growing wiser has never been 
wise. 

SHORT PATENT SERMON. 
BY DOW, JR. 
These are the words of my text; 
That man hath perfect blessedness
Who walketh not astray 

My hearers---listen to me and be blessed, 
Come up, my sheep, and lick the salt of salvation 
from my hand.  If you would desire
perfect blessedness, you must keep in the
ever fresh, green and sunny pastures of virtue 
and morality;  and gather into the protecting
fold, when the storms of earthly
troubles arise or the night shades of despondence
begin to fall.  You once go astray 
into the woods, amongst the thorns, thickets
and underbrush, and it isn't so easy
getting back again as you imagine.  There, 
from the lack of your accustomed sweet
grass, you nibble at the temporary green
leaves of low, vicious laurel;  and if you are 
not fatally poisoned, you become so morally 
diseased, that you are neither fit to live nor
to make mutton of.  Therefore, my innocent
sheep, if you would be perfectly contented, 
which means blessed---you must never walk 
astray;  climb no walls, jump no fences, and
keep out of the wet and miry places.  Yet
there are those who are partially blessed, albeit
they may sometimes trespass upon the 
devils potato patch. 


Blessed are they that get flogged;  for they
shall know how sweet to the soul is the honey
of revenge. 
Blessed are they that have their corns
trodden upon;  for they shall experience
how good it is to feel better when they are 
done aching. 
Blessed are they that have no where to
sleep;  for they shall not be troubled with
bedbugs. 
Blessed are they that are afraid of thunder; 
for they shall hesitate about getting
married---and keep away from political meetings. 
Blessed are they that hunger;  for they
shall feast in their dreams. 
Blessed are they that wear dirty shirts; for
they shall not be reviled by the unwashed 
democracy. 
Blessed are they that wear fine clothes; 
for they shall not smell in the nostrils of a
purse proud aristocracy. 
Blessed are they that are blind;  for they
shall see no ghosts. 
Blessed are they that are deaf;  for they
never lened money, nor listen to tedious stories. 
Blessed are they that are dumb;  for they
shan't commit themselves. 
Blessed are they that get a little tipsy; 
for they don't care a tin sixpence for anybody. 
Blessed are they that get dizzy drunk; 
for everything seems to round easy to
them. 
Blessed are they that don't drink rum;  for
none shall ask them to treat. 
Blessed are they that are ignorant; for
they are happy in thinking that they know
everything. 
Blessed are they that love and do courting
by moonlight;  for they feel so romantically
and delightfully funny all over. 
Blessed are they that get married;  for
they bless one another. 
Blessed are they that are single;  for their
dreams of matrimony are as downy as the
breast of a young duck. 
Blessed are they that are fat;  for they
shall be jolly and good natured, and poverty
can't make them poor. 
Blessed are they that are lean;  for there
is a chance for them to grow fat. 
Blessed are they that get no office under
government;  for five hundred and fifty-two 
reasons---not given on account of shortness
of the days. 
Blessed are they that don't know when
they are licked---like my beetle-headed brethren, 
the Mexicans;  for they shall suffer
with suffering. 
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall
see God---and get most wonderfully kicked
by their countrymen. 
Blessed is he that is ugly in form and feature; 
for the girls shan't molest him. 
Blessed is she that would get married, but
can't;  for the consolation of the gospel are
hers. 
Blessed are the orphan children;  for they
have no mother to spank them. 
Blessed are all young widows;  for they
shall find enough to comfort them. 
And now, in conclusion, let me tell you my
friends, that no mortal upon earth is wholly
blessed or completely curs't;  but, to approach
to any thing like perfect blessedness
you mustn't go astray from the paths of virtue
and rectitude---nor do anything to make
Conscience ashamed of hirself, nor Reason to
kick up a row with the grosser passions.---
So mote it be?   2713 


Social Intercourse. 
BY MRS. CHILD. 
There is a false necessity with which we industriously 
surround ourselves;  a circle that never 
expands;  whose iron never changes to ductile
gold.  This is the presence of public opinion, 
the intolerable restraint of conventional form
Under this diplomatic influence, men and women
check their best impulses, suppress their highest
thoughts.  Each longs for full communion with 
the other souls, but dares not give utterance to
its yearnings.  What hinders? 
The fear of what Mr. Smith or Miss Clark
will say;  or the frown of sect;  or the anathema
of some synod;  or the fashion of some clique; 
or the laugh of some club;  or the misrepresentation 
of some political party. 
Thou art afraid of thy neighbor, and knowest
not that he is equally afraid of thee.  He has 
bound thy hands, and thou hast fettered his feet. 
It were wiser for both to snap the imaginary
bond and walk onward unshackled.  If they heart
years for love, be loving;  if thou would'st have
a brother frank to thee, be frank to him. 
But will people say? 
What does it concern thee what they say?---
thy life is not, in their hands.  They can give
thee nothing of real value, nor take from thee
anything of real value.  Satan may promise thee
all the kingdoms on earth, but he has not one
acre of it to give. 
He may offer much as to the price of his worship, 
but there is a flaw in all his title deeds.---
Eternal and sure is the promise:  "Blessed are
the meet, for they shall inherit the earth." 
But I shall be misunderstood;  misrepresented. 
And what if thou art?  They who throw stones 
at what is above them, receive the missiles back 
again by the law of gravity;  and lucky are they
who do not bruise their own faces.  Would that
I could persuade all who read to be truthful and
free;  to say what they think and act what they
feel;  to cast from them like ropes of sand, all
fear of sects and parties, of clans and classes. 
What is there of joyful freedom in our social 
intercourse?  We meet to see each other, and not
a peep do we get under the veil which each carries
about him.  We visit to enjoy ourselves, and
the host takes away our freedom, while we destroy
his own.  If the host wishes to walk or ride, 
he dare not, lest it should seem impolite to the
guest.  If the guest wishes, to read or sleep, he
dare not, lest it seem impolite to the host;  so they
remain slaves;  and feel it relief to part company. 
A few individuals, mostly in foreign lands arrange
this matter with wiser freedom.  If a visitor
arrive, they say:  "I'm busy to-day;  if you
wish to ride, there are horses and saddles in the
stable; if you wish to read, there are books in 
the parlor;  if you want to work, the men are
raking hay in the fields;  if you want to romp, the
children are at play in the court;  if you want to
talk to me, I can be with you at such an hour. 
Go where you please, and while you are here, 
do as you please." 
At some houses in Florence, large parties 
meet without the slightest preparation.  It is
understood that on some particular evening of 
the week, a lady or gentleman always receives 
his friends.  In one room are books and flowers; 
in another pictures and engravings;  and a third 
music.  Couples are ensconced in some shady
alcove, or groups dotted about the room, in 
mirthful or serious conversation.  No one is required
to speak to his host, either entering or
departing.  Lemonade and baskets of fruit stand
here and there on the side tables, and they may
take who like;  but eating, which constitutes so
large a part of American entertainments, is a
slight and almost unnoticed incident in these festivals
of intellect and taste.  Wouldst thou like
to see such social freedom introduced here?---
Then do it.   2714 
But the first step must be complete indifference
to Mrs. Smith's assertion that you were
mean enough to offer only one kind of cake to
and to put less shortening in the
Let 

CONSCIENCE.---We are apt to connect
the voice of conscience with the stillness
of midnight;  but I think we wrong that
innocent hour.  It is that terrible "next
morning," when reason is wide awake, 
upon which remorse fastens its fangs.---
Has a man gambled away his all, or shot
his friend in a duel---has he committed a
crime, or incured a laugh---it is the next
morning, when the irretrieveable past 
rises before him like a spectre---then doth 
the churchyard memory yield up its grisly
dead---then is the witching hour when 
the foul fiend within us can least tempt, 
perhaps, but most torment.  At night we
have one thing to hope for, one refuge to fly
to---oblivion and sleep!  But at morning, 
sleep is over, and we are called upon coldly
to review, and react, and live again the
waking bitterness of self-reproach. 
2715 

REMEDIES.---For a fit of Passion.---Walk out in the 
open air;  you may speak your mind to the winds 
without hurting any one or proclaiming yourself to
be a simpleton. 
For a fit of Idleness.---Count the tickings of a clock. 
Do this for one hour, and you will be glad to pull off
your coat the next, and work like a negro. 
For a fit of Extravagance and Folly.---Go to the
workhouse, or speak with the ragged and wretched
inmates of a jail, and you will be convinced---
Who makes his bed of brier and thorn, 
Must be content to lie forlorn.
2716 
For a fit of Ambition.---Go into the church-yard and
read the grave stones;  they will tell you the end of ambition. 
The grave will soon be your bed chamber, the
earth your pillow, corruption your father, and the
worm your mother and your sister. 
For a fit of Repining.---Look about for the halt and
the blind, and visit the bed-ridden and afflicted, and 
deranged;  and they will make you ashamed of complaining
of your lighter afflictions. 
For a fit of Despondency.---Look on the good things
which God has given you in this world, and at those
which he has promised to his followers in the next. 
He who goes into his garden to look for cobwebs and
spiders, no doubt will find them;  while he who looks
for a flower, may return into his house with one
blooming in his bosom. 
For all fits of Doubt, Perplexity and Fear.---Whether
they respect the body or the mind;  whether they are 
a load to the shoulders, the head, or the heart, the following
is a radical cure which may be relied on, for I
had it from the Great Physician---"Cast thy burden
on the Lord, he will sustain thee." 

ELOQUENT EXTRACTS. 
An eloquent address of Bishop Doane
inttroductory t  a course of Lectures, delivered
in the Junior Hall of Burlington College. 
The Bishop sets forth the design of
the College as being;  to bring up Men---
Gentlemen---Scholars---Patriots, and Christians. 
The following is his idea of manliness: 
'We are told, that the Parian marble, beforre
the sculptor's eye had fallen upon it; 
or his hand had touched it, contained, in the
perfection of its beauty, the Apollo Belvidere. 
He only found it, and exposed it to
the gaze of an admiring world.  And old 
Prometheus, as we read, kindled, with f 
from heaven, the clay cold statue, into life; 
and loveliness, and love.  But, tell me, 
what are these but allegories, to set forth the 
beauty and the power of Christian Education? 
And, what are these results, but
faint and far off shadows, of their triumph; 
who by patient love, and faithful prayer; 
develop, through the agency of the transforming
Spirit, from the dull and sluggish 
and corrupted mans of our poor fallen nature, 
a gracious child, a glorious youth, a
god-like man?  The manliness of love, the
manliness of truth, the manliness of piety!
The manliness that wears the spirit on the
brow;  purer than the purest chrystal, more
transparent, and more precious.---The manliness
that bears the heart out in the hand; 
no plan, no purpose, no pursuit, no palpitation, 
that is shrinks to show.  The manliness, 
that fears to sin, but knows no other 
fear.  The manliness, that knows to die, 
but not to live.  The manliness, that never 
boasts.  The manliness, that never domineers. 
The manliness, that never swears---
The manliness, that never drinks.  The
manliness that bows, in meek compliance, 
with the shadow of a parent's wish.  The
manliness, that sees, in every women, the
sex to which we owe our mothers.  The
manliness, to look all danger in the face, 
and seize it by the horns.  The manliness, 
to bear all hardships, without grudging;  and
to tender every honest service, without
shame.  The manliness, to reverence the
poor.  The manliness, to make concessions
to the weak.  The manliness, to feel.  The
manliness, to pity.  And the manliness, to
pray.  This is the manliness, we ask from 
God, for the dear children.  Such are the
men, we strive, through grace to form, at
Burlington College." 
We must add the Bishop's striking description 
of a Gentleman.
'When you have found a man, you have 
not far to go, to find a gentleman.  You 
 cannot make a gold ring, out of brass.  You
cannot change a Cairn gorm, or a C ape
May chrystal, to a diamond.  You cannot
make a gentleman, till you have first a
man.  To be a gentleman, it will not be
sufficient to have had a grand-father. 

What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards? 
Alas!  not all the blood of all the Howards!' 

To be a gentleman, does not depend upon 
the tailor, or  he toilet.  The proof a gentlemen
is not to do no work.  Blood will degenerate. 
Good clothes are not good habits. 
The Prince Lee Boo concluded that the
hog, in England, was the only gentleman, 
as being the only thing that did not labor 
A gentleman is just gentle man;  no more, 
no less;  a diamond polished, that was first a 
diamond in the rough.  A gentleman in
gentle.  A gentleman is modest.  A gentleman
is courteous.  A gentleman is generous. 


A gentle man is slow to take offence, as being
one that never gives it.  A gentleman is
slow to surmise evil, as being one that never
thinks it.  A gentleman goes armed, only
in consciousness of right.  A gentleman
subjects his appetites.  A gentleman refines
his tastes.---A gentleman subdues his feelings. 
A gentleman controls his speech.  A 
gentleman deems every other better than 
himself.---Sir Philip Sidney was never so
much a gentleman---mirror, though, he was, 
of England's knighthood---as when, upon 
the field of Zu phen, as he lay in his own 
blood, he waived the draft of cool spring 
water, that was brought, to quench his
mortal thirst, in favor of a dying soldier. 
St. Paul described a gentleman, when he
exhorted the Philippian Christains, 'Whatsoever
things are true, whatsoever things 
are honest, whatsoever things are just, 
whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are of 
good report, if there be any virtue, and if
there be any praise, think on these things.' 
And Dr Issac Barrow, in his admirable 
Sermon, on the calling of a Gentleman, 
pointedly says, 'he should labor and study 
to be a leader unto virtue and a notable promoter
thereof;  directing and exciting men
thereto, by his exemplary conversation; 
encouraging them by his countenance and
authority; rewarding the goodness of meaner
people, by his bounty and labor;  he should
be such a gentleman as Noah, who preached 
righteousness, by his words and works, before
a profane world.'   
2717 

AN ALPHABET OF SHORT RULES.---Well 
worth Remembering.---Attend well to your
business. 
Be punctual in your payments. 
Consider well before you promise. 
Date to do right. 
Envy no man. 
Faithfully perform your duty. 
Go not in the path of vice. 
Have respect to your character. 
Infringe on no one's right. 
Know thyself. 
Lie not, for any consideration. 
Make a few acquaintances. 
Never profess what you do not practice. 
Occupy your time in usefulness. 
Postpone nothing that you can do now. 
Quarrel not with your neighbor. 
Recompense every man for his labor. 
Save something against a day of trouble. 
Treat every body with kindness. 
Use yourself to moderation . 
Vilify no person's reputation. 
Watchfully guard against idleness. 
Examine your conduct daily. 
Yield to superior judgment.      2718 
Zealously pursue the right path. 


Cold and Dumpish. 
Make a man of snow, dress im in broadcloth
and place him beside us, and it will be as agreeable
as your presence.  We were made for social 
life, and how can we enjoy the company of 
one who never speaks, and answers only by monosyllables, 
and sits hour by hour as if glued to
his chair?  What better are you than a living
corpse?  Dull, cold and dumpish---what are
you good for?---who can bear your presence? 
Stir about and awake from your freezing lethargy, 
or you will not have a friend left in the whole 
city.  Do you think it a sin to speak aloud and
to laugh outright?  If so, we don't know where 
you get your religion.  Certainly it is not from 
the Bible.  That book is all life and joy;  its precepts 
direct to living pleasures and everlasting
songs of melody.  One thing we beg of you--- 
never to come into our presence with a frown---
to fall into the chair and sit like a worn-out water-logged
stick of timber. 

Be Open and Sincere. 
It is material to the preservation of friendship, 
that openness of temper and manner on both 
hands be cultivated.  Nothing more certainly disolves
friendship than jealousy which arises from 
concealment.  If your situation obliges you to 
take a different side from your friend, do it openly, 
and avow your conduct and motives. 

==>   A man may as well expect to be at ease 
without wealth, as happy without virtue. 
==>  A hypocrite pays tribute to God, that he
may impose on men. 
==>  Love one human being purely and warmly, 
and you will love all. 
==>  Religion should be the garment worn
next the heart---too many people make a cloak 
of it. 
==>  True courage is that which is not afraid
of being thought afraid;  the rest is counterfeit. 
==>  Education begins a gentleman, conversation 
completes him. 

==>  Without a friend, the world is a wilderness. 
==>  The minds of scholars are libraries;  those
of antiquarians, lumber rooms;  those of sportsmen, 
kennels;  those of epicures, larders and
cellars. 
2719
==>  Be always at leisure to do good;  never
make business an excuse to decline the offices of
humanity. 


The Great. 
Who are they?  The rich, the high-born, the
noble-blooded?  They may be great, or may be
small.  If great, it is not the place or position 
they occupy that makes them so.  It is their actual
qualities.  True greatness may exist in the 
most unattracting exterior;  and excessive meanness
may be glossed over with dazzling liabiliments. 
It is not the perishable part that constitutes 
the great man, or the man in any sense;  it is
the immortal, ever-living, thinking part---the aggregate
powers of mind and soul. 

O place and greatness!  millions of false eyes
Are stuck on thee;  volumes of report 
Run with these false and most contrarious guests 
Upon thy doings.  Thousand 'scapes of wit 
Make thee father of their idle dreams, 
And rack thee in their fancies. 

A prudent and well-disposed member of the 
"Society of Friends" once gave the following 
friendly advice: 
"John," said he, "I hear thou art going to be
married."
"Yes," replied John, "I am."
"Well, rejoined the man of drab, "I have one
little piece of advice to give thee, and that is, 
never to marry a woman worth more than thou 
art.---When I married my wife, I was worth 
just fifty cents, and she was worth sixty-two
cents;  and whenever any difference has occurred 
between us since, she has always thrown up the
odd shilling." 

Be Careful How You  Speak. 
BY D. C. COLESWORTHY. 
Stop!  Do you know what you are saying?
Those few words may have a tendency to injure 
forever the character of another.  You mean no
harm?  That is no excuse.  In the presence of
strangers your language would be differently construed, 
and the reputation of a pure-minded individual 
might be forever destroyed.  Have a 
care how you speak---especially while surrounded
by a scandal-loving neighborhood, who would 
gladly seize hold of the faintest pretext to draw 
a false covering over the heart of purity.  A single
word, sometimes thoughtlessly spoken, has
produced fearful results, and blasted the hopes of 
a spotless character.  Because you mean nothing 
by your language, it is no excuse for you.  If 
we in sport set fire to a pile of shavings  that consume
your dwelling, will the law clear us of intentional 
wrong?  We had no right to be playing 
with the fire.  Neither have you a right to be 
using slanderous words in sport.  Every body
doesn't know your intention and see through 
your meaning.  Stop, then, where you are and
speak only the words of sober truth.     2720 


REFLECTIONS ON PROVIDENCE. 

August 27, 1663.  Wearied and somewhat sad
at heart, I lay'd down my penne yesterday, and
shortly afterward was sent for to give some helpe
to one of our poore neighbors.  The lesson came
not amisse, and the words of the disciple to the
blind man came to my remembrance, "Be of
goode comfort, arise, hee calleth thee."  There 
was still worke for mee to doe. 
August 29.  Busied this forenoone in ordering
some changes in the household:  looked on the
linnen, and made out a list of some that could be 
spared for my daughter Brereton;  in the toppe
of a linnen chest found one or two of my first babie
cloathes strewed with lavender, carefully pinned
up and put away by poore old nurse;  took up 
the lace cap, the two who had worne it first, my little
sonne, my precious William, and beloved daughter
Diana, both taken.  Can I now say it is well? 
All things visible will passe away, but the unseene 
will remaine, so if the heart loveth these, its
treasures are safe in Heaven.  When evening 

came, I walked forth;  the sunne had gone down
behind Framlingham, leaving a bright golden 
edge upon the narrow ridge of darke cloud;  the
aire was soft, and the Gillo-flowers on the low wall 
gave out a pleasant perfume as I passed;  stopped 
and pluct'd some of the pale yellow flowers, as I 
thought of the day whereon my three little maidens
brought the young plants from the castle, and
planted them here, the while I stood bye looking 
at their happie faces;  now one is not, and the
others are farre from mee.  As I walked up and
down the terrace, saw the rookes as they slowly
winged their way ove[r] head to their nests and
young broods;  how small a thing maketh the full
cup to overflow---the tears rose to my eyes, my home
was deserted.  As it became darker, the starres, 
which did at first show but dimly, were now
bright and sparkling.  There was scarce a sound
the birds were all silent, save the corn-crake, 
which uttered its harsh note afarre off;  a bat
flitted past, neare to my face, the shapes of things 
became indistinct, and no shadow marked the 
houre on the sunne-dial:  a little gust of wind 
rose, and stirred the tops of the trees.  The stillnesse
of all around was very solemn;  a sweete 
feeling, that could not be uttered, of lowly thanksgiving
and love, spread over my heart.  The Lord
was very gracious unto mee;  it was a season of
inward peace, as of outward silence and beauty, 
and my heart was stirred as the trees of the wood
are moved by the wind. 
Came into the house, and seeing the sand-glasse
that I had turned at sun-sett, that it was runne
out, the prayer arose that so my life might runne
its course, and gently cease.---Diary of Lady Willougby. 
2722 

ANCIENT MAXIMS. 
It is difficult to persuade mankind that
the love of virtue is the love of themselves. 
Some by admiring other men's virtues, 
become enemies to their own vices. 
The remembrance of a well spent life
is sweet. 
Praise the hire of virtue. 
In doing what we ought, we deserve
no praise because it is our duty. 
What you would not have done to yourselves
never do to others. 
One ought to remember kindness received, 
and forget those we have done. 
A righteous man regardeth the life of
his beast, but the tender mercies of the
wicked are cruel. 
Do good to your friend, that he may
be more wholly yours;  to your enemy that
he may be your friend. 
Such as have virtue always in their
mouths and neglect it in practice, are
like a harp, which emits a sound pleasing
to others, while itself is insensible of the
music. 
A good man cares not for the reproofs
of evil men. 
Every thing great is not always good, 
but all good things are great. 
Covet nothing over much. 
A soul conversant with virtue, resembles 
a fountain; for it is clear, and gentle, and
sweet, and communicative, and rich, and
harmless, and innocent. 
Satan is a subtle angler, and uses 
great cunning in the casting of his net, 
out the vein of water where every one is
delighted. 
In childhood be modest, in youth temperate, 
in manhood just, in old age prudent. 
He hat helps the wicked, hurts the
good. 
What we have in us of the image of
God is the love of truth and justice. 
Diversity of religion is the ground of
persecution, in show;  but it is ambition, in 
effect. 
The end of a dissolute life is, commonly, 
a desperate death. 
Virtue maketh men on the earth famous, 
in their grave illustrious, in the heavens
immortal. 


Nothing is profitable which is dishonest. 
 He that works wickedness by another, 
is guilty of the fact committed himself. 
A work well begun is half ended. 
Wise men are instructed by reason; 
men of less understanding by experience; 
the most ignorant by necessity; and beasts 
by nature. 
We should never remember the benefits
we have conferred, nor forget the favors
received.     2721 

Religious. 

[*2723*]
THE TWO DEATHS. 

"Ay, but to die, and go, alas, 
Where all have gone, and all must go; 
To be the nothing that I was, 
Ere born to life and living woe." 

Such is the strange and melancholy exclamation 
of one who had spent his life in seeking
fame, and who had reached the grave
without the hope of life or immortality beyond
its dark confines.  His days and nights 
had been spent in the distractions of his vacillating
hopes and fears.  Despair had come
upon him in  all its mysterious and terrific 
power;  life had lost its fond dreams and gay
shows to his soul;  the thick shadows of the
future came stealing over him, and he wished 
himself alone and sleeping in the land of
darkness and forgetfulness.  Yet in the
midst of his despair, there comes a breathing 
of strange mistrust, and yet a stranger clinging
unto life.  To live was no desire of his; 
but to die---that, too, could not be entertained 
by him.  No;  though neglected and despised 
here, he was not ready to plunge into 
the uncertainty and gloom of a hereafter. 
How different he whose life has been devoted
to God, and who, though despised and 
neglected by the world, comes down to the
grave, prepared for the awful change which 
is about to pass upon him.  He might have 
wished in life to have gained honor and wear 
the wreath of immortality;  but he never 
reached the one, nor felt the other circling
his brow.  And yet because of his failures 
and disappointments, he laid himself not
down to repine and despair.  Even with life's
lamp just going out, and death's mandate
sounding in his ear, he could feel no fear of 
the future.  The honor of the world was no[t]hing
to him then.  Faith had opened the
[v]ista to a brighter world.  The light of that
[w]orld had entered and illumined his heart. 
[P]ain, wearines, disappointment and death, he
had almost forgotten in anticipation of the
glories about to be revealed.  "Even so, Father, 
for so it seemeth good in thy sight," escapes
from his lips, while his features reflect
the divine love which he contemplates.  Now 
the hectic flush is on his cheek, and death is
at his heart, but no fever of mind disturbs
his deep tranquility.  Look, look, and see
him as he leaves

"This earth's sepulchral clod, 
The darkning universe defy 
To quench his immortality, 
Or shake his trust in God!"---[W. C. Ad. 


THE LIFE OF CHRIST. 

BY REV. T. B. THAYER. 

How eloquent is the life of Jesus.  How
full of instruction are all his actions.  In 
them we see more of God, and of the true 
man, than in the life and actions of any other
who ever walked upon our earth.  From 
them, more than from those of any teacher or
guide the world has known, we learn the
greatness of the human soul, and the tenderness
of the human heart;  more of the divine
strength of the true believer, and of the 
trials to which it is subjected;  more of the
need we all have of greater patience, gentleness
and meekness one toward another. 
The life of this holy being has done more
[fo]r the weak and tempted, for the sorrowful
[a]nd despairing;  more for the purity of man's
affections, and the righteousness of his life; 
more for the destruction of evil, and for the
promotion of virtue and love;  than all the
axions and wise sayings of the sages of ancient
times.  The latter have mostly fallen
like rain in the desert, bringing forth no 

greenness or fragrance of fruit;  but the former
has come down like dews on Hermon, 
n the gentle rain on the tender herb;  fertil-
ng and beautifying the face of all the land, 
all causing it to bud and bring forth, giving
wad to the sower and bread to the eater. 

or Everywhere the ignorant have come to
him, asking the way to eternal life.  And the 
afflicted and dying have turned a beseeching
eye to him for that strength and comfort so
needful to help them bear up in the great trial
with composure and peace.  And the philosopher
has often laid aside his robe and
pride, to sit at the feet, and listen to the words
of a wiser than Solomon or Plato.  And the 
vicious have felt themselves rebuked in the
oresence of so much purity;  and the angry
    n, and the revengeful, have covered their
faces with shame, beholding such meekness
and forbearance on the part of insulted and 
injured goodness.  And the tempted ready to
yield to the clamor of passion or the enticements
of sin, have a sudden increase of virtuous
strength, as they have looked upon 

him struggling successfully against the evils
with which human nature is beset---him who, 
though "tempted at all points as we are, 
was yet without sin." 
Yes, truly, many a one that would have
fallen and perished by the way but for Jesus, 
has through the power of this, triumphed over
evil, and gone on his way rejoicing.  Many
a one has softened the harsh tones of anger, 
listening to the mild voice of Jesus; 
and the speech begun in discord of hate, has
ended in the beseeching accents of love. 
 And not unoften he who raised his hand to 
strike, seeing Jesus before him, has held it 
uplifted to pray, till he has become strong
enough to overcome evil with good. 
So divine and beautiful was the life Jesus.
So mighty and subduing is the influence
of his heavenly example of meekness, 
gentleness and forgiveness.  And how perfect
its chord with all his teachings.  Waht
an eloquent illustration of the merciful and
loving requirements of his Gospel.  Truly 
"he lived the precepts which he taught," and 
in all things has gone before us in the path 
of duty, showing us that his religion is practicable
in all its commandments and obligations
---that it is a religion for our daily 
thought, speech and action.  Verily, the
life of Jesus Christ is one of the most divine
and practical sermons the world has ever had
preached to it;  and, thank God, it is in a 
language, in words that the most ignorant may
understand, and which fall like the music of
angels on the humble and suffering and tempted
heart. 
And how great the reason and need for
religion's sake and our own, that we should
conform to the spirit and disposition and examples
of Christ.  How much do the history 
of the past, and present aspects of society, 
and our consciousness of wrong desires and
evil passions, plead with us to follow him, 
and obey the requisitions of the gospel.  How
glorious the world would become in its religious
and social character, how like heaven 
earth would be, if all men would cherish in
their hearts the love and imitate in their actions
the examples of Christ?  The waste
places would become green and fertile again, 
and the desert blossom as the rose.  All the
ends of the earth would remember and turn 
unto the Lord, and all the kindred of the nations
would worship before him, rejoicing together
in the glorious liberty of his spiritual 
children.  Let us thank God for the faith we
have in the fulness of time it shall come to 
 this;  and let us show our faith by our works, 
and strive to bring in the blessed era, so
long promised, so long waited for. 

2723  [*A*] 

MISCELLANY.

OUR COUNTRY.
BY DANIEL WEBSTER.

This lovely land, this glorious liberty, 
these benign institutions, the dear purchase 
of our fathers is ours; ours to enjoy, ours to 
preserve, ours to transmit. Generations past 
and generations to come, hold us responsible 
for its sacred trust. Our fathers from behind 
admonish us with their anxious, parental 
voices; posterity calls out to us from the bosom 
of the future; the world turns hither 
with its solicitous eye; all, all conjure us to 
act wisely and faithfully in this relation 
which we sustain. We can never, indeed, 
pay the debt that is upon us; but by virtue, 
by morality, by religion, by the cultivation of 
every good principle and every good habit, 
we may hope to enjoy the blessing through 
our day, and to leave it unimpaired to our 
children.

Let us feel deeply how much of what we 
are and what we possess, we owe this liberty 
and these institutions of government. Nature 
has indeed given us a soil which yields 
bounteously to the hand of industry; the 
mighty and fruitful ocean is before us, and 
the skies over our heads shed health and vigor. 
But what are lands, and seas, and 
skies, to civilized man, without society, without 
knowledge, without morals, without religious 
culture? and how can these be enjoyed 
in all their excellence, but under the protection 
of wise institutions and a free government?

There is not one of us here present who 
does not at this moment, experience in his 
own condition, and in the condition of those 
most near and dear to him, the influence and 
benefits of his liberty, of these institutions. 
Let us, then, acknowledge the blessing; let 
us feel it deeply and powerfully; let us
cherish a strong affection for it, and resolve 
to maintain and perpetuate it. The blood of 
our fathers—let it not have been shed in 
vain; the great hope of posterity—let it not 
be blasted.

The striking attitude, too, in which we 
stand to the world around us, cannot be altogether 
omitted here. Neither individuals 
nor nations can perform their part well, until 
they understand and appreciate all the duties 
belonging to it. It is not to inflate national 
vanity, nor to swell a light and empty 
feeling of self-importance; but it is that we 
may judge justly of our situation; and of 
our duties, that I earnestly urge the consideration 
of our position, and our character 
among the nations of the earth.        [*2723B*]

It cannot be denied, but by those who 
would dispute against the sun, that with 
America, and in America, a new era commences 
in human affairs. This era is distinguished 
by free representative government, 
by entire religious liberty, by improved 
systems of national intercourse, by a newly-awakened 
and unconquerable spirit of free 
inquiry, and by a diffusion of knowledge 
through the community, such as has been 
before altogether unknown and unheard of. 
America, America—our country, our dear native 
land, is inseparably connected, fast 
bound up, in fortune and by fate, with these 
great interests. If they fall, we fall with 
them; if they stand, it will be because we 
have upheld them.
-------------------------------------

WANT OF COURTESY.
BY MISS SEDGWICK.

The most striking and prevailing defect in 
the manners of Americans is, I believe, a 
want of courtesy. A little reflection would 
remove this defect. What do I mean by 
courtesy, and how is the want of it shown, 
do you ask? A few years since, a well bred 
foreigner came to the interior, and took lodgings 
at a village inn, for the purpose of 
learning the English language. To facilitate 
its acquisition, he generally preferred remaining 
in the receiving room of the tavern, 
where travelers were passing in and out. 
His writing table was placed before the fire. 
When the women came shivering in from a 
long drive in the stage coach, he moved his 
table to the coolest corner of the room, mended 
the fire, drew chairs near it, and if they 
brought in foot-stoves or blocks, he found the 
best place to heat them. He then returned 
to his own uncomfortable seat, and pursued 
his reading or writing.

The women profited by his civilities, without 
appearing to notice them. During the 
whole winter, he never received one word of 
acknowledgement. Not one "Thank you, 
sir"—"You are very kind, sir"—or what 
would have seemed inevitable, "Pray, don't 
take that cold seat, sir." What was the polished 
stranger's inference? Certainly that 
the Americans were a most discourteous, if 
not cold-hearted people.

Cold-hearted we are not. These women 
were, probably, generally impressed with the 
young man's attention—one of them I knew, 
in relating her traveling experiences at her 
own fireside at night, said, "She should never 
forget a young man at the tavern in S. 
She thought certainly she should have 
died with the cold before she got there, and 
when she went in, he moved away from the 
fire, and gave her the rocking chair—hung 
her cloak over another, and warmed it for 
her, and did everything just as if he had 
been her own son!" And this good woman 
had not indicated in her manners to the 
young man that she ever saw him. Here 
there was no expression of the real feeling, 
no courtesy.

