{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_9265/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_9265","id":"gutenberg_9265","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9265","summary":null,"tags":["American periodicals","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Plays/Films/Dramas","Category: Religion/Spirituality","The Atlantic Monthly"],"text":"Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Sandra Brown, and the Project\nGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.\n\nA MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.\n\nVOL. IV.--AUGUST, 1859.--NO. XXII.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE DRAMATIC ELEMENT IN THE BIBLE.\n\n\nWe say dramatic element _in_ the Bible, not dramatic element _of_ the\nBible, since that of which we speak is not essential, but incidental; it\nis an aspect of the form of the book, not an attribute of its\ninspiration.\n\nBy the use of the term _dramatic_ in this connection, let us, in the\noutset, be understood to have no reference whatever to the theatre and\nstage-effect, or to the sundry devices whereby the playhouse is made at\nonce popular and intolerable. Nor shall we anticipate any charge of\nirreverence; since we claim the opportunity and indulge only the license\nof the painter, who, in the treatment of Scriptural themes, seeks both\nto embellish the sacred page and to honor his art,--and of the sculptor,\nand the poet, likewise, each of whom, ranging divine ground, remarks\nupon the objects there presented according to the law of his profession.\nAs the picturesque, the statuesque, the poetical in the Bible are\nlegitimate studies, so also the dramatic.\n\nBut in the premises, is not the term _dramatic_ interdicted,--since it\nis that which is not the Bible, but which is foreign to the Bible, and\neven directly contradistinguished therefrom? The drama is\nrepresentation,--the Bible is fact; the drama is imitation,--the Bible\nnarrative; the one is an embodiment,--the other a substance; the one\ntranscribes the actual by the personal,--the other is a return to the\nsimplest originality; the one exalts its subjects by poetic\nfreedom,--the other adheres to prosaic plainness.\n\nYet are there not points in which they meet, or in which, for the\npurposes of this essay, they may be considered as coming together,--that\nis, admitting of an artistical juxtaposition?\n\nIn the first place, to take Shakspeare for a type of the drama, what, we\nask, is the distinguishing merit of this great writer? It is his\nfidelity to Nature. Is not the Bible also equally true to Nature? \"It is\nthe praise of Shakspeare,\" says Dr. Johnson, \"that his plays are the\nmirror of life.\" Was there ever a more consummate mirror of life than\nthe Bible affords? \"Shakspeare copied the manners of the world then\npassing before him, and has more allusions than other poets to the\ntraditions and superstitions of the vulgar.\" The Bible, perhaps, excels\nall other books in this sort of description. \"Shakspeare was an exact\nsurveyor of the inanimate world.\" The Bible is full of similar sketches.\nAn excellence of Shakspeare is the individuality of his characters.\n\"They are real beings of flesh and blood,\" the critics tell us; \"they\nspeak like men, not like authors.\" How truly this applies to the persons\nmentioned in sacred writ! Goethe has compared the characters of\nShakspeare to \"watches with crystalline cases and plates, which, while\nthey point out with perfect accuracy the course of the hours and\nminutes, at the same time disclose the whole combination of springs and\nwheels whereby they are moved.\" A similar transparency of motive and\npurpose, of individual traits and spontaneous action, belongs to the\nBible. From the hand of Shakspeare, \"the lord and the tinker, the hero\nand the valet, come forth equally distinct and clear.\" In the Bible the\nvarious sorts of men are never confounded, but have the advantage of\nbeing exhibited by Nature herself, and are not a contrivance of the\nimagination. \"Shylock,\" observes a recent critic, \"seems so much a man\nof Nature's making, that we can scarce accord to Shakspeare the merit of\ncreating him.\" What will you say of Balak, Nabal, Jeroboam? \"Macbeth is\nrather guilty of tempting the Weird Sisters than of being tempted by\nthem, and is surprised and horrified at his own hell-begotten\nconception.\" Saul is guilty of tampering with the Witch of Endor, and is\nalarmed at the Ghost of Samuel, whose words distinctly embody and\nvibrate the fears of his own heart, and he \"falls straightway all along\non the earth.\" \"The exquisite refinement of Viola triumphs over her\nmasculine attire.\" The exquisite refinement of Ruth triumphs in the\nmidst of men.\n\nWe see there are points in which dramatic representation and Scriptural\ndelineation mutually touch.\n\nA distinguished divine of Connecticut said he wanted but two books in\nhis library, the Bible and Shakspeare,--the one for religion, the other\nto be his instructor in human nature. In the same spirit, St. Chrysostom\nkept a copy of Aristophanes under his pillow, that he might read it at\nnight before he slept and in the morning when he waked. The strong and\nsprightly eloquence of this father, if we may trust tradition, drew its\nsupport from the vigorous and masculine Atticism of the old comedian.\n\nBut human nature, in every stage of its development and every variety of\nits operation, is as distinctly pronounced on the pages of Scripture as\nin the scenes of the dramatist. Of Shakespeare it is said, \"He turned\nthe globe round for his amusement, and surveyed the generations of men,\nand the individuals as they passed, with their different concerns,\npassions, follies, vices, virtues, actions, and motives.\" He has been\ncalled the \"thousand-minded,\" the \"oceanic soul.\" The Bible creates the\nworld and peoples it, and gives us a profound and universal insight into\nall its concerns.\n\nAnother peculiarity of Shakspeare is his self-forgetfulness. In reading\nwhat is written, you do not think of him, but of his productions. \"The\nperfect absence of himself from his own pages makes it difficult for us\nto conceive of a human being having written them.\" This remark applies\nwith obvious force to the Bible. The authors of the several books do not\nthrust themselves upon your notice, or interfere with your meditations\non what they have written; indeed, to such an extent is this\nself-abeyance maintained, that it is impossible, at this period of time,\nto determine who are the authors of some of the books. The narrative of\nevents proceeds, for the most part, as if the author had never existed.\nHow _na\u00efvely_ and perspicuously everything is told, without the\ncolouring of prejudice, or an infusion of egotism on the part of the\nwriter!\n\nColeridge says, Shakspeare gives us no moral highwaymen, no sentimental\nthieves and rat-catchers, no interesting villains, no amiable\nadulteresses. The Bible even goes farther than this, and is faithful to\nthe foibles and imperfections of its favorite characters, and describes\na rebellious Moses, a perjured David, a treacherous Peter.\n\n\"In nothing does Shakspeare so deeply and divinely touch the heart of\nhumanity as in the representation of woman.\" We have the grandeur of\nPortia, the sprightliness of Rosalind, the passion of Juliet, the\ndelicacy of Ophelia, the mournful dignity of Hermione, the filial\naffection of Cordelia. How shall we describe the Pythian greatness of\nMiriam, the cheerful hospitality of Sarah, the heroism of Rahab, the\nindustry of Dorcas, the devotion of Mary? And we might set off Lady\nMacbeth with Jezebel, and Cleopatra with Delilah.\n\nBut the Bible, it may be said, so far as the subject before us is\nconcerned, is chiefly historical, while Shakspeare is purely dramatic.\nThe one is description,--the other action; the one relates to\nevents,--the other to feelings; the department of the one is the general\ncourse of human affairs,--that of the other, the narrower circle of\nindividual experience; the field of the one is that which the eye of\nphilosophy may embrace,--while that of the other is what the human frame\nmay portray.\n\nHowever this may apply to the average of history, it will be found that\nthe Bible, in its historical parts, is not so strictly historical as to\npreclude associations of another sort. The Bible is remarkable for a\nvisual and embodied relief, a bold and vivid detail. We know of no book,\nif we may except the compositions of professed dramatists, that contains\nso much of personal feeling and incident. In simplicity and directness,\nin freedom from exaggeration, and in the general unreserve of its\nexpression, it even exceeds the most of these. In it we may discover a\nsuccession of little dramas of Nature that will affect us quite as\nprofoundly as those larger ones of Art.\n\nIf the structure of the drama be dialogistic, we find the Bible formed\non the same model. If the writers of the former disappear under the\npersonages of their fancy, the writers of the latter disappear under the\npersonages of fact. As in the one, so in the other, strangers are\nintroduced to tell their own story, each in his own way.\n\nIn the commencement of the Bible, after a brief prologue, the curtain\nrises, and we, as spectators, look in upon a process of interlocution.\nThe scene is the green, sunny garden of Eden, that to which the memory\nof humanity reverts as to its dim golden age, and which ever expresses\nthe bright dream of our youth, ere the rigor of misfortune or the\ndulness of experience has spoilt it. The _dramatis personae_ are three\nindividuals, Adam, Eve, and the Serpent. There are the mysterious tree,\nwith its wonderful fruit,--the beautiful, but inquisitive woman,--the\nthoughtful, but too compliant man,--and the insinuating reptile. One\nspeaks, the other rejoins, and the third fills up the chasm of interest.\nThe plot thickens, the passions are displayed, and the tragedy hastens\nto its end. Then is heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the cool\n(the wind) of the garden, the impersonal presence of Jehovah is, as it\nwere, felt in the passing breeze, and a shadow falls upon the\nearth,--but such a shadow as their own patient toil may dissipate, and\nbeyond the confines of which their hope, which has now taken the place\nof enjoyment, is permitted ever to look.\n\nWithout delaying on the moral of this passage, what we would remark upon\nis the clearness and freedom of the dialogue,--a feature which we find\npervading the whole of the sacred writings.\n\nIn the account of Cain, which immediately succeeds, the narrative is\ninelaborate, casual, secondary; the dialogue is simple and touching. The\nagony of the fratricide and his remorse are better expressed by his own\nlips than could be done by any skill of the historian.\n\nIn the deception which Abraham put upon the Egyptians, touching his\nwife,--which it is no part of our present object to justify or to\ncondemn,--what a stroke of pathos, what a depth of conjugal sentiment,\nis exhibited! \"Thou art a fair woman to look upon, and the Egyptians,\nwhen they see thee, will kill me and save thee alive. _Say, I pray thee,\nthou art my sister; that it may be well with me for thy sake, and my\nsoul shall live because of thee_.\"\n\nViola appears very interesting and very innocent, when, in boy's\nclothes, she wanders about in pursuit of a lover. Is not Sarah equally\ninteresting and equally innocent, when, under cover of an assumed name,\nand that a sister's, she would preserve the love of one who has worthily\nwon it?\n\nWill it be said that the dialogue of the Bible lacks the charm of\npoetry?--that its action and sentiment, its love and its sorrow, are not\nheightened by those efforts of the fancy which delight us in dramatic\nauthors?--that its simplicity is bald, and its naturalness rough?--that\nits excessive familiarity repels taste and disturbs culture? If we may\ntrust Wordsworth, simplicity is not inconsistent with the pleasures of\nthe imagination. The style of the Bible is not redundant,--there is\nlittle extravagance in it, and it has no trickery of words. Yet this\ndoes not prevent its being deep in sentiment, brilliant with intrinsic\nthought or powerful effect.\n\nIn the \"Two Gentlemen of Verona,\" Valentine thus utters himself touching\nhis betrothed:--\n\n  \"What light is light, if Sylvia be not seen?\n  What joy is joy, if Sylvia be not by?\n  Except I see my Sylvia in the night,\n  There is no music in the nightingale.\n  Unless I look on Sylvia in the day,\n  There is no day for me to look upon.\n  She is my essence; and I cease to be,\n  If I be not by her fair influence\n  Fostered, illumined, cherished, kept alive.\"\n\nCompare with this the language of Abraham. \"Thou art fair, my wife. Say,\nI pray thee, thou art my sister; that it may be well with me for thy\nsake, and my soul shall live because of thee.\" The first is an instance\nof poetic amplification and _abandon_; we should contend, for the last,\nthat it expresses poetic tenderness and delicacy. In the one case,\npassion is diffuse,--in the other, concentrated. Which is the more\nnatural, others must judge.\n\n\"Euthanasy,\" \"Theron and Aspasio,\" the \"Phaedon\" of Plato are dialogues,\nbut they are not dramatic. It may be, that, for a composition to claim\nthis distinction, it must embody great character or deep feeling,--that\nit must express not only the individuality, but the strength of the\npassions.\n\nObserving this criticism, we think we may find any quantity of dramatic\ndialogue in Scripture. The story of Joseph, the march in the wilderness,\nthe history of David, are full of it.\n\nThere are not only dramatic dialogue and movement, but dramatic\nmonologue and episode. For illustration, we might refer to Hagar in the\nwilderness. Her tragic loneliness and shuddering despair alight upon the\npage of Scripture with the interest that attends the introduction of the\nveiled Niobe with her children into the Grecian theatre.\n\nThere are those who say, that the truth of particular events, so far as\nwe are conscious of it, is a drawback on the pleasure as well as the\ndignity of the drama,--in other words, that the Bible is too true to\nafford what is called dramatic delight, while the semblance of truth in\nShakspeare is exactly graduated to this particular affection. Between\nthe advocates of this theory, and those who say that Shakspeare is true\nas truth itself, we can safely leave the point.\n\nThe subject has another aspect, which appears in the inquiry, What is\nthe true object of the drama? If, as has been asserted, the object of\nthe drama be the exhibition of the human character,--if, agreeably to\nAristotle, tragedy purifies the affections by terror and pity,--or if,\naccording to a recent writer, it interests us through the moral and\nreligious principles of our nature,--or even if, according to Dr.\nJohnson, it be the province of comedy to bring into view the customs,\nmanners, vices, and the whole character of a people,--it is obvious that\nthe Bible and the drama have some correspondence. If, in the somewhat\nheated language of Mrs. Jameson, \"whatever in religion is holy and\nsublime, in virtue amiable and grave, whatever hath passion or\nadmiration in the changes of fortune or the refluxes of feeling,\nwhatever is pitiful in the weakness, grand in the strength, or terrible\nin the perversion of the human intellect,\" be the domain of tragedy,\nthis correspondence increases upon us.\n\nIf, however, it be the object of the drama to divert, then it occupies a\nwholly different ground from the Bible. If it merely gratifies curiosity\nor enlivens pastime, if it awakens emotion without directing it to\nuseful ends, if it rallies the infirmities of human nature with no other\ndesign than to provoke our derision or increase our conceit, it shoots\nvery, very wide of the object which the sacred writers propose.\n\nIt is worthy to be remarked, that the Jews had no drama, or nothing that\nanswers to our idea of that term at the present time; they had no\ntheatres, no writers of tragedy or comedy. Neither are there any traces\nof the dramatic art among the Egyptians, among whom the Jews sojourned\nfour hundred years, nor among the Arabs or the Persians, who are of\nkindred stock with this people. On the other hand, by the Hindoos and\nChinese, the Greeks and Romans, histrionic representation was cultivated\nwith assiduity.\n\nHow shall we explain this national peculiarity? Was it because the\nreligion of the Jews forbade creative imitation? Is it to be found in\nthe letter or the spirit of the second commandment, which interdicts the\nmaking of graven images of any pattern in earth or heaven? We should\nhardly think so, since the object of this prohibition is rather to\nprevent idolatry than to discourage the gratification of taste. \"Thou\nshalt not bow down to them nor serve them.\" The Jews did have emblematic\nobservances, costume, and works of art. Yet, on the other hand, the Jews\npossessed something resembling the drama, and that out of which the\ndramatic institutions of all nations have sprung. The question, then,\nwhy the Jews had no drama proper, and still preserved the semblance and\ngerm thereof, will be partially elucidated by a reference to the early\nhistory of dramatic art.\n\nIn its inception, the drama, among all nations, was a religious\nobservance. It came in with the chorus and the ode. The chorus, or, as\nwe now say, choir, was a company of persons who on stated occasions sang\nsacred songs, accompanying their music with significant gesture, and an\nharmonious pulsation of the feet, or the more deliberate march. The ode\nor song they sang was of an elevated structure and impassioned tone, and\nwas commonly addressed to the Divinity. Instances of the ode are the\nlyrics of Pindar and David. The chorus was also divided into parts, to\neach of which was assigned a separate portion of the song, and which\nanswered one another in alternate measures. A good instance of the\nchorus and its movement appears after the deliverance of the Jews from\nthe dangers of the Red Sea. \"Then sang Moses and the children of Israel\nthis song unto the Lord: 'I will sing unto the Lord, for he hath\ntriumphed gloriously,'\" etc. \"And Miriam the prophetess took a timbrel\nin her hand, and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with\ndances; and Miriam answered them, 'Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath\ntriumphed gloriously.'\" At a later period, in Jewish as in Greek\nhistory, choral exercises became a profession, and the choir constituted\na detached portion of men and women.\n\n\"Those who have studied the history of Grecian antiquities,\" says\nArchbishop Potter, \"and collected the fragments which remain of the most\nancient authors, have all concurred in the opinion, that poetry was\nfirst employed in celebrating the praises of the gods. The fragments of\nthe Orphic hymns, and those of Linus and Musaeus, show these poets\nentertained sounder notions of the Supreme Being than many philosophers\nof a later date. There are lyric fragments yet remaining that bear\nstriking resemblance to Scripture.\"\n\nSo, says Bishop Horne, \"The poetry of the Jews is clearly traceable to\nthe service of religion. To celebrate the praises of God, to decorate\nhis worship, and give force to devout sentiments, was the employment of\nthe Hebrew Muse.\"\n\nThe choral song, that is, a sacred ode united with appropriate action,\ndistinguished the Jews and Greeks alike. At a later period of Jewish\nhistory, the chorus became perfected, yet without receiving any organic\nchange. Among the Greeks, however, the chorus passed by degrees into the\ndrama. To simple singing and dancing they added a variety of imitative\naction; from celebrating the praises of the Divinity, they proceeded to\nrepresent the deeds of men, and their orchestras were enlarged to\ntheatres. They retained the chorus, but subordinated it to the action.\nThe Jews, on the other hand, did no more than dramatize the chorus. So,\nBishop Horsley says, the greater part of the Psalms are a sort of\ndramatic ode, consisting of dialogues between certain persons sustaining\ncertain characters. In these psalms, the persons are the writer himself\nand a band of Levites,--or sometimes the Supreme Being, or a personation\nof the Messiah.\n\nWe find, then, the Jews and the Greeks running parallel in respect of\nthe drama, or that out of which the drama sprung, the chorus, for a long\nseries of years. The practice of the two nations in this respect\nexhibits a striking coincidence, indeed, Lowth conceives that the Song\nof Solomon bears a strong resemblance to the Greek drama. \"The chorus of\nvirgins,\" he says, \"seems in every respect congenial to the tragic\nchorus of the Greeks. They are constantly present, and prepared to\nfulfil all the duties of advice and consolation; they converse\nfrequently with the different characters; they take part in the whole\nbusiness of the poem.\" They fulfilled, in a word, all the purpose of the\nGreek chorus on the Greek stage.\n\nOn certain occasions, the Greek chorus celebrated divine worship in the\nvicinity of the great altar of their god. Clad in magnificent vestments,\nthey move to solemn measures about it; they ascend and descend the steps\nthat lead to it; they offer sacrifices upon it; they carry in their\nhands lighted torches; they pour out lustral water; they burn incense;\nthey divide into antiphonal bands, and sing alternate stanzas of their\nsacred songs.\n\nSo, in their religious festivals, the Jewish chorus surrounded the high\naltar of their worship, gorgeously dressed, and with an harmonious\ntread; they mounted and remounted the steps; they offered sacrifices;\nthey bore branches of trees in their hands; they scattered the lustral\nwater; they burnt incense; they pealed the responsive anthem.\n\nBut while we follow down the stream of resemblance to a certain point,\nit divides at last: on the Greek side, it is diverted into the lighter\npractice of the theatre; on the Jewish side, it seems to deepen itself\nin the religious feeling of the nation.\n\nAeschylus, the father of tragedy, seizing upon the chorus, elaborated it\ninto the drama. The religious idea, indeed, seems never to have deserted\nthe gentile drama; for, at a later period, we find the Romans appointing\ntheatrical performances with the special design of averting the anger of\nthe gods. A religious spirit, also, pervades all the writings of the\nancient dramatists; they bring the gods to view, and the terrors of the\nnext world, on their stage, are seen crowding upon the sins of this.\n\nOn the other hand, David, who may be denominated the Alfred of the Jews,\nseems to have contented himself with the chorus; he allotted its\nmembers, disciplined its ranks, heightened its effect, and supplied new\nlyrics for its use.\n\nAnother exemplification of singular coincidence and diversity between\nthe two nations appears in this, that the goat was common in the\nreligious observances of both; a similar ritual required the sacrifice\nof this animal: but with the Jews the creature was an emblem of\nsolemnity, while with the Greeks he was significant of joy; the Jews\nsacrificed him on their fasts,--the Greeks in their feasts. And here we\nmay observe, that tragedy, the most dignified and the primitive form of\nthe drama, deduces its origin from the goat,--being, literally, the song\nof the goat, that is, the song accompanying the sacrifice of the goat.\n\nLet us now endeavor to answer the question, Why, since the drama was\ngenerally introduced among surrounding nations, and Jewish customs and\nlife comprised so many initial dramatic materials, this art was not\nknown among that people?\n\nIt was owing to the earnestness and solemnity of their religious faith.\nWe find the cause in the simple, exalted, and comparatively spiritual\nideas they had of the Supreme Being; in a word, we shall state the whole\nground to be this,--that the Greeks were polytheists, and the Jews\nmonotheists.