I have often seen men in steamboats, in 
stage-coaches, and other public places, rise 
and give their seats to the women, and the 
women seat themselves quietly, without a 
word or look of acknowledgement. And so 
with a thousand other attentions which are 
rendered, and are received without any return. 
Avoid such discourtesy, my young 
friends—it is not only displeasing, but it is 
unjust. We actually owe some return for 
such civilities, and a courteous acceptance is, 
in most cases the only one that can be made. 
These little chance courtesies are smiles on 
the face of manners, and smiles are like sunshine
—we scarcely have too much of either.
[*2723C*]

Look through society, and watch the changes 
of fortune. Select out the proud, the 
haughty, the insolent among the sons of men
—the individuals who seem to think they are 
made of better material than the masses, are 
entitled to higher privileges, greater immunities. 
The chances are ten to one that, in 
the vast majority of cases, they will be found 
among the mere mushrooms of the hour—
that large and heartless class who regard 
gold as their god, and pride is the incense to 
be offered to the idol. It too often happens 
that the greatest of tyrants are among those 
who, at the beginning of life, were not only 
humble, but powerless and poor. They cannot 
appreciate prosperity. They cannot look
back with true philosophy. They cannot see 
in the multitude around them human beings 
like themselves, many possessing more virtues, 
and all struggling in a spirit quite as 
disinterested. Pride has hardened their 
hearts and maddened their minds; and they 
mock themselves with the delusion that it indicates 
superiority to play a base and ungrateful 
part towards the companions of their 
early years—the playmates of their childhood 
and the associates of their purer but 
humbler days.
-------------------------------

BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT.—The setting of a 
great hope is like the setting of the sun. 
The brightness of our life is gone. Shadows 
of evening fall around us, and the world 
seems but a dull reflection—itself a broader 
shade. We look forward into the coming 
lonely night. The soul withdraws into itself. 
The stars arise, and the night is holy.
-------------------------------

A pickpocket may steal your purse, but a 
wearisome talker consumes your time, which
is equally valuable.The Little Orphan,
We hope our younger friends read sometimes
what we publish on this page. We try to give
interesting and instructive matter. We copy
often, for this purpose, from old authors--the
good and great of the past--from living writers,
the good and great of the present. Surely they 
can find sometimes, extracts worth reading and
remembering. But here is a story written by a 
young friend, and intended especially for them:
its object is, to teach this great truth, that we
must be kind to each other. Will our young
friends read it, and remember the lesson it con-
veys? We hope so.
It was Christmas Eve; and all the chil-
dren in Mrs. Morton's boarding school
were dancing with delight; for the next day
their teacher was to give them a ball, and 
then they were to return home and to spend the
holidays.
Oh! how their little hearts beat, and their 
bright eyes sparkled, as they thought of it.
And besides this, Fanny Foster, with her
large black eyes had caught a glimpse of a
Christmas tree, in Mrs. Morton's parlor,
covered with pretty things; and they ex-
pected a summons from her every moment.
At length it came, and the children rushed 
down, breathless, while the sound of music
made them almost wild.
Only one remained behind, in the desert-
ed school-room. This was a pale little girl,
shabbily dressed, whose deep blue eyes
peeped sadly forth beneath their fringed lids,
and whose pale lip no smile illumined. A
large tear rested on her hollow cheek, and
and an expression of sorrow, more touching
in one so young, showed that the lonely
child was unhappy.
Poor little LIlla! the tears gushed forth
more freely, as the sound of music and
laughter reached her ear, and she thought
how happy she had been when her own
mamma lived, and how eagerly she had
watched for Christmas then. But nobody
cared for the little orphan girl now; even
the Christ-child had forgotten her; and most
of the little girls laughed at her because
she had to wear Kate Morton's cast-off
clothes. It was very wrong, but Mrs. Mor-
ton did not check them, as she should have
done; indeed, she sometimes ridiculed Lilla
herself, and the friendless one was glad to
hide her head; so she did not go with the
other children into the parlor, but remained
weeping in the school-room.
After awhile she hid her face upon the
desk, and moand aloud, "Mother! Mother!"
Then the room became suddenly very bright,
and she no longer felt cold and dreary; the
desks and chairs vanisehd, and in the mid-
dle of the room stood a large Christmas tree,
covered with presents, and supported by a 
beautiful child, with a golden crown upon
its head. Lilla clapped her hands, and the
tears were all gone. She looked at the 
smiling child, and the pretty tree, and has-
tened to examine her presents. There were
nice little dresses, dolls, and necklaces.
Poor Lilla was enchanted. She knelt down
to thank the angel-child, when a golden
cloud surrounded the tree, and she heard the
most beautiful music in the world, softly 
ringing about her--now near, and now far 
off--while the room seemed to be filling
with lovely beings, whose soft eyes beamed
kindly upon her; and they all appeared to
come from behind the golden cloud which 
enveloped the Christmas Tree.
Gradually the music died away, and a
heavenly voice cried, "Lilla!" At the same
time, Lilla saw her own dear mamma
standing before her, with a starry crown up-
on her brow. She sprang forward, and the
spirit raised her earthly darling--the little
pale LIlla--and kissed her cheek. "Oh,
Mamma; dear, dear Mamma! take me 
with you, do not leave poor Lilla again!
I am so sad without you; nobody loves me
here--may I not go with you?" and she bu-
ried her head in her mother's bosom, and
wept aloud. "Lilla," murmured the angel,
"my earthly child, weep no more, for joy is
at hand. Yet a little while must we part,
my cherished one, but no longer shalt thou
be friendless and sad; tomorrow the Christ-
child shall bring thee a gift, and give thee a
home. Then, weep no more, but be as
thou hast been, meek and kind, and the an-
gels who watch over thee will make thee
loved and happy. And forget not, that God
is the orphan's Father--heaven the orphan's
home. Now, fare thee well, my child."
Lilla no longer nestled in her bosom, but
knelt upon the floor, and the soft music
again was heard; while the golden cloud
surrounded her mother, and the angels group-
ing round her, seemed to melt away into
thin air, murmuring all the while, in har-
mony with the music, "Fare thee well, and
weep no more--dear little Lilla, weep no
more." 
For a moment, Lilla was silent and
breathless; but the sound of merriment
roused her, and starting up, she found her
self in the cold school-room, her head rest-
ing on the hard desk, while her schoolmates
were running up stairs to bed. It was very 
cold; but her heart was so warm and glad,
she did not feel it. With a happy smile
upon her face, she crept to her lone little
bed, and did not find it as hard and cold as
usual; but she could not sleep--she lay
thinking of her mamma and the Christ-
child, and kept asking herself if it was
only a dream--a beautiful dream, sent by
God to make her happy--and she wondered
if the Christ-child would think of her.
She was glad when the sun peeped into
her narrow window, with its kind, bright
face, saying "Are you up, little girl, on this
merry Christmas morning?" Gladly she
obeyed the summons, and, springing out of
bed, cried, "A merry Christmas, Mr. Sun,"
and quickly dressed herself, never thinking
of Kate Morton's old clothes, she was so 
happy; and when she had prayed for God's 
blessing, she hastened down stairs; but
alas! there was no one there to return her
looks of love; and if they wished her a 
Merry Christmas, it was with so cold and
careless a manner, that, chilled, and disap-
pointed, she stole silently away. 
But, though large tears were in her eyes,
her heart was still happy. At length the
evening came, and the dancing had com-
menced. Carriage after carriage rolled to
the door, bearing the parents of the happy
childrem, laden with presents for their dar-
lings, who looked sweet, in their white 
dresses and wreaths of flowers; and she
could not help sighing as she crept, unob-
served, into a corner where she could not
be seen. She smiled, however, to see them
all so happy. "Oh, dear, if they only
loved me!" she thought, "but I must not
think of that; I, at least, can love them;"
and she smiled again, joyous as any of
them.      2724A
The dancing stopped for a little while,
and another carriage rolled to the door--
Every one wondered who it was, for all the
expected guests had arrived; and the little
boys at the windows said it was a handsome
chariot. At length, a noble looking gen-
tleman was ushered in, and all the com-
pany bowed and smiled; for they knew he
was the distinguished stranger who had just
arrived from foreign lands; and Mrs. Mor-
ton took up her fair little girl who clung to
his hand, and welcomed her joyously.
The gentleman looked eagerly
among the children, who were gazing at
the richly dressed little girl, and said to
Mrs. Morton.
"Does not Lilla R---- attend your
school?"
Lilla heard him, and sprang breathless
from her corner. She forgot her shabby
clothes and all the fine ladies and gentle-
men, and cried,
"I am Lilla--I am Lilla."
For a moment, he gazed at her, and then
fondly embraced and kissed her, calling
her "his sister's child--his lost one," and
took his little girl, and bade them love each
other, for the were sisters. But upon Mrs.
Morton he looked sternly, saying, she had
not fulfilled her trust--she had not been
kind to the orphan.
Lilla heard him, and quickly taking his
hand, cried,
"Forgive Mrs. Morton, dear father; un-
less she had taken me, perhaps I should
have died;" and she smiled upon them all
a kind, forgiving smile.
Oh, how sad all her little persecutors
felt! Kate Morton could hardly restrain
her tears; she longed to throw her arms
around the sweet Lilla's neck, and pray for
forgiveness; her proud, naughty heart was 
conquered, and she saw how wicked she
had been. But Lilla--the dear little Lilla--
how happy she was, in her beautiful home,
where all was peace and love!
Soon the rose returned to her cheek, and
the smile to her lip; while her sweet and
gentle spirit, developed in her daily life,
and leading her ever to acts of disinterested
kindness, made her, not only the darling of
all who knew her, but the friend and bene-
factress of many a little fatherless one, who,
but for her, would have been desolate and
sad.                                                       Julie,
2724

From Sharpe's Magazine.
A Sketch of Domestic Life.     2725
Chap. I.--The Father's Return.
One golden evening in June. 1832, a travelling
carriage was rolling along the high road which led
to the pleasant valley of Koran. Within the coach
sat, with folded arms, a strong and powerfully built
man of sixty, but fresh-looking as if scarcely fifty
years had passed over him. He was simply clad
in black, with a hunting cap drawn over his fore-
head. Danielis was the traveller's name: he was
an elder of the church, and was returning from a 
tour which he usually took every summer, either
for health or recreation. The country lay before
him bathed in the purple glow of sunset; meadows
woods, and villages, mingled together in undulat-
ing luxuriance; but Danielis hardly noticed it. His
heart was with the scenes he had just quitted; his
thoughts hovered over the bare table-lands of the
Suabian Alps, or the ruins of Abbey Kirtchan; and
memory conjured up the pleasant conversations he
had held in the shady walks of Rippolstan with
dear and intimate friends.
Quickly the images of the past melted into
thoughts of the present; and his mind turned to
those dearest to him, their interests and welfare.
He beheld at a short distance, opposite the town
of Koran, his modest but happy dwelling. It was
built in the Italian style on the slope of a wooded
???? carriage drove on, he saw the gigan-
tic ???, planted beside a little stream which
???? his garden; its wide branches stretched
over to the opposite meadow, and the pendent
stems waved in the evening breeze. Then the
???? by the fountain, and the dove-cot,--his
children's delight,--rose before the father's eyes.
He stood up in the carriage, with emotions more
of anxiety than pleasure. His eyes wandered right
and left, as if asking every passer by. "Is all well
in that ho se?" Though far from being supersti-
tious, Danielis sometimes allowed his imagination
to play him tricks, for which his reason approach-
ed him. He tried to divine from the countenances
of the casual passengers who recognised him the
welfare of those beloved ones whom he left behind.
The Elder might well dread any interruption to
his felicity. His family, numerous as it was, form-
ed one of those happy households so seldom seen.
Riches were not the cause of their happiness; for,
possessing but a moderate fortune, they lived as
economically as a mechanic or husbandman's fami-
ly, and yet had more at their command that many
a nobleman. The simplicity, piety, and high prin-
ciple which Danielis had inculcated in each mem-
ber of his family, his own fatherly kindness, and
the tender love of his wife, the best of mothers,
combined to render all the household truly happy.
"Most men," said Danielis once, in a letter to
his friend, a portion of which we quote to display
the character of a man whom his neighbors con-
sidered as rather eccentric,--"most men lead an
unreal life, because they live only for appearances.
In the world there is an equal portion of joy and
sorrow; and I would as little part with the one as
with the other. Both contribute to beautify exis-
tence; both incite us to improvement. Our happi-
ness or misery depends not on chance; for the un-
seen hand of God, 'which men call fate, brings
neither bliss nor woe but to work out a good end
towards us. Riches, power, and honor, are often
blessings only in appearance; yet how great sacri-
fices will men make to obtain them! He who, hav-
ing been prosperous, is satisfied with an easy com-
petence, and devotes the rest to do good to others;
and he who, poor himself, is yet a helping angel
to those poorer still; these two depend not on the
smile or frown of Fortune. Happiness and peace
are theirs. The world obtains no evil influence
over them they are righteous instruments in the
hand of God."
But now let us return to him who thus wrote.
The coach stopped at the entrance gate which led
by a side path to the home of Danielis. Joyous
sounds from well known voices arose throughout
the garden. A merry troop rushed to meet the 
father; first the elder children, and after them the
merry little ones. Scarcely had he embraced
them all, when his loving wife Anna threw herself
into his arms, and he fondly kissed her clear openbrow, on which forty-five years had not imprinted
a single wrinkle.  Near her stood Joseph, the eldest
son, with his young wife, whom he had lately
married.  Then came Else, the favorite of the
family, a village girl who had been taken into the
household.  She carried in her arms her young
charge, the little Christian, of four years old, who
was struggling to reach his father.  The happy
parent entered his home in the midst of a bodyguard
more faithful, loving, and devoted than ever
surrounded a king. 

CHAP. II---IMPORTANT COMMUNICATIONS. 
In a few days, the first excitement of joy being
over, everything in the house of the Elder returned
to its usual routine, which was so simple, and free 
alike from display and annoyance, that no habitation 
within many miles could vie with it.  This
quiet uniformity was one source of happiness;  the
history of a day was the history of a year.  Before 
the dwellers in the neighborhood had shaken off
their slumbers, every one in the house of Danielis
was up and busy;  the father among his books  and
papers in an upper chamber, of instructing his 
older children;  the mother in the lower part of the
house, superintending her domestics, or teaching
the younger branches of the family. 
After the morning, which was spent in a cloister-like
silence, all assembled round the table to a very
simple meal.  From that moment merry laughter, 
noise, and jesting, were heard throughout the
house, and resounded in the garden, the meadow, 
and even to the neighboring heights, while the parents
in summer-time sat in the garden conversing
with friends and relatives.  At evening time the
children raised their voices into united song, which 
rang through the stillness of the country all around
and was repeated by the woodland echoes.  This
uniform life was seldom broken. 
One morning as Danielis was seated at the writing-table
of the study, Mother Anna entered the
room with serious looks.  Before she uttered a 
word, the expression of her face announced to her
husband that she had [no][*some*]thing important to disclose. 
2725 

"What is the matter, my dear wife?" asked he, 
laying down his pen. 
"You see it now," she said, in a tone that foreboded
ill;  "you see it now, I was quite right."
"When were you ever wrong?" replied the husband, 
smiling.  "But in what particular thing are
you right now?" 
"In what I have feared so long, and what you 
would not believe.  Our Jacob and Else have fallen
in love with each other, and I doubt not, are
secretly betrothed or will be soon." 
"Secretly betrothed!" repeated Danielis, much
astonished;  and, though yet doubting the fact, unable
to conceal the uneasiness it caused him. 
To explain this affair, our readers should be acquainted
that "our Jacob" was one of the eldest
sons of this worthy couple;  he was a young man of
twenty, and a curate in the town of Zollingen. 
"How and from whom have you learnt this?" 
asked Danielis, after a momentary silence. 
"By mere chance.  I went into Else's apartment, 
and found on the ground an open letter in Jacob's 
handwriting.  Fancying it was one of his, which I 
had dropped by accident, I took it up and read its
contents.  It was full of exhortations to piety and
obedience to us;  and then came a confession of the
most tender love for Else herself." 
As his wife spoke, the countenance of the Elder
softened;  because perhaps he had gained much
self command in the course of a life of trial, or perhaps
from the confidence he had in his son's pure
and manly character.  "And Else?" asked he. 
"She came into the room, and saw the letter in 
my hand with apparent indifference.  When I advised 
her in future to be more careful of her papers, 
and not to leave them about she colored 
deeply, and looked anxious.  But when I inquired 
into the particulars, she confessed all with innocent
frankness, though with much timidity;  and it 
was easy to perceive that she saw nothing wrong
in the affair.  "Jacob had always been so kind to
her---she owed him so much---it was no wonder
that every one loved Jacob, for he deserved it."  I
really doubt whether the girl is even aware of the
mature of his affection for her."
A smile passed over the Elder's face.  "And
Mother Anna---what did she say to all this?"
"I did not reproach her, I could not;---and besides
it would only have blown an insignificant 
spark into a flame.  I advised her not to say a word
about this circumstance, as it might do her harm.
Else knows nothing of the world;  she is an inexperienced
as it is possible for a girl of sixteen to be; 
and the more a young maiden is talked about, the
more is her fair fame sullied.  I told her not to
answer Jacob's letter;  and promised to reply to it
myself." 
"Wisely said and wisely done," exclaimed Danielis. 
"By this means, you keep Else's secret, and
we gain time for the future.  A word of motherly 
warning does much.  Let there be no secrets between 
us and our children.  I can easily forgive
the impetuous boy.  Else is lovely and good, enough
to set on fire a heart and imagination like
our Jacob's." 
"Yes, she is certainly pretty," answered the mother; 
"rather too delicate looking, but modest and
humble;  and she has made the most of the little
education she has received.  Let  us watch both
the young people  Jacob cannot and must not
think of marriage yet.  It will be sometime before
he obtains a living, and love affairs like this are
soon forgotten." 
"Hum!  no always, dear child," added Danielis, 
with a cheerful meaning smile,  "Think of ourselves! 
Each of my children, like myself, shall be
at liberty to make his own choice as soon as he is 


capable of so doing.  In such matters, parents
should neither command nor forbid."
"You are quite right, my husband;  but it is
their duty to advise.  'Love,' says the proverb, 
blinds'---" 
"True," interrupted the Elder;  and pressing his
wife's hand, with an affectionate smile, he added, 
"but you cannot deny that in my case love made 
me see the clearer.  And Else, though inferior in 
birth, seems one of those rare beings who can not 
only confer true happiness on a good husband, but
even improve a bad one,---praise which I would
not bestow on many of our high-born belles." 
"I quite agree with you; and I would receive 
Else as my daughter without any scruple as to her
person or mind  But appearances---gossip;  think 
my dear husband---on one side a clergyman, son
of an elder of the church, on the other a village
girl!" 
Danielis interrupted her, somewhat irritated in
his manner, "What!  shall we adopt the folly of
Cousin Maultaseh as our rule of life?  Never!  When
ther princess or beggar, a woman bears no rank in
society but what she borrows from her husband. 
In the eyes of men, peeresses and peasants are 
alike, while equal in virtue and beauty.  They
see the woman only, whether clothed in silk or in 
homespun cotton.  This is the sempstress's creation, 
not God's.  Woman is worthy of love for herself; 
for her loveliness, the gift of nature;  for her
talent, acquired by education;  for her virtuous 
qualities;  rank and wealth are not essential to her. 
Therefore it is no marvel that a peasant girl became
empress of Russia, nor that a queen left the
throne for the arms of a soldier.  Now, my dear
wife, let us drop the subject;  only let us watch the
conduct of Jacob and Else." 

CHAP. III---THE MOTHER'S LETTER. 

After this conversation it was in vain for the
Elder to try to resume his occupation when his
wife had left the apartment. An even like the
preceding is one of deep moment to one to whom 
domestic ties are dear and holy.  Danielis paced
the study, gazing abstractly on the regiment of
his dead," as he was wont to entitle the books arranged
along the walls, in different bindings, according
to the subjects on which they treated. 
Then the Elder fixed his eyes on the portraits of
friends whom death had taken from him---treasures
which he loved to have above his desk, in his daily
sight.  But vain were all his attempts to divert
his mind from the one engrossing topic.  What he
had said to his wife was what he really felt.  But
he had not expressed all his mind, which, if spoken
would have been this:---

"The boy is wrong to think of a wife before he
is able to support her.  He is wrong, if he seeks
to gratify his feelings, and by stealing her affections
to destroy the peace of a poor and innocent
maiden.  He is wrong to be wanting in confidence
to his parents.  This last, however, I can excuse, 
for there are two things which are usually closely 
concealed, and which shun all witnesses but God; 
first love and heartfelt religion.  No, I will not
blame the young man.  Did I not do the same in
my own youth?" 

While these thoughts passed through the Elder's 
mind, Mother Anne wrote her opinion to her son 
in the following manner: 

"Chance, my dear Jacob," wrote she, "has 
thrown into my hands a letter to Else from you. 
Its contents have not surprised me;  but I am grieved
that you should have placed yourself and this
excellent girl in a painful situation.  I spoke immediately
to Else;  and even if I had not loved her
before, she would have gained my affection by
her rational, modest, and simple-minded conduct
on this occasion.  The result of our conversation 
proves to me that she does not fully understand 
your letter, and is not aware of the seriousness of
your attentions.  She has allowed me to answer 
you, for in her simplicity, she knows not whether
she prefers you to another, and therefore does not 
write to you herself, but deputes me to do so.  The
best answer I can give is to repeat, word for word, 
our conversation. 

" 'Else,' said I, 'I know Jacob well.  He is good, 
excellent;  but so full of impulse that he is frequently
led away by his feelings, and a reaction then quickly
takes place.  I love you too well to suffer you to become 
the sacrifice of his impetuosity.  But I shall
not require you to refuse his hand should his affection
stand the test of time;  especially if you feel 
for him that love which is necessary to resign
yourself and your fate unto a husband, to bear 
calmly all the changes and trials of life, and to find
your own happiness in that of your husband, and in 
his love.  Should time enable Jacob to provide for 
a wife, and he then should ask you hand, you shall
be welcomed as a much-loved daughter.  That
time may be near or very distant.  Jacob was 
certainly in the wrong to write this letter, and I 
think you are wise to write this letter, and I 
think you are wise in not answering it.  Behave 
as though he had not written, continue good, modest, 
and industrious;  I will instruct you in every
domestic occupation, and you must cultivate your 
mind, so as to accommodate yourself to every situation 
in life.' 
"Thus, dear Jacob, did I speak to Else.  Your
father agrees with me in all, and we expect from 
your filial affection that your conduct towards this
young girls will be extremely prudent, though kind
If you wish to become worthy of respect, respect
yourself;  and to this end, keep a guard over your 
own heart.  Farewell.  With most heartfelt love, 
"YOUR MOTHER."
[*2725 A*]     (To be Continued.) 


THE GEORGIA TELEGRAPH. 
BY SAMUEL J. RAY, 
CITY AND COUNTY PRINTER. 
TUESDAY MORNING, APRIL 4, 1848. 

From Sharpe's Magazine. 
A Sketch of Domestic Life. 
FROM THE GERMAN OF ZSCHOKKE. 
(Concluded.) 
CHAP. IV.---EXPLANATIONS. 

To make our good Jacob appear less faulty, we
now communicate to the reader the origin of his
love, and also many circumstances which had contributed
to its growth, of which even his parents
were not aware. 
One day he went with a young companion to 
take a stroll through the fields.  Conversing cheerfully, 
and allowing their minds to wander in the 
charming regions of ideal fancy, the two young men 
contrived to lose their way.  Fortunately, a good
angel appeared, to save them from perplexity;  a
beautiful girl, in the garb of a peasant.  Our lost 
travellers hastened towards the lovely apparition, 
who seemed more charming still when she gave 
them a clue to retrace their path.  After repeated 
thanks they took leave of her, saying to themselves
that such an angel might well allure poor
souls from one labyrinth into another.  However, 
such was not the case now, and the two friends
soon forgot their adventure. 
The neighboring village of Waldensen was under 
the pastoral care of Jacob;  its inhabitants attended 
the church in the town on Sundays, and Jacob in
the week gave instruction to the young people of
both sexes, fitting them to join in the communion.
Among the village girls was the heroine of the
labyrinth.  Her name was Else, and she was the
daughter of a sawyer in middling circumstances.
Jacob's instruction was given, not only as a duty, 
but with an earnest zeal which elevated the minds
of his young pupils.  He was no common priest; 
he supported schools, was an active friend to the
needy and suffering, and besides, as a preacher, 
he spoke form the fulness of his own heart to the
hearts of his hearers. 
The attention which Else, gave, her talents, and
pure religious feeling, interested her teacher deeply. 
Even after his instructions were ended, Jacob 
took a lively interest in the welfare of his youthful 
flock.  It was his custom to visit the parents, 
and give good advice, and assistance on various
occasions.  Thus when the sawyer of Waldensen 
determined to place his daughter at a school, at
some distance, to study French, needlework, and
other feminine accomplishments, the young curate 
procured her introduction to respectable families
in the neighborhood.  Jacob was not like many
of his clerical brethren, who, when they have
strewed the seed, as is the duty of their calling, 
care nothing for its future growth. 
About a year after this, Jacob saw Else among
his congregation.  She had returned home, a beautiful 
and blooming young woman.  Her appearance 
delighted him;  he seemed raised above all earthly 
things.  He has never before preached so well. 
Else fixed her eyes on the young preacher with 
devotion.  HE, her teacher and benefactor, appeared
a being sent to bless the world, for whom 
all must feel love and veneration.  Jacob was much 
alarmed, when, a few days after he heard of the
sawyer's intention to send his daughter to be maid
at an inn.  The young clergyman begged him to
desist, and pointed out the rudeness to which Else 
might be exposed, at such a place, the resort of 
idle travellers, dissolute soldiers, loiterers, and adventurers. 
Jacob used every effort to place his 
young pupil i some respectable family.  At last, 
an attendant and first instrustress being wanted 
for the Elder's youngest children, Mother Anna
assented to the earnest wishes of her son, and thus
Else became an inmate in the family of Danielis. 

CHAP. V;---MASTERS AND SERVANTS. 
Her new situation was indeed a blessing to the
young girl;  for in the Elder's patriarchal houshold
all the domestics, high and low, were treated with
attentive kindness.  They were regarded as part 
of the family, they shared every joy and sorrow, 
and were encouraged in all good by Danielis and
his excellent wife.  No complaints of unworthy
and idle domestics were ever heard in this family. 
It was a frequent saying of the Elder, that if a 
wife is worthless, it is often the husband's fault;  if
children grow up ill, it is the parents' fault, and if
the servents are bad, it is the fault of the master 
and mistress, especially if the latter is incessantly 
scolding and reproving, or lowers herself by vulgar 
familiarity.  The Elder's wife did not think it beneath
her dignity to interest her servants in the
proceedings of the family, to instruct in domestic
affairs, and in all that might be useful and improving
to their minds.  Also, when, in the evening, 
Danielis told his children of the riches and products
of the earth, and the wonders it contains, 
related adventures of travellers, or showed the
heavenly bodies through his telescope, some of the
houshold were always present.  Else, in particular, 
never failed to attend earnestly to all she hears, 
and was never missing from the circle when she
had disposed of her young charges. 
The neighbors of Danielis thought all these proceedings
very ridiculous, even dangerous.  One
cousin Maultasch, who paid frequent visits to the
Elder's family, and wished to rule everything, was
quite indignant.  She was an excellent specimen 
of a certain class;  a stout, fidgety dame, by no
means a bad woman in reality;  affable, fond of so- 

2726 

LorsanrL
Telegraph

2726A

ciety and of talking much; always trying hard to
have the last word. Her hawk's eye discovered
at a glance the slightest irregularity in any one's
dress and penetrated into every corner in any
house she entered. In youth, her affections had
been generally bestowed: in age, she atoned for
this,--by going assiduously to church, and by displaying
her active piety at the tea-tables of her
acquaintance, in sharp-tongued, malicious observations
upon every one she knew. One day, the good
dame surprised her cousin in the act of explaining
to his domestic circle, by means of an electrical
machine, the aurora borealis, the cause of storms,
and the use of lightning conductors. Else, as well
as the children, was attentitively taking notes.

"Is it possible?" cried she, as soon as she was
alone with Danielis,--and we quote the conversation,
as it expresses the public opinion of the Elder's
conduct,--"is it possible?" exclaimed she,
clasping her hands in amazement. "What can
you be going to make of Else--a female professor?
I beg, my dear cousin, that you will consider what
you are doing."

"I have considered," answered Danielis; "as this 
young girl belongs to my household, I wish to
make her as good and intelligent a creature as God
has willed her to be."

"But, cousin, with your permission, are you not
carrying matters too far? When we engage a domestic,
we want no science and learning beyond
what is their duty, and we give them maintenance
and wages, as--"

"Mules, oxen, and asses," quietly observed the
old man.

"Let me speak!" exclaimed cousin Maultasch,
in some ill-humor. "To give the common people
knowledge which they can never use, is encouraging
an obscurity of ideas, of which they have already
too much. Really, my good cousin, this is
strange; as if there were not schools enough to 
teach poor people all that they need to know."

"Yes! there are schools where children are
taught reading, writing, and arithmetic, and are
left in the grossest ignorance concerning every-day
occurrences: yes! of even what is most necessary
for their future life. What are girls taught 
of the aims and management of domestic life?--what
instruction does the village lad gain in husbandry?
The workman leaves school ignorant of
the commonest knowledge of nature; the mechanic
is totally unacquainted with the powers and qualities
of bodies on which his labor is to be bestowed.
From this cause arises the helplessness of the
people, and the increasing poverty of the lower
classes."

"Cousin, that is no concern of ours; it is the business
of the government to remedy such things."

"No;--it is our concern; for we also belong to
the people; and the improvement of the people
must spring from themselves. Government have
other things to attend to. Each man should try to
improve those in his immediate circle."

"Cousin Danielis, I really am not able to understand
you."

"There is the misfortune. Well, we will turn to 
another subject,--the state of religion among the
people,--mankind are educated in outside devotion;
they go to church, hear sermons, learn prayer;
and yet few of those who consider themselves
Christians ever really know God."

Cousin Maultasch opened her eyes wide, exclaiming,
"Good heavens!  you cannot mean that we are
heathens in spite of our churches and schools?"

"Very nearly so, I fear. Our youth know the
forms of religion, but not the Christianity of the
heart.  I lead my children and my  household,
not only to the church built of stone, but to a temple
formed by the Almighty's hand, where he
shows himself through his works in all nature; in
the infinity of suns and revolving stars, between
which our earth hovers like a grain of sand; in the
great world of animalculae, among which we
breathe; in the mysterious government of the
wonderful powers of nature. See, my good cousin,
this is God's temple, to which I guide my children,--where
they learn to become pious and sincere Christians."

Cousin Maultasch shook her head. The conversation
lasted some time; but these fragments are
sufficient to give an idea of it.

Chap. VI.--Another Visit

The mother's tender and earnest letter made a
deep impression on her son. She had said to him
exactly what he, as a teacher and friend, would
have said to another under the circumstances; and
Jacob was conscientious enough to demand from
himself what he would have required from another,--obedience
to the dictates of reason and duty.

Our daily experience proves how much easier 
it is for a clergyman to shine in the pulpit, than to
be always true and faithful in his intercourse with
mankind, and just and honest in his own heart. 
Jacob would have blushed to become an actor in
the priestly garb: he used strong efforts to command
his passions and feeling. He could not
banish from his soul the beloved image; but when
it rose up before him in all its beauty, he fixed his
mind on some engrossing subject, which diverted
his thoughts, in a measure, from his love. He
denied himself the pleasure of frequent visits to
his home; and when occasionally he allowed himself
that gratification, it was only for a short space;
he never spoke to Else, and scarcely ventured a
glance towards her. She, on her part, seemed to 
look calmly at his coming or going, and tried neither
to meet him nor avoid him. But the mother, with
a woman's delicate perception, thought she could 
trace a faint glow on Else's fair cheek when, by
any chance, she and Jacob met. The anxiety of
the parents ceased by degree, as they witnessed
the prudent conduct of their son, and they fancied
they had made the affair of too much moment.

The threatened outbreak of war, in consequence
of the Revolution of 1830 in Paris, excited and
alarmed every one. Italy, Belgium, and Poland,
were in a disturbed state, striving against their
rulers, who, proud of their restoration to power,
mistook the spirit and just desires of the people
which they professed to govern.

These stirring times made Danielis, like most
others, an eager newspaper reader; but he often
threw the Gazette aside, disgusted at its servile
party spirit. One day he stepped to the open
window of his room, which looked out on a smooth
lawn, surrounded by gay flower-beds; his eyes wandered
over fields, meadows, the river, and through
the neighboring town, as though he sought to calm
his mind, now ruffled by thoughts of the malignant
barbarity of his fellow-creatures.

"One could almost imagine," said the Elder,
giving utterance to his thoughts aloud, "that this
beautiful world was destined as a place of correction
for fallen spirits."

"Not for all! not for all!" answered a gently
female voice. It was Else, who was in the garden
with little Christian, chasing him in play up and
down the gravel walk as if seeming anxious to
take from the laughing child his basket of flowers
which he had gathered for his brothers.

"She is right," thought Danielis, looking down
at the playfellows with silent pleasure. "Not for
all! Your innocent souls have heaven only around
them. Oh! forsake not your God." And, pursuing
his reflections, he added, "Why do we love
our children so tenderly? Is it only through a
blind impulse of nature? No! it must be something 
higher. It is because we feel their innocent bliss,
which we have in a great measure lost; it is because
we know how much purer they are than
ourselves."

Else knelt down before the little one, played
with him, and held fast his tiny hands, while she
sang a baby song, "Ainsi jout, jout, jout, les petites
Marionettes." The fair-haired Christian jumped
up and down, in imitation of his pet playthings,
and then threw himself, laughing, upon Else, who
kissed him fondly, and carried him away in her
arms. The young girl's movements were full of
grace. Her rustic dress, far from disfiguring her
slender form, heightened its beauty. The dark,
violet-colored jacket, fitting close to the figure, the
scarlet-boned petticoat, scarcely covering the delicate
ankles and small feet; the black velvet neckband,
with silver spangles, setting off the exquisite
whiteness of her graceful throat; all exhibited
Else's beauty as much as the richest attire could
have done. Her dark eyes, glistening with playful
mirth; her cheeks and lips glowing with health;
her hair falling in thick curls over her snowy forehead,
made diamonds and pearls useless.

"This boy has not bad taste," said the old man,
as he thought of his son. "Even the caprices of
Fortune show the infinite wisdom of the Creator.
In the lowest of mankind we sometimes perceive
the greatest intelligence,--a Socrates, a Phocion,
a Cincinnatus, a Franklin, or a Washington [Irving],
often stands unknown with his brilliant talents behind
the plough or the loom, which mediocre spirits
rule at the head of the government, the army, and
the church. So also we find among women many 
who, fitted by nature to be princesses, live in obscurity;
while others, whom she has treated like a
cruel step-mother, move in the highest ranks.--Yes,
indeed," mused the Elder, "the boy has not
chosen ill; strange that he should so lightly have
given up his fancy."

A noise behind him interrupted his meditations,
and in a moment Danielis was embraced by the
son who was uppermost in his thoughts.

"What brings you here so unexpectedly, my dear
Jacob?" asked the father, after the first welcome,
with an anxious expression of future.

"An affair very near my heart, dear father; and
a most important one. I want your advice and
consent," answered the young man earnestly.

"An affair of the heart--an important one." repeated
the Elder, scarcely able to conceal a smile;
"I know it already; I understand you.

"No, father, you do not understand me,--it is
impossible you could," Jacob eagerly said, caloring
deeply the while, "But are you at leisure?--
May I lay the whole matter before you?"

"Let me hear it, my dear son; I am quite curious
to know what it is."

CHAP. VII.--Christian Feelings

"You know as well as I do the unsettled state
of the neighboring country," said the young clergyman,
after a pause, as he leaned against his father's
writing-desk. "The consequences are, lawlessness,
bloodshed, and the destruction of all civil
and domestic rights, under the guise of liberty and
justice."

"I know--I know," answered Danielis. "But
go on; why this strange introduction to the matter
on which you are about to speak?"

Jacob continued, "The worse of all appears to
me to be the want of religious and moral feeling.
The machine of state is soon put right; but social
virtues are not so easily restored. For months
there has been no public worship; the clergy have
fled, or been driven away for their political opinions,
and the schools are empty."

"I almost fancy you wish to become a missionary
to the disturbed districts; is it really so?"

"Yes," answered Jacob. A request has been
sent to me in the name of several parishes; they
wish me to try to res[ort]tore the worship of God. Children
are unbaptized, marriage rites not celebrated,
the sick and the dying in vain long for religious
consolation, and the services of the church are
quite neglected. My own lot, in the midst of civil
war and dissensions, will be most unsafe. Not
even one parish, not a regular stipend is secured
to me, the whole country is so unsettled."

"And what answer did you give?"

"That I would do nothing without your advice."

"And that advice, my dear son, is that you
should not quit your own country, to which
your services are due."

"But, father, is not the whole world our country,
created by the hand of God? Is not every one
our neighbor whom we are commanded to love as
ourselves?"

"Right, my dear child; but I imagined that the
neighborhood of your parents, the opportunities
you enjoy of association with the friends of your
youth, would bind you to your home with links of
iron; and that even an affair of the heart would
make it difficult for you to tear yourself away, and
risk your life and happiness in a foreign land."

As the Elder said this, Jacob cast down his eyes;
conscious what his father alluded to, he hesitatingly
replied, "Yes, very difficult; but the greater the
sacrifice the more acceptable is it in the eyes of
God."

"You have well said," answered Danielis, to
whom the blushes and hesitation of his son revealed
the secret of the young man's heart, and one
cause of his departure. After a long pause, the
Elder, to give a fresh turn to the conversation, continued:--

"But, my son, reflect a little; you are still so
young; here you have everything necessary for the 
improvement of your mind; the judgment of enlightened
persons must have a favorable influence
on your preaching; and the duties of the pulpit are
the most important functions of a clergyman. It
is a difficult office. Eloquence is not alone a gift
of nature, but requires study. I fear that in the 
country, among rude, ignorant people, you will
neglect this and become an every-day preacher,
who performs his duties mechanically, and thinks
only of his own advantage."

"Dear father, he who is not inspired by his divine
calling will receive inspiration from neither
town nor village. It seems to me that not less
art and study are required to elevate to holy things
the mind of a peasant than that of a dweller in
towns."

"That may be true, Jacob. But you are indifferent
to leaving your present circle, where you
can do so much good, for an unknown and circumscribed
district?"

"That does not alarm me. Man's activity and
goodness depend not on the extent of his sphere
of action. His own will, strength, and deeds,
create the region of his operations."

The assenting nod of the Elder seemed to aid
prove of his son's opinions, but he added: "Although
there are two sides to every subject, pray
bear in mind, that, to do much good, it is needful
to think of one's self and one's circumstances. Independence
is a necessity to a man whose wishes
tend to universal benevolence. He who is needy,
and requires help himself, can do little to aid
others, and only builds castles in the air. Even
Archimedes required a firm support for his feet
before he engaged to raise the earth with his lever;
and a moderate independence and good position
in society, whether earned by our exertions or the
result of a calling [?] this support."The expression of the young man's face showed 
that he did not quite comprehend his father's observations, 
or thought them unsuitable to the subject.  
He replied in an absent manner, "Undoubtedly."

"Well," continued the Elder, "you are at present 
in an enviable situation, with good prospects for the 
future.  In a few years, you will have a profitable 
living, which will secure you from want for life. 
Poverty is the bitterest of all cares, because the 
most contemptible, and yet the most pressing of 
our sufferings.  When you have left your parish, 
as you desire, to devote yourself to the service of 
others, you will soon be forgotten, and on your return 
those who have not quitted the service of 
your church will be preferred to you.  I allow the 
pressing need of our revolutlouaary neighbors; they 
want honest and active pastors; but from their own 
unsettled state, they cannot secure to you either a 
provision for life or even daily bread.  Consider 
well, my dear boy, and when you take a loving 
partner for life, as you most likely will, think how 
you are to support her."

The countenance of Jacob became crimson, but 
his was not the blush of shame, [but] it was the glow of 
inspiration.  Earthly love might have mingled with 
his feelings, but it soon subsided, and religious enthusiasm 
alone remained.  He raised his eyes to 
heaven, then walked up to his father, and seizing 
his two hands said, in a tone of voice which seemed 
to crave forgiveness for the warmth of his language:

"Dear father, I know you well, your love and 
your principles.  If one of the apostles had come 
to his Heavenly Master, as I have come to you, 
would he have received the like answer?"

The Elder was silent.  He looked for some time 
at his son with much surprise, and then said with 
deep kindness and affection, 

"If this is your way of thinking, my dear Jacob, 
I can have nothing to say against.  Go, fulfil your 
duty as your conscience bids you; God will be 
with you.  Even should your Christian feeling 
lead you into earthly sorrow, it will ensure you a 
a glorious resurrection and a throne in Heaven.— 
Go, my son, and may God bless you."