\n\nLet us bear in mind that the chorus, and the drama that was built upon\nit, had a religious association, and were employed in religious\ndevotion. We may add, moreover, that the Greeks introduced their gods\nupon the stage; this the Jews could not do. The Greeks, of course, had a\ngreat deal of religious feeling, but they could not cherish that\nprofound reverence for the object of their worship which the Jews\nentertained towards theirs. The Jews accompanied the Greeks in the use\nof the chorus, but they could not go with them any farther. They both\nunited in employing music and the dance, and all the pomp of procession\nand charm of ceremony, in divine worship; but when it came to displaying\nthe object of their adoration in personal form to the popular eye, and\nmaking him an actor on the stage, however dignified that stage might be,\nthe Jews could not consent.\n\nThis, we think, will explain, in part, why others of the ancient\nnations, the Arabs and Persians, rich as they were in every species of\nliterature, had no theatre; they were monotheists.\n\nBut there is the department of comedy, of a lighter sort, which does not\nconverse with serious subjects, or necessarily include reference to\nDeity; why do we find no trace of this among the Jews? We may remember,\nthat all festivals, in very ancient time, of every description, the\ngrave and the gay, the penitential and the jubilant, had a religious\ndesign, and were suggested by a religious feeling. We think the peculiar\ncast of the Judaic faith would hardly embody itself in such a mode of\nexpression. Moreover, tragedy was the parent of comedy,--and since the\nJews had not the first, we should hardly expect them to produce the\nlast. It is not difficult to perceive how the Greeks could convert their\ngoat to dramatic, or even to comic purposes; but the Jews could not deal\nso with theirs.\n\nWe approach another observation, that there is no comedy in the Bible.\nThere is tragedy there,--not in the sense in which we have just denied\nthat the Jews had tragedy, but in the obvious sense of tragic elements,\ntragic scenes, tragic feelings. In the same sense, we say, there are no\ncomic elements, or scenes, or feelings. There is that in the Bible to\nmake you weep, but nothing to move you to laughter. Why is this? Are\nthere not smiles as well as tears in life? Have we not a deep, joyous\nnature, as well as aspiration, reverence, awe? Is there not a\nfree-and-easy side of existence, as well as vexation and sorrow? We\nassent that these things are so.\n\nBut comedy implies ridicule, sharp, corroding ridicule. The comedy of\nthe Greeks ridiculed everything,--persons, characters, opinions,\ncustoms, and sometimes philosophy and religion. Comedy became,\ntherefore, a sort of consecrated slander, lyric spite, aesthetical\nbuffoonery. Comedy makes you laugh at somebody's expense; it brings\nmultitudes together to see it inflict death on some reputation; it\nassails private feeling with all the publicity and powers of the stage.\n\nNow we doubt if the Jewish faith or taste would tolerate this. The Jews\nwere commanded to love their neighbor. We grant, their idea of neighbor\nwas excessively narrow and partial; but still it was their neighbor.\nThey were commanded not to bear false witness against their neighbor,\nand he was pronounced accursed who should smite his neighbor secretly.\nIt might appear that comedy would violate each of these statutes. But\nthe Jews had their delights, their indulgences, their transports,\nnotwithstanding the imperfection of their benevolence, the meagreness of\ntheir truth, and the cumbersomeness of their ceremonials. The Feast of\nTabernacles, for instance, was liberal and happy, bright and smiling; it\nwas the enthusiasm of pastime, the psalm of delectableness. They did not\nlaugh at the exposure of another's foibles, but out of their own merry\nhearts.\n\nWill it be said, the Bible is not true to Nature, if it does not\nrepresent the comical side of life, as well as Shakspeare does? We think\nthe comical parts of Shakspeare, his extreme comical parts, are rather\nan exaggeration of individual qualities than a fair portraiture of the\nwhole species. There is no Falstaff in the Bible, yet the qualities of\nFalstaff exist in the Bible and in Nature, but in combination, and this\ncombination modifies their aspect and effect.\n\nThere is laughter in the Bible, but it is not uttered to make you laugh.\nThere are also events recorded, which, at the time, may have produced\neffects analogous to comedy. The approach of the Gibeonites to the camp\nof Israel in their mock-beggarly costume might be mentioned. Shimei's\ncursing David has always seemed to us to border on the ludicrous.\n\nBut to leave these matters and return to the general thread of thought.\nDramas have been formed on the Bible. We hardly need name \"Paradise\nLost,\" or \"Samson Agonistes,\" or the \"Cain\" of Byron, the \"Hadad\" of\nHillhouse, or Mrs. More's \"David and Goliah.\" \"Pilgrim's Progress\" has a\nScriptural basis.\n\nMoreover, if we may trust the best critics, certain portions of the\nsacred volume are conceived in a dramatic spirit, and are propounded to\na dramatic interpretation. These are the Book of Job, the Song of\nSolomon, and, possibly, the Apocalypse of St. John. If we were disposed\nto contend for this view, we need but mention such authorities as\nCalmet, Carpzov, Bishops Warburton, Percy, Lowth, Bossuet.\n\nThe Book of Job has a prose prologue and epilogue, the intermediate\nportions being poetic dialogue. The characters are discriminated and\nwell supported. It does not preserve the unities of Aristotle, which,\nindeed, are found neither in the Bible nor in Nature,--which Shakspeare\nneglects, and which are to be met with only in the crystalline\nartificialness of the French stage. \"It has no plot, not even of the\nsimplest kind,\" says Dr. Lowth. It has a plot,--not an external and\nvisible one, but an internal and spiritual one; its incidents are its\nfeelings, its progress is the successive conditions of mind, and it\nterminates with the triumph of virtue. If it be not a record of actual\nconversation, it is an embodiment of a most wonderful ideality. The\neternity of God, the grandeur of Nature, the profundity of the soul,\nmove in silent panorama before you. The great and agitating problems of\nhuman existence are depicted with astonishing energy and precision, and\nmarvellous is the conduct of the piece to us who behold it as a painting\naway back on the dark canvas of antiquity.\n\nWe said the Jews had no drama, no theatre, because they would not\nintroduce the Divinity upon the stage. Yet God appears speaking in the\nBook of Job, not bodily, but ideally, and herein is all difference. This\ndrama addresses the imagination, not the eye. The Greeks brought their\ndivinities into sight, stood them on the stage,--or clothed a man with\nan enormous mask, and raised him on a pedestal, giving him also\ncorresponding apparel, to represent their god. The Hebrew stage, if we\nmay share the ordinary indulgence of language in using that term, with\nan awe and delicacy suitable to the dignity of the subject, permits the\nDivinity to speak, but does not presume to employ his person; the\nmajesty of Infinitude utters itself, but no robe-maker undertakes to\ndress it for the occasion. In the present instance, how exalted, how\ninspiring, is the appearance of God! how free from offensive diminution\nand costumal familiarity! \"Then the Lord answered Job out of the\nwhirlwind, and said.\" Dim indeed is the representation, but very\ndistinct is the impression. The phenomenon conforms to the purity of\nfeeling, not to the grossness of sense. Devotion is kindled by the\nsublime impalpableness; no applause is enforced by appropriate acting.\nThe Greeks, would have played the Book of Job,--the Jews were contented\nto read it.\n\nAnd here we might remark a distinction between dramatic reading and\ndramatic seeing; and in support of our theory we can call to aid so good\nan authority as Charles Lamb. \"I cannot help being of opinion,\" says\nthis essayist, \"that the plays of Shakspeare are less calculated for\nperformance on a stage than those of almost any other dramatist\nwhatever.\"\n\nHow are the love dialogues of Romeo and Juliet, by the inherent fault of\nstage representation, sullied and turned from their very nature by being\nexposed to a large assembly! How can the profound sorrows of Hamlet be\ndepicted by a gesticulating actor? So, to see Lear acted, to see an old\nman tottering about the stage with a walking-stick, turned out of doors\nby his daughters in a rainy night, has nothing in it but what is painful\nand disgusting. The contemptible machinery by which they mimic the storm\nin which he goes out is not more inadequate to represent the horrors of\nthe real elements than any actor can be to represent Lear. In the acted\nOthello, the black visage of the Moor is obtruded upon you; in the\nwritten Othello, his color disappears in his mind. When Hamlet compares\nthe two pictures of Gertrude's first and second husband, who wants to\nsee the pictures? But in the acting, a miniature must be lugged out. \"The\ntruth is,\" he adds, \"the characters of Shakspeare are more the objects\nof meditation than of interest or curiosity as to their actions.\"\n\nAll this applies with force to what we have been saying. The Jews, in\nrespect of their dramatic culture, seem more like one who enjoys\nShakspeare in the closet; the Greeks, like those who are tolled off to\nthe theatre to see him acted. The Greeks would have contrived a pair of\nbellows to represent the whirlwind; mystic, vast, inaudible, it passes\nbefore the imagination of the Jew, and its office is done. The Jew would\nbe shocked to see his God in a human form; such a thing pleased the\nGreek. The source of the difference is to be sought in the theology of\nthe two nations. The theological development of the Jews was very\ncomplete,--that of the Greeks unfinished.\n\nYet the Jews were very deficient in art, and the Greeks perfect; both\nfailed in humanity. The Greeks had more ideality than the Jews; but\ntheir ideality was very intense; it was continually, so to speak,\nrunning aground; it must see its conceptions embodied; and more,--when\nthey were embodied, Pygmalion-like, it must seek to imbue them with\nmotion and sensibility. The conception of the Jews was more vague,\nperhaps, but equally affecting; they were satisfied with carrying in\ntheir minds the faint outline of the sublime, without seeking to chisel\nit into dimension and tangibility. They cherished in their bosoms their\nsacred ideal, and worshipped from far the greatness of the majesty that\nshaded their imaginations. Hence we look to Athens for art, to Palestine\nfor ethics; the one produces rhetoricians,--the other, prophets.\n\nSo, we see, the theologico-dramatic forms of the two nations--and there\nwere no other--are different. The one pleases the prurient eye,--the\nother gratifies the longing soul; the one amuses,--the other inspires;\nthe one is a hollow pageant of divine things,--the other is a glad,\nsolemn intimation from the unutterable heart of the universe.\n\nThe Song of Solomon, that stumbling-block of criticism and pill of\nfaith, a recent writer regards as a parable in the form of a drama, in\nwhich the bride is considered as representing true religion, the royal\nlover as the Jewish people, and the younger sister as the Gospel\ndispensation. But it is evidently conceived in a very different spirit\nfrom the Book of Job or the Psalms of David, and its theological\ncharacter is so obscured by other associations as to lead many to\ninquire whether an enlightened religious sensibility dictated it.\n\nWe cannot dismiss this part of our subject without allusion to a species\nof drama that prevailed in the Middle Ages, called Mysteries, or\nMoralities. These were a sort of scenical illustration of the Sacred\nScripture, and the subjects were events taken sometimes from the New\nTestament and sometimes from the Old. It is said they were designed to\nsupply the place of the Greek and Roman theatre, which had been banished\nfrom the Church. The plays were written and performed by the clergy.\nThey seem to have first been employed to wile away the dulness of the\ncloister, but were very soon introduced to the public. Adam and Eve in\nParadise, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection were theatrized. The effect\ncould hardly be salutary. The different persons of the Trinity appeared\non the stage; on one side of the scene stretched the yawning throat of\nan immense wooden dragon; masked devils ran howling in and out.\n\n\"In the year 1437,\"--we follow the literal history, as we find it quoted\nin D'Israeli,--\"when the Bishop of Metz caused the Mystery of the\nPassion to be represented near that city, God was an old gentleman, a\ncurate of the place, and who was very near expiring on the cross, had he\nnot been timely assisted. He was so enfeebled that another priest\nfinished his part. At the same time this curate undertook to perform the\nResurrection, which being a less difficult task, he did it admirably\nwell. Another priest, personating Judas, had like to have been stifled\nwhile he hung on the tree, for his neck slipped. This being at length\nluckily perceived, he was cut down, and recovered.\" In another instance,\na man who assumed the Supreme Being becoming nearly suffocated by the\npaint applied to his face, it was wisely announced that for the future\nthe Deity should be covered by a cloud. These plays, carried about the\ncountry, taken up by the baser sort of people, descended through all\ndegrees of farce to obscenity, and, in England, becoming entangled in\npolitics, at length disappeared. It is said they linger in Italy, and\nare annually reproduced in Spain.\n\nThe Bible is incapable of representation. For a man to act the Supreme\nBeing would be as revolting in idea as profane in practice. One may in\nwords portray the divine character, give utterance to the divine will.\nThis every preacher does. But to what is the effect owing? Not to\nproprieties of attitude or arrangement of muscle, but to the spirit of\nthe man magnified and flooding with the great theme, and to the thought\nof God that surrounds and subdues all; in other words, the imagination\nis addressed, not the sight,--the sentiments and affections are engaged,\nnot the senses. As Lamb says of the Lear of Shakspeare, it cannot be\nacted; so, with greater force, we may say of the Bible, it cannot be\nacted. When we read or hear of the Passion of the Saviour, it is the\nthought, the emotion, burning and seething within it, at which by\ninvisible contact our own thought and emotion catch fire; and the\ncapabilities of impersonation and manufacture are mocked by such a\nsubject.\n\nBut the Bible abounds in dramatic situation, action, and feeling. This\nhas already been intimated; it only remains that we indicate some\nexamples. The history of David fulfils all the demands of dramatic\ncomposition. It has the severe grandeur of Aeschylus, the moving\ntenderness of Euripides, and the individual fidelity of Shakspeare.\nCould this last-named writer, who, while he counterfeited Nature with\nsuch success, was equally commended for his historical integrity,--could\nShakspeare have performed that service on this history, which Milton,\nMore, and others have undertaken on other portions of the sacred\nvolume,--could he have digested it into a regular dramatic form,--he\nwould have accomplished a work of rare interest. It would include the\ncharacters of Samuel and Saul; it would describe the magnanimous\nJonathan and the rebellious Absalom; Nathan, Nabal, Goliah, Shimei,\nwould impart their respective features; it would be enriched with all\nthat is beautiful in woman's love or enduring in parental affection. It\nis full of incident, and full of pathos. It verges towards the terrible,\nit is shaken with the passionate, it rises into the heroic. Pursued in\nthe true spirit of Jewish theology, the awful presence of God would\noverhang and pervade it, while the agency of his providence should\nattend on the evolutions of events.\n\nThere is one effect which, in the present arrangement of the canon, is\nentirely lost to view, and which could be revived only by the\nsynchronizing of the Psalms with their proper epochs. For instance, the\neighth Psalm is referable to the youth of David, when he was yet leading\na shepherd life. The dramatic form of his history would detach this from\nits present place, and insert it amid the occasions and in the years to\nwhich it belongs. What a scene we should then have! The youthful David,\nruddy he was, and, withal, of a beautiful countenance, (marginal\nreading, fair of eyes,) and goodly to look to; and he was a cunning\nplayer on the harp. There is the glow of poetic enthusiasm in his eyes,\nand the fervor of religious feeling in all his moods; as he tends his\nflock amid the quietness and beauty of his native hills, he joins to the\naspirations of his soul the melodies of music. So the night overtakes\nhim, the labors of the day are past, his meditations withdraw him from\nthe society of men, he is alone with Nature and with God;--at such a\nmoment the spirit of composition and utterance is upon him, and he hymns\nhimself in those lofty and touching stanzas,--\n\n  \"O Jehovah, our Lord,\n  How excellent is thy name in all the earth!\n  When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers,\n  The moon and the stars which thou hast ordained,\n  What is man that thou art mindful of him,\n  And the son of man that thou carest for him?\n  Yet thou hast made him a little lower than the angels,\n  Thou hast crowned him with glory and honor;\n  Thou hast given him dominion over the works of thy hand,\n  Thou hast put all things under his feet,--\n  All sheep and oxen,\n  Yea, and the beasts of the forest,\n  The birds of the air, and the fishes of the sea,\n  And whatsoever passes through the deep.\n  O Jehovah, our Lord,\n  How excellent is thy name in all the earth!\"\n\nAgain, the fifty-seventh Psalm is assigned, in respect of place, to the\ncave of En-gedi, into which David fled from the vengeance of Saul. Here,\nsurrounded by lofty rocks, whose promontories screen a wide extent of\nvale, he breaks forth,--\n\n  \"Have pity upon me, O God, have pity upon me,\n  For in thee doth my soul seek refuge!\n  Yea, in the shadow of thy wings do I take shelter,\n  Until these calamities be overpast!\"\n\nDramatically touched, and disposed according to the natural unities of\nthe subject, these sublime and affecting songs would appear on their\nmotive occasions, and be surrounded by their actual accompaniments.\n\nThe present effect may be compared to that which would be felt, if we\nshould detach the songs of the artificial drama from their original\nimpulse and feeling, (for instance, the willow dirge of Desdemona, and\nthe fantastic moans of Ophelia,) and produce them in a parlor. Not but\nthat these lyrics have a universal fitness, and a value which no time\ncan change or circumstance diminish; but as we are looking at them\nsimply in a dramatic view, we claim the right to suggest their dramatic\nforce and pertinency. This effect, we might remark, is particularly and\nmost truthfully regarded in the Lament of David over Saul and Jonathan.\nThat monody would be shorn of its interest, if it were inserted anywhere\nelse. The Psalms are more impersonal and more strictly religious than\nthat, and hence their universal application; only we say, we can easily\nconceive that the revival of them in the order of their history, and in\nall the purity of their native pathos, would render them more\nattractive.\n\nIn connection with what we would further observe of the Psalms of David,\nlet us again call attention to the ancient chorus,--how it was a species\nof melodrama, how it sang its parts, and comprised distinct vocalists\nand musicians, who pursued the piece in alternate rejoinder. What we\nwould observe is, that many of the Psalms were written for the chorus,\nand, so to speak, were performed by it. There are some of them which it\nis impossible to understand without attention to this dramatic method of\nrehearsal. Psalm cxviii., for instance, includes several speakers. Psalm\nxxiv. was composed on the occasion of the transfer of the ark to the\ntabernacle on Mount Zion. And David, we read, and all the house of\nIsrael, brought up the ark with shouting and with the sound of the\ntrumpet. In the midst of the congregated nation, supported by a varied\ninstrumental accompaniment, with the smoke of the well-fed altar surging\ninto the skies, the chorus took up the song which had been prepared to\ntheir hand,--one group calling out, \"Who shall ascend into the hill of\nthe Lord?\"--the other pealing their answer, \"He that hath clean hands\nand a pure heart.\" Meanwhile, they dance before the Lord,--that is, we\nsuppose, preserving with their feet the unities of the music.\n\nIt was during a melodrama like this, in the midst of its exciting\ngrandeur and all-pervading transport, executed at the Feast of\nTabernacles, in the open area of the Temple, when the Jews were wont to\npour upon the altar water taken from the pool of Siloam, chanting at the\nsame time the twelfth chapter of Isaiah, and one division of the chorus\nhad just sung the words,--\n\n  \"With joy we draw water from the wells of salvation,\"\n\nand before the other had replied,--it was at this moment, that Christ,\nas Dr. Furness very reasonably conjectures, took up the response in his\nown person, and overwhelmed attention by that memorable declaration, \"If\nany man thirst, let him come to me and drink; and from within him shall\nflow rivers of living water.\"\n\nIt is what we may term the dramatic proprieties that give to many of the\nPsalms, in the language of a recent commentator, \"a greater degree of\nfitness, spirit, and grandeur\"; and they impart to the history of David\na certain decorousness of illustration and perspicuity of feature which\nit would not otherwise possess. They would produce upon it the same\nresult as is achieved by the sister arts on this and other portions of\nthe sacred volume, without marring the text or doing violence to truth.\nNot, let us repeat, that the Bible can be theatrized. Neither church nor\nplayhouse can revive the forms of Judaism, without recalling its lost\nspirit. And that must be a bold hand, indeed, that shall undertake to\nmend again the shivered vail of the Temple, or collect from its ruins a\nritual which He that was greater than Solomon typically denounced in\nforetelling the overthrow of that gorgeous pile. The Bible, as to its\nimportant verities and solemn doctrine, is transparent to the\nimagination and affections, and does not require the mediation of dumb\nshow or scenic travesty.\n\nIt is not difficult to trace many familiar dramatic resemblances in the\nOld Testament. Shakspeare, who was certainly well read in the Bible and\nfrequently quotes it, in the composition of Lear may have had David and\nAbsalom in mind; the feigned madness of Hamlet has its prototype in that\nof David; Macbeth and the Weird Sisters have many traits in common with\nSaul and the Witch of Endor. Jezebel is certainly a suggestive study for\nLady Macbeth. The whole story has its key in that verse where we read,\n\"There was none like unto Ahab, which did sell himself to work\nwickedness in the sight of the Lord, _whom Jezebel, his wife, stirred\nup_.\" As in the play, so in this Scripture, we have the unrestrained and\nferocious ambition of the wife conspiring with the equally cruel, but\nless hardy ambition of the husband. When Macbeth had murdered sleep,\nwhen he could not screw his courage to the sticking-point, when his\npurpose looked green and pale, his wife stings him with taunts, scathes\nhim with sarcasm, and by her own energy of intellect and storm of will\narouses him to action. So Ahab came in heavy and displeased, and laid\nhim down on his bed, and turned away his face, and so his wife inflames\nhim with the sharpness of her rebuke. \"Why art thou sad?\" she asks.\n\"Dost thou now govern the kingdom of Israel? Arise, eat bread, and be\nmerry!\" The lust of regal and conjugal pride, intermixed, works in both.\nJezebel, whose husband was a king, would crown him with kingly deeds.\nLady Macbeth, whose husband was a prince, would see him crowned a king.