The father pressed his son to his breast with
emotion, and the moistened eyes of the young man 
showed how deeply he felt.

CHAP. VIII.—SELF-DENIAL.
The mother consented to Jacob's departure, 
though with a heavy heart.  She felt much for 
poor Else, who, in various ways, heard many 
words which informed her of Jacob's resolves, although 
it was never openly discussed.  The news 
seemed to fall like a sentence of death upon her 
quiet and silent happiness.  She could not oppose 
her lover's departure, and even had she dared, she 
would have died rather than have betrayed feelings 
which she could scarcely understand herself. 
She carefully avoided a meeting with Jacob, towords 
whom her whole being felt attracted by the 
unseen influence of love.  If obliged to address 
him in his parents' presence, she spoke calmly, and 
yet she felt as though her soul was longing to pour 
itself out in affectionate words.  And when by 
chance her eyes turned upon him, their expression 
was one of complaint and gentle reproach, to 
which he answered by looks of love, consolation 
and hope.

But what the young lovers succeeded in concealing 
from every one else, almost from each 
other, did not escape the penetration of Mother 
Anna, and she felt the secret sorrow of Jacob and 
Else, even more than her own.  One day when 
alone with her son, she said to him,

"Your departure grieves me much my dear boy.  
I feel that I shall seldom see you; the path of 
danger you have chosen, and the sacrifice you 
make of home, of your living, and of your prospects, 
contribute to my sadness; but I trust in God. 
I confess to you, that for one reason only do I rejoice 
at your plan,—it may restore peace to Else 
and to you.  Your presence is destructive to her 
quiet; and her welfare, as well as yours, lies near 
my heart.  For this cause and no other, I can bear 
you wandering in a strange land.  Else is little 
more than a child; her affection is a dream, from 
which you much not awaken her, if you love her 
truly.  Go, my child, be wise and happy.  Go, and 
God be with you!  Forget everything but yourself, 
and the reward of your own good conscience."

Jacob looked fondly at his mother, and took her 
hand in his, as he replied, "Dear mother, you cannot 
be serious.  Must I forget my mother, my father, 
and Else?  No, I must first forget myself.— 
While memory endures, you three will be there 
enshrined.  But calm your uneasiness.  Because 
I love innocence and holiness, I must love this 
dear girl, who is so pure from all guile.  Whether 
she will ever be my wife, I know not; but she will 
occupy my thoughts during my whole life.  Do 
not think me a coward who can lose his reason in 
a Werther fever.  I love with open eyes; therefore, 
the happiness of this noble girl is dearer than 
my own.  If a worthier than I were to offer his 
hand, and he could make Else happier than myself, 
I would lead her to him, though with a bleeding 
heart."

The mother embraced her son with tender love.  
At last the parting hour arrived.  Parents, brothers, 
and sisters, uttered a tender farewell, whispering 
hope and courage.  But Else stood at the 
door of the house, timid and shrinking from view.  
Jacob extended his hand as he passed her,—their 
eyes met; his, full of love, made a tender and mute 
appeal; the answer was a tear.  Else fled away to 
her own room, while the young pastor hastened 
through the garden to the highroad.

Jacob now entered on the path he had chosen, in 
the midst of confusion and party strife.  He visited 
his father's house at very rare intervals; but his 
letters gave proof of an energetic spirit, which rose 
above all trouble.  He had chosen for his headquarters 
a little village, from whence he diverged, 

and performed his clerical duties to a desolate 
community.  On Sundays he preached three or 
four times a day, sometimes at one place, sometimes 
at another, a conveyance being in waiting to 
convey him to the different churches.  During the 
week the young preacher walked cheerfully from 
village to village, giving good advice, praying with 
the dying, celebrating marriages, and re-establishing 
schools.  Denying himself every comfort, his 
home was a deserted, half empty house, barely 
furnished, but provided with arms against any surprise.  
His daily intercourse was with a wild, ignorant 
people; he even accompanied them to battle 
to give aid, spiritual and temporal, to the wounded.

Yet all these privations could not drive the young 
man from the path in which he trod without fanaticism, 
though with all the zeal of a fanatic, and in 
which he persevered without hope of reward, exposed 
to the taunts and reproaches of his acquaintance.  
Even Danielis did not escape censure 
from those who think that in providing for their 
children comfortably and well without consulting 
the will of God, they have fulfilled their highest 
duty.  The Elder was not affected by their reprehensions, 
nor hurt by their offensive expressions 
and forebodings of ill.  "Be it so," he would say to 
his wife: "the unjust reproaches of man bring the 
favor of God.  What my son is now doing, was 
done by the noblest of men in olden times; and tho' 
their meed was death, from the barbarity of the 
age in which they lived, yet now they are revered 
as martyrs and saints.  Let our Jacob pursue his 
path as a messenger of peace and an apostle of the 
Gospel, following in the rear of his predecessors, 
the benefactors of mankind."

CHAP. IX.—THE FESTIVE MEETING.
A year passed away,—a year rich in blossoms 
and harvests—like every other that we welcome 
so warmly, and so coldly see depart. Nature's 
creating hand, as if wearied with daily toil, sought 
repose on its wintry bed; and the snow-flakes fell 
like dreams upon its resting place, while the hoarfrost 
melted by the pale sun-beams, was dissolved 
from the branches of the trees.

Christmas, the pleasantest of the domestic feasts 
in the Elder's family, drew near.  All the household 
were busy preparing their gifts in secret.— 
Such hiding and sleeping, such counselling and 
guessing, such jests and whispers, were never seen 
or heard, as the memorable day approached.  On 
Christmas-eve every one delivered his or her gifts 
to the parents, to be deposited on the table under 
the mysterious folds of a white cloth.  All then 
left the room, that the presents so carefully concealed 
might be duly arranged by the father and 
mother.

The night seemed interminable to the impatient 
members of the family.  Before dawn, the father 
lighted the numerous wax-lights on all the tables, 
and in the branches of the Christmas tree, and then 
went in search of the eager troop, who were assembled 
in Else's Chamber.  Full of expectation, 
they walked in couples to the festive hall, where 
they gave vent to their pleasure, surprise, and admiration, 
in loud and joyous acclamations.  Jacob 
alone, was absent.  Every one missed him, and 
pitied him for being so far away from the happy 
scene.  All spoke of him, all felt their own pleasure 
diminished, since it could not be shared with 
him.  Else, alone, was silent; but a deeper sorrow 
than even theirs oppressed her heart, and she 
would willingly have given vent to her feelings in 
tears.  He whom she loved more and more each 
day, as she appreciated his self devotion, he was 
not there; his place was vacant,—there was no gift 
for him.

But a few hours passed, and the regret of all was 
changed into gladness.  A letter came from Jacob 
announcing his return home that evening.  A friend 
had undertaken his duties and with a mind free 
from care, he was coming home to fulfil his heart's 
dearest wish.  "He could not," he said, "relinquish 
the pleasure of celebrating with the beloved 
household a day which had ever been to him the 
most solemn and the most esteemed in all the days 
of the year."

"But for heaven's sake." exclaimed Mother Anna, 
as soon as she was alone with her husband, and 
free from the noisy mirth of the family; "how can 
we make this a happy day to dear Jacob!  We have 
no festive gift for him.  Advise me what to do.  I 
can offer him sweat meats; but what a trifle—what 
a poor acknowledgment of the joy his return gives 
us,—his safe return this dreary winter weather[?] 
Or would you place some money among my sweets? 
he may want it, poor fellow."

Danielis shook his head, as he answered, "Money! 
That is dry nourishment for heart and spirit, 
though useful for corporeal wants and necessities. 
Let us think of a nobler gift: he deserves it!  He 
has made a sacrifice to the highest of duties, and 
has resigned the most easy and pleasant life, one 
that all would desire, for a gloomy existence, surrounded 
by troubles and dangers.  He may sink 
under it.  No one, except God and his own conscience, 
can reward him as he merits; but let us 
now gratify the strongest of his earthly wishes.—
Come, I have a happy thought."  He whispered 
something to his wife with a smile.

Mother Anna at first looked at him doubtfully, as 
if quite alarmed; but the expression of her features 
soon changed, and her face beamed with a joy 
which lighted up her whole countenance.

"It is a charming idea," exclaimed she; "but 
how shall we gain time? for evening will quickly
be here, and great preparations will be needful. 
Where shall I find flowers? and an invitation must 
be sent to all our relatives.  As to the feast, there 
will be plenty of good things, for I am always prepared 
on a day like this.  Then, the goldsmith;—I 
must go into the town myself.  No!  I can send. 
But there is no time to be lost; evening is at hand. 
Go, my dear husband; and do your part."

Mother Anna set to work so eagerly that she 
put all the house in motion; but no one could guess 
the reason of these extraordinary preparations.—
One messenger was sent to the town; another to 
the wood; a third to invite the guests; a fourth to 
the goldsmith and the jeweller.

And when evening came, and the happy Jacob 
arrived and had embraced his parents, brothers 
and sisters, all was prepared to make the holy day 
a most happy one for him.

Much time was spent, as may be well imagined, 
in questions, answers, caresses, and rejoicings over 
the newly arrived guest.  At length the father 
made his way through the joyful family group, 
and raised his voice above the rest for silence.  He 
took Jacob's hand, and said:—

"To business, my children, to business! before 
we sit down to supper.  Our young missionary 
has not left his post to-day in vain.  He expects 
his Christmas gift.  Ah! poor Jacob, you were too 
late to share with the others.  But it would grieve 
your mother's heart to leave you uncared for at 
this happy time.  Come mother, lead the way into 
your drawing room and we will follow.  Now, 
young people, after us;" cried the father, smiling 
merrily at his flock.

No sooner said than done.  The family entered 
Mother Anna's saloon, which was gaily lighted up. 
At one end of the room, near a sofa stood a table 
adorned with confectionary of all sorts.  To this 
table the father and mother led their son.  Both 
watched his looks, smiling and enjoying his surprise.
Jacob embraced them both exclaiming:—

"How affectionate, how good you are to me!"

"Affectionate, certainly," repeated the Elder; 
"but good?—no, Jacob.  This table, so trifling a 
gift, contradicts your assertion.  However, I can 
should you wish it, add something to these nothings. 
It is a jewel which many will covet, and yet 
many will reproach you for taking it, for if you do 
so, you must keep it for ever.  It is not mine, yet 
I can give it to you.  It cost me nothing, yet it 
will cause you much expense, which expense may 
increase yearly.  It delights all who look upon it, 
and I confess it charms me by something magical
in its form and color.  But in a few years the gold 
frame will tarnish, and then the worth or the 
worthlessness of the jewel will be discovered.—
Dear Jacob, look not so astounded, even though I 
speak in riddles.  This jewel is itself an enigma 
to which time alone can give you a clue.  Yet, I 
feel certain, that the more anxiety it costs to obtain, 
the greater happiness will it bestow on you.  But 
why say more? Come, my son, see it with your 
own eyes, and then decide."

While the elder thus spoke, the whole family 
stood around him in a circle, listening with much 
curiosity.  Danielies opened the door of an adjoining 
room, and exclaimed, "Follow me!"

There, beneath the flower-garlands and ivy 
branches which adorned the chamber, more beautiful 
in her simple white robe than if glittering 
with jewels,—sat Else; her head bowed down, and 
her hands clasped in deep anxiety.  The whole 
household looked on amazed; then followed a deep 
silence.  Jacob stood petrified with wonder; but 
joy and ecstasy flashed from his eyes.  He stretched 
forth his arms to his beloved; Else rose, trembling 
and sank fainting with happiness upon his 
faithful breast.

The father and mother looked on with joyful 
tears, and the rest soon found their tongues in affectionate congratulations to the young lovers, who 
threw themselves into their parents' arms.

Scarcely a year from this joyful betrothel, the 
marriage of Jacob and Else was celebrated.  The 
Elder and his wife live their own young days over 
again in witnessing this happy union; and every 
coming year adds to the bliss of the pastor and his 
beloved Else.

HOW TO DISTINGUISH A GENTLEMAN FROM A SNOB 
IN AN OMNIBUS.—If you look in at the door of a 
nearly filled stage, the real gentleman will endeavor 
to make room for you and encourage you to 
come in.  He knows that you may be in as great 
haste as himself, and that he may by chance be 
placed in the same situation as yourself.  The snob 
will not move, and perhaps will give you an ill-mannerly 
look, as if you were an intruder.  It matters 
not what may be his dress, business connection or 
name, set him down, sir, as a low bred fellow, 
who could change seats with the driver of the first 
charcoal cart, to the advantage of his fellow passengers.  
Mark him and shun him in business.  He is 
at heart a bad man.

That was a beautiful idea of the wife of an 
Irish schoolmaster, who whilst poor himself had 
given gratuitons instructions to poor scholars but 
when increased in worldly goods began to think 
that he could not afford to give his service for 
nothing—"James, don't say the like o' that," said 
the gentle-hearted woman, "don't, a poor scholar 
never came into the house that I didn't feel as if he 
brought fresh air from heaven with him.  I never
miss the bite I give them; my heart warms to the
soft homely sound of their bare feet on the floor, 
and the door almost opens of itself to let them in.

Don't trust too much to good temper, when 
you get into an argument.  The Indian produces 
fire by rubbing the driest sticks.

[*2726 C*]C  GUN.
. HOFFMAN.
you'd a been here afore,’ said
us voice, which, upon enter-
ment, I recognised as belong-
y occupant,
a heavy-built woman, of coarse,
atures and saturnine complexion.
her straight black hair plainly
ver her eyebrows, which were
meeting in the middle. One
ck had escaped from behind her
he stooped over the hearth, hold-
w-candle to the ashes, which she
to blow into a flame, when my
interrupted the process.
ought | would have been here
ore now? I exclaimed at last, in reply
her singular salutation; ‘why. my good
man, T have lost my way, and stumbled
upon your house by accident—you must 
take me for somebody else.’
‘I'm no good woman. Don’t good wo
me    she replied, with a scrutinizing
ich had something, I thought,
fierceness in it, as, shading the

now lighted candle with one hand, she
turned scornfully round and fixed her regard 
upon me. 
‘Yes! yes, stranger, you are the man, 
the very man that was to come at this
hour. I dreamed ye—I dreamed yer hoss 
—yer brown leggins and all, I dreamed |
’em—and now go luck after yer critter
while I get supper for ye.’
Those who are so good as to follow me
in my story, will perhaps, be vexed and
impatient when I tell them here that the 
whole of this singular scene has no immediate 
bearing upon the denouement.
‘Why, then,' may be asked, ‘do you delay 
and embarrass the relation with the 
detail of matters that have no connexion 
with the incident for which you would
claim our interest? 
I did not say they had no connexion with 
it! They have an intimate—a close connexion. 
It was these very circumstances 
which still farther fashioned the mood of
mind under which | became an observer, 
and partially an actor, in the startling,
though grotesque, events which followed,
and I wish to place the reader in exactly
the same position that I was in.  I wish
to win him, if possible, to perfect sympathy 
of feeling with me for the hour, and
let him exercise his judgment, if he care
to, from precisely the same point of mental
observation.
We have returned, then, to the cabin;
he (the reader). or I are again alone in the
| midst of the wilderness; in that dreary
room; alone with that weird-looking woman. 
The storm is howling without, but 
does not chafe savagely enough to excite 
the dispirited temper of our feelings, or
offer a contrast of any dignity to the
gloomy influences within. 
Supper was already prepared for me 
when returned from looking after my 
horse. The coarse bacon and hoe cakes
were placed before me without another
word being spoken between my hostess 
and myself. I drew a rude stool to the 
table, and was in the act of helping myself 
from the wooden platter—
‘Stop, I hear them coming! cried the
woman, 
‘Hear them! who?' said I, turning round 
sharply as some new, though indefinable, 
suspicion flashed upon me. 
“Them as will have to share that supper 
with ye, stranger—if how’s be’t they let 
ye eat any of it” 
I had no time to weigh farther the meaning 
of her words, for at this instant there 
was a sharp flash of lightning, the door 
was dashed suddenly open, and three armed 
men strode into the apartment, the 
storm pelting in behind them as they entered, 
and a terrific thunder-burst following 
instantly the lightning amid whose 
glare they crossed the threshold, The 
pallor of their countenances, set off by
their black, dripping locks, seemed measurably 
to pass away when that livid light
was withdrawn; but from the moment that
the door was flung open there was an
earthly smell in the room, which, whether
coming from the reeking soil without or 
from the garments of these wild foresters, 
was most perceptible. Those less familiar 
than myself with the raw savoured
odours which sometimes travel out with
the rich perfume of the woods, would, I
am persuaded, have identified it with the
grave-damps which our senses will sometimes 
take cognizance of in old churchyards.

 

The aspect of two of those men was
sufficiently formidable, though in point of
stature and appearance of burly strength
they were inferior to their companion.
They were square-shouldered, black-beard
fellows, armed both with hatchet and
bowie-knife in addition to the short rifles,
which they still retained laid across their
knees as they settled themselves side by
side upon a bench and looked coldly 
around them. The third was a full-cheeked, 
heavy featured man, of about eight-and-twenty, 
bearing a strong resemblance
to my hostess both in complexion and 
countenance, save that his eyebrows, in-stead 
of being square and coal-black, like 
hers, were irregularly arched and of a faded 
brown. His mouth also lacked the
firmness of expression which dwelt around 
her thin and shrewish lips.

This man bore with him no weapon 
save a huge old German piece, a Tyrolean 
rifle as it seemed to me from the enormous 
length of barrel and the great size
of the bore, as well as the outlandish and 
cumbersome ornaments about the stock 
and breeching. [t was evidently a weapon 
intended for the great distances at 
which the chamois hunter claims his
quarry, and, though serviceable for a long
shot on our western prairies, was ill suited
to the thick woods of the Apalachian
Mountains.  Inconvenient, however, as
the length and of the piece might 
make it in some hands, it seemed to be nothing 
in the grip of the sturdy mountaineer, 
(who had probably bought it from
some passing emigrant from the old world,)
for I observed even as he entered that he 
held the gun vertically at arm’s length before 
him. Still he seemed glad of relieving 
himself of the weight as soon as possible, 
for he instantly advanced to the farthest 
corner of the room, where he placed 
the piece with some care-in an upright 
position against the wall, 
‘Well! what for now? said the virago; 
‘why do you stand looking at the gun after 
you've sot it down? you think she'll walk
off of herself, do ye?'
The youth looked gloomily at her—
took a stool on the opposite side of the 
hearth to his companions—leaned his head 
doggedly upon his hand, but said nothing. 
I thought I had never fallen in with a
more strange set of people. 
‘What! Hank Stumpers, haint ye a
word to fling to a dog?’ cried the woman, 
advancing toward him; ‘is that the way
you treat yer dead father’s wife?’
The young man looked up stupidly at
her, gave a glance with something more
of intelligence at the gun, but still said
nothing,
'Yes, yer natural-born mother, ye chuckle-head 
ye—and she a widder. Can’t
ye speak up to her—where’s the deer? the
tarkeys? the squirrels? haint ye got even a
squirrel to show for your day’s work?
speak you, John Dawson; what’s the matter
with the boy?  He be n't drunk, be
he?'
‘It’s a matter of five hours, Mother 
Stumpers, since either of us touched a
drop,’ replied one of the men briefly, and
he, too, gave a further glance at the old
firelock. 
‘Well—well why don’t ye go on? is any 
one dead? are you all destraught?—Jackson 
Phillips, you—you’ve felt the back of 
my hand across yer chaps, afore now, for
yer imperance—I know, ye, man, and that
sober possum-look means something! Do
ye think to gum it over me afore this
stranger—speak up, and that at onst, or
it'll be the worst for some of ye, or my
name’s not Melinda Washington Stumpers?’
(I did not smile, reader, as you do, at
Mrs. S’s sponsorial dignity; I did not dare |
to smile.) 
‘You know we wouldn’t offend you, no |
how, Mother Stumpers,’ deprecatingly replied 
the man whom she addressed as 
Phillips. ‘Hank’s misfortune, you see, has
made us dull-like, as it were, and—’
‘And what in the name of Satan is his
misfortune?’ interrupted the mother, now
for the first time moved with concern as
well as anger.
‘That’s it—that’s it, mammy,’ cried 
Hank, with something of alertness; she’s
druv the very nail on the head—Satan is
at the bottom of all of it.’ 
‘At the bottom of all of what?’ screamed 
the virago, and even as she spoke the
ancient piece in the corner, untouched by
any one—without the slightest movement
of the lock—discharged itself toward the
ceiling.
‘At the bottom of the bar’l o fmy gun—
he speaks for himself,' replied Hank, moodily, 

while his mother started back and I
sprang to my feet at the sudden report so
near me.
‘Your gun must be foul,’ I said, resuming 
my seat, ‘very foul, to hang fire so long. 
I suppose she made a flash in the
pan when attempting to discharge her 
just before entering.’
Stumpers looked vacantly at me, shook
his head, muttered something about he 
and his mother being ‘ruinated,’ and then 
more audibly said, ‘Stranger you may
have more book larnin than me, but I tell 
ye onst for all, that Satan’s got into that 
gun!’ 
And bang! at that moment again went 
the gun, as if to prove that his words were
sooth.
‘This is certainly most extraordinary ,' I
exclaimed, as | rose to examine the gun
for myself.
‘You'd better not touch her stranger!'
cried Phillips,
‘I tell you she’s got Satan in her,' repeated 
Hank.
I looked at Dawson inquiringly.
‘Fact! stranger, every word of it. Hank’s
not been able to get that gun off since
noop; but about a hundred rod afore we
struck the clearing, she begun a firing of
her own accord, just as you see—’
Bang!—Bang! went the gun.
‘I told you that Satan was in her! ejaculated 
Hank.
‘That's the way with her, said Phillips
in a tone of solemn sadness; ‘sometimes
she’ll not speak for a matter of ten minutes
or so; sometimes she gives two little short
barks like those; and sometimes she gives
a regular rip-snorter—
(Bang! thundered the gun,) like that!’
‘I told you she’d got Satan in her!’ still
repeated Hank.
I confess that it was now only the calmness 
of those around me which prevented
some feeling of superstitious terror being
disagreeably awakened in me. The men
however, appeared sad and awstruck, rather 
than alarmed; while the woman—a
thing not uncommon with resolute minds
disposed to believe readily in the supernatural
—seemed at once to accept the fearful 
solution of the mystery  which had
been proffered to her, and ready to meet
it with an unflinching spirit. Still, puzzled 
and bewildered as I was, I could not
but smile at the manner in which her emotions 
now manifested themselves. 
‘Well!’ she cried, impatiently, ‘and what
a poor skimp of a man you must be to let
old Satan get into the piece when you had
her all day in yer own keeping.’ 
‘I a skimp of a man?’ answered her son,
with spirit; ‘there isn’t another fellow in
these diggins who'd ’a brought that gun
home as I did, after he diskivered that
sich goings on were inside of her. And
she’d tell her own story—’
Bang!—bang!—bang! pealed the gun. 
'That's Satan who speaks now—’ |
Bang—phizz—bang!
‘It’s Satan, I say, and no mistake. But 
if she’d tell her own story, she’d own I 
never let her got out of my hands this 
blessed day, save when Jackson Phillips
tuk Dawson’s piece and mine to watch for 
deer on the runway, while we went down
the branch to see if we couldn’t get a big
sucker or two for supper out of the deep
hole where I cotched so many fish last fall.
No! if she’d speak for herself—’
BANG! thundered the gun with a reportb
so tremendous that | involuntarily
put my hand to my ears.
‘Gim me the tongs—gim me them ‘ere 
tongs,’ shouted Mrs. Stumpers in great
wrath, while Dawson turned pale, and
even Phillips seemed a little disturbed as
he muttered—
‘If the old thing should bust, it might be
a bad business for us.’
Hank, however, doggedly handed his
mother the tongs; and before I could interpose, 
or, indeed, before 1 was aware
what the courageous woman was about
to do, she had grasped the gun with the
tongs, near the lock, and, bearing it before
her with a strong arm, she moved toward
the door.
‘Why don’t ye open—’
Bang!—phizz!—bang!—bang!—phizz!
—phizz!—bang! alternately pealed and
sputtered the gun; but still the intrepid virago 
went on. I sprang to the door and
flung it wide before her.
The light from within was reflected upon 
the hollow buttonwood trunk which formed 
the curb of the well opposite, and in
another instant the gun was plunged to
the bottom.
2727
’'Thar!' said Mrs. Stumpers, clapping the tongs in true housewife fashion as she replaced them in the chimney corner. 'Now one can her himself talk without the bother of such a clatter.'
Bang! moaned the gun at the bottom of the well.
'Can't stop Satan that way, mammy,' said Hank, the stupid face sicklying over with an unhappy smile.
The mystery had now deepened to highest point of interest; that the last dis-charge was wholly unaccountable, and for my own part, my curiosity was wound up to a pitch that was positively painful. I remembered, though, the shattered bucket, and bethought myself of asking if there were any water in the well.
'About enough to come up to a lizard's ear,' answered Hank; 'but there's a smart chance of mud under it, I tell ye, stranger That old gun will keep sinking for a week, yet.'
'She's stopped,' said Dawson.
'Yes,' answered Phillips, 'and we'd better fish her out before she sinks beyond our reach.'
'Don't I tell ye Satan's in the gun,' cried Hank almost furiously, 'down--down--she'll keep going down now till he has her in his own place all to himself. I lost an axe myself in that well onst; and if half that father about it to be true--'
Spluch--uch--uch.   Bubble--uble--bang! ble--Bang!--Splu--ble--bang----BANG!
We listened-- we looked long at each other. With the last report, which was almost overpowering, I was convinced that the explosion must have been aided by inflammable gas at the bottom of the well, for the blue fame, as it rose from it, flashed through the only window of the cabin, and showed the features of its ig-norant inmates, for the first time, distorted with real terror. Atleast Phillips and Dawson, upon whom my eye was fixed at the time, looked perfectly aghast with fright.
Hank's supposition of the ultimate destiny of his famous gun (viz, going to the dominions of the Great Hunter below,) could hardly be true, however, inasmuch as a piece of the blackened muzzle was found next morning driven half through a fragment of the well curb which lay scattered around, broken to splinters by the explosion of the fire-damp. The poor young man fairly wept outright when it was shown him by Phillips, who, with a generosity I could not sufficiently admire a the time, insisted upon replacing the hoary weapon of Hank's affections with his own light Eastern rifle, saying at the same time that he had a Kentucky tool at home which he much preferred to the Pennsylvania yaeger.
This same Phillips, through the way, very civilly offered after breakfast to put me on my road, which, from the number of Indian trails along the borders of the Cherokee country, I had wholly lost.
'I say, stranger,' said he the moment we had got out of earshot of the house, 'you were devilish cool when that well blew up! tell me the trick of it only, and I'll tell you the trick of the gun, which rayther skeared you a few as I think.'
I explained the fire-damp to him.
'Really, now,' he exclaimed, 'wells I almost unknown in this country, for we either settle down by a spring, or get our water from the branch. But the fast well I fall in with I'll draw up a bottle of that gas, as you call it, and have some real fun with the fellers. But look here,' said he, stopping and tearing off some dry fungus from an old stump, 'when you want to play a chap sich a trick as made music for us last night, you've only to put twenty charges in a gun, with sich a wad as this atween each of 'em--an ascotch now and then instead of dry powder will be all the better; ram each down well; let the chap carry his gun about for an hour or so, un-beknowing--jist as that simple Hank did-- and choose your own time for dropping a piece of lighted touch-wood into the muzzle.'
Upon my word I was not sorry that I was to part company before night with this practical joker; who, for aught I knew, might seize some tempting opportunity to slip a snake or so into my boots, stuff my saddle with squibs, or playoff some little piece of facetiousness like with which the jocular Captain Goffe, in Scott's novel of The Pirate, used now and then to indulge his humor; the said Captain having a fun-ny way of discharging his pistol under the mess table, merely to pepper some one's shins with a half ounce ball.--From Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prairie.

Miscellaneous.

BRAVERY OF AN IDNIAN WOMAN.
One of the creeks, whom we saw at Gull Lake, had been tracked into the valley, along with his wife and family, by five youths of a hostile tribe. On perceiving the odds that were against him, the man gave himself up for lost, observing to the woman that, as they could die but once, they had better make up their minds to submit to their present fate without resistance. The wife, however, replied, that as they had but one life to lose, they were the more decidedly bound to defend it to the last, even under the most desperate circumstances; adding, that as they were young, and by no means pitiful, they had an additional motive for preventing their hearts from becoming small. Then, suiting the action to the word, the heroine brought the foremost warrior to the earth with a bullet, while her husband, animated by a mixture of shame and hope disposed of two more of the enemy with his arrows. The fourth, who had by this time come to pretty close quarters, was ready to take vengeance on the courageous woman with the uplifted tomahawk, when he stumbled and fell, and the dagger of his intended victim was buried in his heart. Dismayed by the death of his four companions, the sole survivor of the assailing party saved himself by flight, alter wounding his male opponent by a ball in the arm. - Sir G. Simpson's Narrative.

"STIR UP THE MONKIES"
An exchange gives the following touching harangue, delivered in a late menagerie scene:
This ladies and gentlemen, is the natural kangaroo, the animal what approaches to man second only to the baboon; it skips about with much velocity on its hind legs, of which it has two, from rock to rock. It would be much more like man if it hadn't a tail, but this defect it remedies with much art. It curls it gently into its waiscoat pocket and nobody is any the wiser. It feeds principally upon what he can get, and is found in the Island of Borneo, which I have a brother who was born there myself. My brother has often seen the kangaroos as well as myself feeding upon clams by the sea-shore, admiring the sweetness of the meat and shaving themselves with the shells. The kangaroo is remarkable for his valise, which is a natural decavity in his abdomen, into which he puts his kittens and is exceedingly portable.
These are the guinea pigs from the Island of Guinea; they are as yellow as guineas, and cost one guinea a-piece.

LOVE AND DEBT.
There is very little difference between the main in love and the man in debt. Both the debtor and the lover commence operations by promissory notes; the former giving his bills to his creditor, and the latter sending billets doux to this fair one. The lover, by promising to cherish, is honored with a place in the lady's good books; and the debtor, by promising to pay, winneth admission to the creditor's ledger. Love keepeth its captive awake all night; so doth debt. Love is uncalculating, and debt holdeth no reckoning. The man who oweth money is in need of brass, and so is the swain that poppeth the question.

It is suprising to reflect how large a proportion of the miseries of human life are endured for the most part with a magnanimous silence, which either disdains [?]

[*Translated from the Swedish.*]
The poor curate.
BY FREDERIKA BREMER.
I hoped! hoped on from day to day : in autumn for spring, in spring for autumn; from one year to another: and thus I had hoped away thirty years of my life, without rising about the condition of a country curate, with scanty pay, mean fare and no society but the ill-tempered wife of the tippling person. But one day I got a letter from an acquaintance in Stockholm, apprising me that my uncle P., the rich merchant, was lying at the point of death, and had expressed a desire to see his long neglected nephew.
With a little leau bundle on my arm, but a million of rich hopes in my breast, I set forth to to the capital, having first gained leave to spend the winter there. It is true that my purse was light, but since I was to be my uncle's heir, I had no fear but I should soon fill it. So I went merrily, day ang night, till I reached my destination, having expended all my funds but a dollar. That I determined to lay out on a good dinner, and afterwards to go to my uncle.
I had finished my meal and pushed back my chair with no little complacency, when a stranger came in and accosted the host. I soon found they were talking of my uncle P. I could not help listening. What was my terror to hear that he was already dead-- that he had made no will--more, that his estate had disappointed every body by turning out insolvent.-- And--fool that I was!-- I had gone on spending my money like a prince, until now I was left without a cent, in a strange capital. I rose from the table, paid my last dollar, and went out into the street a beggar.
But to let my spirits sink was the worst way possible; to put my hands in my bosom and look up to the heaven, was not much better. So I sought out a remote street, where I found a small chamber to let; and in the morning went out to seek employment as a copyist. I spent many days in a fruitless search for work. Sometimes I got a job that kept me for a week; sometimes I had to go without a dinner.--But my hopes did not fail me till one evening, when my landlord told me that I must pay my rent on the morrow or be turned into the street.
It was an indescribably cold November's evening, and I had just returned from visiting a house of sickness, where I had given away my last penny, when I was greeted with this amiable salutation.--I trimmed my sleepy, dim-burning lamp with my fingers, and then looked about my little dingy chamber and sighed. What was I to do to escape starvation
"Diogenes was worse accommodating I exclaimed, as I pulled my lame table aw[ay from t]he window, for the wind and rain seemed [unable] to stay outside. At the same moment, my gloves fell upon a cheerfully glowing fire in an opp[osing] kitchen. Again I sighed. I looked up to a high[er] floor, and here I had a view through an uncurtained window of a gaily illuminated chamber, where a numerous family was assembled around a tea-table.-- I was stiff with cold and damp, and had eaten nothing since breakfast.
"Ah!" thought I, "if that pretty maiden who is just now reaching a cup of tea to the stout gentlemen on the sofa, who seems too heavily replenished to rise from his seat, would put out her fair hand a little farther this way, and could--with a thousand thankful kisses-- how foolish! The fat gentleman takes the cup and dips his bun in the tea so deliberately--'tis enough to make one cry! and now that pretty maid is caressing them! I wonder if he is her papa, or her uncle; or perhaps enviable mortal! but no, that cannot be, he is, at least, fort years older than she!"
"That must be his wife surely, that elderly lady who sits beside him on the sofa and to whom the fair maiden offers a platter of cakes. But to whom does she hand them now? One ear, and a part of a shoulder, is all that projects beyond the rim of the window. How long he keeps the gentle girl waiting his pleasure! but it must be a lady--no gentleman would  behave so! or it may be her brother. Ah! see his great fist thrust into the biscuit basket, a rude lout! but perhaps he was hungry. Now, she turns to the two little girls, her sisters, most likely, and she gives them all that Mr. One-ear has left behind. As for herself she seems to take no more of the tea than I do, except its fragrance. But what involvement suddenly takes place in the room? The old gentleman briskly starts up from the sofa--the one cared gentleman rushes forward, and gives the gentle maiden a rude shock (a dromedary as he is!_ that impels her against the tea table, and makes the old lady, who was just rising from the sofa, sit down again. The children skip about and clap their hands; the door opens--in comes a young officer-- the young maiden throws herself in to his arms!-- A ha? there, I have it. I jerked to my window shutter, so that it cracked, and sat down wet with the rain, and with trembling knees, upon my stool."
"What had I to do staring through the window? This comes of curiosity!" said I,
Eight days before, this family had returned from the country into the fine house opposite, and all this time I had never inquired who they were. What business had I, this evening to be prying into their circle? What good could it do to me?
I was in a dull mood, and felt something of heart-heaviness; but according, to my resolution never to yield to despondency, I set about a description of domestic happiness; of that happiness of which I had never tasted! Said I, as I breathed upon my stiffened fingers, "am I then the first who has sought in the hot house of imagination a pleasing warmth which the hard world of realities denies us? Six dollars for a load of pine wood; ay. you will
2728
not have them till December. I will write!" So
I wrote. [*2728A*]
"Happy, thrice happy is the family in whose close and warm circle no heart feels lonely in its
joys or its sorrows; no glance, no smile remains un-
answered; where the members daily say to each 
other not in mere words, but in their actions, your
cares, your joys, your fortunes, are also mine!"
"Beautiful is the quiet, peaceful house, which
closes its protecting walls around the pilgrim through
[li?e], which collects around its friendly gleaming
hearth, the old grandsire, leaning upon his staff, the 
manly husband, the amiable wife, and their happy
children, who close the day of sport and enjoyment
with hearty thanksgiving, while the mother chaunts
to them a little song, telling how-
"Angels their vigils keep
Around the bed
And o'er the head
Of innocence asleep!"
Here I had to stop; for something like a drop of
rain fell on my cheek, and I could not see my pa-
per clearly. 
"How many," thought I, as my thoughts against
my will, took a melancholy turn, [?] are
doomed to know nothing of this [?] For
a moment I considered myself in the [?] [?ug]-
a glass I had in my chamber, that of [tru?]
gloomy feelings I wrote on. 
"Unhappy, surely, is the desolate one [?] in the
cold and dreary moments of life, (which [?] so
often) can rest on no faithful bosom, whose [?]
are unanswered, to whose complaint no voice re-
plies, I understand you, I sympathize with you!'
He is depressed, no one raises his drooping head!
He weeps, no one regards it! He goes away, no
one follows him! He sleeps, no one watches over
him! He is alone! Why does he not die? Ah!
who would mourn over him? How cold the grave
which no warm tear of love bedews! He is lonely
in the winter's night. For him earth has no flow-
ers, and dimly burn the lights of heaven. Why
wanders he here alone? Why does he not flee as
a shadow to the land of shadows? Ah! he still
hopes. A pauper, he begs for happiness, and hopes,
in the eleventh house, that some friendly hand will
bestow it"
It was my own situation that I described.
Early robbed of my parents- without brother,
sister, friends, or relatives, I stood so lonely and deso-
late in the world, that but for a strong confidence in
heaven, and a naturally cheerful disposition, I should
have sought to escape from such an existence.
Hitherto- more from instinct that philosophy, I 
had a habitually suppressed all earnest longings for a
happier state of life than that which surrounded
me; but lately other thoughts had been gaining
power over me, and, especially this evening, I felt
an unutterable desire for a friend, for one whom I
might love; in short, for a bosom companion- a
wife- one with whom I might feel myself a king,
even in the meanest hut! But I remembered, as
involuntarily I shuddered with cold, that all my
love, in such circumstances as the present, could
not prevent my wife, if I had one, from being frozen
or starved to death. More depressed than ever, I 
arose from my stool. and paced up and down in my
 little boundary. The oppressive feeling of my situa-
tion followed me like my shadow on the wall; and
for the first time in my life, I was quite disheartened,
and cast a gloomy glance upon the future. "But
what in the world," I exclaimed earnestly to my-
self, "will all this dull pondering avail?"
Again I tried to loosen myself from the anxious 
thoughts that plagued me. If but one Chris
tian soul would only come to see me, whoever
it might be, friend or foe- any visitor would be wel-
come to break this dismal solitude. Yea, if one 
from the world of spirits would open the door, he
should be welcome. What was that? Three 
knocks at the door! I'll not believe my senses-
threee knocks again!" I went and opened the door.
Nobody was there, but the wind howled along the
staircase. Hastily I closed the door, put my hands
in my pockets, and continued my walk, humming to 
keep up my courage. In a few moments I heard
something like a sigh. I stopped and listened. Again
I head distinctly a sigh, and that so deep and sor-
rowful, that with considerable emotion I called out,
"who is there?" No answer was returned. I stood
for a moment to study what all this could mean,
when a frightful noise [?s] if a host of cats was coming
screaming down the stairs, ending with a heavy thump
against my door, made me decided for action. I 
took up mu glimmering light; but, in the moment
that I opened the door it expired, or was blown out.
A gigantic white figure hovered before me, and I felt 
myself suddenly grasped by two powerful arms. I 
cried out for help, and struggled so hard, that my
antagonist fell to the ground with me; but I hap-
opened to be upermost. Like an arrow I bounded
up, and would have run, but stumbled over some-
thing- and Haven knows what- I believe somebody
had seized my feet: again I fell to the ground, 
struck my head against the corner of the table, and
lost my senses, with a sound like loud laughter ring-
ing in my ears.
When I opened my eyes again, they encountered 
a dazzling glare. I closed them again, and listened
to a distracting noise that hovered around me.-
Again- I opened them, and tried to distinguish and
recognize some of the objects about me, which
seemed so new and wonderful, that I suddenly fear-
ed I had lost my senses. I lay upon a sofa, and-
no, I was not deluded!- the beautiful maiden who
had hovered before my imagination all the evening,
now really stood beside me, with a heavenly expes-
sion of sympathy, and carefully bathed my head.-
A young man whose face seemed familiar to me,
stood and held my hand. I saw also the fat old

gentleman and another thin gentlemen, and next I 
discovered the lady, the children, and the paradise
of the tea-table glimmering in a sort of twilight dis-
tance; in short, by some [I?conceivable] humor of
fortune, I found myself in the midst of the very
family I had, an hour before, contemplated with 
such interest! [*2728B*]
As I recovered my faculties, the military young
man enfolded me in his arms. "Do you not know 
me again?" said he, while I sat still, as if petrified
"Have you forgotten Augustus, whose life you saved
not long ago at the risk of your own? whom you
fished out of the water, at the risk of remaining to
keep company with fished yourself? See, here are
my father, my mother, and my sister Wilhelmina."
I pressed his hand. Then with a smart blow with
his fist upon the table, the father exclaimed, "and
because you have saved my son's life, and you are 
and honorable fellow that can suffer hunger to afford
food to others, I declare you shall have the benefice
of H---. I have the patronage, you understand."
For a while I was bereft of the power of thought
and speech; and, amid all the explanations that
were given there was only one thing that impressed 
itself clearly upon my mind- that Wilhelmina was
the sister of Augustus. He had that evening re-
turned from a journey, during which, in the preced-
ing summer, I had enjoyed the happiness of saving
his life. 
Previous to this accident, I had only drank with
him in the brotherhood of the University. He had
related to his family, with all the enthusiasm of youth,
my good service in his behalf, and that he knew
of me besides. His father, who had a benefice in 
his gift, and, as I afterwards learned, had [gia?e?d]
with pity sometimes, through the window upon my
scauty table, has resolved, at the request of his son,
to raise me from the lap of poverty to the summit
of happiness. Augustus, in his delight, would 
make his resolution instantly known to me; and
in his love of a practical joke, he approached my
chamber in the style already described, the conse-
quence of which for me, was my wound upon the
temple, and my translation across the street out of
darkness into light. A thousand times has the good
youth begged for forgiveness for his indiscretion, and 
as many times have I reassured him that the bene-
fice of H-- would prove a balsam strong enough
to cure a deeper wound! Astonished was I to find
that the ear and shoulder of the gentlemen, who at
tea time was the subject of my splenetic observa-
tions, belonged to no one less than my patron. The
stout gentleman was Wilhelmina's uncle.
The kindness and cheerfulness of my new friends
made me soon feel at home and happy. The old
people reared me as if I were their child, and the
young people admitted me to all the privileges of a 
brother. After I had received two cups of tea from
the hand of Wilhelmina, I arose to take my leave
for the night. All invited me to stay; but I deter-
mined to spend my first happy night in my old lodg-
ing, and there to offer thanks to the Guide of my
destiny. Augustus attended me to my resting place. 
There my landlord stood in the chamber, between
the ovettrown stool and table, with an aspect be-
tween rain and sunshine. One side of his mouth
was screwed up to his ear with an attempt at a 
smile while the other was drawn down to his chin
with suspicion; his eys followed the same directions
and his whole face seemed seized with a cramp un-
til Augustid requested him to leave us alone, and
then his countenance dissolved into complacency.
Augustus was most earnestly indignant at the 
sight of my table, my stool, and my bed, and talked
of whipping my landlord for his extortion. I was
compelled to assure him that I would change my
lodgings on the coming day. When my friend had
left me, I spent some time meditating upon this
change in my fortunes, and thanked God heartily for
it. Then my thoughts ran away to my pastoral
charge, and Heaven only knows with how many fat
oven, with what flowers, and fruits, and trees, I re-
plenished my [paradis?], where I wandered with my
Eve, and how many richly edified souls I saw
streaming out of my church. I baptised, I confirm-
ed, I betrothed the dear children of my pastorage, 
and forgot none but the funeral ceremonies.
At last, beyond midnight, I closed my eyes, and
gave thoughts to the wild powers of dream-land.-
Then I preached with a loud voice in my church;
while my congregation would persist in sleeping-
After divine service my congregation came out of
the church, transformed into sheep and oxen, bleat-
ing and lowing at me when I reproved them. I
tried to lead my wife away; but could not separate
her from a great turnip plant that grew, and grew, 
till it covered our heads. Then I tried to climb to
heaven on a ladder, but potatoes, grass, tares. and
peas, entrangled my feet, and hindered every step.-
At last I saw myself walking upon my head among
my possessions; and as I wondered how that could
be I fell more suddenly asleep. Yet I must have 
continued my pastoral dream; for in the morning 
I woke myself at the end of a long sermon, by say-
ing that the events of the preceding evening were
not dreams, until Augustus made his appearance, 
and invited me to be with his family at noon.
The pastorate, Wilhelmine, the family into which
I entered, the new hopes of the future that now
glittered in the sunshine of the present, all filled me
with a joy to be felt, not described.
From the depth of a thankful heart, I hailed the 
new life dawning upon me with a resolution, what-
ever might come, to do the best in every case!
Two years after that happy dinner, I sat one au-
tumn evening, in my snug parsonage, beside the
fire. Close to me sat my dear wife, Wilhelmina,
and spun. I was about to read to her the sermon I 
had prepared for the next Sunday, and which I ho-
ped, would prove very edifying to my congregation.
As I turned over the manuscript, a loose leaf fell

out. It was the very paper upon which, just two
years previous to that evening, I had written down
my thoughts on domestic happiness, in a situation.
apparently so far away from everything of the kind.
I showed it to my wife. She read it, and smiled
through her tears and, with an arch expression
which is, I believe, peculiar to herself, she took up
my pen and wrote on the other side of the leaf thus:
"The author can now, I hope, give a picture of 
his situation quite a contrast to that on the reverse.
Now, he is no longer lonely, no more forsaken and
desolate. His gentlest sigh is answered; his inti-
mate sorrows are shared with his wife. He  goes;
her heart follows him. He comes; she hastens to
meet him with a smile. His tears are wiped away
by her hand, and his smiles and reflected upon her 
face. She plucks flowers to strew his path. He
has a flock dear to him; several devoted friends-
and he counts as his relatives all who are destitute. 
He loves, he is beloved. He has the power to make
men happy. He is happy."
Truly has my Wilhelmina painted my present
situation: and, inspired with feelings cheerful and
bright as the sunbeams in the spring, I send forth
my hopes to delight themselves in the future. 
I hope to live many years with my wife. And 
we, that is Wilhelmina and myself, hope during this
time to dry many tears, and for ourselves, to shed
as few as may fall to the lot of children of the earth 
such as we are. We hope that neither of us will 
long survive the other. 
Lastly, we hope we shall be able to help others 
while here, and when all the hopes of this green
earth must vanish away before the light of eternal
certainties, then we hope our Good Father will pro-
nounce a mild judgment upon his humble and hope-
full children. [*2728 C*]

Miscellaneous
A TOUCHING STORY.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON

The coffin was let down to the bottom
of the grave, the planks were removed
from the heaped up brink, the first rattling
clods had struck their knell, the quick sho-
velling was over, and the long, broad, skill-
fully cut pieces of turf were aptly joined
together, and trimly laid by the beating
spade, so that the newest mound in the 
church yard was scarcely distinguished
from those that were grown over by the 
undisturbed grass and daisies of a luxuri-
ant spring. The burial was soon over,
and the party with one consenting motion,
having uncovered their heads in decent 
reverence of the place and occasion, were
beginning to separate and about to leave
the church-yard. Here some acquaint-
ances from distant parts of the parish, who
had not had an opportunity of addressing
each other in the house that had belonged
to the deceased, nor in the course of the 
hundred yards that the little procession 
had to move from his bed to his grave, 
were shaking hands quietly but cheerfully, 
and enquiring after the welfare of each
other's families. There a knot of neigh-
bors were speaking, without exaggera-
tion, of the respectable character which
the deceased had borne, and mentioning
to one another the little incidents of his
life, some of them so remote as to be 
known only to the grey-headed persons of
the group. While a few yards further:
removed from the spot, were standing to-
gether parties who discussed ordinary con-
cerns, altogether unconnected with the 
funeral; such as the state of the markets,
the promise of the season, or the change of
tenants; but still with a sobriety of man-
ner and voice that was insensibly produc-
ed by the influence of the simple ceremo-
ny now closed, by the quiet graves around, 
and the shadow of the spire and gray 
walls of the house of God.
Two men yet stood together at the head
of the grave with severe and unimpas-
sioned grief. They were brothers- the
only sons of hum who had been buried;
and there was something in their situation
that naturally kept the eyes of many di-
rected upon them for a long time, and
more intently than would have been the 
case had there been nothing more obser-
vable than the common symptoms to com-
mon sorrow. But these two brothers who
were standing at the head of their fath-
er's grave, had for some years been total-
ly estranged from each other, and the only
words that had passed them during all
that time, had been uttered within a few 
days past, during the necessary prepara-
tions for the old man's funeral.
No deep and deadly quarrel was be-
tween these brothers and neither of them
could distinctly tell the cause of this un-
natural estrangement. Perhaps dim jea-
lousies of their father's favor: selfish
[*2729*]| thoughts that will sometimes force themselves 
into poor men’s hearts, respecting 
temporal expectations; unaccommodating 
manners on both sides; taunting words 
that mean little when uttered, but which 
rankle and fester in remembrance; imagined 
opposition of interests, that, duly considered, 
would have been one and the 
same; these and many other causes, slight 
when single, but strong when rising up 
together in one baneful band, had gradually 
and fatally infected their hears till 
at last they who in youth had been seldom 
separate, and truly attached, now 
met at market, and miserable to say, at 
church, with dark and averted faces, like 
different clansmen during a feud.

Surely if anything could have softened 
their hearts towards each other, it must 
have been to stand silently side by side, 
while the earth, stones, and clods were 
falling down upon their father’s coffin. 
And doubtless their hearts were so softenened. 
But pride, though it cannot prevent 
the holy affections of nature from 
being felt, may prevent them from being 
shown; and these two brothers stood there
together, determined not to let each other 
know the mutual tenderness that in spite 
of them was gushing up in their hearts, 
and teaching them the unconfessed folly 
and wickedness of their causeless quarrel.

A head stone had been prepared, and a 
person came forward to plant it—a plain 
stone, with a sand-glass, scull and crossbones, 
chisseled, not rudely, and a few 
words inscribed. The younger brother 
regarded the operation with a troubled 
eye, and said, loudly enough to be heard 
by several of the bystanders—‘William, 
this is not kind in you--you should have 
told me of this. I loved my father as well
as you could have loved him. You were 
the elder. and it may be. the favorite son:  
but I had a right in nature to have joined 
you in ordering this headstone, had I 
not?'

During these words the stone was sinking 
into the earth, and many persons who 
were on their way from the grave, returned. 
For a while the elder brother said 
nothing, for he had a consciousness in his 
heart that he ought to have consulted his 
father’s son in designating this last mark 
of affection and respect to his memory:  so 
the stone was planted in silence, and now 
stood erect, decently and simple, among 
the other ostentatious memorials of the 
humble dead.

The inscription merely gave the name 
and age of the deceased, and told that the 
stone had been erected by his ‘affectionate 
sons.’ The sight of these words seemed 
to soften the angry man, and he said somewhat 
more mildly: ‘Yes, we are his affectionate 
sons, and since my name is on the 
stone, I am satisfied, brother. We have 
not drawn together kindly of late years 
and perhaps never may, but I acknowledge 
and respect your worth; and here, 
before our own friends, and before the 
friends of our father, with my foot above 
his head, I express my willingness to be 
on better and other terms with you, and 
if we cannot command our hearts, let us 
at least bar out all unkindness.’

The minister, who attended the funeral, 
and had something entrusted to him to say 
publicly before he left the church yard, 
now came forward, and asked the elder 
brother, why he spake not regarding this 
matter. He saw that there was something 
of a cold and sullen pride rising up in his 
heart, but not easily may any man hope 
to dismiss from the chamber of his heart 
even the vilest guest, if once cherished 
there. With a solemn and almost severe 
air, he looked upon the relenting man, and 
then, changing his countenance into serenity, 
said gently-

Behold how good a thing it is,
And how becoming well.
Together such as brethren are
In unity to dwell.

The time, the place, and this beautiful 
expression of a natural sentiment, quite 
overcame a heart in which many kind, if 
not warm affections dwelt; and the man 
thus appealed to, bowed down his head
and wept.

‘Give me your hand, brother,’ and it was 
given, while a murmur of satisfaction 
arose from all present, and all hearts felt 
kindlier and more humanely towards each 
other. [*2729 A*]

As the brothers stood fervently but composedly, 
grasping each other’s hands in 
the little hollow that lay between the 
grave of their mother, long since dead, 
and of their father, whose shroud was 
haply not yet still from the fall of dust to 


dust, the minister stood beside them with 
a pleasant countenance, and said—'I must 
fulfil the promise I made to your father on 
his death bed. I must read to you a few 
words which his hand wrote at an hour 
when his tongue denied its office. I must 
not say that you did your duty to your 
old father, for did he not often beseech
you, apart from one another, for your own 
sakes as Christians, for his sake, and for 
the sake of the mother who bare you, and 
Stephen, who died that you might be born? 
When the palsy struck him for the last 
time, you were both absent—nor was it
your fault that you were not beside the 
old man when he died. As long as sense 
continued with him here, did he think of 
you, and you two alone. Tears were in 
his eyes; I saw them there; and on his 
cheek, too, when no breath came from his 
lips. But of this no more. He died with 
this paper in his hand; and he made me 
know that I was to read it to you over his
grave. I now obey him:

‘My sons—if you will let my bones lie 
quiet in the grave, near the dust of your 
mother, depart not from my burial, till, in 
the name of God and Christ, you promise 
to love one another as you used to do.
Dear boys, receive my blessing.’

Some turned their heads away to hide
the tears that needed not to be hidden—
and, when the brothers had released each
other from a long and sobbing embrace,
many went up to them, and in a single
word or two expressed their joy at this
perfect reconcilement. The brothers themselves
walked away from the church yard,
with the minister to the Manse. On the
following Sabbath they were seen sitting,
and their families, in the same pew, and
it was observed that they read out of the
same Bible, when the minister gave out
the text; and that they sang together, taking
hold of the same psalm book. The same
psalm was sung, (given out at their own
request) in which one verse had been repeated 
at their father's grave; a larger
sum than usual was on that Sabbath found
on the plate, for the poor, for Love and 
Charity are sisters. And ever after, both
during the peace and the troubles of this
life, the hearts of the brothers were as
one, and in nothing were they divided.

From Neal's Saturday Gazette.
THE WIDOW BEDOTT
PREPARES TO RECEIVE ELDER SNIFFLES ON
THANKSGIVING DAY.
[*2730*]
'Say, sister Magwire, can't you spend time jest to come
here a minit and look at my caps. I want to ax you
which I'd better wear to-day. I don't want to wear it
to meetin, cause my bunnit would jam it all down - but I
want to make up my mind aforehand about it, so's to not
lose no time when I git hum. Come quick, dew - the bell
'll ring in a minnit. O, here ye be; well, now tell, which
o' these caps is the becominest.'
'Why you've got a regiment oh em seems to me.'
'Yes; I'm well on't for caps - but the half on em was
giv tew me. Here's one, though,'t I made myself. I
wore it to Kier's weddin. How does it look?' (She puts
it on.)
'Somehow, I dont like that much - it sticks up tew
high on top; and then them yaller bows looks so kind o'
darin; and them red artifshels is ruther extensive. I
reckon you look better without artifishels.'
'Well, lemme try on this ere; Melissy gin it tew me. I
always thought twas quite becomin.'
'Well, I don't agree with ye, Silly. I think ther's
tew much ribbin on 't - pink ribbin tew; don't you think
pink ribbin's amost tew young for you?'
'O, dreftul suz, Melissy! what foolish idees you've got!
- you're always a takin me to dew about dressin tew
young. What's the use o' makin an old woman o' myself
afore I be one? But come to think, this would be
ruther dressy for to-day, seein the minister's a comin.
See 'f ye like this ere any better - twas a present from
Sam Pendergrasses wife, not long afore I come away. I
never wore it but once.'
'Well I reckon that looks woss than the pink one - 
blue makes ye look kind o' squawy; you're rather dark
complected; and blu's a tryin color for dark skins.'
'Well. I never thought I was so wonderful dark complected,
I'm sure. I wonder if this one'll suit ye any
better. Kier's wife gin it tew me. I haint never wore it
at all; thought I shouldn't, cause it's so turrible old-womanish
and quakery. I fetcht it along, cause I thought
mabby Seliny'd be mad if I didn't - but I dont see what
on arth she meant by giving me such a lookin thing.'
'Now, Silly, I don't see how you can talk so - for [?]
part, I like that better'n ary one you've tried on. [T?]
are white stin trimin looks so kind o' neat and plan.
It's a purty shape tew - comes down furder 'n the others
onto yer face - and that's an improvement, bein as you're
ruther long-favored. I'd wear that by all means, Silly.'
'You would! - well now I am beat - why ther aint a
color about it but white.'
'All the better for that; its enough ginteeler'n them
flambergasted blue and yaller things; and then the elder
's coming, ye know.'
'Jest so; well I will wear it, considerin - '
'And yer black silk gownd and muslin under [hankerche?]
- you look best in them of anything you've got'
'Well, I dont know but what I will - murder! there's
the bell, and I haint begun to be ready; never mind, I
wont dress till I git hum; this ere allipacker looks well
enough to wear to meetin. I'll jest throw on my mankiller
and bunnit - 't wont take mem long; wish you could


go, Melissy - but I know ye can't and git dinner tew;
the elder's a gwine to preach in your meeting house,
hay? - well, that looks brotherly; baptists preach in your
meetin-house one year - and your minister preach in 
theira the next - I like the idee. Is my bunnit on strait?
This glass makes me look kind o' skew-jawed - never
know whether my things is in decent order and regular rotation
or not, when I git em on. How does this ere scarf
go? Where's brother Magwire and Jeff, I wonder?
How thoughtful twas in Jeff to ax the elder here to dinner
- he'd a ben so lonesome to hum all alone. Melissy,
I begin to have considerable hopes o' Jeff - shouldn't
wonder if he should turn out quite a stiddy man after all.
Here they come.'
[*2730-A*]

'Elder Sniffles, let me give you another piece o' the
turkey.'
'I'm obleeged to you, Mr. Magwire; you probably
recollect that I remarked in my discourse this morning,
that individuals were too prone to indulge in an excessive
indulgence in creature comforts on thanksgiving occasions.
In view of the lamentable fact that the sin of
gormandizing is carried to a sinful excess on this day, I,
as a preacher of the gospel, deem it my duty to be unusually
abstemious on such occasions; nevertheless, considering
the peculiar circumstances under which I am placed
this day, I think I will waive objections and take another
small portion of the turkey.'
'That's right, elder - what part will you take now?'
'Well, I'm not particular; a small quantity of the
breast, with a part of a leg and some of the stuffing, will
be quite sufficient.'
'Pass the cramberries to elder Sniffles, Jeff - elder help
yourself; wife give the elder some more o' the turnip sass
and potater.'
'Thank you, Mrs. Magwire. I am an advocate for a
vegetable diet - and have always maintained that it is
more congenial to individuals of sedentary habits and intellectual
pursuits like myself, than animal food.'
'Jeff, my son, pass the bread. Sister[?dtt] [se?]
 plate for some more of the turkey.'
'No, I'm obleeged to ye - I've had sufficient.'
'Jeff, cut the chicken pie.'
' Sure enough - I almost forgot that I was to carve
the pie - aunt Silly you'll take a piece of it, wont you?'
' Well I dont care if I dew take a piece of it, wont you?'
I'm a great favoryte o' chicken pie - always thought twas
a delightful beverage - dont you, elder Sniffles?'
' A very just remark, Mrs. Bedott - very, indeed; chicken
pie is trully a desirable article of food.'
' Allow me to help you to some of it, elder'
'Thank you my young friend; as I before remarked,
I am entirely opposed to an immoderate indulgence of
the appetite at all times, but particularly on thanksgiving
occasions - and am myself always somewhat abstemious.
However, I consider it my duty at the present time
to depart, to some extend, from the usual simplicity of my
diet. I will, therefore, comply with your request and
partake of the chicken pie.'
'Take some more o' the cramberries sass, elder, cramberries
is hulsome.'
'A very just remark, Mrs. Magwire - they are so; nevertheless
I maintain that we should not indulge too freely
in even the most wholesome of creature comforts;
however, since you desire it, I will take a small portion
more of the cramberries.'
'Husband, dew pass that pickled tongue - it haint been
touched - take some on't, elder Sniffles.'
'I'm obleeged to you, Mrs. Magwire - but I confess I
am somewhat fearful of taking articles of that description
upon my stomach, as they create a degree of acidity
which is incompatible with digestion. Is it not so, my
young friend? You are undoubtedly prepared to decide,
as you are, believe, pursuing the study of the medical
science.'
'I think you are altogether mistaken, elder Sniffles.
We should always take a due proportion of acid with our
food, in order to preserve the equilibrium of the internal
economy, and produce that degree of effervesence which
is necessary to a healthy secretion.'
'Exactly. Your view of the subject is one which never
struck me before; it seems a very just one. I will
partake of the pickled tongue in consideration of your
remarks.'
'Take a slice on't, Sister Bedott. You seem to need
some tongue to-day - you're oncommon still.'
'What a musical man you be, brother Magwire? but
it strikes me when an indiwiddiwal has an opportunity 
o' herin intellectible conversation they'd better keep still
and improve it. Aint it so, Elder Sniffles?'
'A very just remark, Mrs. Bedott; and one which has
often occurred to my own mind.'
'Take some more of the chicken pie, elder Sniffles.'
'Excuse me, my young friend; I will take nothing
more.'
'What! you don't mean to give it up yet, I hope,
elder.'
'Indeed, Mr. Magwire, I assure you I would rather
not take anything more, for as I before remarked, I am
decidely opposed to excessive eating upon this day.'
'Well then we'll have the pies and puddins. Jeff, my
son, fly round and help your mar change the plates. Ill
take the puddin, Melissy - you may tend to the pies. Jeff,
set on the cider. So here's a plum puddin - it looks nice
- I guess you've had good luck to-day, wife. Sister Bedott,
you'll have some on't?'
'No; I'm obleeged to ye. I've got ruther of a head
ache to-day, and plum puddin's rich. I guess I'll take a
small piece o' the punkin pie.'
'Elder Sniffles, you'll be helped to some on't, of course?'
'Indeed, Mr. Magwire, the practice of indulgin in
articles of this description after eating meat is esteemed
highly pernicious, and I inwardly protest against it; furthermore,
as Mrs. Bedott has very [justly?] remarked, plum
puddin is rich - however, considerin the peculiar circumstances
of the occasion, Iwill for once overstep the boundaries
which I have prescribed for myself.'
'Am I to understand that you'll have some, or not?'
'I will partake, in consideration of time and place.'
'Jimmeni!  wife, this is good puddin as I ever I eat'
'Elder Sniffles, will you take some of the pie---here's a
mince pie and punkin pie.'
'I will take a small portion of the pumpkin pie if you 
please Mrs. Magwire, as I consider it highly nutritious; 
but, as regards the mince pie, it is an article of food which 
I deem excessively dillyterious to the constitution, inasmuch
as it is composed of so great a variety of ingrediences, 
I esteem it exceedingly difficult of digestion.  Is it
not so, my good friend?' 
'By no means, elder;  quite the contrary---and the
reason is obvious.  Observe, elder---it is cut into the most
minute particles;  hence it naturally follows, that being,
as it were, completely calcined before it enters the system 
it leaves, so to speak, no labor to be performed by the digestive
organs, and it is disposed of without the slightest
difficulty. 

 [*2730B*]

   'Ah, indeed! your, reasoning is quite new to me—yet
I confess it to be most satisfactory and lucid.  In consideration
of its facility of digestion I will partake also of
the mince-pie.'
   'Wife, fill the elder a glass o' cider.'
   'Desist! Mrs. Magwire, desist, I entreat you! I invariably
set my face like a flint against the use of all intoxicating
liquors as a beverage.'
   'Jimmeni! you don't mean to call new cider an intoxicating
liquor, I hope.  Why, man alive, it's jest made—
haint begun to work.'
   'Nevertheless, I believe it to be exceedingly insalubrious,
and detrimental to the system.  Is not that it's
nature, my young friend?'
   'Far from it, elder—far from it.  Reflect a moment
and you will readily perceive, that being the pure juice of
the apple—wholly free from all alcoholic mixture—it possesses
all the nutritive properties of the fruit, with the
advantage of being in a more condensed form which at
once renders it much more agreeable, and facilitates assimilation.'
   'Very reasonable—very reasonable,indeed,Mrs. Magwire
you may fill my glass.'
   'Take another slice o' the puddin, elder Sniffles.'
   'No more, I'm obleeged to you, Mr. Magwire.'
   'Well, won't you be helped to some more o' the pie?'
   'No more, I thank you, Mr. Magwire.'
   'But you'll take another glass o' cider, won't you?'
   'In consideration of the nutritious properties of new
cider, which your son has abundantly shown to exist, I
will permit you to replenish my glass.'
   'So you won't take nothing more, elder?'
   'Nothing more, my friends—nothing more whatsoever 
—for as I have several times remarked during the repast,
I am an individual of exceedingly abstemious habits 
—endeavoring to enforce by example that which I
so strenuously enjoin by precept from the pulpit, to wit—
temperance in all things.'
   'Walk into the sitting room, elder.  Mother'll have to
excuse us for a while.  Aunt Bedott, you'll give us your
company, won't you?'
   'Sartinly.'
   'Father, are'nt you coming?'
   'Not now, Jeff.  I've got to go out for a spell.  I'll
try to be in soon.'
   'Take this arm cheer by the stove, elder Sniffles—the
room's got ruther cool; Jefferson, can't you accumulate
the fire a little?'
   'It strikes me very forcibly, Mrs. Bedott, that the
weather is somewhat cool for the season of the year.
   'So it strikes me tew; but I think this is quite a cool
climit—appearantly considrably cooler 'n Wiggletown.'
   'Why no aunty—there can't be any difference in the
climate—the latitude's just the same.'
   'I guess not, Jeff—what is the latitude o' Scrabble
Hill?'
   'Oh, it's about forty-two.
   'Lawful sakes! ourn in Wiggletown's as much as fifty,
and sometimes in the summer time it gits up as high
as sixty or seventy.'
   'Ah! indeed! you surprise me, Mr. Bedott.  Speaking
of Wiggletown—is that your place of residence?'
   'It is so—the place where the heft o' my life has ben
spent.'
   'In what section of the country is it located?'
   'It's sittiwated between Granderfield and Tuckertown
and Slammerkin crick runs along the south side on 't.'
   'Ah, yes, I comprehend; I think I have an indiscriminate
recollection of the place.  If I am not mistaken I
journeyed through it some two years since, in company
with my companion, (now deceased,) on a visit to her relatives
in that section.'
   'H o-o-o! how you talk! that journey must be a mellancolly
subjick o' reflection now—how little you [?]
then that in tew year you'd be called to mourn her [?]
parter! how onsartin the futher is!
   'True—a very just remark, Mrs. Bedott, very, indeed
—we are sojourners in a world of fluctuation!' '
   'O, Elder Sniffles—how true that is!'
   'One moment tossed on the billows of prosperity and
joy, and the next plunged into the abysses of desperation
and despair.'
   'O, Elder Sniffles, what a strikin remark; every word
you say goes to the bottom o' my heart.  I tew mourn
the loss of a pardner, and bein as we're similarly sittiwated,
I feel as if we could sympathize with one another.
You haint no children—I've got tew, but they're married
and settled, and I'm as good as alone in the world.  It's 
a tryin sittiwation—very tryin.'
   'It is so, Mrs. Bedott—your remark is a very just one 
—very, indeed—your situation is undoubtedly a trying
one—but you are in easy circumstances, I believe?'
   'Why yes, ginerally speakin, I be purty easy, though 
sometimes I'm ruther oneasy when I think o' the futur—
I was wonderfully struck with a remark in your sarmon
this mornin—it described my feelins so egzackly.'
   'Allow me to inquire what the remark was, Mrs. Bedott?'
   (The conversation is here interrupted by the entrance 
of Mr. and Mrs. Maguire.')
   'Well, el ler, how do ye come on—time pass agreeably?'
   'Mos agreeably, Mr. Maguire, most agreeably, in conversation
with Mrs. Bedott.'
   'Glad on't—Jeff, here's the last 'Luminary,' wan't it?
I've read it purty much all, exceptin the poetry. 
   'Does it contain a poem by 'Hugelina'?  If so, permit
me to request you to favor us with it, my young friend.
She is indeed a most extraordinary writer.'
   'She is, that's a fact—Jeff, lets have it.'
   (Jeff reads)—'Those of our readers who are in any
degree imbued with a love of the poetic—with an appreciation
of the sublime and beautiful—will find a rich treat
in the following exquisite lines from the pen of our highly
gifted correspondent 'Hugelina'.  Aside from the 
high degree of finish which her effusions always possess,
the ensuing lines breathe a spirit of world-weariness and
self-abandonment exceedingly touching.

SONNET.
Oblivion! stretch thine everlasting wings,
And hide from human gaze my mournful lyre—
For while my earth-worn, weary spirit sings,
I frequently feel desirious to expire.
It is no vain and vanishing desire, 
But a compulsatory wish that seems
To mingle nightly in my visioned dreams—
A wish to leave this uncongenial spere,
Which souls like mine are apt to find so drear.
O for a residence in yonder orb
Which doth the affections of my soul absorb!
My spirit seeks in vain for sympathy here;
I feel as I have ever felt before—
The one wild, withering wish—to die and be no more!
HUGELINA.

   'A splendid production, truly—but does it not strike
you, Mrs. Maguire, that there is a slight degree of obscurity
in the poem?'

   'O don't ax me—I can't make head nor tail on't; what's 
your opinion, Jefferson?'
   'Well, I think that the obscurity of which elder Sniffles
complains constitutes the greatest of the poem.  Don't
you know, elder, we are never deeply interested in anything
that we can comprehend at the first glance.  There 
must be some mystery, some hiden meaning to excite at
once our curiosity and admiration—Shakspeare himself
often writes obscurely, you know.'
   'Shakespeare! that is an author that I am not conversant
with.  What does he principally treat of?'
   'O, [t?], and metaphysics, and so forth.'
   'Ah, yes, I recollect now—I think I have seen some of
his sermons.  On consideration, your reasoning in relation
to the poem strikes as quite conclusive.  There
should be—as you very justly remark—a hidden meaning
to create an interest in anything of that description.'
   'Well, then, that poitry must be awful interestin, for
all the meanin ther is in 't is hid and no mistake—don't 
you say so, husband?'
   'O I aint no judge o' poitry—ax sister Bedoott, she
knows all about poitry, writes bags on 't
   'Ah, indeed! is it true, Mrs. Bedott, that you cultivate
the poetic art?'
   'Well. 'taint for me to say.'                              [*2730 C*]


From Chambers Journal.
MADAME LOUISE.

BY MRS. CROWE.