\nJezebel would aggrandize empire, which her unlawful marriage thereto had\njeoparded. Lady Macbeth will run the risk of an unlawful marriage with\nempire, if she may thereby aggrandize it. Jezebel is insensible to\npatriotic feelings,--Lady Macbeth to civil and hospitable duties. The\nZidonian woman braves the vengeance of Jehovah,--the Scotch woman dares\nthe Powers of Darkness; the one is incited by the oracles of Baal,--the\nother by the predictions of witches. Lady Macbeth has more intellectual\nforce,--Jezebel more moral decision; Lady Macbeth exhibits great\nimagination,--Jezebel a stronger will. As the character of Lady Macbeth\nis said to be relieved by the affection she shows for her husband, so is\nthat of Jezebel by her tenderness for Ahab. The grandness of the\naudacity with which Jezebel sends after the prophet Elisha, saying, \"So\nlet the gods do to me, and more also, if I make not thy life as the life\nof one of them by to-morrow about this time,\" has its counterpart in the\nlofty terror of the invocation which Lady Macbeth makes to the \"spirits\nthat wait on mortal thoughts,\"--\n\n  \"Fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full\n  Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood,\n  Stop up the access and the passage of remorse!\n  . . . . Come to my woman's breasts,\n  And take my milk for gall, ye murdering ministers!\"\n\nBut the last moments of these excessive characters are singularly\ncontrasted. Jezebel scoffs at approaching retribution, and, shining with\npaint and dripping with jewels, is pitched to the dogs; Lady Macbeth\ngoes like a coward to her grave, and, curdled with remorse, receives the\nstroke of doom.\n\nIf Shakspeare and the Old Testament are a just manifestation of human\nnature, the New is so different, its representation would seem to be\nalmost fanciful or fallacious; or if the latter be accepted, the former\nwould seem to be discarded. But both are faithful to the different ages\nand phases of man. The one is a dispensation of force,--the other of\nlove; the one could make nothing perfect,--but the bringing in of a\nbetter covenant makes all things perfect. Through the tempest and storm,\nthe brutality and lust of the Greek tragedians, and even of the\nbarbarous times on which Shakspeare builds many of his plays, through\nthe night of Judaical back-slidings, idolatry, and carnal commandments,\nwe patiently wait, and gladly hail the morning of the Sun of\nRighteousness. The New Testament is a green, calm, island, in this\nheaving, fearful ocean of dramatic interest. How delightful is\neverything there, and how elevated! how glad, and how solemn! how\nenergetic, and how tranquil! What characters, what incident, what\nfeeling! Yet how different! So different, indeed, from what elsewhere\nappears, that we are compelled to ask, Can this be that same old\nhumanity whose passions, they tell us, are alike in all ages, and the\nemphatic turbulence of which constitutes so large a portion of history?\n\nBut how shall we describe what is before us? The events open, if we may\ndraw a term from our subject, with a prologue spoken by angels,--\n\n  \"Peace on earth, and good-will towards men.\"\n\nThere had been Jezebels and Lady Macbeths enough; the memory of David\nstill smelt of blood; the Roman eagles were gorging their beaks on human\nflesh; and the Samaritan everywhere felt the gnawing, shuddering sense\nof hatred and scorn. No chorus appears answering to chorus, praising the\ngod of battles, or exulting in the achievements of arms; but the\nsympathies of Him who was touched with the feeling of our infirmities\nanswer to the wants and woes of the race, and every thoughtful mind\necstatically encores. The inexorable Fate of the Greeks does not appear,\nbut a good Providence interferes, and Heaven smiles graciously upon the\nscene. There is passion, indeed, grief and sorrow, sin and\nsuffering,--but the tempest-stiller is here, who breathes tranquillity\nupon the waters, and pours serenity into the turbid deep. The Niobe of\nhumanity, stiff and speechless, with her enmarbled children, that used\nsometimes to be introduced on the Athenian stage for purposes of terror\nor pity, is here restored to life, and she renders thanks for her\ndeliverance and participates in the general joy to which the piece gives\nbirth. No murderers of the prophets are hewn in pieces before the Lord;\nbut from the agonies of the cross and the depths of a preternatural\ndarkness, the tender cry is heard, on behalf of the murderers of the Son\nof God, \"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!\" No\nAlcestis is exhibited, doomed to destruction to save the life of her\nhusband,--but One appears, moving cheerfully, voluntarily, forwards, to\nwhat may be termed the funeral pile of the world, from which,\nphoenix-like, he rises, and gloriously ascends, drawing after him the\nhearts, the love, the worship of millions of spectators. The key of the\nwhole piece is Redemption, the spirit that actuates is Love. The chief\nactors, indeed, are Christ and Man; but innumerable subsidiary\npersonages are the Charities. The elements of a spiritualized existence\nact their part. Humanity is not changed in its substance, but in its\ntendencies; the sensibilities exist, but under a divine culture. Stephen\nis as heroic as Agamemnon, Mary as energetic as Medea. Little children\nare no longer dashed in pieces,--they are embraced and blessed.\n\nBut let us select for attention, and for a conclusion to these remarks,\na particular scene. It shall be from Luke. This evangelist has been\nfabled a painter, and in the apotheosis of the old Church he was made\nthe tutelar patron of that class of artists. If the individuality of his\nconceptions, the skill of his groupings, and the graphicness gave rise\nto such an idea, it would seem to have its foundation as well in Nature\nas in superstition. Matthew has more detail, more thought; Luke is more\npicturesque, more descriptive. John has more deep feeling; Luke more\naction, more life. The Annunciation, the Widow of Nain, the Prodigal Son,\nthe Good Samaritan, the Rich Man and Lazarus, and the incident to which\nwe shall presently advert, are found in Luke alone.\n\nThe incident in question is the dining of Christ at the house of Simon\nthe Pharisee, and, while they were reclining at meat, the entrance of a\nwoman which was a sinner, who bathes the feet of Jesus with tears, and\nwipes them with the hair of her head. The place is the city of Nain; the\nhour noon. The _dramatis personae_ are three,--Jesus, Simon, and the\nWoman,--and, if we choose to add them, the other guests, who are silent\nspectators of what transpires.\n\nLet, us consider, first, the Woman. She \"was a sinner.\" This is all, in\nfact, that we know of her; but this is enough. The term \"sinner,\" in\nthis instance, as in many others, does not refer to the general apostasy\nin Adam; it is distinctive of race and habit. She was probably of\nheathen extraction, as she was certainly of a dissolute life. The poetry\nof sin and shame calls her the Magdalen, and there may be a convenience\nin permitting this name to stand. The depth of her depravity Christ\nclearly intimates in his allusion to the debtor who owed five hundred\npence, and the language of Simon teaches that the infamy of her life was\nwell understood among the inhabitants of the city. If a foreigner, she\nhad probably been brought into the country by the Roman soldiers and\ndeserted. If a native, she had fallen beneath the ban of respectability,\nand was an outcast alike from hope and from good society. She was\ncondemned to wear a dress different from that of other people; she was\nliable at any moment to be stoned for her conduct; she was one whom it\nwas a ritual impurity to touch. She was wretched beyond measure; but\nwhile so corrupt, she was not utterly hardened. Incapable of virtue, she\nwas not incapable of gratitude. Weltering in grossness, she could still\nbe touched by the sight of purity. Plunged into extremest vice, she\nretained the damning horror of her situation. If she had ever striven to\nrecover her lost position, there were none to assist her; the bigotry of\npatriotism rejected her for her birth,--the scrupulousness of modesty,\nfor her history. The night, that consecrated so many homes and gathered\ntogether so many families in innocence and repose, was to her blacker\nthan its own blackness in misery and turpitude; the morning, that\nradiated gladness over the face of the world, revealed the extent and\nexaggerated the sense of her own degradation. But the vision of Jesus\nhad alighted upon her; she had seen him speeding on his errands of\nmercy; she hung about the crowd that followed his steps; his tender look\nof pity may have sometimes gleamed into her soul. Stricken, smitten,\nconfounded, her yearnings for peace gush forth afresh. It was as if\nHell, moved by contrition, had given up its prey,--as if Remorse, tired\nof its gnawing, felt within itself the stimulus of hope. But how shall\nshe see Jesus? Wherewithal shall she approach him? She has \"nothing to\npay.\" She has tears enough, and sorrows enough,--but these are derided\nby the vain, and suspected by the wise. She has an alabaster box of\nointment, which, shut out as she is from honorable gain, must be the\nproduct and the concomitant of her guilt. But with these she must go. We\nsee her threading her lonely way through the streets, learning by hints,\nsince she would not dare to learn by questions, where Jesus is, and\nstops before the vestibule of the elegant mansion of Simon the Pharisee.\n\nWho is Simon the Pharisee? Not necessarily a bad man. We associate\nwhatever is odious in hypocrisy or base in craft with the name Pharisee,\nwhile really it was the most distinguished title among the Jews. Many of\nthe Pharisees were hypocrites; not all of them. The name is significant\nof profession, not of character. He could not have been an unprincipled,\nvillanous man, or he would never have tendered to Jesus the\nhospitalities of his house. Indeed, Christ allows him, in the sense of\nmoral indebtedness, to owe but fifty pence. He was probably a rich man,\nwhich might appear from the generous entertainment he made. He was a\nrespectable man. The sect to which he belonged was the most celebrated\nand influential among the Jews; and when not debased by positive crime,\na Pharisee was always esteemed for his learning and his piety. He had\nsome interest in Christ, either in his mission or his character,--an\ninterest beyond mere curiosity, or he would not have invited him to dine\nwith him. He betrays a sincere friendliness, also, in his apprehension\nlest Christ should suffer any religious contamination.\n\nThe third person in the scene is Christ, who, to speak of him not as\ntheology has interpreted him to us, but as he appeared to the eyes of\nhis contemporaries, was the reputed son of Joseph and Mary, the\nBethlehemites; who by his words and deeds had attracted much attention\nand made some converts; now accused of breaking the Jewish Sabbath, now\nof plotting against the Roman sovereignty; one who in his own person had\nfelt the full power of temptation, and who had been raised to the\ngrandeur of a transfiguration; so tender he would not bruise the broken\nreed, so gentle his yoke was rest; raying out with compassion and love\nwherever he went; healing alike the pangs of grief and the languor of\ndisease; whom some believed to be the Messiah, and others thought a\nprophet; whom the masses followed, and the priests feared;--this is the\nthird member of the company.\n\nThe two last, with the other guests, are engaged at their meal, and in\nconversation. The door is darkened by a strange figure; all eyes are\nriveted on the apparition; the Magdalen enters, faded, distressed, with\nlong dishevelled hair. She has no introduction; she says nothing;\nindeed, in all this remarkable scene she never speaks; her silence is as\nsignificant as it is profound. She goes behind the couch where Jesus,\naccording to Oriental custom, is reclined. She drops at his feet; there\nher tears stream; there the speechless agony of her soul bursts. Observe\nthe workings of the moment. See how those people are affected. Surprise\non the part of Simon and his friends turns to scorn, and this shades\ninto indignation. Jesus is calm, collected, and intently thoughtful. The\nwoman is overwhelmed by her situation. The lip of Simon curls, his eye\nflashes with fire of outraged virtue. Jesus meets his gaze with equal\nfire, but it is all of pure heavenly feeling. Simon moves to have the\nvagabond expelled; Christ interrupts the attempt. But the honor of the\nhouse is insulted. Yes, but the undying interests of the soul are at\nstake. But the breath of the woman is ritual poison, and her touch will\nbring down the curses of the law. But the look of Christ indicates that\ndepth of spirituality before which the institutions of Moses flee away\nas chaff before the wind. Simon has some esteem for Jesus, and in this\njuncture his sensations take a turn of pity, spiced, perhaps, with a\nlittle contempt, and he says with himself,--\"Surely, this man cannot be\na prophet, as is pretended, or he would know who and what sort of woman\nit is that touches him; for she is a sinner; she is unclean and\nreprobate.