   Louis XV. of France, had, by marriage with
Maria Leczinska, daughter of Stanislaus, King
of Poland, two sons and several daughters.—
These ladies were the aunts of Louis XIV. of
whom we frequently find mention made in the
history of that unfortunate monarch.
   Madame Louise, the heroine of our story,
was of the yonngest, and was also the one
that took most after her mother in character.—
Maria Leczinska, was a pious, amiable, tender
hearted woman, and Louise resembled her in 
these characteristics; whilst the sort of education
she received, being brought up in the abbey of 
Fontrevault, tended very much to increase the
seriousness of her natural disposition; so that,
after she lost her mother, though she continued
to reside with her father Versailles, or Paris, 
or wherever he might be, and so lived in the
court, she was not of it, nor ever imbibed a
taste for its splendors or amusements: and
still less for the dissipations and vices.  Notwithstanding 
all her virtue and piety, however,
Louise was a woman still, and a woman with
a tender, loving heart; and in a court where
there were so many gay and accomplished cavaliers,
it must have been next to impossible
for that loving heart to remain untouched.—
But poor Louise had one safeguard against love
which, pure and pious as she was, she would 
willingly have dispensed with—she was deformed.
With a lovely and bewitching face, 
and eyes of inconceivable beauty, her figure
was quite distorted, from the consequences of
an unfortunate fall in her infancy.  Without
meaning to derogate from her merit, it is extremely
possible that this misfortune may have
considerably influenced her character, and led
her to seek in Heaven those consolations of
the heart that she despaired of enjoying on 
earth.
   Of course, each of the princesses had a regular
suite of servants, and of ladies and gentlemen 
in waiting; and amongst these, each had
also an ecuyer and a lady of honor, who were 
in immediate and constant attendance on their
persons.  The office of the ecuyer was one
which placed him in a peculiar situation as regarded
his mistress; he placed her chair, opened 
the door for her, handed her up and down
stairs, and accompanied her in her drives and 
walks, and in short, wherever she went; so 
that were it not for the respect due to royalty; it
must have been hard for a susceptible man of any
age, to be in this hourly attendance on a princess,
and retain his heart entire.  The deformity
of poor Madame Louise, as well as her piety,
however, were perhaps thought sufficient defences
against dangers of this description, as regarded
either party; for, without some such 
confidence, it would seem a great oversight on
the part of the king, to have placed, in this 
necessarily intimate relation with her, one of
the most fascinating men about the court; for
such, by universal admission, was the young
Vicomte Anatole de Saint-Phale, who was appointed
ecuyer to the princess upon the marriage,
and consequent resignation, of the Baron
de Brignolles. 
   At the time of his appointment, Saint-Phale
was not much more than twenty years of age, 
the son of a duke, handsome, accomplished, 
eminently agreeable, and with a name already

[*2731*] 


distinguished in arms.  He had himself solicited
the appointment, and it had been granted to
his own wishes, and the influence of his father, 
without demur;  Madame Louise, when the
thing was mentioned to her, making no objection. 
Indeed, she had none.  The Vicomte
was but little known to her;  for, avoiding the
court festivities as much as her father would
permit, and when she did attend them, appearing
there rather as a spectator than a partaker
—beyond the general characters and the personal
appearance of the gay cavaliers of the
court, she knew nothing of them.  She had always
heard Saint Phale's name coupled with 
the most flattering epithets; she had also heard 
that he was brave, generous, honorable, and
extravagantly beloved by his father and mother; 
and her own eyes had informed her that he
was extremely handsome.  To the latter quality
she was indifferent; and the others well fitting
him for his office about her person, she
signed his appointment without hesitation, little
dreaming at the moment that she was also
signing the fiat of her own destiny.  In due
time the Baron de Brignolles took his leave, 
 and the Vicomte entered on his duties; and it
soon appeared evident to everybody, that he
had not sued for the situation without a motive. 
The princess' lady of honor was the
Countesse de Chateaugrand, Anatole's cousin; 
and with her he was, to all appearance, desperately
smitten.  He wore her colors, as was
the fashion of the gallant world at that period; 
paid her the most public attentions, and seemed
determined not only to be violently in love, 
but that all the world should know it. 
   There was, however, nothing very surprising
in this.  The Comtesse de Chateaugrand was 
a widow, with a considerable fortune, and
though nearly ten years older than Anatole, she
was still extremely handsome, added to which 
she was very amiable, much esteemed by her
mistress, and she and the young Vicomte had
always been on the most friendly terms.  His
passion, therefore, as we have said, excited no
surprise in anybody;  but whether the lady returned
it, was altogether another affair, and
was indeed a question that created considerable
discussion amongst the curious in these
masters. 
   "But she looks so happy—so calm!" said the
young Duchesse de Lange. 
   "And why not, when she has every reason to 
be so?" answered the Comtesse de Guiche, 
"Are not his attentions unremitting?  What
can she desire more?"
   "Ah! true," replied the other; "happy, if
you will, but calm!" 
   "Well!  and why not calm?" repeated Madame
de Guiche. 
   "Ah, one is never calm, when one loves!" 
returned the duchesse, with a little air of affectation. 
   "That is so like you!" returned the comtesse
laughing.  "You are so sentimental, my dear—
a real heroine of romance.  I maintain that
Madame de Chateaugrand is perfectly content
and that she intends in due time to reward his
devotion with her hand.  I am sure he deserves
it.  Except waiting on the princess, he never 
does anything in the world but attend to her
caprices; and I do believe she often affects to
be whimsical, for the sake of giving him occupation."
   "He certainly does not seem to recollect
that there is another woman in the world besides
the princess and his cousin," said the
duchess, with some little spite. 
   Many a conversation of this nature was held 
almost within hearing of one of the parties concerned
—namely, the vicomte—and many a 
jest, besides, amongst his own companions, 
rendered it quite impossible that he should be
ignorant of the observations made upon him 
and Madame de Chateaugrand; but he never 
showed himself disposed to resent this sort 
of interference, nor did it cause him to make
the slightest attempt at concealing his attachment; 
whilst the comtesse herself, though she
could not be more ignorant than he of the
court gossip, appeared equally indifferent to it. 
The consequence was, as is usual in similar cases, 
that the gossip nobody seemed to care for, 
and which annoyed nobody, became less interesting; 
and gradually the grande passion of
the Vicomte Anatole for his cousin, being admitted
as an established fact, whilst it was
concluded, from the calmness of the lady's demeanor, that she had accepted his proposals
and that they were to be married some day,
people began to think little about them; and,
except a hint now and then, that in all probability 
the true interpretation of the mystery
was, that they were privately married already,
very little was said.
But now there arose another bit of court
gossip. "Observe, my dear," said the Duchesse 
de Lange, to her friend, the comtesse,
"how fast Madame de Chateaugrand is declining 
in the princess' favor!"
"I am perfectly confounded at it," returned
Madame de Guiche; "for certainly, her atachment 
to Madame Louise is very great; in
short, it is devotion; and the princess herself 
has always, till lately, appeared to set the
greatest value on it. How is it that she, who
never in her life showed the slightest tendency
to caprice, should begin with such an injustice
towards her most faithful friend?
"It is inconceivable!" replied the Duchesse,
"But what do you think the Duc d' Artois
says about it?"
"Oh, the wicked man!" returned the Com-
tesse de Guiche, laughing; "but what does he
say?"
"He says it is the attachment between her
and Saint-Phale that offends the princess; that
she is so rigid, that she can neither be in love
herself, nor allow anybody else to be so;
and that he has seen her turn quite pale with
horror at the sight of the vicomte's attentions."
"Be in love herself--certainly not," said
Madame de Guiche; "besides, to what purpose,
poor thing, with her unfortunate figure? But I
think she is much too-kind hearted to endeavor
to cross the loves of other people. However, 
certain it is, that she is not fond of Madame
de Chateaugrand herself." Louise, the gentle,
the kind, the considerate, was now often peevish, impatient, and irritable; and what rendered 
the change infinitely more afflicting to the
comtesse was, that all these ill-humors seemed
to be reserved solely for her--to every one
else the princess was as gentle and forbearing
as before. So she was even to her at times
still; for there were moments when she appeared 
to be seized with remorse for her injustice, 
and on these occasions she would do every 
thing in her power to make amends for it;
but as these intervals did not prevent an immediate 
recurrence of the evil, poor Madame de
Chateaugrand began to think very seriously of 
resigning her situation, and so she told the vi-
comte.
"If you do, my dear Hortense," answered
he, turning as pale as if she had pronounced
his sentence of death--"if you do, I am undone!"
"Why," said the comtesse. "You need not
resign because I do."
"I should not dare to remain," answered he,
"Besides, it would be impossible--I know it
would! I have always told you so. But for
you, I never could have undertaken the situation, 
as you well know; I should have been 
discovered."
"But my dear Anatole, you can hardly expect 
me to remain here to be miserable; and I
really am so," returned Madame de Chateaugrand. 
"It is not that I would not bear with
her humors and caprices; I love her well enough
to bear with a great deal more; but to lose her
friendship, her affection, her confidence, breaks
my heart."
"She must be ill," said the vicomte. "Some
secret malady is preying on her, I am certain.
Do you observe how her cheek flushes at times,
and how her hand trembles? To-day, when I
handed her a glass of water, I thought she
would have let it fall."
"It may be so," returned Madame de Chateaugrand. 
"Certain it is, that she does not
sleep as she used to do--in short, I believe
she is often up half the night, walking about
her room."
"I think his majesty should be informed of
it," said the vicomte, "that he might send her
his physician."
"I think so, too," answered the lady; "but
when I named it to her, the other day, she was
very angry, and forbade me to make any remarks 
on her; and above all, enjoined me not
to trouble her father with such nonsense."
"I am afraid her religious austerities injure
her health," said Anatole.
"Apropos," returned the comtesse; "she
desired me to tell you that she goes to St. Denis 
to-morrow, immediately after breakfast,
and that no one is to accompany her but you
and me."
St. Denis, as is well known, is the burying
place of the royal family of France, and there,
consequently, reposed the remains of Maria
Leczinska, the princess' mother; and it was to
her tomb that Madame Louise first proceeded
alone, whilst her two attendants remained
without. A long hour they waited for her;
and Saint-Phale was beginning to get so alarmed 
at her absence, that he was just about to violate 
her commands by opening the gate of the
sanctuary, when she came out, pale and exhausted, 
and with evident traces of tears on her
cheeks. She then entered the precincts of the
convent of holy nuns, who have abjured the
world and its temptations. The prestige of royalty 
is not without its effect; and, on this occasion, 
the prioress came forth to meet the princess, 
while the sister rushed to the corridor to
get a peep at her, with as mundane a curiosity
as the mob runs after a royal carriage in the
streets of Paris or London. Louise looked at 
them benevolently, and, with tears in her eyes,
and a sad smile, told them how much happier
they were than those who lived amongst the
intrigues and turmoils of a court. "Ah, my
sisters," she said, "how happy you should be!
What repose of spirit you may attain to in this
holy asylum!"
Alas! could she have looked into some of 
those hearts, what a different tale they would
have told her! But when we are very miserable 
ourselves, that situation which presents the
greatest contrast to our own, is apt to appear
the one most desirable.
"There is amongst you, my sisters--that is,
if she be still alive--a princess, at whose profession 
I was present, when a child, with my
mother," said Madame Louise. "Is the friend
of Maria Leczinska here?"
"I am here," answered a sweet, low voice.
"Clotilde de Mortemart?" said the princess, 
inquiringly, looking in the direction of the
voice. 
"Formerly," answered the nun; "now Soeur
Marie du Sacre Coeur."
"I would speak with you," said Madame
Louise, taking her by the hand: "lead me to 
your cell."
Accordingly, whilst all the others retired, Sister 
Marie conducted her royal visitor to her little
apartment.
"That stool is too inconvenient for your highness," 
said she, as the princess seated herself,
'I will ask the prioress for a chair."
"By no means; it is what I wish," said Madame 
Louise. "Sit down opposite me--I want
to talk to you. Nay, nay, sit!" she added, observing 
the hesitation of the nun. "Sit, in the
name of Heaven! What am I, that you should
stand before me? Would to God I was as you
are!"
"How, Madame" said the sister, looking
surprised. "Are you not happy?"
"Friend of my mother, pity me!" exclaimed
the princess, as she threw herself into the nun's
arms, with a burst of passionate tears--for they
were the first open demonstration of a long
suppressed grief. "Tell me," she continued,
after an interval, as she raised her tearful face--
"tell me are you really happy?"
"Yes," replied sister Marie, "very happy
now."
"Would you go back again to the world;
would you change, if you could?
"No, never!" answered the nun
"I remember your taking the veil," said Madame 
Louise, after an interval of silence; "and
you will remember me, probably, as a child at
that time?"
"Oh, yes; well, quite well, I remember you,"
replied the nun. "Who could forget you that
had once seen you?"
"I was pretty, I believe, as a child," said
Louise.
"Beautiful! angelic! as you are now, my
princess!" exclaimed Sister Marie, surprised
for a moment by her enthusiasm and admiration, 
out of her nun-like demeanor.
"As I am now?" said Louise, fixing her eye
on the other's face.
"Pardon me!" said the nun, falling at her
feet, fearing that the familiarity had offended;
"It was my heart that spoke!"
"Rise, my sister," said Louise; "I am not
offended; rise, and look at me!" and she threw
aside the cloak which, with its ample hood,
had concealed her deformity.
"Jesu Maria!" exclaimed the sister, clasping 
her hands.
"You are a woman--you were once young
yourself; and as I have heard, beautiful also.
Judge, now, if I am happy."
"But, my princess," answered the nun,
"why not? Is there no happiness on earth,
nay, even in a court with beauty? Besides, 
are you not beautiful? Ay, and a thousand
times more so than hundreds that are not----"
"Deformed," rejoined Louise; "do not fear
to utter the word; I repeat it to myself a hundred 
times a day."
"This amazes me," said Sister Marie, after
a pause, while her countenance expressed her
surprise, as eloquently as words could have
done. "Madame Louise, the fame of whose
devotions and self-imposed austerities, has reached 
even our secluded ears, are they but the refuge 
of a mortified----"
"Vanity," added the princess, as respect again
caused the nun to hesitate. "Not exactly: I
cannot do myself the injustice to admit that altogether, 
for I was pious before I knew I was
deformed. It was my natural disposition to be
so; and my mother, foreseeing how much I
should need the consolations of religion, cultivated 
the feeling as long as she lived; and when
I was old enough to be aware of my misfortune, 
I felt what a blessing it was that I had not
placed my happiness in what seemed to make
the happiness of the women that surrounded
me. But it was not to speak of myself that I
came here," continued Madame Louise, but to
ask a favor of you. Young as I was when you
took the veil, the scene made a great impression 
upon me; and I well remember my mother's 
tears as we drove back to Paris after she
bade you farewell. I remember also, when I
was older, hearing a motive alleged for your
resolution to retire from the world, which, it
it would not give you too much pain, I should
be glad to hear from your own lips."
The pale cheek of the nun flushed with a 
faint red, as she said, "What would my princess 
wish to hear?"
"Is it true," said Madame Louise, "that it 
was an unrequited love that brought you to this
place?"
"It was," answered the sister, placing her
hands before her eyes.
"Excuse me," said Madame Louise; "you
will think me cruel to awaken these recollections; 
but it must have been a bitter sorrow
that could have induced you, so young, so
beautiful, so highly-born, to forsake the world
and become a Carmelite?"
"It was," returned the nun, "so bitter, that
I felt it was turning my blood into gall; and it
was not so much to flee from the misery I suffered, 
as from the corruption of my mind and
character, that I fled from the sight of that
which I could not see without evil thoughts."
"Ah, there it is! I understand that too
well!" said the princess, "you were jealous?"
"I was," answered the nun; "and what made
it so bitter was, that the person of whom I
was jealous was the woman I loved best in the
world."
"You loved Henri de Beaulieu, and he loved
your cousin?" said Madame Louise. The nun
covered her face with her hands and was silent
"How cruel you must think me, to rend your
heart by recalling these recollections!" contined 
the princess.
"It is so long since I heard that name," said
Marie, "I did not think I was still so weak."
"But tell me," said Louise, seizing her hand,
"did your anguish endure long after you had
entered these gates? Did repose come quickly?"
"Slowly, slowly, but surely," returned the
nun, with a sigh. "Till I had taken the irrevocable 
vow, I had a severe struggle; but I never
wavered in the conviction that I did wisely--
for it was only by this living death I could have
ever conquered myself. Dreadful temptations
had sometimes assailed me whilst I saw them
together. Here I saw nothing--heard nothing;
and my better nature revived and conquered at 
last."                               [2731A]"I see," said the princess, rising; "I comprehend 
it all!" and then embracing her, she added, 
"Pardon me the pain I have given you:
it has not been without a motive. We shall
meet again ere long."                          [*2731B*]
On the following day, Madame Louise requested 
a private interview with the king, for
the purpose of obtaining his permission to join
the Carmelites of St. Denis. Louis was at first
extremely unwilling to hear of the proposal.--
Louise was his favorite daughter; and he not
only did not like to part with her, but he feared
her delicate health would soon sink under the
austerities of so rigid an order. But her determination 
was taken; and at length, by her
perseverance, and the repeated assurance that
she was not, nor ever could be, happy in the
world, she extracted his unwilling consent.--
She even avowed to him that, besides her own
private griefs, the being obliged to witness his
irregularities, afflicted her severely, and as she
believed that to immure herself in a convent,
where she could devote her life to prayer, was
a sacrifice pleasing to the Almighty, she hoped
by these means to expiate her father's errors, as
well as to attain peace for herself. Fearing
the opposition she might meet with from the
rest of her family, however, she entreated the
king's silence, while she herself communicated 
her resolution to no body except the Archbishop 
of Paris; and he having obtained his majesty's 
consent in form, Madame Louise at length,
on the 11th of April, 1770, at eight o'clock in
the morning, bade adieu to Versailles forever.--
Accompanied by the vicomte and Madame de
Chateaugrand, to whom, since her former visit
to the convent, she had been all kindness, she
stepped into her carriage, and drove to St. Denis. 
As by taking the veil she renounced all 
earthly distinctions, and among the rest that
of being buried with the royal family of France,
she now visited those vaults for the last time;
and having knelt for some minutes at the tomb,
of her mother, she repaired to the convent
leaving her two attendants in the carriage.--
The abbot, who, having been apprised by the
archbishop, was in waiting to conduct her to
the parlor, now addressed several questions to
her with respect to her vocation, representing 
to her the extreme austerity of the order, which
was indeed a sort of female La Trappe. She
answered him with unshaken firmness; and
then, without once looking behind her, she passed 
into the cloister, where the prioress and the
sisterhood were informed of the honor that
awaited them. She proceeded to the chapel,
where a mass was performed; and having thus,
as it were, sealed her determination, she requested 
that her two attendants might be conducted
to the parlor, whilst she, through the grate
which now separated her from the world, told
them they were to return to Paris without her.
The effect of this unexpected intelligence on
Madame de Chateaugrand was no more than 
the princess had anticipated. She wept, entreated 
and expostulated: but the Vicomte de
Saint Phale, after standing for a moment as if
transfixed, fell flat upon his face to the ground.
Amazed and agitated at so unexpected a result
the princess was only restrained by the grating
which separated them, from flying to his assistance; 
but before she could sufficiently recollect 
herself to resolve what to do, the prioress, 
fearing the effect of so distressing a scene
at such a moment, came and led her away to
her own apartments.
It would be difficult to describe the state of
the princess' mind at that moment. The anguish 
expressed by Saint Phale's countenance
could not be mistaken. He that she had supposed 
would be utterably indifferent to her loss!
Why should it affect him thus, when he had
still with him his love, the chosen of his heart--
Hortense de Chateaugrand? She did not know
what tothink: but certain it is, that the resolution
which had been so unflinching an hour before,
might perhaps, but for pride, have been now
broken. With a bewildered mind and a heavy
heart she retired to her cell, and there kneeling,
she prayed to God to help her through this last
struggle.
From that time nothing more was known
with respect to Madame Louise till six months
afterwards, when, her novitiete being completed, 
she made her profession. On that morning 
the humble cell inhabited by the princess
exhibited a very unusual appearance: robes of
gold and silver brocade, pearls and diamonds,
and a splendid lace veil, were spread upon the
narrow couch. In this magnificent attire she
was for the last time to appear before the world,
and for the last time her own women were in
attendance to superintend her toilet. When
she was dressed, everybody was struck with
her beauty; and as she wore a superb cloak,
the only defect of her person was concealed.
Of course, the profession of a "daughter of
France" was an event to create a great sensation. 
All Paris turned out to see the show;
and the road from thence to St. Denis was one
unbroken line of carriages. Mounted officers
were to be seen in all directions, the royal guard
surrounded the abbey, and the pope's nuncio
came from Rome to perform the ceremony.
On this solemn occasion, of course, the attendance 
of the princess' ecuyer and lady of
honor was considered indispensable, and Louise
had prepared herself to seem them both; but instead 
of Saint Phale, to her surprise she beheld
advancing to offer his arm her former attendant,
the Baron de Brignolles. A pang of disappointment 
shot through her heart: he had not cared,
then to see her for this last time, and she could
behold him no more! She felt that she turned
pale and trembled, and she could not trust her
voice to inquire the cause of his absence; but
De Brignolles took an opportunity of saying
that hearing the vicomte was too ill to attend,
he had requested permission to resume his service 
for this occasion. Louise bowod her head
in silence--she durst no speak.
At the solemn ceremony were present Louis
XVI., then dauphin of France; Marie Antoinette, 
the queen of beauty, and the idol of the
French nation; the Comte d'Artois, who subsequently, 
as Charles X., likewise lost the
throne.
After an eloquent discourse by the Bishop of
Troyes, which drew tears from every eye, the
princess retired for a few moments, and presently 
re-appeared, stript of her splendor, shorn
of her beautiful hair, and clothed in the habit of
the order. She was then stretched on the earth,
covered with a pall, and the prayers for the
dead pronounced over her. When she arose,
the curtain which closed the entrance to the
interior of the convent was lifted, and every
eye was fixed on it as she passed through the
opening, to return to the world no more. As
that curtain fell behind her, a fearful cry echoed 
through the vaulted roof of the abbey, and
a gentleman was observed to be carried out o
the church by several persons, who immediately 
surrounded him. Every one, however, was
too much occupied with his own feelings at
the moment to inquire who it was. On the
ear of the new made nun alone the voice struck
familiarly; or perhaps it was not her ear, but
her heart, that told her it was the voice of Saint
Phale. 
Louise was a Carmelite; the profligacies of
the king and the court proceeded as before;
Madame de Chateaugrand, instead of marrying
her cousin, Saint Phale, married M. de Rivrement,
to whom it appeared she had been long
engaged; and Saint Phale himself, after a long
and severe illness, which endangered his life,
quitted France for Italy, whither he was sent
for the sake of the climate. At length, in 1777,
when Lafayette astonished the world by his
expedition to America, the vicomte astonished
his friends no less by returning suddenly from
the south, in order to join it; and in spite of the
entreaties of his relations he executed his design, 
and there he fell at the battle of Monmouth, 
in the year 1778.
He did not, however, die in the field, but lingered 
some days before he expired; during
which interval he wrote farewell letters to his
father and mother; and one also, which he entreated 
the latter to deliver according to his address, 
which was to "The Sister Therese de
Saint Augustin, formerly Madame Louise de
France."
As soon as the poor bereaved mother had sufficiently 
recovered the shock of this sad news,
she hastened to St. Denis to fulfil her son's injunction; 
and the Sister Therese, having obtained 
permission of the superior, received and
opened the letter. The first words were an entreaty 
that she would listen to the prayer of a
dying man, who could never offend her again,
and read the lines that followed. He then went
on to say, that from his earliest youth he had
loved her; and that it was to be near her, without 
exciting observation, that he had solicited
the situation of ecuyer; but knowing tha
from the inequality of their conditions, his love
must be forever hopeless, he had studiously
concealed it from its object. No one had ever
penetrated his secret but Madame de Chateaugrand. 
He concluded by saying, that when
that curtain hid her from his view, on the day
of her profession, he had felt the world contained 
nothing more for him, and that he had
ever since earnestly desired that death which
he had at length found on the field of battle,
and which he had gone to America on purpose
to seek; and asking her blessing and her
prayers, he bade her farewell forever.
Poor Louise! poor Therese! poor nun! poor
Carmelite! For a moment she forgot that she 
was the three last, to remember only that she had 
been the first; and falling on her knees, and 
elasping those thin, transparent hands, wasted
by wo and vigils, she exclaimed, with a piercing
cry: "Then he loved me, after all!"
Rigid as were the poor nun's notion of the
duty of self-abnegation, such a feeling as this
was one to be expiated by confession and penance; 
but as nuns are still women, it was not
in the nature of things that she should not be
the happier for the conviction that her love had
been returned, for Saint Phale had loved her
first; and if she had forsaken the world for his
sake, he had requited the sacrifice by dying for
her. It was a balm even to that pious spirit to
know that she, the deformed, the bossue, as she
called herself, who had thought it impossible
she could inspire affection, had been the chosen
object of this devoted passion.
Madame Louise survived her lover nine years;
and they were much calmer and happier years
than those that preceded his death. She could
now direct her thonghts wholly to the skies,
for there she hoped and believed he was; and
since human nature, as we have hinted before,
will be human nature within the walls of a convent 
as well as outside of them, she had infinitely 
more comfort and consolation in praying 
for the repose of his soul in Heaven, than
she could have had in praying for his happiness
on earth--provided he had sought that happiness 
in the arms of Madame de Chateaugrand,
or any other fair lady.
[*2732*]
"BEOUND FOR THE KINGDOM."
Last summer 'one of us' chanced to be
a fellow-traveller with a very verdant
young man who hailed from away down
east--say Augusta, or 'them diggins,'
where the Maine Farmer man lives,--who,
by his misfortune and greenness, rendered
the passage from Portland to Boston an
almost unbroken scene of merriment. He
first attracted attention, at Portland, just
as the cars had started, by his emphatic
commands of--
'Hello there!--stop the cars, Cap'n!--
stop the cars!--I ain't a-board yet. Why,
timenation, ye wouldn't go off an' leave a 
feller, without so much as tellin' him ye
was ready, would ye?'
By this time he was 'a-board' and was 
in no way sparing of his expressions of
dissatisfaction with the conduct of 'the
cap'n o' the cars' for 'calkerlatin on going
off without him.'
We would not ridicule the dress of any
one, but there are sometimes cases where
the inspection and mention of 'fancy suits'
may not be considered impolite or reprehensible; 
and in this instance we hoped to
be pardoned for giving an idea, or outline,
of the 'habit' of this son of the Pine State.
But to commence: On his head was a 
hat--he said it was a hat--made, undoubtedly, 
in that section of the country from
whence he came; it was a cotton plush,
approaching very near the color of a white
cat which has passed through 'fiery trials,'
on a body or foundation of common paste-
board, and nearer the shape of a fireman's
bucket than that of a chapeau of ABORN'S
mode; a shirt-collar, of coarse cotton, stiffened 
so that it 'stood up as straight as a 
man,' and braced up about an inch higher 
than his ears by a yellow-and-white bandanna; 
a vest, of woolen fabric, 'striped
right up and down' and intended for a 
'pretty tall' article, but most shockingly
'botched in the making;' a coat, of thin
gingham, which set to his form like a dishclout 
to a pair of tongs; pants, of common
bed ticking, tight as the bark to a tree,
and all of four-inches too short; and shoes,
of thick cow-hide, with cold tallow grinning 
in the seams, constituted our hero's'outfit' for Boston---with the exception of a
small bundle which he carefully kept under 
his arm. 
Soon after leaving Portland and while
stretched out as much as space would allow, 
he was suddenly seized with an all-tow-fired
pain in the beowels,' as he expressed
himself, which made him groan
aloud and kept him twisting and squirming
like an eel on an angler's hook.  A
gentleman on the same settee observed
these 'tokens of distress' and said--- 
'Sir you appear to be unwell;  may I inquire
the nature of your illness?' 
'Oh dear!'---groaned the Yankee, with
a long drawl---'oh dear---perhaps you're a
doctor; I s'pose ye be.  Neaw doctor can 
ye tell a feller what's good for the---oh 
Jehu!---gripes, doctor?  Crotch'-all-hemlock, 
what a pain!  Oh Moses!  whare's
the cap'n o' the cars?  Ye aint got no mederson 
about ye, have ye doctor?---I
thought not, it's jest my luck---oh!---
t-h-u-n-d-e-r!---what a twinger!' and he almost
twisted himself from his seat to the
floor, as he gave this long drawn exclamation. 
'Oh, doctor, if ye aint got no
mederson abeout ye, can't ye git the cap'n
to stop the cars while I can step eout an' 
get a drop o' brandy sum'ers, for my in'ards
feel jest exactly as if tew terryer dogs 
were stringin' on 'em intew shew-strings.' 
'My dear sir, I am on doctor; neither will
you be able to obtain any brandy until 
you arrive in Boston;  I am sorry that it is
not in my power to relieve you,' said the
gentleman. 
'Re-leave!---what in time dew ye want
tew leave me ag'in for?---I've been left 
once, already, and had tew chase the cars
nigh abeout a quarter of a mile, an' that's
enough, for one trip.  Neow look here, 
I've got a ticket straight threw, 'good for
this trip only,' and I'm beound tew see the
kingdom of Bosting tew-night, unless the
railroad breaks deown-----oh, misery!---if
I was only at hum where I could get
abeowt a pint o' ragweed tea, I could cure 
cholic quicker 'an yew could say Jack 
Robberson.' 
In this way he continued to talk, twist, 
groan and kick, until he arrived at the
'wood and water station' at North Berwick, 
where he called for 'a cup o' tea strong as
a stean injine,' which somewhat quieted
his 'internal rebellion,' and on starting, he 
again seated himself beside his former
companion in the cars.  He soon commenced 
talking of the 'things go be seen
in Boston,' and was advised to visit the
English steamer, which he would pass at
East Boston.  We heard comparatively
little from him, after he left North Berwick, 
till we had stepped from the car at
East Boston.  Here, he saw the passengers
all making a rush for the ferry-boat, 
and he belched out in a loud tone,---
'Wal, if they're all gwine deown to see
the steamboat, I'll be darn'd if I don't go
tew! for people dew say it's no fool of a
sight tew see them are steam fellers that
go tew Inglund.'
But he didn't have an opportunity to
see more than half 'the shows' on board
before she 'cast off,' and started on her
way across the channel.  This was a poser; 
he made a rush for the shore, but it
was too late, he yelled out---
'Hal-low there!---where on airth are ye
goin' tew?  Stop the boat!---Cap'n, stop 
the boat!  I want to go to the Boston de-pot.'
2732  [*A*]
'Well, what is the matter, sir?' asked
the ferryman. 
'Human natur, why don't ye stop the
boat?  I want to go to the Boston de-pot.' 
and you will be there in a very few minutes.' 
'What?---aint this the Inglish steamboat?' 
'No---this is the ferry-boat.' 
'Oh cronch!  I thought I was beaund for
Ingland, and no mistake!'
He looked sheepish after this, but whether
he felt so or not, we shall leave the
reader to judge for himself.---Boston Bee. 


Truth Stranger than Fiction. 
We have an illustration of this apothegm
too striking to be lost.  Crossing
the Hackensack bridge, near Newark, 
in the railroad car, in company with
Gov. D., of New Jersey, that gentleman
observed that he had witnessed a remarkable
incident on that spot.  He was 
in a stage coach with some eight or
nine passengers, male and female, and
as they were crossing the bridge at this
point, one of the former remarked that
one evening, thirty years before, he had
been crossing the river at the very spot
in a stage-coach filled with passengers 
as now, that the bridge as it then existed
was a miserable rickety old structure, 
ready to fall at the least provocation, 
that the waters of the river were
 at that time very much swollen in consequences
of a sudden freshet, and that 
when the coach got about midway on
the bridge, one of the supporters gave
way, precipitating all hands into the
dark and rapid waters.  After great ado, 
however, the passengers all reached the
shore, with the exception of a little infant, 
which had been swept from its
mother's arms in the struggle, and which 
now seemed irrecoverably gone.  The
hearts of the passengers, however were
too deeply touched by the gratitude for their
escape, and sympathy for the bereaved 
mother, to allow of their remaining inactive, 
and those of them accordingly 
who could swim, plunged again into the
flood to make a thorough search for at
least the lifeless body of their little companion. 
The narrator himself was so fortunate
as to grasp it by the clothes, at some
distance from the place of the accident; 
and on taking it into the house and instituting
active measures for its recovery, 
it soon gladdened all hearts by opening
its eyes and recognizing the face
of the now overjoyed mother.  The 
gentleman narrated the little history 
with a smile of righetous satisfaction at
the part he had played in it;  but he had 
scarcely concluded , said Governor D., 
before one of the ladies of our company 
begged him to excuse the liberty she
was about to take, in asking him if his
name was not Mr. So-and-so?  "It is,' 
replied the other.  "Then,' rejoined
the infant whom you rescured!  My 
mother always remembered it.  But it is
only now after an interval of thirty
years from the event, and here on the
very spot where it occurred, that the
child finds an opportunity of telling her
deliverer how faithfully that name has
been cherished!'  So unexpected a denouement
as this, said Gov. D., filled us
all with the loveliest and most joyful 
surprise;  and I am sure that ever yone
in the coach at the time will remember
the journey as the most agreeable he
ever made.---[The Harbinger,
[*2733*] 

STORY OF A RUSSIAN PRINCE. 
[*2733 A*] 
There is a sort of premier pas known, 
we believe, amongst gamesters---at least 
trusted to very implicitly, we remember 
among schoolboy gamesters---that which 
commences a run of good luck.  When 
the cards, or the dice, have been cruelly
against us, if the tide once turn, it will
flow steadily for some time in its new 
and happier direction.  In the palace of
a certain Russian Prince, whose name
of course it is impossible to remember, 
for it is one of those names you do not 
think of attempting to pronounce even
to yourself---you look at it merely, and
use it as the Chinese their more leaned
combinations of characters, where
they pass at once from the visible sign 
to the idea, without any intermediate
oral stage.  In the palace of this prince, 
you are surprised to see in the most
splendid suit of apartments, suspended
behind a glass case---a set of harness!--- 
common harness for a couple of coach
horses, such as you may see in any gentleman's 

stable.  Of course it attracts
more attention than all the pictures, and
statues and marble tables with their
porphiry vases and gold clocks. 
"The thing you know is neither rich nor rare, 
But wonder how the devil it got there!" 
You inquire and are told the following
story: 
The Prince of----------was one night
led into a deep and desperate play.  He
has staked estate, and lost them; he had 
staked his plate, his pictures, his jewels, 
the furniture of his house, and lost them; 
his mansion itself, and lost it.  The luck 
would not turn.  His carriage and horses
had been long waiting for him at the
door, he staked them and lost!  He had 
nothing more;  he threw up the window, 
and leant out of it in utter despair.  There 
stood his carriage and horses, the subject
of his last wager.  He had now
nothing left.  Yes!  There was the harness! 
Nothing had been said of the
harness.  The carriage and the horses
were lost, but no the harness.  His opponent
agreed to this interpretation of
the wager.  They played for the harness: 
He won!  They played for the 
palace, for the plate, the pictures, the
furniture---he won.  They played for
estate after estate;  he still won.  He
won all back again and rose from that 
table the same rich man he had sat
down to it.  Had he not got reason to
suspend that harness in his very saloon? 
2733  [*B*] 

Duncombe Park. 
[Colonel Harwood was the husband of Jane, the
next sister of Margaret Forde.  Mrs. Harwood
brought her lord a son and a daughter within the
first three years of their marriage.  Ten years afterwards
she died, in giving birth to a second little
girl.  The disconsolate widower went to reside in
France, both to divert his own grief by change of scene, 
and to afford his daughters the advantage of education, 
which that region of indefinite extension, the
continent, is in England somewhat vaguely supposed
to afford.  He did not return till his two eldest children
had attained the ages, respectively, of twenty-six
and twenty-eight, while Janet, the youngest, had
just passed her sixteenth birth-day.] 