\"\n\n\"Simon!\" says Jesus, with a tone that pierced to the worthy host's\nheart, and arrested the force of his pious alarm,--\"Simon!\"\n\n\"Sir, say on,\" is the reply of the Pharisee, who is awed by this appeal\ninto an humble listener.\n\nWhereupon Jesus relates the story of the two debtors, and, with\nirresistible strength of illustration and delicacy of application,\nbreaks the prejudice and wins the composure of the Jew. \"If, then,\" he\ncontinues, \"he loves much to whom much is forgiven, what shall we say of\none who loves so much?\"\n\n\"See,\" he goes on, pointing to the woman, \"See this woman,--this wretch.\nI entered thy house; thou gavest me no water for my feet; but she has\nwashed my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. She kisses\nmy feet; she anoints them with ointment. Wherefore I say unto thee, her\nsins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much.\"\n\nThis scene, however inadequately it may be set forth, contains all that\nis sublime in tragedy, terrible in guilt, or intense in pathos. The\nwoman represents humanity, or the soul of human nature; Simon, the\nworld, or worldly wisdom; Christ, divinity, or the divine purposes of\ngood to us ward. Simon is an incarnation of what St. Paul calls the\nbeggarly elements; Christ, of spirituality; the woman, of sin. It is not\nthe woman alone,--but in her there cluster upon the stage all want and\nwoe, all calamity and disappointment, all shame and guilt. In Christ\nthere come forward to meet her, love, hope, truth, light, salvation. In\nSimon are acted out doting conservatism, mean expediency, purblind\ncalculation, carnal insensibility. Generosity in this scene is\nconfronted with meanness, in the attempt to shelter misfortune. The\nwoman is a tragedy herself, such as Aeschylus never dreamed of. The\nscourging Furies, dread Fate, and burning Hell unite in her, and, borne\non by the new impulse of the new dispensation, they come towards the\nlight, they ask for peace, they throng to the heaven that opens in\nJesus. Simon embodies that vast array of influences that stand between\nhumanity and its redemption. He is a very excellent, a very estimable\nman,--but he is not shocked at intemperance, he would not have slavery\ndisturbed, he sees a necessity for war. Does Christ know who and what\nsort of a woman it is that touches him? Will he defile himself by such a\ncontact? Can he expect to accomplish anything by familiarity with such\nmatters? Why is he not satisfied with a good dinner? \"Simon!\" \"Simon!\"\n\nThe silence of the woman is wonderful, it is awful. What is most\nprofound, most agitating, most intense cannot speak; words are too\nlittle for the greatness of feeling. So Job sat himself upon the ground\nseven days and seven nights, speechless. Not in this case, as is said of\nSchiller's Robbers, did the pent volcano find vent in power-words; not\nin strong and terrible accents was uttered the hoarded wrath of long\ncenturies of misrule and oppression. The volcano, raging, aching, threw\nitself in silence into the arms of one who could soothe and allay it.\nThe thunder is noisy and harmless. The lightning is silent,--and the\nlightning splits, kills, consumes. Humanity had muttered its thunder for\nages. Its lightning, the condensed, fiery, fatal force of things, leaped\nfrom the blackness of sin, threaded with terrific glare the vision of\nman, and, in the person of the woman, fell hot and blasting at the feet\nof Jesus, who quenched its fire, and of that destructive bolt made a\ntrophy of grace and a fair image of hope. She could not speak, and so\nshe wept,--like the raw, chilling, hard atmosphere, which is relieved\nonly by a shower of snow. How could she speak, guilty, remorseful\nwretch, without excuse, without extenuation? In the presence of divine\nvirtue, at the tribunal of judgment, she could only weep, she could only\nlove. But, blessed be Jesus, he could forgive her, he can forgive all.\nThe woman departs in peace; Simon is satisfied; Jesus triumphs; we\nalmost hear the applauses with which the ages and generations of earth\ngreet the closing scene. From the serene celestial immensity that opens\nabove the spot we can distinguish a voice, saying, \"This is my beloved\nSon; hear ye him!\"\n\nWe speak of these things dramatically, but, after all, they are the only\ngreat realities. Everything else is mimetic, phantasmal, tinkling.\nDeeply do the masters of the drama move us; but the Gospel cleaves,\ninworks, regenerates. In the theatre, the leading characters go off in\ndeath and despair, or with empty conceits and a forced frivolity; in the\nGospel, tranquilly, grandly, they are dismissed to a serener life and a\nnobler probation. Who has not pitied the ravings of Lear and the agonies\nof Othello? The Gospel pities, but, by a magnificence of plot altogether\nits own, by preserving, if we may so say, the unities of heaven and\nearth, it also saves.\n\nOf all common tragedy, we may exclaim, in the words of the old play,--\n\n  \"How like a silent stream shaded with night,\n  And gliding softly, with our windy sighs,\n  Moves the whole frame of this solemnity!\"\n\nThe Gospel moves by, as a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal,\nfrom the throne of God and the Lamb; on its surface play the sunbeams of\nhope; in its valleys rise the trees of life, beneath the shadows of\nwhich the weary years of human passion repose, and from the leaves of\nthe branches of which is exhaled to the passing breeze healing for the\nnations.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RING FETTER.\n\n\nA NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDY.\n\n\nThere are long stretches in the course of the Connecticut River, where\nits tranquil current assumes the aspect of a lake, its sudden bends cut\noff the lovely reach of water, and its heavily wooded banks lie silent\nand green, undisturbed, except by the shriek of the passing steamer,\ncasting golden-green reflections into the stream at twilight, and\nshadows of deepest blackness, star-pierced, at remoter depths of night.\nHere, now and then, a stray gull from the sea sends a flying throb of\nwhite light across the mirror below, or the sweeping wings of a hawk\npaint their moth-like image on the blue surface, or a little flaw of\nwind shudders across the water in a black ripple; but except for these\ncasual stirs of Nature, all is still, oppressive, and beautiful, as\nearth seems to the trance-sleeper on the brink of his grave.\n\nIn one of these reaches, though on either side the heavy woods sweep\ndown to the shore and hang over it as if deliberating whether to plunge\nin, on the eastern bank there is a tiny meadow just behind the\ntree-fringe of the river, completely hedged in by the deep woods, and\naltogether hidden from any inland road; nor would the traveller on the\nriver discover it, except for the chimney of a house that peers above\nthe yellow willows and seems in that desolate seclusion as startling as\na daylight ghost. But this dwelling was built and deserted and\nweather-beaten long before the date of our story. It had been erected\nand inhabited during the Revolution, by an old Tory, who, foreseeing the\nresult of the war better than some of his contemporaries, and being\nunwilling to expose his person to the chances of battle or his effects\nto confiscation, maintained a strict neutrality, and a secret trade with\nboth parties; thereby welcoming peace and independence, fully stocked\nwith the dislike and suspicion of his neighbors, and a large quantity of\nContinental \"fairy-money.\" So, when Abner Dimock died, all he had to\nleave to his only son was the red house on \"Dimock's Meadow,\" and a\nten-acre lot of woodland behind and around the green plateau where the\nhouse stood. These possessions he strictly entailed on his heirs\nforever, and nobody being sufficiently interested in its alienation to\ninquire into the State laws concerning the validity of such an entail,\nthe house remained in the possession of the direct line, and in the year\n18-- belonged to another Abner Dimock, who kept tavern in Greenfield, a\ntown of Western Massachusetts, and, like his father and grandfather\nbefore him, had one only son. In the mean time, the old house in Haddam\ntownship had fallen into a ruinous condition, and, as the farm was very\nsmall, and unprofitable chestnut-woodland at that, the whole was leased\nto an old negro and his wife, who lived there in the most utter\nsolitude, scratching the soil for a few beans and potatoes, and in the\nautumn gathering nuts, or in the spring roots for beer, with which Old\nJake paddled up to Middletown, to bring home a return freight of salt\npork and rum.\n\nThe town of Greenfield, small though it was, and at the very top of a\nhigh hill, was yet the county town, subject to annual incursions of\nlawyers, and such \"thrilling incidents\" as arise from the location of a\njail and a court-room within the limits of any village. The scenery had\na certain summer charm of utter quiet that did it good service with some\nhealthy people of well-regulated and insensitive tastes. From Greenfield\nHill one looked away over a wide stretch of rolling country; low hills,\nin long, desolate waves of pasturage and grain, relieved here and there\nby a mass of black woodland, or a red farm-house and barns clustered\nagainst a hill-side, just over a wooden spire in the shallow valley,\nabout which were gathered a few white houses, giving signs of life\nthrice a day in tiny threads of smoke rising from their prim chimneys;\nand over all, the pallid skies of New England, where the sun wheeled his\nshorn beams from east to west as coldly as if no tropic seas mirrored\nhis more fervid glow thousands of miles away, and the chilly moon beamed\nwith irreproachable whiteness across the round gray hills and the\nstraggling pond, beloved of frogs and mud-turtles, that Greenfield held\nin honor under the name of Squam Lake.\n\nPerhaps it was the scenery, perhaps the air, possibly the cheapness of\nthe place as far as all the necessaries of life went, that tempted Judge\nHyde to pitch his tent there, in the house his fathers had built long\nago, instead of wearing his judicial honors publicly, in the city where\nhe attained them; but, whatever the motive might be, certain it is that\nat the age of forty he married a delicate beauty from Baltimore, and\ncame to live on Greenfield Hill, in the great white house with a gambrel\nroof and dormer windows, standing behind certain huge maples, where\nMajor Hyde and Parson Hyde and Deacon Hyde had all lived before him.\n\nA brief Northern summer bloomed gayly enough for Adelaide Howard Hyde\nwhen she made her bridal tour to her new home; and cold as she found the\naspect of that house, with its formal mahogany chairs, high-backed, and\ncarved in grim festoons and ovals of incessant repetition,--its\npenitential couch of a sofa, where only the iron spine of a\nRevolutionary heroine could have found rest,--its pinched, starved, and\ndouble-starched portraits of defunct Hydes, Puritanic to the very ends\nof toupet and periwig,--little Mrs. Hyde was deep enough in love with\nher tall and handsome husband to overlook the upholstery of a home he\nglorified, and to care little for comfort elsewhere, so long as she\ncould nestle on his knee and rest her curly head against his shoulder.