CHAPTER 1. 
DEC/ 14th---It was an interesting visit on which I
entered to-day, and I felt unusually nervous as my 
humble one-horse fly drove through the great gates
of Duncombe Park, and finally deposited me, my
carpet-bag, my trunk, my bandbox, my two baskets, 
and my seven parcels, beneath the stately portico of
the mansion itself.  I was ashamed to burthen the
dignified footman with all my odds and ends, especially
as I saw him raise a wistful look, first at the
coach-box and then to the door, evidently expecting 
to see my lady's maid in the act of descending;  and, 
when he became convinced that I traveled without 
any such appendage, I detected a spice of contempt 
in the elaborate civility with which he took package 
after package from my hands to deposit them o nthe
hall table.  I was afraid lest the yet grander butler, 
who stood behind, should see my prunella shoes; 
which I carried in a separate parcel that I might not
have to fish them up from the bottom of the bag 
when making my toilette for dinner;  so I thrust 
them into my spacious pocket in a great hurry, somewhat
to the disadvantage of the symmetry of my
figure, and affecting a lofty indifference as to the fate 
of that precious heap of parcels, every one of which 
I longed to carry up stairs and unfasten with my
own hands.  I followed my conductor across the marble
floor.  On the threshold of the drawing-room I
was met by my brother-in-law, who took me by both 
hands, and welcomed me in the kindest possible
manner.  "My dear Miss Forde," said he, "I can 
assure you that this is one of the most gratifying
moments I have experienced since I left the continent."
Then, giving me his arm, he led me forward 
and introduced me to his daughters, the elder of 
whom submitted to my embrace, while the younger 
cordially returned it.  During the five or ten minutes 
which elapsed before I was conducted to my bedroom 
to dress, I had time to make a rapid survey of the
trio, and compare them with the faces of thirteen 
years ago, which still remained vividly impressed on 
my memory. 
My brother-in-law is still a fine-looking man.  He
has grown somewhat portly, and a tendency to gout
in the left foot has caused him to change his former 
activity of movement for a deliberateness which is
not, however, without dignity.  He has the same
sweet smile, and his voice is even more gentle, his
manners more bland, than they used to be.  Well, 
people may say what they please, but I never can believe
he has so bad a temper as he is reported to have. 
Surely, if he were really so passionate, I must have
seen some specimens of it before now.  It is true 
that many circumstances prevented my having much 
intercourse with him during my poor sister's lifetime, 
and that, more than once, when I have seen
them together, I have fancied that she seemed afraid 
of him;  yet his deportment to her was ever that of a
devoted husband, and it really seems impossible that
an expression of countenance so benevolent, and a 
manner of speaking so unusually mild, should belong 
to a man of violent temper.  He is said, moreover, to
be proud, and that I believe, although his bearing
shows no symptom of it, except, perhaps, a certain 
elaborateness in his courtesies, which, as Owen used 
to say, "when you see in a gentlemen, you may be
sure he looks down upon you."  Perhaps Owen would 
draw a similar conclusion from his studious gentleness; 
but Owen is a caustic observer, and, though 
such persons always pique themselves on their perception 
of character, I do not find that they are generally
so right in the end, as those who take a more
charitable view of their fellow-creatures.  As for 
2734 

myself, I do not know that I can be called a good
judge of character, but somehow or other I do manage 
to be generally on comfortable terms with all
the manifold varieties that I encounter; and it has
more than once been remarked that I have a true
feminine gift of winning influence over even the obstinate. 
I hope I am not vain of this, and, if it be
true that I do possess such power, I hope that I may
always use it for good. At any rate I am not going
to quarrel with my good brother-in-law, or to hunt
for defects in his character just at the time when he
is giving me so affectionate a reception.        [*2734A*]
My niece Anna is not so handsome as she promised
to be at fifteen; but she has a fine figure and a very
sensible countenance. Her manners are a curious
contrast to her father's; they are positively abrupt,
and, as she never smiles when she speaks, the first
impression is certainly not pleasing. I should say
she was a little ungracious; but I dare say it is fancy.
I am so accustomed to breathe a warm atmosphere of
love, that I feel chilled and oppressed without it; but
how unreasonable it is to expect that a niece whom
I have seen very little of for the first fifteen years of
her life, and not at all since, should love me by instinct. 
I must try to win her affections, and it shall
be hard if she baffles me in the attempt.
Janet is a sweet creature; very shy and down-cast,
but with the brightest little face I ever beheld when
she smiles at you. She is very pretty, and very like
her mother: tall, slender and blue-eyed, with her
fair young face in a perpetual blush. She glanced
so kindly at me through her long eye-lashes, that I
could not help taking her hand in mine as we sat
side by side, and, indeed, I should have ventured on
another embrace, if Anna's eyes had not rested upon
us at the moment, with a half-surprised expression
which deterred me. And where, thought I, is my old
friend and favorite Charles? But I concluded he was
engaged in some of those mysterious occupations
which always separate young men from their families
during the morning hours, even if they are neither
students nor sportsmen, and that I should see him at
the dinner-table.
"I hope you have not suffered from cold during your
journey at this unpropitious season, Miss Forde,"
observed Colonel Harwood. "Anna, is there a good
fire in your aunt's room? We must be careful of our
visiter's comforts, you know."
"I have no doubt there is, papa," returned Anna.
"White seldom neglects her duties."
"I went in just before I came down stairs, papa,"
said Janet, "and saw that everything was comfortable 
for aunt Margaret."
"This is my little housekeeper," said the colonel, 
putting his hand on Janet's shoulder, with a smile.
"You will find differences of character in your two
nieces. Anna is fond of her books, and Janet studies
the details of every-day life. I am no foe to varieties
of character--develop rather than change, guide
rather than check, that has been my system of education. 
Faults must, of course, be cured--and they
both have their faults: but they have also their peculiarities, 
and I am by no means prepared to say
that those peculiarities are faults."
During this speech, Anna looked cross and Janet
awkward, while I felt it impossible to make any answer 
whatever, except a little absurd laugh, of which
I was ashamed because it was so unmeaning. "All
very wise and right, my dear brother-in-law,"
thought I, "but are you not a little, just the very
least bit in the world, pompous? And is it not very
unpleasant for your daughters to be described before
their faces in that manner?" Somehow or other,
the conversation flagged after that speech of the
colonel's.
"Will you not like to dress, Miss Forde--aunt
Margaret?" asked Anna, after a pause.
I acquiesced, and we were quitting the room, when
I was checked by hearing my brother-in-law say, in
his polite tone:
"Have you not dropped something, Miss Forde?
Here, Janet, take this to your aunt."
He stooped with some difficulty, owing to his gouty
foot, and lifted my unhappy shoes off the carpet. I
was the more annoyed as the parcel had opened, and
discovered two or three little last thoughts which I 
had popped in with the shoes just before starting.
He collected with the utmost care a pair of black silk
mittens, a paper of pins, some boot-laces, and, alas!
that it must be confessed, a small box of corn-plaster, 
that all of which he presented to me with an air of
complete unconsciousness.
I could scarcely conceal my vexation. Janet could
not restrain a burst of girlish laughter; her father
turned to her in displeased surprise. The poor child
became crimson; but I put my arm round her waist,
and drew her out of the room with me, joining the
laugh as I did so, for the whole matter was so ludicrous 
that my annoyance soon gave way to amusement.
"Oh, aunt!" she began apologetically, when we 
reached the staircase.
"Don't say a word about it, my love" interrupted
I; "old maids, you know, are privileged to have oddities, 
and henceforth I grant you the privilege of
laughter at all mine as fast as you find them out.
But, tell me, where is Charles? I shall see him, shall
I not?"
Janet's face became gravity itself, and Anna answered:
"No, he is not at home."
"Not at home!" repeated I, in dismay, "but he
will return before I go, I hope?"
"I do not think there is any chance of his being
able to do so," replied Anna, shortly. 
Her manner was so decided, and Janet's eyes had
become so tearful since her brother's name was mentioned, 
that I felt sure there was some mystery behind 
the scenes, and did not like to say any more.
An hour afterwards our little party assembled at dinner. 
The colonel was the kindest and politest of
hosts, but I did not feel very gracious towards him,
for I was sure, from Janet's flushed face and timid
manner, that she had undergone a lecture on the ill-breeding 
of laughing at her aunt. Nevertheless, it
is evident to me that he is an affectionate father,
though, doubtless, somewhat too much of a disciplinarian; 
both the girls seemed fond though afraid of
him, and his manner to the dear little culprit evidently 
shows that he has forgiven her misdemanor,
after duly reprimanding her for it. I wish with all
my heart that he did not think himself such a perfect father, 
and feel bound to keep up his character
on every occasion. Striving after perfection is doubtless right, 
but constantly trying to act up to an inward 
self-consciousness of perfection, is a very different 
and a far less pleasant thing. I must take myself 
to task about my brother-in-law. I am beginning 
already to find his company a perpetual little
provocation to me, and this is both tiresome and ridiculous. 
I cannot describe what there is about him
which I do not like--he is kind, hospitable, sensible,
and gentleman-like; but there is a sort of elaborateness 
and self-consciousness about all he does and
says, which I greatly wish I had not observed, because 
it teases me, and perhaps after all it is only
fancy. It seems as if he were perpetually saying in
his own mind, "Now I am being the courteous host
--now I am going to speak as the kind brother--this
must be said with an encouraging bow to Miss Forde
--now I am showing by my manners that I think women 
have a full right to express their opinions, but delicately 
conveying at the same time that they should
always express them with modesty. I never forget
the well-bred gentleman in the affectionate relation,
nor the affectionate relation is the well-bred gentleman." Oh, if you could but forget yourself, you
would be a very agreeable man! But it is foolish and
even ungrateful to think in this manner, and I will
put it out of my head if I can.
"We are but a small Christmas party," observed
the colonel; "I have not yet been sufficiently long at
home to renew my acquaintance with the other members 
of our family, of whom I have lost sight for so
many years. I confess that I am fond of family
meetings, and always encourage them. They are
right, and I generally find that what is right is also
agreeable."
"You must have been lonely sometimes, when you 
were abroad," said I. "I think the seasons at which
those happy union are natural and habitual, must be
very desolate when you have no familiar faces to
gather around you."
"It was a deprivation, certainly," returned he;
"but I do not think we were lonely. I hope we have
too many resources in ourselves, and in each other,
to find any situation lonely. I should be almost as
sorry to find my children dependent on society, as
disdainful of it."
I felt nearly out of patience, but scolded myself for
my absurdity, and replied very civilly that I thought
he was perfectly right.
"I must look to you," he continued, "for information 
concerning those with whom I hope, ere long, to
become personally intimate. You have just been
staying with the Bryants, have you not?"
"I acquiesced, and said a few words in praise of
those dear creatures.
"My girls," proceeded the colonel, "anticipate
much pleasure and profit from the society of their
cousins. Anna is looking forward to an acquaintance
with Katharine, who must, I think, be nearly her
own age. Is it not so Anna?"
"I really don't know, papa," returned Anna; "I
have not the slightestrecollection of my cousin Katharine, 
and I never thought about her age."
"She is five-and-twenty," said I, secretly amused
at seeing that the colonel appeared a little disconcerted 
by this speech. "Do you remember Frederick?
He has just been distinguishing himself greatly at
college."
"He promised to be clever," remarked the colonel;
"thought I should have supposed him rather brilliant
than solid. He visited us at Nice, during his first
college vacation, and I observed, then, a certain tendency 
to repartee in conversation, a disinclination to
the steady pursuit of any discussion, and, indeed, in
some instances, an apparent incapacity to feel the
force of the arguments which were employed against 
him, which, however natural in so ve[??]g a man--and
I hope I am always ready to make allowances for
youth--were more creditable to his wit and imagination 
than to his judgment."
"He has just taken a double first class," said I, as
demurely as I could.
"Indeed!" replied my brother-in-law, "I rejoice to
hear it. And George--he must be growing into a 
man now--has he not some unfortunate impediment
in his speech?"
"He stammers a little," answered I, "but we hope
it is improving. It will be a great disadvantage to
him if he enters the church."
"A great deal more may be done towards curing
or concealing those little natural defects than people
are apt to imagine," observed the colonel, compla-
cently; I speak from experience. If I were so un-
fortunate as to stammer, I should assume a slow and,
as it were, explanatory mode of speaking, by which
the repetition of the word or syllable would generally
be avoided, and in which, when such a repetition did
occur, it would seem rather an intentional emphasis, 
in character with the manner, than an inevitable
defect."
"Do you think stammering could be cured by such 
a system, papa?" asked Anna.
"I am not prepared to say that it could be cured,
my dear," returned her father, "but I believe it
might, except in very bad cases, be rendered per-
fectly inoffensive. In a somewhat analogous case, I
have followed a similar plan myself, with complete
success. Since I last saw Miss Forde" [with a bow
and a smile to me], "I have been afflicted with a 
slight tendency to gout, but by adopting a slower
manner of moving, which is certainly not unsuited to
my advancing years," [another smile], "I have so
effectually concealed it, that I would venture to say,
that no person, unacquainted with the circumstance,
would ever guess it; and that Miss Forde herself
would be puzzled to decide in which foot the malady
lay."
By the time he had finished this speech, he had
turned to me with an air of modest and triumphant
inquiry, and I was once more reduced to my little stu-
pid laugh, for in the first five minutes I had seen as
clearly as possible that he had got the gout, that he
had it in his left foot, and that he was trying to look
as if he had not got it at all. Fortunately, his self-
complacency on the subject was too secure to be easily alarmed, and he took my short chuckle for a sign
of complete approbation. Soon afterwards we rose
to quit the dining-room, the colonel holding the door
open for us with profound politeness. As we passed
out, he stopped Janet, put his arm round her waist,
and kissed her cheek, I suppose, in token of complete
reconciliation. After all, he is a good creature, and
I like him very much.
Anna apologised for leaving me alone with her
sister till tea time. She is learning German, and
her master, who has many engagements in Exeter,
which is fourteen miles from Duncombe Park, is able
to attend her only at this unusual hour. I was not 
sorry for the opportunity of improving my acquaintance with my youngest and most attractive niece; so
we sat down together on the sofa, and in a very
short time she was chattering away with innocent
freedom, and with a fluency for which I had scarcely
given her credit.
"But, tell me," said I, after listening with interest
to her glowing description ????????? year which
they had spent at Rome, when, as she observed, she
was beginning to be old enough really to enjoy the
wonders, and appreciate the advantages around her,
"tell me something about Charles. Was he with
you at Rome?"
"No," she replied, casting down he eyes, while
her face was overspread with sadness; "it had all
happened before then."
"It!--what?" inquired I, my curiosity now thor-
oughly aroused. "What is the matter about my fa-
vorite, Charles?"
"Oh, aunt Margaret, that is just what I wish so
much to tell you," returned the little girl; "I have
got a letter for you from him," added she, first giving
a cautious glance round the room, and then draw-
ing a paper from her pocket, which she hastily put
into my hand, "but, before you read it, I must tell
you a little, or you will not undersand it. Charles
is married."
"Married!" repeated I, in utter amazement, yet
scarcely able to keep from laughing at the absurdity
of the thing--that my heedless nephew should be a
husband, and that he should employ his little sister
clandestinely to convey a letter on the subject to me,
his almost unknown aunt, was really altogether so
very astonishing, and so completely puzzling, that
the eagerness with which I demanded further information was no more than might have been expected.
Janet informed me, that Charles had become attached to a young French lady at Nice, and that, his
father's prejudice against an alliance with a for-
eigner being absolutely unsurmountable, he had married her privately, about four years ago. With all
the sanguine ardor of his character, he hoped that
the colonel would pardon him when the thing was
irrevocably done, thought he never would have per-
mitted him to do it. He was wofully mistaken.
"Oh, aunt Margaret," said the innocent narrator,
"I never shall forget the evening when it all came
out. It was very dreadful. Charles had been away
for about a fortnight--he pretended it was to make
a little tour--but, in reality, he had gone to be married 
to Mademoiselle de Millebrun. We were all
sitting at tea, when there was a loud ring at the bell,
and the next moment the door opened, and in he
came. He looked odd and excited, as I afterwards 
remembered; but, at the time, I was so pleased to
see him return unexpectedly, that I did not notice it,
but jumped up to kiss him, while papa said, a little
gravely, 'Why, Charles, you have taken us quite by
surprise. We have not received any letter--but I
suppose you wrote, to announce that you were coming?' Papa particularly dislikes surprises of any
kind."
"I dare say he does," rejoined I, observing that
she paused, and I added, in my own mind, "they
must break in terribly upon those systematic methods 
of moving and speaking, which he thinks so
clever."
Janet continued:--
"Well, I scarcely know how it all happened, and,
indeed, I hardly understood it, even then; but, after
a few incoherent attempts to talk as usual, he broke
quite desperately into the subject. 'My dear father,'
said he, 'will you forgive me for the first disobedience
to your commands of which I have ever been guilty?
My--' here he hesitated--'you know, my--the
strength of my affection for Adele--for Mademoiselle
de Millebrun, and'--My father stood up, and his
face was terrible with anger--it was quite white, and
he drew his lips together as if he were almost afraid
of speaking. 'Anna and Janet,' said he, in a very
low, quick voice, 'go to your own rooms--I do not
choose that you should hear this' Anna got up, and
left the room directly, and I stole after her, quite terrified, for, you know, I love Charles so very dearly,
and so I could not help lingering a little, and was
just going to take his hand--for sometimes, when
papa is angry, he lets me coax him, and is quite kind
again. But I did not understand how terribly seri-
ous he was now, and I met a glance from his eye
which frightened me so much, that I dared not stay.
Half-an-hour passed--oh, what a half-hour it was! I
was by myself, and in the dark--I had a kind of feeling 
that I would not ring for a candle, lest the servants 
should find anything out, so I sat down on my
bed, and cried, I hardly knew why, and tried to hear
the sound of their voices in the room below, but I
only heard Charles' voice now and then, and that
was a bad sign, for when papa is excessively angry,
he always speaks low. Suddenly there was total
silence; and, a minute afterwards, I heard a step at
my door, and a whisper, 'Janetm are you there?' I
ran forward, and poor Charles clasped me in his
arms, and kissed me again and again. I felt his hot
tears upon my cheek, and I sobbed, so that I could
not speak to him, and he said nothing but 'Good-bye,
my own darling! God bless you! good-bye!'--at last
he seemed to make a great effort to control himself,
and said to me, hurriedly, and in a whisper, as if he
was afraid of being interrupted or overheard, 'My
dearest Janet, you are not old enough to understand
all that has happened, but thus much I must tell
you. I am married to Mademoiselle de Millebrun--
she is now my wife, and she already loves you as a 
sister--and Anna, too, of course. But my father is
very angry about it, and has desired me to go away,
and refused to see my wife, or to allow me to see you,
my own sisters, again. He says he will never forgive
me, and though he did not blame Adele so much, because she is so very young, only seventeen, he said
over and over again, that, as long as he lived, I should
never set foot within his doors again. I am afraid
he will keep this promise only too strictly, and so I
have stolen up stairs to say good-by to you, and to
beg you, as you grow older, never to forget this last
conversation--never to forget how much I love you,
nor that I have told you, that upon my word and
honor, your new sister, Adele, is as innocent as a 
child, and that you must think of her with affection,
and never suffer anybody to teach you to think un-
kindly, either of her or of me. Will you promise me 
this?' You can fancy how I felt, aunt Margaret,
and what I answered, as well as I could for my tears
I am not telling you about myself, you know, but
about Charles. He then went on to say, that he
was afraid of doing wrong in telling such a child as
I was to hide anything from my father, but he did
not know what to do, he could ?? bear to go on
without hearing from me and writing to me. So he
settled this plan. We have an old nurse who has
lived with us ever since papa married, and who is so 
fond of Charles that she would cut off her hand to do
him a pleasure. Twice a year Charles was to write
to me under cover to her, and I was to answer his
letter, and trust to her to get it taken secretly to the
post"--"It was not right, my love,” interposed I; “he
should not have done it. I pity him very, very much
—but, indeed, it was wrong.” [*2734B*]
“It was more my fault than his,” returned Janet,
blushing with earnestness. “In the second letter
that Charles sent me he told me that he felt he had
done wrong, that his conscience was uneasy on the
subject, and that, great as was the sacrifice, he must
give up hearing from me. But I could not hear it;
so I persisted in writing to him just the same,
and, you know, he could not help answering my
letters.”
"Well, well,” said I, inwardly feeling that in poor
Charles, the boy was truly father to the man, and
that he had grown up the same impetuous, warm-
hearted creature, governed by impulse rather. than
principle, that he was at fourteen—“well, well, Janet,
go on with your story.’
“There is not much more to tell,” she answered;
“Charles made me fetch Anna to wish him good
bye”—
"Oh!" said I;—‘‘and Anna—is she very fond of
Charles? Why did he not go to her instead of to
you?"
“Because,” replied Janet, with a little embarrassment,
“he knew Anna would never have agreed to
write to him against papa’s wishes—besides, Anna
and Charles—I don’t know—they used not to be so
very fond of each other—they used sometimes to
quarrel. But Anna was very sorry indeed, and cried
a great deal, both that night and the next morning.
l often thought she was vexed, too, that Charles did
not go first to her, for she never would speak upon
the subject at all; but if ever I mentioned it, she bade
me ‘Never mind,’ and said I was too young to be able
to understand anything about it.”
“Does she not know that you write to Charles,
then?” asked I, in some surprise.
“Oh, no, no! I dare not tell her; she would
think it wrong, and then she would tell papa directly.”
“And has she heard nothing of her brother, then,
for four years?” cried I, unable to suppress my wonder.
"Yes; she has heard of him now and then, through
a third person,” answered Janet; “Charles and his
wife settled at Boulogne—they are very, very poor,
and he wanted to live as cheaply as possible; but, I
believe, he has found the place dearer than he expected.
Now, we have a friend near Boulogne, with
whom Anna corresponds, and this lady always writes
word how Charles is; from her, too, papa and Anna
heard of the births of his two children. Anna
always gives the letters to papa, but he never makes
any comment upon them.”
“And Colonel Harwood has never shown any signs
of relenting? Four years!—it is a long time to be
angry with a son.”
“Why, l am coming to that,” said Janet; ‘‘it is
the strangest part of all. Anna’s friend, who-wishes
well to Charles, has more than once written to say
how very poor he is—how ‘much distressed in his circumstances.
He has tried to support himself by giving
lessons in English, Latin, and drawing, in which
he is a proficient; but he got very few pupils, and
now he has three persons besides himself to maintain,
and he grows poorer and poorer. At first, he
could not bear that Adele should work, too, but he
has been obliged to give up his objections, and she
and teaches music, but still they earn
very little."
"Has Adele no relations?” interrupted I.
"No, none,” said Janet. “Her family was well-
nigh extirpated at the time of the revolution. Her
mother was its only living representative besides
herself, and she died a year after Adele’s marriage.
I believe her fortune, which is very, very small, is
all they have to live upon except their earnings.”
"And his father can bear to know this?” exclaimed
I.

CHAPTER II.

Janet proceeded with her story—“The last letter
from Anna’s friend arrived about five weeks ago, and
gave a most melancholy account of them They had
been then several months without any pupils at all,
and the lady said she believed they would come to
England to seek employment, if it were not that
they had been compelled to run in debt at Boulogne,
and, not being able to pay their debts, of course they
could not leave the place. Papa gave this letter
back to Anna, as he had done all the others, without
saying a word. But, two days afterwards, nurse
told me that among the letters sent to the post that
morning, had been one directed to Mrs. Charles
Harwood, 'to the care of Madame Vieville, Grande
Rue, Boulogne. I was surprised that he wrote to
Adele, and not to Charles; however, I felt very happy,
and thought it was all going to turn out well at
last. I thought so still more, when, a fortnight
afterwards, as we rose to leave the dining- room, papa
told us, in his shortest manner, that Mrs. Charles
Harwood and her children were coming to spend the
Christmas with us. I could have jumped for joy, and
in my ecstacy I could not help saying, ‘Oh! papa,—
and Charles?’ He knit his brow and said, 'Under-
stand, both of you, that this is a subject on which
I do not choose to be spoken to. You are to hear
what I say, and make no answer.' Of course I dared
not reply, but still I felt quite confident and very
happy, till last Thursday, when nurse gave me a
packet from Charles containing that note for you.
There was also a letter for me, in which he told me
that papa had written very shortly to Adele, saying
that he wished herself and her two children to spend
the Christmas with him. Poor Charles was in ecstacies
—he thought this was certainly the first step
to a reconciliation—he made Adele answer the cold,
brief invitation in the most greatful terms, and he
himself wrote a long letter full of thanks, expressions
of affection and repentance, and entreaties for for-
giveness. This letter was immediately returned un-
opened. It was enclosed to Adele, and in the cover
were written these few lines :—

“**Madam—I shall be happy to receive yourself
and your children as soon after the 17th of December
as you can make it convenient to come to me. I return 
you, unread, a letter which never should have
been written, and which never could have been sent,
had you not made the great mistake of supposing
that I could not distinguish between the misled and
the misleader—between mere weakness and positive
sin. You have never yet had any duty towards me
to fulfil, and therefore you have tranggressed none. I
remain, madam, your sincere well-wisher,

Everard Harwood.”

“Oh, what harsh, harsh words!” cried poor Janet,,
interrupted by her own tears.

After a moment’s pause she resumed her tale—

“Charles told me that, in spite of these bitter
words, which have made him very miserable, he cannot 
give up all hope; he thinks still that papa must
be intending to relent, and therefore he has decided
that Adele and the children shall certainly come.
He desires me to tell you the whole history before
you read his letter to you, and—but now, dear aunt
Margaret, please read the letter.”
  I opened the paper, as she desired, and read as
follows:

“My dear kind aunt Peggy-"

“Poor Charles!" said I, involuntarily stopping to
wipe my eyes. I began again—

“My dear kind aunt Peggy—For well do I remember 
your kindness to me when I was a boy, and I
should indeed be most ungrateful if I could forget
the thousand and one treats and presents with which
you used to brighten my school-days. It is the recollection 
of all this which makes me hope to find a
friend in you now, and if you have not quite forgotten
the affection which | know you used to bear me
(and I think it would be a hard matter for you to
leave off loving any one), you will not refuse to help
me now that Janet has told you my sad story, and
you know how unhappy I am.”
“But how, how can | possibly help him?” asked I,
interrupting myself again.
“Read on, and you will see!" cried Janet, whose
face was full of joyful hope. I continued to read-
  “I will not take up your time by defences or apologies
for my conduct, I was to blame- I was wrong
-I don't seek to deny it, either to myself or to 
others. But I am severely punished, when I see the
sweetest wife that ever brought happiness to a man's
heart and home, and two innocent babes, actually
suffering from want. Of my own personal affliction
from the displeasure of a father whom I must ever
revere, and the cessation of intercourse with sisters
whom I love most tenderly, I will say little. Perhaps
I deserved it. But has not my punishment lasted
long enough? Now, my dear aunt Peggy" (the boy
must know by instinct how that name wins its way
to my heart), "will you use your influence in my behalf?
My father has the highest opinion of you.
I have hard him say repeatedly that there is no
person to whom he would so willingly confide the education
of his daughters as to yourself. He has
likewise a warmer feeling towards you, remembering 
that you were the favorite sister of my poor mother. 
I cannot help imagining that he is now just in the 
state of mind only to require to have the matter reasonably
put before him to induce him to yield. I
cannot but hope that a few arguments and a little
persuasion from you would win my cause. WIll
you refuse to make the attempt? No, I am quite
sure you will not; and the idea of your consent sends
a feeling of happiness through my heart, to which
it has been very long a stranger. God bless you, my
dear aunt Peggy, and prosper you in the effort which
I am sure you will make for me. I need not commend
my Adele to your kindness- you will love her
the moment you see her. And as to the piccaninnies,
I know you love all babies, and I don't think
you will like my little son and heir the less because
he is reckoned the image of his unlucky father. 
Perhaps you will say I should write 'blameable' for
'unlucky,' and perhaps you are right; however, 
amid all my faults and misfortunes, I still have 
pleasure in signing myself, 
"Your affectionate and grateful nephew,
"Charles Harwood."
I put down the letter, and there was Janet's 
beaming face at my side. She clasped her arms
about my neck, half-sobbing, and saying, "Oh dear
[SEE FOURTH PAGE.]


aunt Margaret, you say yes, don't you? you will try
for poor Charles, I'm sure you will." What could
I do but kiss her, and promise to do my best? et
never did maiden aunt feel more bewildered than I
did in the new position I had thus involuntarily 
assumed. In the first place, I was a little afraid of
my brother-in-law at all times; and, in the present 
instance, I felt by no means sure that he would not
resent my interference, as quite uncalled for and impertinent.
But then both Janet and Charles seemed
so secure of my fluence with him; and then thought
I, supposed I should succeed, suppose I should reconcile
son and father, of what happiness should I be
the cause, and what a delightful remembrance it
would be for me, to the end of my life! Owen says,
that to appeal to me about my usefulness, or my influence
with others, is attacking me on my weak
side. And certainly, when I leave a house, I do
like to be able to say to myself that I have done
some good in it. How could there be a better opportunity
of doing good than this? I am getting
sanguine, and my hopes outweigh my fears.
  I am the more inclined to be confident because I 
cannot but agree with Charles that the invitation to
Adele, cold and ungracious as it is, must be considered 
as a sign that the colonel intends to relent. If 
he has no such intention, why did he not send them 
a remittance, instead of that unaccountable invitation?
Poor dear Charles! Who could have fancied 
he remembered me so well and so kindly? He was
always a favorite of mine, but I little thought that
the trifling kindesses of so many years ago would
make so deep an impression. How he must have
suffered! and my sweet Janet, too1 what a singular
mixture of prudence and feeling has she shown for
so young a girl! The prudence has been taught her 
by fear, which, as I have often observed, will teach
a sorrowful kind of caution, very painful to witness, 
even to a little child. But Anna- there is a mystery
in her. She must have a cold heart, I am
afraid; perhaps her affections have never been encouraged
to expand, for I suspect Janet is the favorite 
both with brother and father. As to Colonel
Hardwood, the more I reflect on his character, the 
more hopeful I feel, though I was at first so much
cast down. His temper, though roused to one violent
ebullition by such defiance of authority, is evidently
under control, and would certainly never
show itself towards me, of whom he has so high an
opinion.  But I must go to work very carefully, and
manage to introduce the subject at the right time,
and in the right manner.  Everything depends upon
that.  Some people in my situation would go 
blundering straightforward to the point they wished to
attain, and spoil their work by the clumsy method
of doing it.  But I fancy I have rather an aptness
for the sort of thing, and with the help of a little
woman's wit, I do not despair of succeeding.

     I am writing this account of my first day at 
Duncombe Park, in my bedroom, before going to rest,
and I have so lost the thread of my story in meditating 
on the grand effort which I am to make tomorrow,
that I had nearly forgotten to say how the
evening passed off.  There is not much to record.
Anna joined us at the tea-table, and I tried to win
my way through her reserve by talking to her of the
German Poets, with whom I supposed she was
beginning to make acquaintance.  But she seems more
occupied with the grammatical structure of the
language, than with its literary stores, and she has a
school-method of classing the "stars" which 
somewhat amused me.  She puts Schiller above Uhlahd
because he is less easy to comprehend, while Gothe
stands highest of all, not by reason of his marvelous
genius, but "because he is so very difficult."  The
exquisite "Herrman and Dorothea," is, however, an
exception among his works, and was contemptuously
dismissed with the observation, "Oh, that is quite
easy; I read that when I was only a beginner."
This manner of judging was new to me as applied
to literature, though I have remarked that it is common
enough with reference to the fine arts; the accomplished
pianist who utterly despises Mozart, and
takes a cool superior tone above Beethoven, will
speak with rapture of Thalberg or Doehler, and with
a reverent awe of Chapin, proportioned to the
difficulty of unraveling the involved mazes of his time,
and deciphering the mysterious double sharps and
triple flats, wherewith he is pleased to diversify the
monotonous simplicity of musical notation.  He is a
politic man doubtless.  Who cares for plain C?  It is
a note of no importance or dignity whatever.  But
call it D double flat, and immediately it is invested
with a character of grandeur and originality which
it might have sought to attain by any other means,
in vain.  The doctor who tells you to drink camomile
tea three times a day, has no title to your
respect--no claim upon your faith.  He might have
won both if he had but had the sense to call for a
sheet of paper, and write--Decoctio florar: camomil:
ter diem.
     After tea, my brother-in-law, who had watched my
conversation with evident satisfaction (I kept it up
the more diligently because I am of course anxious
to encourage the high estimation in which I find that
he holds me, and because I observed that he was
pleased to see that I was likely to assist his daughters
in their studies), drew his chair forward and
addressed me in his blandest and most cordial manner.
"I like," said he, "to encourage and keep up all the
old-fashioned customs connected with this season of
the year.  I am no enemy to merry-making in proper
place and time, and among the other innocent
amusements with which our grandfathers and 
grandmothers were accustomed to while away the long
winter evenings, I, for one, see no objection to a
good game of cards."
     His voice assumed a tone half-inquiring,
half-congratulatory, as he closed his speech, and slightly
rubbing his hands together, he looked pointedly at me,
as much as to say, "Here's a tolerant, benevolent,
cheerful, benignant brother-in-law, and father of a 
family for you."  The plain English of these words
and looks of deferential self-approval, was, that Col.
Harwood chose, on every winter's evening, to play
whist for two mortal hours, and that I was expected
to supply the place of the Dumbie who ordinarily
held the fourth hand in the rubber.  I positively detest
cards, and am generally in the habit of making
all sorts of mistakes, even in the simplest games;
this evening, however, in pursuance of my plan of
establishing myself in my brother-in-law's good
graces, and maintaining him in that good opinion of
me which he has chosen to adopt, I assumed my
 place at the table very amiably, and gave my whole
attention to the matter in hand.  And as, happily
for me, I was Janet's partner, my want of skill passed
unnoticed, for the colonel was too well pleased to
win, to depreciate the abilities of his antagonists,
and we parted for the night, the best possible friends.
And now, before I lay my head on my pillow, one
more look upon those skies of dark, clear, frosty blue
on which every star stands out like a hewn projection
of glittering diamond.  Oh, perpetual reproof
of the littleness of man!  Is it not marvelous that
he has walked beneath you for five thousand years,
and has not yet received the placidity of your greatness
into his soul?  Would it not seem as though one
glance upon the majesty of the midnight heavens
were enough so to subdue calm, and humble the
spirit of a mortal, that all strifes, envying, and 
jealousies, all vanity and all meanness, should depart
from it, never to return, giving place to noble
shame, and assured though reverent hope? Surely,
he who should ask his bitterest foe to forgive him,
amid the silent magnificence of night, could never be
repulsed!--Poor Charles!  My last thought before 
I sleep, is of you--my last prayer is for the
reconciliation of the father and son, and a voice
within assures me that it shall not remain unanswered.
{CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.}
Dumcombe Park. 
[CONCLUDED.]
DEC. 15th.---What a simpleton have I been! 
could beat myself for very vexation!  My ridiculous
vanity has been at the bottom of it all---I am
ashamed to look back at the pages of my journal, and
see how I had worked myself up into believing that
I was appointed to heal the wounds and soothe the
differences of this family.  It is astonishing that
could so deceive myself.  And now I have done harm
instead of good;  and I wish my tongue had been cut
out before it exposed itself and me by such uncalled 
for absurdity.  Well, it is fit that I should narrate
all the particulars of my unhappy failure, as a punishment
for the past, and a lesson for the future. 
found no opportunity in the course of the morning
for introducing the important subject.  I had weighed
the matter well in my mind, and decided that the presence
of my nieces would be an obstacle to my success
and that I must choose some occasion when I should 
be alone with their father for making the attempt. 
This view I founded upon my supposed comprehension 
of the colonel's character, and I plumed myself 
not a little upon the penetration wherewith I imagined
that I had estimated his various peculiarities, 
and the skill wherewith I believed myself to be suiting, 
allowing for, and taking advantage of them. 
Poor, silly aunt Peggy!  you are fit for nothing but
worsted work, letter-writing and small talk!  It
seems to me, now, as though Charles and Janet were
mad to give me such a commission---but theirs are
young heads;  what is to be said of the discretion of
their mature confidante and agent? 
To proceed, however---I passed the whole day in 
studying to please and oblige my brother-in-law.
At breakfast he amused himself by giving me, in a
style at once elevated and colloquial, sublime and familiar, 
a sketch of the habits and pursuits of himself
and his household.  Had not every tone and gesture 
so completely expressed "this is the picture of a rational
and happy family!"  I believe I should have 
responded to his description by that very remark; 
but this incessant modest consciousness, and candid 
confession of great merit, effectually checks all disposition 
to admire.  I found that he considered it part
of his duty as a father, to exercise a certain sort of
superintendence over the education of his children; 
at present he was engaged in reading Italian with
Anna, and giving Janet lessons in history.  After all, 
he is really a well-read and accomplished man, and I
have no right to ridicule him.  His system of historical
instruction seems to be a particular hobby;  all 
his information is imparted by means of tables which
he draws up, and which Janet has to study till she is 
thoroughly mistress of the dates and succession of incidents
for the period under consideration.  It is then
her business to compile from books, with which he 
supplies her, an abridged account of all the events 
noted in the table, according to the order of their occurrence. 
The colonel is exactly the kind of man to
reduce all knowledge to a matter of tables, systems
and abridgments.  Nothing that exceeds the limits 
of a book of reference appears to him worthy of acquisition; 
and I could fancy him giving a "Tabular 
view of the characters i Shakespeare's plays, forming
a key to a condensed edition of his works, in
which all the similies are omitted, and every phrase, 
scene, or allusion, which has no direct reference to
the evolution of the story, carefully expunges."  In
the plenitude of my amiability on this unlucky day, 
I offered him assistance in drawing up the parallel
tables of the histories of France, England Spa 
Italy, during the first half of the thirteenth ce
on which he was then employed.  He seemed greatly
pleased at the idea;  and I worked for a couple hours
under his direction. 
When the tea things were removed in the evening, 
it appeared that poor Anna was suffering from so violent
a headache, that she was unable to take her
place at the whist-table, and the colonel, with a vivacity
that surprise me, proposed that he and i 
should adjourn to his study, and finish the business 
of the morning---a suggestion in which I, of course, 
readily sequiesced.  He seemed quite eager about it; 
it is amusing how rapidly the primness and pompousnes
of a man will evaporate under the influence
of a real, downright hobby---for all have their hobbies, 
even teh prim and pompous.  He lighted  a candle
himself, and conducted me to his sanctum, moving, 
however, with the staid dignity which his gout 
rendered necessary, and which, on the present occasion, 
seemed more burthensome to him than usual. 
We there spent half an hour in hunting for authorities, 
after which we were to return to the drawingroom, 
to work upon the materials we had obtained. 
But, alas! my head was full of poor Charles, and my
own enterprising determination.  Instead of being an 
assistance to him, I was the greatest possible drawback; 
I turned over the leaves of a kind of dream, 
gave every date wrong, fitted the personages of one
country into the history of another, violently compelling
them to assume the costume of a third, and
winding up my description with an abridged account
of the arts, manufactures, and literature, of a fourth.
The colonel is not a bright man, and his confusion
was boundless. 
"What is your authority," asked he, at last, with
much politeness, as he held my rough sketch in his
hand;  "what is your authority for attributing the
social state of Spain in the thirteenth century, to the
effect of the Norman invasion in the twelfth?  You
have mentioned it several times, and here.  I see, you
name 'the Conqueror,' but without designating more 
particularly the leader of this Norman invasion " 
"You have got the sketch of England," cried I, in 
some perturbation 
"No, indeed," he returned, showing me the word
Spain, in large letters, at the head of the unlucky
sheet. 
"Will you have the goodness to let me look at the
volume from which you have drawn up this little
account." 
In a kind of bewilderment, I handed him Adam's
Roman Antiquities, which happened to stand next 
Rapin, and he spent at least five minutes in hunting
through the index with knitted brows, and a face of
increasing surprise, before it occurred to him to look
at the title.  Then his patience seemed a little disturbed, 
and I even thought I heard him mutter to 
himself the words, "Confound the Roman Antiquities!"
However, he speedily recovered his usual 
courtesy, and proposed that we should return to the
drawing-room, adding, with a smile, that he thought
I had work enough for one day.  He rose as he spoke. 
2735 

and I felt desperate.  It is clear, that I could not
have chosen a worse moment for my experiment than
this;  but some spirit of evil judgment possessed me, 
and I plunged into the dilemma headforemost, without
pausing to consider. 
"I wished to speak to you, Colonel Harwood," 
said I, getting extremely hot, and feeling, at the instant, 
as if I were pronouncing my own sentence of
transportation for life. 
Standing still in his progress towards the door, he
turned towards me with an air of polite interrogation. 
He said nothing, and I was compelled to proceed, 
though I felt that it was an abrupt and umpromising
beginning. 
"I have a great favor to ask---or rather, it is not
a favor to me, but to your dear girls---your dear 
children I should say, and even to yourself."  His 
brow visibly darkened, but, by this time, I had warmed
with my subject, and went on fluently.  "Ah, my 
dear brother, it is so grievous that there should be a 
disunion in your family---now at this joyful time of
year, when, as you say yourself, all those who love 
each other ought to draw the bonds of their affection
more closely, and feel that the one great cause for
common thankfulness and common humiliation should 
heal all wounds and reconcile all differences;  do not 
be angry with me for imploring you to forgive poor 
Charles, and take your son back to your heart again. 
He is sincerely penitent;  that I know---and surely he
has suffered long enough, and bitterly enough.  If
his dear mother were alive, how earnestly would she 
join my entreaty;  for her sake, if for no other reason, 
grant him your forgiveness, and let us celebrate this
Christmas by a happy meeting of the whole happy
family." 
While I spoke, the expression of my brother-in-law's
countenance had changed from boundless astonishment
to extreme indignation, and it was only 
the strong effort which he made to restrain his passion 
and behave with becoming calmness, which 
prevented him from bursting in upon me, ere I had
concluded.  As it was, he did hear me to the end, 
though I am quite certain, that form the moment in
which he became aware of the purport of my speech, 
he neither listened nor heeded, but was solely employed 
in subduing his wrath, so as to be able to
cut the matter short at once with due dignity, but, 
at the same time with a proper degree of politeness 
and composure.  It was in this spirit that he answered--- 
"You must pardon me, my good lady, but this 
interference in family matters is scarcely well judged. 
I should be very sorry to speak harshly to you, 
and I am quite sure that you have the best possible 
intentions.  After I have once put it clearly before 
you, that I am the sole judge of my own conduct, 
and that your position as a greatly esteemed sister, 
does not exactly entitle you to direct or advise me
in the management of my family, I feel sure that 
your own good sense will show you that you have 
been in error, and that delicacy and propriety will
induce you to avoid mentioning the subject to me
again.  Let us, therefore, forget the last five minutes, 
and return to our former friendly intercourse as if
they had not occurred." 
He thought he had done it to perfection.  The
mixture of authority, gentleness, and resolution, 
could not have been better contrived to overwhelm 
me with shame, and reduce me to silence.  But, as 
he uttered the last gracious words, and was advancing
with a slight and dignified wave of the hand to
quit the room, that spiteful little demon who seemed
ever on the watch to convert his sublimity into absurdity, 
caused him to stumble against a footstool, 
and, in order to save himself from falling, he was 
obliged to sit down with extreme suddenness on a 
chair which happened to stand near.  As he did so, 
however, he maintained an air of unconsciousness, 
though his face flushed a little, and he looked boldly 
at me, as much as to say, "Will you presume to 
think for a moment that I did not intend to sit down 
in his chair!"  And now, what can I say for myself! 
At my age, under my circumstances, with my 
whole heart full of interest for poor Charles, and
indignation against his father, was it not inexcusable
that I was unable to restrain my sense of the
ludicrousness of this little incident?  I could not restrain 
it, and I laughed aloud, though his eyes were
full upon me.  No offense could be greater than
this.  Actually pale with passion, he turned from 
me, saying, in a suppressed tone of voice---
"This levity, madam, is wholly unaccountable, 
unless I am to suppose it a premeditated insult."
He struck his had vehemently and angrily upon 
his writing-desk as he spoke, and the historical
tables flew upwards with a great flap, and put out
the candle.  The scene was now complete---or rather
it attained pe  ction in the next minute, when my
stately and     us brother-in-law, finding himself in
the     , anc    equally great distance from the 
door and the bed, was literally obliged to solicit the
aid of my arm to return to the drawing-room, having 
twice struck his gouty foot against some obnoxious
chair or table, in his attempt to complete the transit
unassisted.     [*2735 A*]
"Will you have the goodness to give me your arm 
as far as the hall?" said he, in a short, snappish, 
sulky tone of voice, as unlike as possible to his usual
dignified sauvity.  I hastened to comply, and happy 
was it for me that he could not see my face, for, as 
we cautiously traversed the study floor, and I felt the 
pressure of his arm upon mine, and knew all the
while that he was absolutely boiling over with rage 
against me, it was all I could do to keep from laughing
in his face a second time.  Anna's headache was
a great comfort to us during the awkward hour and
a half which passed ere we separated for the night. 
It was a sufficient reason for the profound silence 
which prevailed.  The sufferer lay on the sofa and
never spoke;  Janet and I sat side by side, engaged 
with our embroidery, and occasionally conversing in
suppressed tones, and my poor brother-in-law leaned 
back in his easy-chair, and pretended to read. 
Never was a man so thoroughly confounded and
thrown out of his usual mode of action as he was 
that evening.  I suppose such a thing had never occurred
to him in his life before, nor had the faintest 
vision of the possibility of such a thing ever crossed
his mind.  And he really was quite at a loss, and
did not know how to behave under it.  This, too, 
was one of the most annoying facts of his position to 
him.  Under all circumstances that had hitherto befallen
him, he had preserved his conscious and elaborate
dignity unruffled---whether he were acting the
gracious host, the kind father, the stately master, or
the severe disciplinarian, he had been decided, self-contemplative, 
and self-satisfied in all.  The bursts 
of passion to which he had occasionally given way, 
had frightened those with whom he had to deal, and
left him sole master of the field, with his foes flying 

on every hand.  But he now found himself in the
situation of the Chinese general (pardon the anachronism!) 
who painted his soldiers' faces, and made
them clatter shovels and tongs together, in order to 
scare the English---the English did not run away, 
they stood still and laughed---and the baffled general, 
not knowing how to make his mode of attack more 
awful, tore his pigtail for very vexation.  My poor 
brother-in-law!  How guilty I felt as I stole from 
time to time a peep at his flushed and troubled 
countenance, and perceived clearly that he was quite 
incapable of attending to the newspaper which he
held in his hand, but that his angry and bewildered 
mind was employed in recapitulating to itself my
heinous offences, and musing over the possibility of
inflicting adequate punishment.  I wished him good
night like a culprit, and from the brusque and (to
use an unclassical but most expressive word) grumpy
manner in which he replied, I knew that he had not
yet recovered himself.  I wonder on what line of conduct
he will determine.  I should not be much surprised
at receiving notice to quit to-morrow morning.
And now to bed---but scarcely, I am afraid, to sleep. 
The colonel cannot be more provoked with me than I
am with myself, and the recollection of Charles and
Adele banishes all disposition to slumber, and seems
to put me into a fever. 