\nBesides, flowers grew, even in Greenfield; there were damask roses and\nold-fashioned lilies enough in the square garden to have furnished a\nwhole century of poets with similes; and in the posy-bed under the front\nwindows were tulips of Chinese awkwardness and splendor, beds of pinks\nspicy as all Arabia, blue hyacinths heavy with sweetness as well as\nbells, \"pi'nies\" rubicund and rank, hearts-ease clustered against the\nhouse, and sticky rose-acacias, pretty and impracticable, not to mention\nthe grenadier files of hollyhocks that contended with fennel-bushes and\nscarlet-flowered beans for the precedence, and the hosts of wild flowers\nthat bloomed by wood-edges and pond-shores wherever corn or potatoes\nspared a foot of soil for the lovely weeds. So in Judge Hyde's frequent\nabsences, at court or conclave, hither and yon, (for the Judge was a\npolitical man,) it was his pretty wife's chief amusement, when her\ndelicate fingers ached with embroidery, or her head spun with efforts to\nlearn housekeeping from old Keery, the time-out-of-mind authority in the\nHyde family, a bad-humored, good-tempered old maid,--it was, indeed, the\nlittle Southerner's only amusement,--to make the polish and mustiness of\nthose dreary front-parlors gay and fragrant with flowers; and though\nJudge Hyde's sense of the ridiculous was not remarkably keen, it was too\nmuch to expect of him that he should do otherwise than laugh long and\nloud, when, suddenly returning from Taunton one summer day, he tracked\nhis wife by snatches of song into the \"company rooms,\" and found her on\nthe floor, her hair about her ears, tying a thick garland of red\npeonies, intended to decorate the picture of the original Hyde, a dreary\nold fellow, in bands, and grasping a Bible in one wooden hand, while a\ndistant view of Plymouth Bay and the Mayflower tried to convince the\nspectator that he was transported, among other antediluvians, by that\nNoah's ark, to the New World. On either hand hung the little Flora's\ngreat-grandmother-in-law, and her great-grandfather accordingly, Mrs.\nMehitable and Parson Job Hyde, peering out, one from a bushy ornament of\npink laurel-blossoms, and the other from an airy and delicate garland of\nthe wanton sweet-pea, each stony pair of eyes seeming to glare with\nMedusan intent at this profaning of their state and dignity. \"Isn't it\ncharming, dear?\" said the innocent little beauty, with a satisfaction\nhalf doubtful, as her husband's laugh went on.\n\nBut for every butterfly there comes an end to summer. The flowers\ndropped from the frames and died in the garden; a pitiless winter set\nin; and day after day the mittened and mufflered schoolboy, dragging his\nsled through drifts of heavy snow to school, eyed curiously the wan,\nwistful face of Judge Hyde's wife pressed up to the pane of the south\nwindow, its great restless eyes and shadowy hair bringing to mind some\ncaptive bird that pines and beats against the cage. Her husband absent\nfrom home long and often, full of affairs of \"court and state,\"--her\ndelicate organization, that lost its flickering vitality by every\nexposure to cold,--her lonely days and nights,--the interminable sewing,\nthat now, for her own reasons, she would trust to no hands but her\nown,--conscious incapacity to be what all the women about her were,\nstirring, active, hardy housekeepers,--a vague sense of shame, and a\ngreat dread of the future,--her comfortless and motherless\ncondition,--slowly, but surely, like frost, and wind, and rain, and\nsnow, beat on this frail blossom, and it went with the rest. June roses\nwere laid against her dark hair and in her fair hands, when she was\ncarried to the lonely graveyard of Greenfield, where mulleins and\nasters, golden-rod, blackberry-vines, and stunted yellow-pines adorned\nthe last sleep of the weary wife and mother; for she left behind her a\nweek-old baby,--a girl,--wailing prophetically in the square bedroom\nwhere its mother died.\n\nJudge Hyde did not marry again, and he named his baby Mehitable. She\ngrew up as a half-orphaned child with an elderly and undemonstrative\nfather would naturally grow,--shy, sensitive, timid, and extremely\ngrave. Her dress, thanks to Aunt Keery and the minister's wife, (who\nlooked after her for her mother's sake,) was always well provided and\nneat, but no way calculated to cultivate her taste or to gratify the\nbeholder. A district school provided her with such education as it could\ngive; and the library, that was her resort at all hours of the day,\nfurthered her knowledge in a singular and varied way, since its lightest\ncontents were histories of all kinds and sorts, unless one may call the\nEnglish Classics lighter reading than Hume or Gibbon.\n\nBut at length the district-schoolma'am could teach Mehitable Hyde no\nmore, and the Judge suddenly discovered that he had a pretty daughter of\nfourteen, ignorant enough to shock his sense of propriety, and delicate\nenough to make it useless to think of sending her away from home to be\nbuffeted in a boarding-school. Nothing was left for him but to undertake\nher education himself; and having a theory that a thorough course of\nclassics, both Greek and Latin, was the foundation of all knowledge,\nhalf a score of dusty grammars were brought from the garret, and for two\nhours every morning and afternoon little Miss Hitty worried her innocent\nsoul over conjugations and declensions and particles, as perseveringly\nas any professor could have desired. But the dreadful part of the\nlessons to Hitty was the recitation after tea; no matter how well she\nknew every inflection of a verb, every termination of a noun, her\nfather's cold, gray eye, fixed on her for an answer, dispelled all kinds\nof knowledge, and, for at least a week, every lesson ended in tears.\nHowever, there are alleviations to everything in life; and when the\nchild was sent to the garret after her school-books, she discovered\nanother set, more effectual teachers to her than Sallust or the \"Graeca\nMinora,\" even the twelve volumes of \"Sir Charles Grandison,\" and the\nfewer but no less absorbing tomes of \"Clarissa Harlowe\"; and every hour\nshe could contrive not to be missed by Keery or her father was spent in\nthat old garret, fragrant as it was with sheaves of all the herbs that\ngrow in field or forest, poring over those old novels, that were her\nsociety, her friends, her world.\n\nSo two years passed by. Mehitable grew tall and learned, but knew little\nmore of the outside world than ever; her father had learned to love her,\nand taught her to adore him; still shy and timid, the village offered no\ntemptation to her, so far as society went; and Judge Hyde was beginning\nto feel that for his child's mental health some freer atmosphere was\nfast becoming necessary, when a relentless writ was served upon the\nJudge himself, and one that no man could evade; paralysis smote him, and\nthe strong man lay prostrate,--became bedridden.\n\nNow the question of life seemed settled for Hitty; her father admitted\nno nursing but hers. Month after month rolled away, and the numb grasp\ngradually loosed its hold on flesh and sense, but still Judge Hyde was\nbedridden. Year after year passed by, and no change for better or worse\nensued. Hitty's life was spent between the two parlors and the kitchen;\nfor the room her dead mother had so decorated was now furnished as a\nbedroom for her father's use; and her own possessions had been removed\ninto the sitting-room next it, that, sleeping or waking, she might be\nwithin call. All the family portraits held a conclave in the other\nfront-parlor, and its north and east windows were shut all the year,\nsave on some sultry summer day when Keery flung them open to dispel damp\nand must, and the school-children stared in reverentially, and wondered\nwhy old Madam Hyde's eyes followed them as far as they could see.\nVisitors came now and then to the kitchen-door, and usurped Keery's\nflag-bottomed chair, while they gossiped with her about village affairs;\nnow and then a friendly spinster with a budget of good advice called\nHitty away from her post, and, after an hour's vain effort to get any\nnews worth retailing about the Judge from those pale lips, retired full\nof disappointed curiosity to tell how stiff that Mehitable Hyde was, and\nhow hard it was to make her speak a word to one! Friends were what Hitty\nread of in the \"Spectator,\" and longed to have; but she knew none of the\nGreenfield girls since she left school, and the only companion she had\nwas Keery, rough as the east wind, but genuine and kind-hearted,--better\nat counsel than consolation, and no way adapted to fill the vacant place\nin Hitty's heart.\n\nSo the years wore away, and Miss Hyde's early beauty went with them. She\nhad been a blooming, delicate girl,--the slight grace of a daisy in her\nfigure, wild-rose tints on her fair cheek, and golden reflections in her\nlight brown hair, that shone in its waves and curls like lost sunshine;\nbut ten years of such service told their story plainly. When Hitty Hyde\nwas twenty-six, her blue eyes were full of sorrow and patience, when the\nshy lids let their legend be read; the little mouth had become pale, and\nthe corners drooped; her cheek, too, was tintless, though yet round;\nnothing but the beautiful hair lasted; even grace was gone, so long had\nshe stooped over her father. Sometimes the unwakened heart within her\ndreamed, as a girl's heart will. Stately visions of Sir Charles\nGrandison bowing before her,--shuddering fascinations over the image of\nthat dreadful Lovelace,--nothing more real haunted Hitty's imagination.\nShe knew what she had to do in life,--that it was not to be a happy wife\nor mother, but to waste by a bedridden old man, the only creature on\nearth she loved as she could love. Light and air were denied the plant,\nbut it grew in darkness,--blanched and unblooming, it is true, but still\na growth upward, toward light.\n\nTen years more of monotonous patience, and Miss Hyde was thirty-six. Her\nhair had thinned, and was full of silver threads; a wrinkle invaded\neither cheek, and she was angular and bony; but something painfully\nsweet lingered in her face, and a certain childlike innocence of\nexpression gave her the air of a nun; the world had never touched nor\ntaught her.\n\nBut now Judge Hyde was dead; nineteen years of petulant, helpless,\nhopeless wretchedness were at last over, and all that his daughter cared\nto live for was gone; she was an orphan, without near relatives, without\nfriends, old, and tired out. Do not despise me that I say \"old,\" you\nplump and rosy ladies whose life is in its prime of joy and use at\nthirty-six. Age is not counted by years, nor calculated from one's\nbirth; it is a fact of wear and work, altogether unconnected with the\ncalendar. I have seen a girl of sixteen older than you are at forty. I\nhave known others disgrace themselves at sixty-five by liking to play\nwith children and eat sugar-plums!\n\nOne kind of youth still remained to Hitty Hyde,--the freshness of\ninexperience. Her soul was as guileless and as ignorant as a child's;\nand she was stranded on life, with a large fortune, like a helmless\nship, heavily loaded, that breaks from its anchor, and drives headlong\nupon a reef.\n\nNow it happened, that, within a year after Judge Hyde's death, Abner\nDimock, the tavern-keeper's son, returned to Greenfield, after years of\nabsence, a bold-faced, handsome man, well-dressed and \"free-handed,\" as\nthe Greenfield vernacular hath it. Nobody knew where Abner Dimock had\nspent the last fifteen years; neither did anybody know anything against\nhim; yet he had no good reputation in Greenfield. Everybody looked wise\nand grave when his name was spoken, and no Greenfield girl cared to own\nhim for an acquaintance. His father welcomed him home with more surprise\nthan pleasure; and the whole household of the Greenfield Hotel, as\nDimock's Inn was new-named, learned to get out of Abner Dimock's way,\nand obey his eye, as if he were more their master than his father.