CHAPTER III. 
DEC. 16th.---The colonel has chosen his line of 
action, and I have discovered it in a manner which 
precludes the possibility of mistake.  As I descended
to breakfast this morning, I heard him talking to 
his daughters, and paused for a moment on the
threshold of the room. 
"Your aunt Margaret, my dears," said he, in a
sustained     mplacent tone of voice, "is a very
     weak woman.  I should wish to
show her     sible kindness during the time of 
her stay      but, at the same time, I would 
have you v     careful not to suffer her thoughts 
or sen  ments to have any influence over your
own."
"That is exactly what I thought of her, papa," 
responded An     with alacrity. 
In I walked, as demure as possible, and quite contented
to be forgiven, because I was counted for a
fool.  Here is the end of all my secret self-congratulations
on the high place which I held in my brother-in-law's 
good opinion!  I am properly punished for
my vanity.  And now we all go on very peacefully, 
though in a strange manner enough.  The colonel 
tacitly avoids me as much as possible, but is very
civil to me, when we come in contact;  there is an air 
of good-humored condescension about him, and an 
evident endeavor to let himself down to my level 
when he does speak to me;  nevertheless, he seems
half-conscious that his superiority is not genuine, and
never meets my eye if he can help it.  He no longer
treats me to orations of labored ease, on his ways, 
thoughts, and principles;  but this is manifestly a
great restraint to him, and more than once he has 
begun involuntarily, and got as far as "My position 
as father of a family -----"  but here ought to come 
the affable littl ebow to me, so here he stops, clears
his throat with an air of vexed recollection indescribably
comic, glances towards me with a half-alarmed
expression, to see whether I, am laughing, 
and suffers the premature speech to die a natural 
death, one scarcely knows how.  Anna follows his
lead very closely, and is as cool and civil as she can 
be.  The only difference between them is, that she
sometimes brings me to a difficult passage in her
German studies, and looks a good deal provoked
when she finds that I am able to explain it.  Sweet
little Janet continues faithful and fond, and wins 
every day on my affections.  I told her simply that
I had made the effort to soften her father, but had 
completely failed;  and though she cried bitterly, she
was so grateful to me for my zeal in her brother's 
cause, that she seems to love me all the better for it. 
If it were not for her, and for my great anxiety to see
Adele, who is to arrive the day after to-morrow, and
to discover what the colonel's intentions are with regard
to her, I think I should bring my visit to a very 
speedy conclusion.  As it is, I shall stay to the end 
of the month for which I was originally invited;  but
I cannot help thinking that I shall not soon receive 
a second summons to Duncombe Park. 

DEC. 18th.---Adele is here.  She arrived form Exeter
at about 12 o'clock to-day.  I scarcely know
whether I like her or not, and at present I certainly
do not understand her.  I must begin at the beginning,
however, and write down all that has taken
place, and perhaps, in so doing, I may attain a clearer 
comprehension of my own thoughts concerning her. 
Anna and I were at work in the drawing-room when 
she arrived;  a little confusion in the hall, and the 
pleasant sound of a young child's voice, announced 

her, some five minutes before she actually made her
appearance.  I longed to run out and bid her welcome; 
indeed, I was in the very act of doing so, but
Anna sat perfectly still, and I felt as if I had no right 
to be more empresse than she was.  Janet was in the
school-room, taking her French lesson;  so altogether 
there was an awkward, chilly pause, during which I 
looked wistfully at the door, and pitied with all my
heart the young stranger whose entrance I expected
every minute, and whose feelings I could well imagine. 
I consoled myself by remembering that she
was a Frenchwoman, and therefore was not likely to
lose either grace or presence of mind, even under
these most trying circumstances.  I was not mistaken. 
She entered and received Anna's cold embrace, 
without the slightest appearance of embarrassment, 
 lifting her large, dark, brilliant eyes to her 
face with so fixed and penetrating a gaze, that the 
hostess was abashed rather than the guest.  She held 
by the hand her little boy, a lovely child of three
years old, and the nurse followed with the baby.  I
was touched, and even overcome, but so repelled by
the mother's manner, that I was glad to hide my
emotion by stooping to caress the little ones.  Adele 
is not regularly handsome, but her eyes are magnificent, 
and when she lifts her full, wan eye-lids, the
radiance absolutely astonishes you.  She is small, 
and very fragile in figure, and her pale olive complexion 
gives the idea of the delicate health.  Her dress, 
and her whole aspect, had the painful air of poor 
gentility---telling clearly of an effort to make the 
smallest possible expenditure produce the best effect. 
Thus her gown, a common print, such as maid-servants
wear, fitted her with the most scrupulous precision, 
and was made in the last style of fashion;  her
snowy cuffs and collars were embroidered by her own 
hands, and her coarse straw bonnet was put on with 
the grace of a true Frenchwoman.  The fairy proportions
of her feet and hands, and the quiet elegance
of her whole deportment, might have become a duke's
daughter.  She said very few words, and her foreign 
accent was markedly perceptible.  I could not make
out at the time, neither can I tell now, whether she
felt the meeting as she might be expected to feel it; 
one thing is certain, she is either very callous, or
very accomplished in the art of controlling the emotions. 
Had I been in her place, I am sure that I
could not have restrained my tears for a moment. 
After the first greetings were exchanged, Adele
stooped to untie her little boy's straw hat, and she
was thus engaged when the colonel entered the room. 
Now, thought I, comes the great trial;  and, fully expecting
her composure to give way, I advanced sympathisingly 
to her side, and said, in a low voice: 
"Here is Colonel Harwood."  I wanted to give her a 
moment's preparation for the encounter.  Her face 
did flush a little, and she kept her eyes resolutely
fixed on the ground;  but, to my surprise, she very 
quietly finished releasing her boy from the confinement
of his hat and large fur tippet, and then led
him forward to his grandfather, whose salutation she
received quite calmly, but in silence, and without 
raising her eyes for a moment.  The child looked 
splendidly handsome;  his cheeks glowing with the 
keen frosty air, and an abundance of rich brown curls 
falling around his bright innocent face, and resting 
on his plump white shoulders.  Even the colonel 
seemed to be somewhat moved at the sight of his 
grandchildren;  he twice cleared his throat, and his
usual fluency forsook him.  Nothing could be more 
painful than the silence and awkwardness of the
whole party, and everybody appeared to feel it, 
except this inexplicable Adele, who was quite
placid and composed, though more silent than all the
rest.          [*2735  B*]
"What is your name, my fine fellow?" said the 
colonel, drawing his grandson towards him, and making
a desperate effort to shake off the embarrassed
faces around him. 
The child turned with an impulse of timidity to
his mother, who put her hands upon his shoulders, 
and slightly urged him towards the questioner, without
herself speaking.  Then the little fellow lifted
his cloudless blue eyes to Colonel Harwood's face, 
and replied in that grave, doubtful manner in which 
a young child strives to repeat anything that has 
been taught to it: 
"Everard, grandpapa---your own name;"  then 
clinging to Adele, with a fresh access of shyness, he
added in a loud whisper:  "Is that right, mamma, is
that right?" 
Colonel Harwood walked abruptly to the window, 
and at this moment Janet entered;  Anna introduced 
her to Adele almost as if she had been an ordinary 
morning visitor, and it was a relief to the poor girl's 
overcharged feelings to turn to the baby, a sweet fair 
creature of eleven months old, which in five minutes 
she was nursing as though she understood the business
scientifically, and had practised it all her life.
Indeed, had it not been for the children, I do not 
know how we should have got throu[gh th]at interminable
morning;  the five hours wh[ich el]apsed before
we went to dress for dinner seemed longer than 
any hours that I ever passed in my life.  Knowing, 
as I did, all the feelings which ought to have been, 
which must have been, burning with different degrees
of intesity into the very heart of every member 
of the party, never did the ordinary etiquette and decorum 
of society appear so misplaced, so utterly
senseless, so indescribably burthensome.  But I certainly
was not the person whose business it was to 
throw them aside;  and, much as I longed to clasp my
arms around Adele, and tell her how completely she
possessed my sympathy, and how ready I was to love
her, a single glance at her cold, inanimate countenance 
effectually deterred me from any exhibition of
the kind, and I was as quiet and well-behaved as the
rest.  Janet had all the natural shyness of a very
young girl, who, not having sounded the depths of 
her own or of any other heart, scarcely comprehends 
what she finds there, and fears to express any feeling
without a certain degree of encouragement.  So we
first walked a little in the grouds, and looked at the
improvements, and admired the prospects;  and then
we talked of the weather, which certainly one would 
have thought was quite a safe theme;  however, it
naturally led to a comparison of the climates of
France and England, and then we dropped it with
one accord, as leading us dangerously near the subject
of Adele's former life.  Indeed, the one thought 
which much have been uppermost in each mind seemed
to start up at every turn of the conversation, like
a ghost, to scare us into silence.  Scarcely a word was 
said that my busy fancy did not interpret into some 
possible innuendo, or allusion to things forbidden. 
It really was wretched, and my relief was boundless 
when the first dressing-bell sounded, and the restrained
and uncongenial party who had been so long
keeping up the mockery of politeness, had leave to
separate. 
As soon as my toilette was completed I went to
Adele's room to offer my assistance to her, thinking
that her one maid must be sufficiently employed in 
unpacking the wardrobe and attending to the children. 
I tapped at the door, and receiving no answer, 
opened it to ascertain if the lady had already descended. 
Adele was lying on the bed, her head thrown 
back, and her eyes closed.  She was still in her morning
dress, and I advanced in some alarm, inquiring if 
she was ill.  At the first sound of my voice she started 
up, and her naturally pale cheeks were flushed 
with the deepest crimson as she hurriedly answered 
that she was a little tired with her journey, but quite 
well, and would dress immediately.  In another moment
she had recovered her calmness, and the manner
in which she thanked me for my offered services, 
showed so clearly that she would rather be left alone, 
that I had nothing to do but to withdraw, which I
did immediately, feeling that my intended kindness
had been repulsed.  Yet her manner was too gentle
to give offence, and I could not divest myself of the
idea that she was very unhappy.  Even now I see 
her face before me, as it appeared when I entered the
room unawares---the expression was that of exhaustion 
and acute suffering.  Why does she thus withdraw
form my sympathy?  Surely she must see that, 
among these cold hearts, mine, at least, is ready to 
open to her with affection, if she would only let it. 
But there is that about her which effectually checks
every demonstration on my part, and the more I
warm towards her, the more resolutely and effectually
chilling does she become. 
The evening was as comfortable as the morning.
Conversation was chiefly kept up by the colonel and
his eldest daughter;  I joined occasionally, rather because
I felt the awkwardness of being silent than because
I had anything to say.  Janet was quiet and
timid, and Adele maintained the composure and reserve
of her manner u          ely liftin[g] her
eyes for a moment, an[d]        in ever[yth]ing 
that was said, in as few words as possible.  Sometimes
I think she is excessively afraid of the colonel, 

which in not wonderful, considering their relative positions. 
Sometimes I think she is really and truly
very dull, and has no opinion of her own about anything. 
Indeed, this latter supposition appears highly 
probable, form her total absence of interest in every
subject that was discussed.  Whether Anna spoke to 
her about the shortness of the days at this season of
the year, or about the beauty and intelligence of little
Everard, there was the same unmoved, unbrightening
countenance, and the same unmoved, unbrightening
countenance, and the same unmeaning and polite
affirmative.  She has none of the volubility said
to be so characteristic of her countrywomen, and I do
not think she could bring herself to utter more than 
ten words in succession.  Yet this is not from any difficulty
of expressing herself in English, which she 
speaks with perfect ease, though, as I before observed, 
with the accent of a foreigner.  The colonel is
evidently observing her closely and forming his estimate
of her character.  I wonder whether he finds, 
of fancies that he finds, the problem easier to solve
than I do.  After tea, music was proposed by way of 
varying the entertainment of the evening;  Anna and
Janet played some duets very nicely, and Adele performed
a fantasia by Doehler with wonderful precision 
and brilliancy.  The colonel, who has some
taste for music, kindled into admiration, and pressed
her to sing, which at first she very decidedly declined. 
When he reiterated the entreaty, however, appearing
to imagine her refusal a piece of conventional 
young ladyism, she hesitated, colored, and finally
moved to the piano, with the air of a victim, 
struck a few chords, and began Beethoven's exquisite
"Kennst du das Land;"  but her voice was
hoarse and feeble, and scarcely carried her through
the first page;  when she attempted the accelerated 
time of the second, it failed her completely;  she broke
down in trying to reach the higher notes, and rose in 
some pertubation ere she had finished the verse, professing
her total incapacity to continue.  We were, 
of course, very civil in our regrets, but her want of
power was so manifest, and her vexation at it so
irrepressible, that the matter was immediately dropped 
DEC. 22d.---The same state of affairs continues.  I
do not think that a single member of our party is
more intimate with Adele now, than when she arrived
on the 18th;  yet I have done my utmost to penetrate
her reserve, and so has Janet, in her own innocent
manner.  Every morning directly after breakfast
Adele retires to her apartment for two hours, 
"in order," she says, "to carry on the education of
her little boy."  Of this the colonel highly approves, 
though, if the urchin, who is only three years old, 
were really pursuing his studies at the rate of two
hours a day, I should consider it one of the most
shocking evidences of the march of intellect that has
ever come under my notice.  I do not believe a word
of it, however, and think it is only a pretext to obtain 

a short time of freedom during the day.  At
about twelve o'clock the lady appears, and stitches
diligently at her worsted-work till luncheon;  I have
watched her, and I do not think she once lifts her
eyes from the canvass.  Such excessive industry is
in itself a bar to conversation, and ours accordingly
flags;  five minutes being the average interval that
elapses between the remarks that we respectively
contrive to originate.  After luncheon the carriage is
ordered for a drive;  Adele and Anna invariably form
two of the party, and I am sometimes a third, but
more frequently the colonel drives out with them, 
and I take a long country ramble with Janet, which 
I thoroughly enjoy.  I pity Adele for these drives;  if
she has any feeling beneath that frigid exterior, how
intolerable must they be!  And so passes the day; 
the evening being generally occupied by music or
cards, for the colonel has descended to vingt-un and
speculation, now that we are too numerous for his
rubber.  And all the day through Adele is quiet, 
cold, and complying as at first.  The only symptom 
which she gives of having "that withing that passeth 
show," is an occasional low, long sigh, so supppressed 
indeed, that you would not notice it unless you were
close to her, but indescribably painful to hear, because 
it seems to come from an over-charged and
worn-out heart. 
Later on the same day.---The colonel has done me
the honor to impart to me his opinion of his daughter-in-law. 
He thinks her a very sensible, well-behaved
young person, fully conscious of her own position, 
and very grateful for, what he is pleased to denominate,
the kindness which she has received.  He
thinks, too, that she appears to possess a most docile 
and gentle disposition, and he added that he had no
doubt that the purpose for which he had invited her
here would be completely answered. I looked as I
felt---curious;  but he did not deign to enlighten me, 
and left me with a slight bow and a benignant
smile.  There is profound peace between the colonel 
and me at present.  I think, however, that we owe 
it rather to the deep interest which we have both 
been taking in our new inmate, and which has absorbed
all minor feelings, than to any more congenial 
dispositions in ourselves.  Whatever the cause be, 
the result is that the colonel is himself again, and
to-day at dinner he treated us to one of his best-turned
periods on the subject of domestic life, illustrating
his theory of perfection by a modest appeal 
to the practice of himself and his daughters. 
Warming with the theme as he went on, and thinking
only of his daughters, he said:  "I have always 
reflected that, in the intercourse between parents
and children, the utmost possible independence 
should be allowed on the one hand, the utmost possible
deference maintained on the other.  I have endeavored, 
to the extent of my ability, to carry out
this principle, and I flatter myself, Miss Forde (he
was in full swing now), that it would be difficult to 
find three persons more thoroughly happy in each
other's affection than myself and my girls."  Self-deceived
as he was, and strange as it seemed that he
should really be able to reconcile to his own practice
a theory such as that which he had just enunciated, 
he was positively amiable at this moment 
There was such genuine affection in the glance with
which he regarded Anna and Janet, that one felt 
disposed to overlook the little strain of triumph in 
which he was indulging, and to forget that, in applying
his principle, his mental vision was affected 
with an unconquerable squint, so that while he
thought he was looking at the "utmost possible independence
allowed by himself," he was in reality
only seeing the "utmost possible deference," which 
no one could deny that he exacted from his daughters. 
But I had scarcely time to observe him, for
my attention was riveted to Adele's face of irrepressble
wonder.  When he commenced his allusions to 
domestic felicity, she had stooped a little more forward
than usual, and appeared intensely interested 
in dissecting the chicken-wing which lay on her
plate.  As he proceeded, she lifted up her splendid
dark eyes---I declare it is the only time I have fairly 

seen them since she entered the house---and literally
stared at him, with an expression of inquiring
amazement, as though she thought he were a singular
sort of phenomenon which it was really worth 
while to investigate.  Then she colored violently, 
cast down her eyes again, struggled to resume her
usual manner, but as he concluded, answered him, 
as if she could not help it, in a low and bitter voice, 
"You are very sarcastic."
The colonel turned towards her in unfeigned surprise, 
but she stopped the inquiry which was on his
lips, by saying, hurriedly, "I beg your pardon for
my bad English, I meant very successful." 
"Yes," replied he, with an air half-puzzled, half-uneasy, 
"I believe I may flatter myself that I have
had some success."
There was an awkward kind of pause, during
which the blush which had everspread Adele's features 
seemed rather to deepen than to diminish, and 
it was a relief to us all when Anna gave the signal 
for withdrawal.  Adele, as we passed through the
hall, said something confusedly about having a bad
headache, and ran up stairs to her own room, from 
which she did not emerge till we were assembled at 
tea.  It had seemed to me that she ran away because 
she was unable to restrain her tears, and my opinion 
was now confirmed by the sight of her flushed cheeks 
and red eyes.  I do not understand her, though it is 
plain that she feels a great deal more than she
chooses to exhibit.  If she would but let me comfort
her! 
DEC. 27th.---It is long since I have opened my
journal, for the events of the last few days have absorbed
me so completely, that I have found neither
time nor inclination for writing them down.  I must
now, however, attempt to narrate them in due
order. 
During the first four days of Adele's sojourn 
amongst us, it was evident to all that little Everard
was making rapid progress in his grandfather's affections. 
There are few hearts that can resist the
fascinations of a child at that most charming of all
ages (just three years), and the mixture of perfect 
unconsciousness with perfect confidence is as amusing
as it is irresistible.  Whether from previous instruction 
or from natural inclination, the little fellow
took a decided fancy to his grandpapa, and used 
to climb the colonel's knee and pull away his newspaper
with an audacity which made his aunt Anna's
hair stand on au end, but which generally obtained 
a caress rather than a reproof.  Adele watched the
progress of affairs quietly, but with manifest satisfaction; 
I too had begun to grow sanguine, though
an idea which sometimes crossed my mind, that the
colonel intended to disinherit his son in favor of his
grandson, prevented me from indulging hope with 
any degree of confidence.  Thus did matters stand, 
when, on the fifth day, Colonel Harwood stopped us
as we were leaving the dining-room (this seems to be
his chosen time for family scenes), and expressed a
wish to speak with Adele.  All the poor young 
lady's assumed calmness forsook her in an instant. 
She became as white as the dress she wore, trembled, 
and grasped my arm for support, with a most
appealing glance that seemed to express her confidence
in my sympathy, and to implore me not to
leave her.  The colonel perceived her trepidation,
and apparently not sorry to have a female auxiliary
at hand in case of hysterics, for which he entertains 
a peculiar horror (at least, thus I interpret his conduct), 
requested me also to remain, with his blandest
smile.  The door closed behind Anna and Janet, 
and we were left alone.  Adele sat down breathing
quickly, and struggling for composure.  The colonel 
stood before her, cleared his throat slightly, and
after a moment's pause, thus addressed her: 
"You can hardly have supposed, Mrs. Harwood, 
that I had not some ulterior motive in inviting you
to my house.  Pray do not be distressed.  I entreat
you not to agitate yourself," [how cooly, when your
very heart is bursting, do friends entreat you "not
to be agitated," as if it were a matter of choice, and 
you wee doing it on purpose because you liked it!] 
"I wish now," proceeded the speaker, "to explain 
to you as briefly and as kindly as possible, what are
my present intentions, and I shall then hope for
your answer, though I would by no means hurry
you to a decision." 
He paused, and Adele bowed her head in reply.  Her
cheeks were glowing, her eyes sparkling, her whole
countenance joyful with the radiancy of hope, but
she really did not seem capable of articulating.  [I] 
thought her absolutely lovely at that moment.
Colonel Harwood continued:  "I intend to make
Everard my heir;  the boy has every promise of talent, 
and an excellent disposition.  It is natural that
entertaining these intentions towards him, I shoul[d] 
wish to have him under my own eye, as much 
afford him those advantages which are suitable t[o] 
his prospects, as to remove him from those influences 
which I should consider injurious to his character
while it is in process of formation.  I there 
fore propose to receive him as a member of my family, 
to be treated in all respects as if he were my own 
son.  But I have more to say to you.  During the
last four days I have had some opportunities of becoming
acquainted with you, and I can assure you
that they have afforded me unmixed gratification. 
The deference of your manner towards myself prove
abundantly that you feel and regret the offence committed
against me by another.  I wish, as I said to you
in my note, to distinguish---I should be sorry to involve
innocent and guilty in the same condemnation---in 
short, while there are offences which I feel that I can 
never pardon, there are errors towards which I would 
fain be indulgent.  I feel that a permanent separation 
between yourself and your child would be a 
great drawback to my present scheme, and I consider
you in all respects a fit companion of my daughters. 
I should therefore wish yourself, and both 
your children, to become inmates of my household 
and I need scarcely say that I am ready to take upon 
myself the whole expense of your maintenance, and
of the education of the little ones.  And although I
stipulate that all intercourse with my---that is, with
their father should cease, I am quite ready to allow
of an interchange of letters at stated periods.  It
may be as well, perhaps, to point out to you, in
conclusion, the advantage which will accrue to that 
person, by the proposed arrangement;  he will be relieved
from much expense and great anxiety ---
moreover, I would pledge myself, under such circumstances, 
that his interest should be properly cared
for." 
He ceased.  Adele had listened to him in speechless
and wondering attention, as though she scarcely
trusted her ears, or comprehended what she heard. 
Twice or thrice she passed her hands over her eyes
and forehead with an impatient movement, as though 
she would fain get rid of some oppressive weight or
film which impeded her perceptions.  As he con- 



cluded, however, she started from her seat, clasped
her hands together, and exclaimed, with a vehemence
of agitation which defied all restraint:  "Good
God, is it possible?  What have I been listening
to?  My own Charles---my beloved, injured, suffering
husband---is there, can there be, such a cold, hard
heart in the world as to ask me to leave him?  I
could not have believed it.  And you are a father! 
Oh, you unhappy man, you, who have never known, 
who have never felt, who cannot even understand, 
what a true, deep, fond affection is---how it brings
happiness in misery, and strength in weakness, learn
that I would rather live in the extremity of want, 
that I would work, starve, die, sooner than deprive
myself and my children of the delight of their father's
presence, or take from him the comfort of our

society.  Learn that no temptation should induce me
---no, none---to give my little ones such an example
as yours, instead of such an example as his. 
Learn that I hold the poorest beggar, who loves 
his children, and who does his duty by them, 
for a better and happier man than you are.  And
it is possible to have such a cold heart?  Separate 
wife and husband, father and children---I would 
sooner send my son to a charity-school,  I would
sooner take him to a workhouse, than give him to
be chilled and hardened by you.  And all these four
years that we have been so miserable, that we have 
lived in actual want;  that our days have been days 
of labor, and our evenings evenings of weariness, 
and our nights have too often passed in the sleepless 
wo of those who knew not how to provide for the
morrow;  when each has lain through the long said
hours scarcely daring to breathe for fear of disturbing
the other, and daylight has come and shown 
that both were still waking;  even that very anxiety
has been our happiness, while it has deepened our
misery, because it rose out of the depth of our love. 
My own dear Charles!  and through all these long 
melancholy years he has endured in patience, and
not once, never once has breathed one syllable of
complaint against his father.  His reverence and his 
affection have never failed him for a moment;  if he 
grieved, it was for your displeasure, not for his own 
suffering;  he has hoped, longed, lived upon the idea
of your forgiveness;  he has taught his boy to love
your name, and tried to teach the same lesson to
his wife;  he has condemned himself, but never you, 
and forgotten all your harshness to think of your
old kindness, which must have been fancy, and your
former affection, which could be nothing but a
dream   And he sent me here in hope, and urged 
and entreated that I would suppress my indignation, 
and forget his wrongs, and wait patiently;  and for 
his sake I have borne it, for the love of him was
able to subdue the feelings which had arisen out of
itself;  but I have scarcely been able to bear it---and
he is hoping still---waiting for the happy news---and
this is what I have to tell him,  THIS!  God forgive
you, and God comfort him!"     [*2735 C*]
She had poured forth these burning words with
an impetuosity which precluded the possibility of
interruption, and she now stopped because utterance
failed her, and burying her face in her hands, gave 
way to an agony of tears.  Colonel Harwood stood 
absolutely silent;  the voice of truth and nature was
too strong for the man of conventional principles, 
who had built up in himself a fabric of imaginary
virtues, and gazed upon it and exhibited it, till both 
he and others had forgotten that these very foundations
were rotten, and that a breath would blow it
away.  It seemed as though the lie of his whole life
stared him in the face for the first time, and he was 
struck dumb by the vision. 
Adele now struggled to compose herself, and grasping
my hand, continued to speak, though in an interruped
and faltering voice:  "Dear, dear aunt
Peggy, forgive me---how I have repulsed your kindness, 
and put away your sympathy!  Indeed, indeed, 
I could not help it.  And my sweet Janet, too, what
must she think of me?  But I had been schooled
into calmness and moulded into submission;  I had 
promised him that nothing should induce me to
show that I really felt, and the only means of doing
this was never to give way for a moment.  I dared 
not even meet the kind eyes that I knew were looking
upon me, or it would have been all over with my
self-command.  Four wretched, wretched days!  and
how have they ended?  But I will go---this very
night---I will not sleep under the roof again---I will
go back to him, to my deceived, hoping, desolate
husband, and bring him, at least, the comfort of
one loving heart that could never turn form him. 
But ah!  how shall I tell him---how can I crush his
hopes?  It will kill him, I know it will!  And it is
his own father!" 
She turned away as she pronounced the last agitated
words, and was hurrying from the room.  So excited
was she, that I believe she would have been
out of the house in another half-hour, children, 
trunks, and all, on the road back to her darling husband. 
Her hand was on the lock of the door, but
Colonel Harwood called her back. 
"Adele," said he, in a low, strange, disturbed tone
of voice, "do not go.  Come here---I did not know
that Charles, that my son"---
He stopped speaking.  Adele was so absorbed in
her indignation that she scarcely listened or comprehended;
but I seized her hand, and, yielding to the
impulse of the moment, exclaimed: 
"Go back, go back---he is going to forgive him." 
She gazed first in my face, then in the colonel's, 
with a wild look of amazement;  then forgetting her
anger in an instant, in the return of hope for Charles, 
she darted back, threw herself on her knees, and
covered Colonel Harwood's hand with tears and
kisses.  I was not mistaken.  In the bottom of every
man a heart there is, there must be, a stream of true 
natural feeling;  the difficulty is to pe[petu]ate deep 
enough to find it.  Often, as in the present case, the
rock must be stricken ere the waters    flow;  and, 
certainly, it must be confessed that the stroke had
been no light one.  The idea of his son, suffering, 
repentant, but still loving and revering the father 
from whose displeasure his misfortunes proceeded, 
had unclosed the gates of the old man's heart.  It
had taken him by surprise.  All this time he had 
looked upon Charles as a disobedient and rebellious
child;  upon himself as a justly severe and injured 
parent.  The tables were turned, and he found himself
the hard-hearted oppressor of one who had never 
ceased to deplore a fault for which he had already
been bitterly punished.  A thousand softening recollections
had been called up by Adele's vehement
words---in short, he had been taken by storm, and
was compelled to surrender at discretion.  But the
revulsion of feeling was too much for the young wife; 
she fainted, and was carried to her room, but not
before she had mustered self-command enough to tell
me to write to Charles, and to give me his address, 

which, somewhat to my surprise, was in Exeter.  He
had accompanied her to England, and was holding
himself in readiness for the summons which he could
not help hoping to receive, and which, I write it with
joy, he received that very evening. 
He arrived by daybreak the following morning. 
His father received him alone, and what passed between
them, I know not;  but the reconciliation was
evidently complete.  The young man's joy was absolutely
rapturous---he could not contain himself.  He
folded his sisters in the closest embrace, kissed his
aunt Peggy a dozen times in a minu[t]e, tossed up his
boy, and flew at his baby, till even the pale Adele 
lifted herself from the sofa, where she lay, exhausted 
both in mind and body, to implore him to "take care
of the children."  And then, sobered in a moment, 
he stole to her side, and wound his arm around her, 
looking at her with an expression in which the love
of years was concentrated, and calling her "his own 
sweet wife, to whom he owed it all."  I was surprised 
to see how completely all Colonel Harwood's absurdities
vanished beneath the refining and elevating 
touch of nature.  He now was what he had before 
professed himself, a father in the highest sense of the
word, and the deep and affectionate respect with 
Charles evidently regarded him, did not seem misplaced
or exaggerated.  When we separated on that
happy Christmas night, the expressive manner in 
which he uttered the few simple words, "God bless
you, my son," went to the hearts of all;  and Charles 
himself involuntarily dropped on his knees, and
kissed his father's hand, while his eyes overflowed
with tears. 
I felt that the sincere repentance, and open acknowledgment
of error, visible tin my nephew's whole
deportment, effectually connected the view of the
case which Adele's excited feelings and passionate
love for her husband had given, and made the moral 
of the story as true as the end of it was beautiful. 
No one who saw or heard Charles could forget that
he felt that he had offended deeply, and suffered
justly, and the gratitude with which he received his
father's forgiveness, showed clearly that he did not
think that four years of poverty and unhappiness 
had been too hard a punishment for his disobedience. 
What a joyful fortnight was that which followed!
Even Anna warmed into amiability---and, as to the
colonel, I actually learned to love him, and to consider
those foibles, which I had before found so annoying, 
as the most innocent peculiarities in the
world. 
And how did I feel as I drove away from Duncombe
Park, when my visit was concluded, and I
recalled that sentiment which I had inscribed to my
journal, namely, that I never liked to leave a house 
without being able to reflect that I had done some
good in it?  What good had I done here?  Little 
enough---but I had received much.  The reconciliation 
of father and son had indeed been effected, but
not by any of my judicious contrivances and ingenious
manoeuvres---it had been the straight-forward 
work of genuine feeling, without any contrivance at 
all.  And though I cannot but feel a little humbled
when I recollect my anticipation of success, I have 
received and useful lesson, and one which is nowise 
diminishes my exceeding happiness in the result.
Colonel Harwood and I parted exc[e]llent friends, and
I am engaged to spend another month with them in 
the autumn of next year, to celebrate my favorite
Janet's seventeenth birthday.  To this visit I look
forward with great interest.  I am very curious to
see how those various characters will assimilate, 
after the tension of feeling consequent upon the reconciliation 
has subsided sufficiently to allow their 
respective peculiarities to resume their usual prominence. 
I want to study Anna, who is still a mystery
to me, to prosecute my intimacy with the interesting
Adele, to become as great a favorite with the baby
as I already am with little Everard, to enjoy the
society of Charles and Janet, who both love me, and
towards both of whom I feel more as a mother than 
as an aunt, and to do my best to regain the ground
which I have lost in my brother-in-law's estimation. 
I must close my description of my first visit to Duncombe
Park, by heartily wishing a happy new year
to all its inmates---and I shall be at least as much
disappointed as grieved, if the wish does not attain 
fulfilment. 

WORKING FOR A LIVING.---The following excellent
article in the "Offering," edited by the factory girls
of Lowell, breathes the right spirit: 
"Whence originated the idea that it was derogatory
to a lady's dignity, or a blot upon female character, 
to labor? and who was the first to say sneeringly, 
'Oh, she works for a living!'  Surely, such
ideas and expressions ought not to grow on republican
soil!  The time has been when ladies of the first
rank were accustomed to busy themselves in domestic
employment.  Homer tells us of princesses who 
used to draw water from the springs, and wash with
their own hands the finest of the linen of their respective
families.  The famous Lucretia used to spin 
in the midst of her attendants;  and the wife of Ulysses, 
after the seige of Troy, employed herself in
weaving until her husband returned from Ithaca." 

A FINANCIAL QUESTION, ANSWERED BY MR. DUMP. 
---A. has given a bill to B, and A. finds himself
without a shilling when the bill has only two days
to run.  Now, what is A. to do under such circumstances?
Answer.  If the bill has two days to run, A. has of
course two days to run, also, and he had better run 
accordingly. 


The New Comer. 
BY HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
I well remember that the strongest feelings I
ever entertained towards any human being were
towards a sister born when I was nine years old. 
I doubt whether any event in my life ever exerted 
so strong an educational influence over me
as her birth.  The emotions excited in me were
overwhelming for about two years;  and I recall 
them as vividly as ever now when I see her with
a child of her own in her arms.  I threw myself
on my knees many times in a day, to thank God
that he permitted me to see the growth of a human
being from the beginning.  I leaped from 
my bed gaily every morning as this thought 
beamed upon me with the morning light.  I
learnt all my lessons without missing a word for
many months, that I might be worthy to watch 
her in the nursery during my play hours.  I used 
to sit on a stool opposite to her as she was asleep, 
with a bible on my knees, trying to make out
how a creature like this might rise "from strength 
to strength" till it became like Christ.  My great 
pain was (and it was truly at times a despair) to 
think what a work lay before this thoughtless 
little being.  I could not see how she was to 
learn to walk with such soft and pretty limbs; 
but the talking was the despair.  I fancied that
she would have to learn every word separately, 
as I learned my French vocabulary;  and I looked
at the big Johnson's dictionary till I could not
bear to think of it.  If I, at nine years old, found 
it so hard to learn through a small hook like that 
vocabulary, what would it be to her to begin, at
two years old, such a big one as that!  Many a 
time I feared that she never could possibly learn
to speak.  And when I thought of all the trees 
and plants, and all the stars, and all the human 
faces she must learn, to say nothing of lessons,---
I was dreadfully oppressed, and almost wished
she had never been born.  Then followed the relief
of finding that walking came of itself---step
by step;  and then, that talking came of itself---
word by word, at first, then many new words in 
a day.  Never did I feel a relief like this, when
the dread of this mighty task was changed into
amusement at her funny use of words, and droll 
mistakes about them.  This taught me the lesson, 
never since forgotten, that a way always lies open 
before us, for all that is necessary for us to do, 
however impossible and terrible it may appear 
beforehand.  I felt that if an infant could learn 
to speak, nothing is to be despaired of from human 
powers, exerted according to God's law.  Then 
followed the anguish of her childish illnesses---
the misery of her wailing after vaccination, when 
I could neither bear to stay in the nursery, nor
to keep away from her;  and the terror of the
back stairs, and of her falls, when she found her
feet;  and the joy of her glee when she first knew
the sunshine, and the flowers, and the opening
spring;  and the shame if she did anything rude, 
and the glory when she did anything right and 
sweet.  The early life of that child was to me a
long course of intense emotions, which, I am certain, 
have constituted the most important part of 
my education.  I speak openly of them here, because
I am bound to tell the best I know about
household education;  and on that, as on most 
subjects, the best we have to tell is our own experience. 
And I tell it the more readily because 
I am certain that my parents had scarcely any
idea of the passions and emotions that were working
within me, through my own unconsciousness 
of them at the time, and the natural modesty
which makes children conceal the strongest and
deepest of their feelings;  and it may be well to
give parents a hint that more is passing in the
hearts of their children, on occasion of the gift 
of a new soul to the family circle, than the ingenuous
mind can recognise for itself, or knows how
to confide.     2736 

HONOR BRIGHT---A FACT. 
Uncle Zekiel had a pair of fat oxen to
sell, and one day he said: 
"I mean to drive my oxen down to Brighton 
myself, and sell um." 
"You'd better not," said Si, says he, 
you'd better send me, father, for you know
I can make a sharp bargain;  but they'll 
make you believe the moons made of
green cheese, down there." 
"No, no, Siah." says uncle Zeke, says
he, "I know what I'm about, and don't want
a gardeen yet," says he. 
Well, one morning uncle Zeke started, 
bright and airly, with his fat oxen, and off
he went.  He didn't get home till next day, 
but one, and as soon as we see him coming
up the hill, we all begun to ask him questions
about his trade;  but uncle Zeke didn't
answer till he got ready, and when he got
ready, says he:---     [*2737*] 

"I sold um for sixty dollars," says he. 
"Have you got the cash with you?" says
Si. 
"No, Siah," says uncle Zeke, "I havn't."
"Who did you sell um to?" says Uncle Ethan. 
"I don't know the man's name," says uncle
Zeke. 
"Why, can't you take out the note and
read it?" says Si, says he. 
 "I havn't got no note," says Uncle Zeke. 
"What security have you got, then?"
says Si, says he, and his eye began to look
pretty big. 
"The security I've got is good security
enough for me," says uncle Zeikel, says
he, "the man said he'd meet me a fortnight
from to-day, at the Four Corners, and pay
me sixty dollars in silver."
"Where does the man live?" say uncle
Ethan. 
"I don't know, says uncle Zekiel.
We all begun to laugh but Si, and he
didn't look by no means as pleasant as new
cider.  At last, says he---
"Well, father," says he, not very slow, 
"this beats all you ever done before," says
he, "you'v gin away our fat oxen to a
man that you don't know, and you han't
got nothing to show for it."
"Wait til a fortnight from to-day," says
uncle Zeikel, "the man looked like an honest
man, and I believe he is an honest man. 
He said he would meet me at the Four
Corners and pay the money, and I believe 
he'll do it," said he. 
Si didn't say another word, but he turned
on his heel and went straight off to the
barn, looking as if he didn't want to play. 
Poor uncle Zeikel was laughed at all
over the hill for his trade, and every time
one of the K****s met him they called out
--- 
"Well, uncle Zeikel, have you got your
sixty dollars yet?"
"Just you wait," says uncle Zeke, says
he. 
Well, when the time come round, uncle
Zeikel went down to the Four Corners for
his money.  We kep a pretty good look 
out, and when he came back we went down
the hill, a little peace, to meet him.  Si
says to him, with a scornful kind of laugh, 
says he--- 
"Well, father, your honest man met you 
at the Four Corners and paid you the sixty
dollars in silver, I suppose." 
"Yes, he did, Siah," says uncle Zeikel, 
and with that he pulls a bag of dollars out
of one of his saddlebags, and then pulls
another bag of dollars out of the other
side.     2737  [*A*] 
"Yes, he did, Siah," says uncle Zeke again, 
"here is the money.  He looked like
an honest man, and he was an honest man; 
but I'd rather be cheated a little now and
then, than to be always suspecting every
creature, as you are, Siah."---Yankee
Blade. 

THE RESCUED: 
OR.
A SCENE IN A COUNTRY VILLAGE. 
BY H. SPALDING, PA. 
In passing through a small village in the
interior of Pennsylvania, some few months
ago, my attention was attracted to a collection 
of men on the porch of (what appeared
to be) the principal tavern in the town.  It
was early in the morning, and as I had not
breakfasted, I concluded to stop and take that 
meal, and ascertain the cause of the gathering
of the people at so early an hour;  particularly, 
as the rain was falling in torrents at
the time.  I stopped, but instead of that curiosity
usually exhibited by the inhabitants of
a small country town, on the appearance of
a stranger, my arrival was scarcely noticed. 
The ostler happening to be at hand, came
forward and took charge of my horse, requesting
me, quiet politely to walk in.  In
complying with his request, I had to pass
through the crowd;  but no one appeared to
take the least notice of me as I entered the
house.  I could observe that they all seemed
to be engaged in deep conversation though
in a subdued tone!  It cannot be a political 
meeting, thinks I, the hour and the absence
of that boisterous excitement generally attending
2738 

meetings of that character, preclude the
idea, and plainly indicate it to be a meeting
of some other kind.  Within the house, all 
was still and quiet.  After remaining solitary
and alone for some time, absorbed in 
wonder and surmises, the ostler made his
appearance, and inquired for the landlord.---
The boy left the room, and in a short time
an elderly, plain dressed female came in, to
know my wishes. 
I told her I wanted breakfast, and she left 
the room.  I walked to the window, the
crowd appeared to be gradually dispersing,---
in front of several houses, I saw boys busily 
engaged in saddling horses, whilst here and
there, others were attaching horses to carriages
or buggys;  and in a few minutes some
eight or ten horsemen and nearly as many
vehicles silently left the town, all going the
same direction. 
"What can all this mean?"  I mentally
enquired of myself, but self was at fault and
unable to answer.  I turned from the window
and re-seated myself by the fire. 
In a few moments, an old gentleman came
in and took a seat near me.  We sat for some
time in silence.  My curiosity, though not 
generally very troublesome, was, on this occasion, 
 I must acknowledge, considerably excited. 
And stranger as I was, to the old 
gentleman, I took the liberty of inquiring of
him the cause of the gathering of the people. 
"Friend," says he, "a deep gloom has
thrown its sable pall over our village."
The old man's voice faltered, and on turning
my eye towards him, I saw that his were 
filled with large tears, which he hastily
wiped away, and recommenced speaking, in 
a somewhat firmer tone---
"An esteemed and worthy young man," 
said he, who was born and raised in our midst, 
(until recently, he married an amiable wife 
and settled himself in a small town some 15 
or 20 miles distant,) "was on a visit to his
parents and friends who reside in this place, 
and yesterday morning, notwithstanding the
heavy rain storm then prevailing, left us, and
set out to return to his home, to the home of
the beloved partner of his bosom, and his two 
infant children;  but whom an all-wise Providence
had decreed he should meet no more
forever in this world! 
"He was a young man beloved and esteemed
by all that knew him, for his many
good and amiable qualities;  he was, in truth, 
every body's friend.  Some few miles short
of his home, he had to pass a stream of water, 
which was ordinarily of no great magnitude, 
but which was then, in consequence of
the recent heavy rains, considerably swollen. 
Unconscious of danger, he attempted 
to pass the stream, but was quickly overwhelmed
by the rushing flood." 
"Persons that saw him, say that he could
have saved himself, but his noble, his generous
nature, prompted him to attempt, (even 
at the risk of his own,) to save the life of
his horse, an animal he highly prized;  and in 
his efforts to cut him loose from the carriage, 
both were drowned.  To search for the body 
of our friend, which has not yet been recovered, 
but lies still buried under the troubled
waters, is the sorrowful errand of those, you
now see leaving our village." 
Here again the old man's voice faltered, 
but he quickly recovered and continued his
narration---
"The sad fate of her beloved husband,"
said he, "soon reached the ears of his expectant
wife;  who, uttering an agonizing
shriek fell fainting to the floor, and was with
much difficulty, so far restored to consciousness, 
as to be able to realise the cheerless
truth, that she is no longer the idolized wife 
of a kind and devoted husband, but a desolate
widow, the mother of two helpless babes 
dependent on her, their only remaining earthly
parent. 
"But who can describe the scene that
occurred at the house of his parents and sisters, 
(for he was their only son and brother,) 
when in the dead hour of the night, a messenger
arrives in our village, stops at his father's
door, arouses the family from their 
midnight slumbers, and discloses to them the
sad intelligence.  Many of our villagers were
awakened by the fearful shrieks of the mother
and sisters, and instantly repaired to the
house to learn the cause of such vehement
grief;  but on learning the cause, we were 

all so much affected as to be utterly incapable
of attempting to offer consolation to those
friends to whom he was so near and dear. 
The rain still continuing, and my business
not being of a very urgent character, I concluded
to go no further that day.  Towards 
evening, a horseman is seen rapidly approaching
the town.  He is the bearer of 
intelligence from the party that had gone
forth in the morning to search for the corpse; 
it has been found;  it has been rescued from 
its watery grave, and will be brought on for
interment in the morning. 
After what I had heard of the character
and sad fate of the young man, and saw the
estimation in which he was held by those 
who had known him, my feelings became 
deeply enlisted in behalf of those dear friends
he had left behind, and acting under the impulse
of those sympathetic feelings, I resolv- 
to remain until after the funeral. 
About ten o'clock, the village became perfectly
quiet and I retired to bed.  The rain-clouds
had passed away, and a strong northwest
wind was rioting in unrestrained revelry
through the deserted street---the unpleasant 
screeching of the tavern-sign on its rusty
hinges was the only sound that interrupted 
the monotonous music of the wind.  My
feelings and thoughts were of such a character
as to banish
Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep, 
from my eyes for a considerable time.  About
midnight the wind began to lull, and drowsiness
began to exert an influence over my
system, and I had just sunk into a serene
slumber, from which I was partially aroused 
by a clock in an adjoining room striking the
midnight hour.  I was again relapsing into
a state of forgetfulness, when my attention 
was arrested by the rapid clattering of a
horse's feet on the paved road that passed
through the town;  I listened,---it stopped, I
thought, at the front door of the tavern;  all
was a again silent for a moment;  I heard 
some one call, in a somewhat suppressed
voice;  I arose, looked out through the window
---the night was moonless, some straggling
stars were here and there visible---it
was not so dark but that I could discern a
horseman on a white horse, at the door;  he
called a second time, and somewhat louder
than the first call;  I rapped gently against
the window to assure the stranger that his
call had been heard.  I knew that a young
man, a boarder in the house, slept in the
room adjoining the one I occupied;  I opened
the door and awoke him;  in a few seconds
he was at the door, where the stranger was
still seated in his saddle. 
It was the month of October, and the night
one of those changeable nights that sometimes
occur, at that season, in that region. 
A perfect calm now prevaded, so that when 
I raised the sash of my window, I could distinctly
hear what was said at the street door
below. 
"Where does Mr.---------- live?" enquired
the stranger. 
"He lives there, said the young man, 
pointing to a house nearly opposite, where
you see that light in an upper window."
The stranger was in the act of turning his
horse towards the house pointed out, when 
the young man called to him, and said--- 
"Stranger, I would advise you, unless
your business is of a very urgent nature, not
to disturb the family at this time, as they are
in deep affliction on account of the death of 
their son and brother."
"He lives!" said the stranger, turning
quickly around;  "he has been resussitated
---restored to life again---and to communicate
to his  afflicted parents the happy intelligence, 
is my present errand."
"Be cautious, then," said the other, "how
you break to them the glad tidings, or you
will overwhelm them with joy, as completely
as they have just been with grief."
The stranger turned his horse and moved
slowly to Mr.----------'s house, where he alighted
and rapped gently at the door.  The
window above was quickly rased, and a soft, 
female voice inquired, who was there?  I
could not hear the stranger's reply, but the
door was soon opened;  the stranger entered, 
and the door closed.  In a few seconds, 
shrieks of females reached my ears, but they
were not the frantic shrieks of wild despair, 
but those of joy and gladness. 


In a short time, the stranger, accompanied
by several of the villagers, returned to the
tavern.  I hastily dressed myself, came down 
stairs and met them in the bar-room, where
the messenger proceeded to give us a hurried
account of the young man's resusitation. 
I looked around on the group, whilst the
stranger was speaking;  joy was depicted in
every countenance.  When he had finished
his narrative, the party separated, and I once
more returned to my bed and soon fell into
a refreshing sleep, from which I did not
awake until the sun had attained a considerable
altitude in the heavens next morning.  
Just as I was finishing my breakfast a
villager, a young man and a very particular
friend of him who was thought to be drowned, 
arrived.  A crowd soon gathered around
him;  he had left his friend about day-break; 
he had so far recovered, as to be able to give
an account of what had happened to himself, 
up to the time all consciousness forsook him
which his friend now related to us in his own
words:     [*2738  A*] 
"When I first found myself surrounded by
the flood, I was but little alarmed, as I was 
confident I could at any time save myself by
swimming;  but that before doing so, I would
endeavor to extricate and save my horse also. 
I was in water considerable beyond my depth 
and the current was carrying me and my
horse and carriage rapidly down stream.  I
took a knife from my pocket, got out of the
carriage and commenced cutting the harness
in which the horse in some way became entangled, 
and began to plunge, and several 
times he brought me under the water. 
"I now found it would be impossible to
save the horse, and accordingly abandoned
him to his fate, and turned my thoughts solely
to my own safety.  I had an over coat on, 
which considerably impeded my exertions, 
and which getting heavier every moment, I
found would eventually sink me unless I could
divest myself of it.  I made several attempts 
to throw it off, but could not succeed.  I
now found myself sinking under the combined 
weight of the coat, and the exhausting
efforts I had used in attempting to get rid of it.
"I was now unable to keep my head above
the water for any length of time,---I 
was also strangling from the quantity of water
I had inhaled.  Hope of being able to
save myself had by this time nearly abandon 
me;  my recollection had not yet entirely 
left me and the thought of my wife and dear
babes rushed into my mind, and, for them I
made one more, one desperate effort to reach
the shore;  it failed.  I now abandoned all
hopes of saving my life. 
"Some time after this, how long I know
not, I found myself holding in to the bow of 
a small sapling.  I tried to touch the bottom, 
but the water was too deep.  I attempted to
to call for assistance hoping that some one
might be in hearing, but I could not raise my
voice above a whisper.
"It was night, but not so dark but that I
could see I was 15 or 20 yards from the
shore, and to my horror, I could see that the
shore was a perpendicular rock some 10 or
12 feet high.  I was perfectly chilled, to my
very heart.  My hands were so benumbed 
that it was with the utmost difficulty I could
retain my hold on the limb. 
"In this situation I remained until the 
morning dawned, when to my great joy I
heard the voices of person's passing along
the shore above my head.  I again essayed
to call, but I found it impossible to raise my
voice above a low whisper;  I was so completely
surrounded by weeds and the top of
small bushe[s] as to make it impossible for
those passing on the shore to see me, even
if it were perfectly light.  They passed on, 
the sound of their voices no longer reached 
my ear, and my own heart died within me, 
and I again abandoned myself to despair; 
all consciousness left me, and I know not 
what took place afterwards." 
The narrator then informed us that he
was one of the party that first discovered the
body of his friend.  It was found about noon 
on a sand-drift from which the flood was
slowly receding;  to all appearance perfectly
lifeless. 
A small wagon was quickly procured, for
the purpose of conveying the supposed deceased
to his late home.  On the way it was
discovered that it was bleeding profusely 

at the nose and mouth.  A physician who
was one of our party, on observing circumstance, 
directed the driver to stop, ansd
immediately adopted such means as he
thought most likely to bring about a resuscitation, 
and after two hours incessant application 
of those means, symptoms of reanimation 
began gradually to develop themselves, 
and in the course of a few hours more he
began to respire at short intervals and ultimately
recovered his speech, and is now returned
to the arms of a loving and beloved 
wife, nearly restored to health.  Next morning
I left the village fully convinced that more
real charity and true sympathy is to be found
in a country village than in our populous
cities.     [*2738 B*] 

THE CAPTURED BANNER. 
A YARN OF THE MOTEVIDEAN WAR. 

BY NED BUNTLINE.     [*2739*]

"CARAMBA!  QUE INSOLENCIA ! !"  These 
words were uttered by a lovely woman, whose
flashing eye and knitted brow spoke even more
than words of the indignation which filled her
heart. 
She was the young wife of Commodore Coe, 
the commander of the small navy of Montevideo.
The lady was Spanish by birth, as well
as in feeling, and the cause of her anger was 
the sight of a ship, which had been for two
days standing off and on before the harbor, 
using every signal of insult and defiance to induce
the vessel of Coe to come out and fight
him.  This the latter could not do, for two reasons.
The first was illness, which confined 
him to his cot;  the second, that he had not one-third
of a crew, but eve men enough to work
his battery. 
At the moment when she uttered the words
which commence this sketch, Brown, the commander
of the Buenos-Ayrean ship, had hoisted 
a flag at his gaff, whereon was embroidered, in
large legible letters the inscription:  "COE
THE COWARD !"  This was more than his wife 
could stand;  for well she knew her husband's
truth and valor.  After gazing one instant at
the flag, she raised her jeweled hand, and taking
therefrom a diamond of great value, she
cried to the officers and men who stood around
her on the deck: 
"I will give this diamond to any man who
will bring me yonder flag !" 
For a moment there was no response.  The
men looked at their officers, the officers glanced
at each other, but volunteers for a service so
desperate seemed scarce. 
"What !  is there not one of all of you who
dare the trial ?  Is my husband's ship indeed
manned with cowards?"  exclaimed the lady, 
while her beautiful lip curled with scorn, and
her flaming eye gleamed with the fire of contempt. 
A young officer, an Englishman, who had 
been lately appointed, stepped forward and modestly
said--- 
"I was only waiting for my seniors to speak, 
Senora.  Had any one of them volunteered, I
should have begged to accompany him.  As it
is, I pledge myself to bring you yonder flag before
the sun rises again, or to die !  But I ask 
not your jewel as a prize for my success;  one
tress of your glossy hair shall be my reward."
"You shall have both brave boy !" replied 
the lady, and her cold look of scorn changed 
into a sweet smile as she asked his name. 
"It is Frank Bennett, Senora," replied the
young man;  and he blushed beneath her earnest
gaze. 
He was slim, but well formed;  looked very
young, but in his dark blue eye and compressed 
lip, an observer could read one whose manhood
was not made by years alone. 
The sun was sitting behind a bank of slowly
rising clouds, which threatened darkness and
storm.  The moment that his services were accepted, 
young Bennett turned to the crew, and
as he glanced among them said: 
"I want six men to man the whale boat which 
hangs at the after davits !" 
Struck by his gallantry, nearly half of the
crew started forward.  Now that they had a
leader, volunteers were plenty.  Bennett glanced
his eye over them, and in a few moments 
chose six by name, men whom he knew to be
both daring and firm.  They were Americans. 
"Go, sharpen your cutlasses;" said he, "I 
shall not have a pistol or musket in the boat.  If
we fight, it must be steel to steel and breast to
breast;  for we succeed or die!" 
Those men answered with a look.  They
were of that class whose motto is, "Deeds, not
words!"  They hurried below to obey his orders,
while others proceeded by his directions to 
muffle the oars of the boat, to put sails, water, 
etc., in it. 
One half-hour later the sky was covered with 
clouds, and darkness had set in.  Bennett had
been careful to take the compass course of the
enemy's ship when the last light of the dying
day gave opportunity, and by this alone he hoped 
to find her.  At this tie the lady was on the
deck, standing by the binnacle, regarding the
preparations of the little party, who were about
to shove off.  At the moment when the boat's
crew cried out that all was ready for a start, 
their young leader came aft to the side of the
Senora, and taking from his neck a miniature, 
he handed it and a letter to her, saying: 
"If I am not on board at sunrise, lady, please
send that miniature to the direction of the letter." 
The lady looked at the picture.  It was the
likeness of a young and beautiful girl.  A tear
filled the Senora's eye. 
"You need not go!" said she.  "No;  you love, 
perchance are beloved.  Your life is precious. 
I will not expose it.  This is--------"
"My only sister, whom I almost adore !" interrupted
the youth;  "but one who would scorn 

me if I played the coward or dishonored my
name.  Send that letter and likeness to her if I
fall.  Farewell till to-morrow---or forever !"
The lady was about to answer, and again to
entreat him to stay;  but ere she could speak he
was over the bulwarks, and the boat had shoved
off. 
The night was pitchy dark.  A calm was on 
the sea and in the air, but it was portentious of
a storm.  A small binnacle light and compass 
had been placed in the boat, and by these 
Frank shaped his course, himself taking the tiller
and steering. 
"Give way cheerily, men !---a long, strong
and stead pull !" said he, in a low tone, as he
left the ship's side;  and he soon felt, by the
trembling of the frail boat, that his directions
were obeyed. 
Out right into the offing he pulled, regardless
of the rising clouds, keeping his eye fixed steadily
on his compass, until he knew, if the vessel 
had remained have-to as she was at sunset, that
he must be very near her.  But he looked in
vain to see her dark hull loom up in the gloom; 
he looked in vain to see a light which might
guide him to her.  Admiral Brown was too old
a fox to be showing his position by lights. 
At this moment, when he was completely at
a loss which way to steer, the dark clouds which 
had been gathering over him burst with a long
vivid flash of lightning, and a peal of deafening
thunder.  He heard not the thunder;  he
heeded not the rising storm.  That flash of
lightning had showed him the vessel, not one
cable's length from him. 
"Steady, boys !---steady !"  he whispered, 
when the thunder ceased;  "I shall pull directly
under her stern, and get on deck by the carved
work and netting on her quarter." 
The men rowed slowly and silently on, and 
as he had marked well her position, the young
officer in a moment found himself close under
the vessel's stern.  At this instant another flash 
of lightning illuminated sky and water;  and
then, as he glanced up at the gaff, where the
flag had been hoisted, he saw that it was not
there !  It had been hauled down. 
He paused;  thought for a moment what
could be done;  and then formed his resolution.
"I shall go on board alone, men," said he; 
"keep the boat where she is.  If that flag is
where I think it is, in the Admiral's cabin, I
will have it.  If I am not back in five minutes, 
and you hear an alarm, shove off, send to our
ship, and tell them that Frank Bennett died 
like a man !  You must be cautious; reef the
foresail, for the storm will be down upon us in 
less than ten minutes. 
All of this was whispered to the men, whose
hears were bent forward to hear the orders 
which they dared not disobey, much as they
wished to share their leader's peril. 
Springing lightly from the boat, Frank caught
the quarter-nettings with his hands, and noiselessly
ascended to the bulwarks.  He could 
hear the regular tramp of the officer of the deck, 
who having already had every thing reefed 
down for the blow, had nothing to do but to
pace the deck;  but it was so dark that he
could not see him. 
A second more and the brave boy was down 
on the deck and at the cabin door, which stood
slightly ajar.  He peeped in through the narrow 
crack, and say the red-faced old admiral seated
at the round table, with two of his officers
by his side, engaged over the contents of a
square bottle which looked very like that usually
found to contain schnaps. 
A glance at a settee just to the left of this
table, showed the object of the enterprise.  The
flag for which he had periled his life lay there, 
where it had been carelessly thrown after it
was hauled down. 
They young officer did not pause long to consider
what to do, but quietly walked into the
cabin and taking off his cap, bowed very politely
to the officers, and as he stepped toward
the flag, said in a calm and courteous manner, 
to the admiral.
"I have come to borrow this banner, sir, to
wear to-morrow, if you please !" 
"Who the devil are you?  What does this
mean/" cried Brown, as he and his officers
sprang to their feet. 
"I am Midshipman Bennett, sir, of the Montevidean
service !"  replied Frank, who had
now seized the flag;  "and I mean to carry this
flag to Commodore Coe !" 
As he said this, he bounded to the cabin door, 
followed closely by a bullet from Brown's pistol, 
which grazed his ear, and ere the alarm 
became general, he stood on the taffrail of the
vessel. 
"Look out for me below !" he shouted, and
flung himself into the sea, without a moment's
hesitation.  His boat's crew recognized his
voice;  he was caught in a moment, and
dragged into the boat, while a volley of pistol
balls were sent down at random by those who
were above. 
The storm had now broken, and the wind
began to come in with fierce and fitful gusts. 
"Up foresail !  Be in a hurry lads !  up foresail, 
and let her slide !"  cried the young hero, 
as soon as he could draw breath after the
ducking. 
The crew did so, and the next moment the
little boat was flying in towards the harbor, before
the blast, like a glad sea-bird winging his
way to its young ones' nest. 
The enemy opened a harmless random fire of
grape shot in their direction;  but it only served 
to tell the anxious watchers on board of Coe's
vessel that something had occurred.  The latter 
therefore at once showed lights, and enabled
Frank to make a straight course for her. 
It was but a half hour after the first gun had
been fired by Brown's vessel, that the boat of
the young adventurer rounded to alongside of
his own craft. 
"Have you captured the flag ?" cried the
Senor, as Bennett bounded over the side. 
The only answer she received was the banner, 
wet as it was from the water and cut in 
2739  [*A*] 
two places by the balls which had been fired at the captor.      [*2739B*] 
  The lights of the vessel gleamed not half so bright as did the lady's eyes when she caught the noble youth to her arms, and kissed him again and again. 
              [Knickerbocker for February] 





A LEAP YEAR STORY 
  BY JOE MILLER, JR.
  Samuel Smith sat at home, on a New Year's day, in dishabille.  His beard was unshaved, his hair was uncombed, his boots were unblacked, and he was leaning back in a picturesque attitude, with his heels against the mantelpiece, smoking a cigar.  Sam. thought to himself that it was Leap Year, and how glorious it would be if the ladies could only be induced to pop the question, in accordance with their ancient privileges. As he sat watching the smoke which so gracefully curled, his fancy glowed with the idea.  How delightful it would be to have the dear creatures fondling on him, and with tender glances endeavoring to do the agreeable!  As he meditated his heart softened, and he began to feel a squeamish, womanish sensibility diffuse itself over his feelings, and thought he would faint with propriety the first time a young lady should squeeze his hand.
  " Rap, rap, rap," sounded at the door. Sam peeped through the Venetian blinds. " Mercy!" exclaimed he, "If here isn't Miss Jones, and I all in a dishabille, and looking like a fright—goodness gracious! I must go right away, and fix myself up.
     As he left the room Miss Jones entered, and with a composed air intimated that she would wait. Miss Susan Jones was a firm believer in woman's rights, and now that the season was propitious, she determined to take advantage thereof, and to do a little courting on her own hook. It was one of woman's privileges, which had been usurped by the tyrant, man, and she was determined to assert her rights, in spite of the formalities of a false system of society. 
     Meanwhile, with a palpitating heart, Sam Smith went through a series of personal adornments. The last twist was given to his collar, the last twirl to his whiskers, and with white cambric in hand, he descended to the parlor. Miss Jones rushed to receive him, and grasping his hand with fervor, said :
    " Dearest, how beautiful you look," accompanying her words with a glance of undisguised admiration. 
      " Spare the blushes of a modest young man," said Sam; applying his cambric to his face to hide his confusion.
        " Nay, my love, why so coy?" said Susan; " turn not away those lovely eyes, dark as jet, but sparkling as the diamond. Listen to the vows of fond affection.  Here let us rest," said she, drawing him to a sofa; " here, with my arm round thee, will I protest my true affection."
" Leave me, oh, leave me." murmured Sam; " think of my youth, my inexperience—spare, oh spare, my palpitating heart."
       " Leave thee," said Susan, pressing him closer to her; "never, until the story of restless nights, of unquiet days, of aspiration, fond emotions, and undying love is laid before thee.  Know that for years, I have nursed for thee a secret passion.  Need I tell how each manly beauty moved me; how I worshipped like a sun-flower in the lurid light of those scarlet tresses—how my fond heart was entrapped in the meshes of those magnificent whiskers—how I was willing to yield up to the government of that 'imperial'; thy manners, so modest, so delicate, enchanted me—joy to me—for thy joy was my joy. My heart is thine—take it—take it—but let me snatch one kiss from those ruby lips." [*2740*]
    The over-wrought feelings of the delicate youth were too strong, and he fainted from excess of joy.  Meanwhile the enamored maiden hung fondly over him and—
     Slowly the eyes of Samuel Smith opened—he gazed wildly around him—then meeting the ardent gaze of his "lovyer" he blushed deeply, and behind his kerchief faintly faltered out—"ASK MY PA."



THE GEORGIA CENTAUR
How Absolem Nippers cum to leave the Settlement.
BY MAJOR JONES.
    Absolem Nippers was a widower, and one of the particularest men perhaps  that ever lived, though some of the people sed that when his wife was alive he used to dress as common as a field hand, and didn't use to take no pains with himself at all.  In his own settlement he had a monstrous bad name, pertickerlerly  among the wimmin, who used to say that he didn't allow his wife more'n one dress a year, and as for a new shawl or bonnet, the poor women didn't know nothin about sich things.  Every body noticed how he spruced up about six weeks after Mrs. Nipper died, and how he went to church reglar every Sunday, but they didn't have no confidence in his religion, and used to say that he only went to show his new suit of mournin, and to ogle the galls.  Old Mrs. Rogers hated him like pison, and sed she didn't wonder that his poor wife cried broken hearted ; and as for his pretenden to be sorry about it, that was all sham, for she could see plain enuff at the funeral that he had one eye in the grave, and the other on the galls that war thar trying to pick out one of 'em for a wife.
       With sich a character among the wimmin, it aint to be supposed that he stood any sort of chance of gettin another Mrs. Nipper near hom, and whether  he was as bad to his fust wife as they sed he was or not, one things was certain—he had to look abroad for some one to fill her place.
        Mr. Nippers was very lucky in finding a gall just to his mind, what lived about ten miles from his plantation.— Nancy Parker was rich, and tho' she wasn't very young, nor very handsom, she belonged to Mr. Nipper's church, and filled his eye exactly ; so he sot to courting her with all his might.
        Ten miles was a good long ride, and as he was a very economical man, he used to ride over to old Mrs. Parker's plantation every Sunday morning, go to church with the family, take dinner with 'em and ride home in the cool of the evenin. In that way he managed to kill two birds with one stone, that is, to advance the prospects of his happiness on this earth and in the world to come, at the same time without losin any of his week-day time. 
       A ride of ten miles on a hat Sunday mornin, over a dusty road. is very apt to soil a gentleman's dry goods as well as make him and his horse very tired. Mr. Nipper's didn't mind the fatigue so much as his horse, but in a matter sich as he had in hand, it was very important that he should make as good an appearance as possible, so he adopted a plan by which he was able to present himself before the object of his affections in applepy order, with his new Sunday cote as clean, and his blooming rufles as fresh and neat as if they had jest cum out of a bandbox.  This was a happy expedient, and what nobody but a widower-lover would dream of. He used to start from home with his new coat and clean shirt tied up in a pocket handkerchief, and after riding within about a quarter of a mile of Mrs. Parker's plantation, he would turn off into a thicket of chinkapin bushes, whar nobody couldn't see him, and thar make his rural toilet.
[*2741*]

      One bright Sunday mornin, Mr. Nippers had arrived at his dressing ground. It was an important occasion. Everything was promisin, and he had made to pop the question that very day.— There was no doubt in his mind that he would return home an engaged man, and he was reckoning over to himself the value of Miss Nancy's plantation and niggers, while he was setting on his horse making his accustomed change of dress.
     He had drapped the rains on his horse's neck, what was browsin about, making up for the last night's scanty feed from the bushes in his reach, and kickin and stompin at sich flies as was feeding on him in turn.
    "I'll fix the business this time," ses Mr. N. to himself. "I'll bring things to the pint before I go home this night," ses he, as he untyed the hankerchief with his clean clothes, and spread them out on the saddle bow.
    "Who, Ball!" ses he— " I've only jest got to say the word, and— who," ses he to his horse what was kickin and reachin about.  "Who! you cursed fool you—and the bisness is settled jest as slick as a fallin off a log. 
      He was drawin his shirt over his head, when Ball gave a sudden spring what liked to made him lose his balance. "Who! ses he— but before he could git his arms out of the sleeves, Ball was wheeling and kickin like rath at something that seemed to trouble him from behind. Down went the clean clothes on the ground, "Blast your infernal picter—who, now!" ses Mr. Nippers, grabbing at the reins. But before he could git hold of 'em Ball was off like a streak of lightning with a whole swarm of yaller jackets round his tail.
       Mr. Nippers grabbled hold of the main and tried his best to stop his horse, but it was all no use. Away went the infuriated ball, and takin the road he was used to travellin, another moment brung him to the house. The gate was open, and in dashed the horse with the almost naked Nippers hanging to this neck, hollerin "stop him! kech him! hornets!" as loud as he could scream. Out cum the dogs, and after the horse they went, round and round the house scatterin the ducks and chickens, and terrifying the little niggers out of their senses—the noise brung the wimmin to the door.
    "Don't look, Miss Nancy! Hornets!"—"kech him!" shouted Nippers with what breth he had left, as he went dashin out of the gate again with the dogs still after him, and his horse's tail switchin about in every direction like a young hurrycane. 
     Miss Nancy got but one glimpse of her forlorn lover, and before she could git her apron to her eyes she fainted at the awful sight, while his fast receding voice crying "hornets!—stop him!—hornets!— hornets!" stil rung in her ears.   [*2741A*]
       She never seed her devoted Nippers agin. The settlement was too full of hornets for him after that.  What becum of nobody knows, but it's generally believed that he turned into a Centaur, and gwine to this day,  holleain—"hornets! hornets!"