\n\nLeft quite alone, without occupation or amusement, Miss Hyde naturally\ngrasped at anything that came in her way to do or to see to; the lawyer\nwho had been executor of her father's will had settled the estate and\ngone back to his home, and Miss Hyde went with him, the first journey of\nher life, that she might select a monument for her father's grave. It\nwas now near a year since Judge Hyde's death, and the monument was on\nits way from Boston; the elder Dimock monopolized the cartage of freight\nas well as passengers to the next town, and to him Miss Hyde intrusted\nthe care of the great granite pillar she had purchased; and it was for\nhis father that Abner Dimock called on the young lady for directions as\nto the disposal of the tombstone just arrived. Hitty was in the garden;\nher white morning-dress shone among the roses, and the morning air had\nflushed her pale cheek; she looked fair and delicate and gracious; but\nher helpless ignorance of the world's ways and usages attracted the\nworld-hardened man more than her face. He had not spent a _rou\u00e9_ life in\na great city for nothing; he had lived enough with gentlemen,\nbroken-down and lost, it is true, but well-bred, to be able to ape their\nmanners; and the devil's instinct that such people possess warned him of\nHitty Hyde's weakest points. So, too, he contrived to make that first\nerrand lead to another, and still another,--to make the solitary woman\ndepend on his help, and expect his coming; fifty thousand dollars, with\nno more incumbrance than such a woman, was worth scheming for, and the\nprey was easily snared.\n\nIt is not to be expected that any country village of two streets, much\nless Greenfield, could long remain ignorant of such a new and amazing\nphase as the devotion of any man to any woman therein; but, as nobody\nliked to interfere too soon in what might only be, after all, a mere\nbusiness arrangement, Greenfield contented itself with using its eyes,\nits ears, and its tongues, with one exception to the latter organ's\nclatter, in favor of Hitty Hyde; _to_ her no one dared as yet approach\nwith gossip or advice.\n\nIn the mean time Hitty went on her way, all regardless of the seraphs at\nthe gate. Abner Dimock was handsome, agreeable, gentlemanly to a certain\nlackered extent;--who had cared for Hitty, in all her life, enough to\naid and counsel her as he had already done? At first she was half afraid\nof him; then she liked him; then he was \"so good to me!\" and then--she\npitied him! for he told her, sitting on that hard old sofa, in the June\ntwilight, how he had no mother, how he had been cast upon the charities\nof a cruel and evil world from his infancy; reminded her of the old red\nschool-house where they had been to school together, and the tyranny of\nthe big boys over him,--a little curly, motherless boy. So he enlarged\nupon his life; talked a mildly bitter misanthropy; informed Miss Hyde by\ngradual insinuations that she was an angel sent on earth to console and\nreform a poor sinner like him; and before the last September rose had\ndroped, so far had Abner Dimock succeeded in his engineering, that his\nangel was astounded one night by the undeniably terrestrial visitation\nof an embrace and a respectfully fervid kiss.\n\nPerhaps it would have been funny, perhaps pathetic, to analyze the mixed\nconsternation and delight of Mehitable Hyde at such _bon\u00e2-fide_ evidence\nof a lover. Poor woman's heart!--altogether solitary and\ndesolate,--starved of its youth and its joy,--given over to the chilly\nreign of patience and resignation,--afraid of life,--without strength,\nor hope, or pleasure,--and all at once Paradise dawns!--her cold,\ninnocent life bursts into fiery and odorous bloom; she has found her\nfate, and its face is keen with splendor, like a young angel's. Poor,\ndeluded, blessed, rapture-smitten woman!\n\nBlame her as you will, indignant maidens of Greenfield, Miss Flint, and\nMiss Sharp, and Miss Skinner! You may have had ten lovers and twenty\nflirtations apiece, and refused half-a-dozen good matches for the best\nof reasons; you, no doubt, would have known better than to marry a man\nwho was a villain from his very physiognomy; but my heart must needs\ngrow tender toward Miss Hyde; a great joy is as pathetic as a sorrow.\nDid you never cry over a doting old man?\n\nBut when Mrs. Smith's son John, a youth of ten, saw, by the light of an\nincautious lamp that illuminated a part of the south parlor, a\ngood-night kiss bestowed upon the departing Abner by Miss Hitty Hyde and\nabsolutely returned by said Abner, and when John told his mother, and\nhis mother revealed it to Miss Flint, Miss Flint to Miss Skinner, and so\nforth, and so on, till it reached the minister's wife, great was the\nuproar in Greenfield; and the Reverend Mrs. Perkins put on her gray\nbonnet and went over to remonstrate with Hitty on the spot.\n\nWhether people will ever learn the uselessness of such efforts is yet a\nmatter for prophecy. Miss Hyde heard all that was said, and replied very\nquietly, \"I don't believe it.\" And as Mrs. Perkins had no tangible\nproofs of Abner Dimock's unfitness to marry Judge Hyde's daughter, the\nlady in question got the better of her adviser, so far as any argument\nwas concerned, and effectually put an end to remonstrance by declaring\nwith extreme quiet and unblushing front,--\n\n\"I am going to marry him next week. Will you be so good as to notify Mr.\nPerkins?\"\n\nMrs. Perkins held up both hands and cried. Words might have hardened\nHitty; but what woman that was not half tigress ever withstood another\nwoman's tears?\n\nHitty's heart melted directly; she sat down by Mrs. Perkins, and cried,\ntoo.\n\n\"Please, don't be vexed with me,\" sobbed she. \"I love him, Mrs. Perkins,\nand I haven't got anybody else to love,--and--and--I never shall have.\nHe's very good to love me,--I am so old and homely.\"\n\n\"Very good!\" exclaimed Mrs. Perkins, in great wrath, \"_good_! to marry\nJudge Hyde's daughter, and--fifty thousand dollars,\" Mrs. Perkins bit\noff. She would not put such thoughts into Hitty's head, since her\nmarriage was inevitable.\n\n\"At any rate,\" sighed Hitty, on the breath of a long-drawn sob, \"nobody\nelse ever loved me, if I am Judge Hyde's daughter.\"\n\nSo Mrs. Perkins went away, and declared that things had gone too far to\nbe prevented; and Abner Dimock came on her retreating steps, and Hitty\nforgot everything but that he loved her; and the next week they were\nmarried.\n\nHere, by every law of custom, ought my weary pen to fall flat and refuse\nits office; for it is here that the fate of every heroine culminates.\nFor what are women born but to be married? Old maids are excrescences in\nthe social system,--disagreeable utilities,--persons who have failed to\nfulfil their destiny,--and of whom it should have been said, rather than\nof ghosts, that they are always in the wrong. But life, with\npertinacious facts, is too apt to transcend custom and the usage of\nnovel-writers; and though the one brings a woman's legal existence to an\nend when she merges her independence in that of a man, and the other\ncurtails her historic existence at the same point, because the\nnovelist's catechism hath for its preface this creed,--\"The chief end of\nwoman is to get married\"; still, neither law nor novelists altogether\ndisplace this same persistent fact, and a woman lives, in all capacities\nof suffering and happiness, not only her wonted, but a double life, when\nlegally and religiously she binds herself with bond and vow to another\nsoul.\n\nHappy would it have been for Hitty Hyde, if with the legal fiction had\nchimed the actual existent fact!--happy indeed for Abner Dimock's wife\nto have laid her new joy down at the altar, and been carried to sleep by\nher mother under the mulleins and golden-rods on Greenfield Hill! Scarce\nwas the allotted period of rapture past half its term, scarce had she\nlearned to phrase the tender words aloud that her heart beat and choked\nwith, before Abner Dimock began to tire of his incumbrance, and to\ninvent plans and excuses for absence; for he dared not openly declare as\nyet that he left his patient, innocent wife for such scenes of vice and\nreckless dissipation as she had not even dreamed could exist.\n\nYet for week after week he lingered away from Greenfield; even months\nrolled by, and, except for rare and brief visits home, Hitty saw no more\nof her husband than if he were not hers. She lapsed into her old\nsolitude, varied only by the mutterings and grumblings of old Keery, who\nhad lifted up her voice against Hitty's marriage with more noise and\nless effect than Mrs. Perkins, and, though she still staid by her old\nhome and haunts, revenged herself on fate in general and her mistress in\nparticular by a continual course of sulking, all the time hiding under\nthis general quarrel with life a heart that ached with the purest\ntenderness and pity. So some people are made, like chestnuts; one gets\nso scratched and wounded in the mere attempt to get at the kernel\nwithin, that it becomes matter of question whether one does not suffer\nless from wanting their affection than from trying to obtain it. Yet\nHitty Dimock had too little love given her to throw away even Keery's\nhabit of kindness to her, and bore with her snaps and snarls as meekly\nas a saint,--sustained, it is true, by a hope that now began to solace\nand to occupy her, and to raise in her oppressed soul some glimmer of a\nbright possibility, a faint expectation that she might yet regain her\nhusband's love, a passion which she began in her secret heart to fear\nhad found its limit and died out. Still, Hitty, out of her meek,\nself-distrusting spirit, never blamed Abner Dimock for his absence or\nhis coldness; rather, with the divine unselfishness that such women\nmanifest, did she blame herself for having linked his handsome and\nathletic prime with her faded age, and struggle daily with the morbid\nconscience that accused her of having forgotten his best good in the\nindulgence of her own selfish ends of happiness. She still thought, \"He\nis so good to me!\" still idealized the villain to a hero, and, like her\nkind, predestined to be the prey and the accusing angel of such men,\nprayed for and adored her husband as if he had been the best and\ntenderest of gentlemen. Providence has its mysteries; but if there be\none that taxes faith and staggers patience more than another, it is the\nlong misery that makes a good woman cringe and writhe and agonize in\nsilence under the utter rule and life-long sovereignty of a bad man.\nPerhaps such women do not suffer as we fancy; for after much trial every\nwoman learns that it is possible to love where neither respect nor\nadmiration can find foothold,--that it even becomes necessary to love\nsome men, as the angels love us all, from an untroubled height of pity\nand tenderness, that, while it sees and condemns the sin and folly and\nuncleanness of its object, yet broods over it with an all-shielding\ndevotion, laboring and beseeching and waiting for its regeneration,\nupheld above the depths of suffering and regret by the immortal power of\na love so fervent, so pure, so self-forgetting, that it will be a\nmillstone about the necks that disregard its tender clasping now, to\nsink them into a bottomless abyss in the day of the Lord.\n\nNow had one long and not unhappy autumn, a lingering winter, a desolate\nspring, a weary summer, passed away, and from an all-unconscious and\nprotracted wrestling with death Hitty Dimock awoke to find her hope\nfulfilled,--a fair baby nestled on her arm, and her husband, not\nall-insensible, smiling beside her.\n\nIt is true, that, had she died then, Abner Dimock would have regretted\nher death; for, by certain provisions of her father's will, in case of\nher death, the real estate, otherwise at her own disposal, became a\ntrust for her child or children, and such a contingency ill suited Mr.\nDimock's plans. So long as Hitty held a rood of land or a coin of silver\nat her own disposal, it was also at his; but trustees are not women,\nhappily for the world at large, and the contemplation of that fact\nbrought Hitty Hyde's husband into a state of mind well fitted to give\nhim real joy at her recovery.\n\nSo, for a little while, the sun shone on this bare New England\nhill-side, into this grim old house. Care and kindness were lavished on\nthe delicate woman, who would scarce have needed either in her present\ndelight; every luxury that could add to her slowly increasing strength,\nevery attention that could quiet her fluttering and unstrung nerves, was\nshowered on her, and for a time her brightest hopes seemed all to have\nfound fruition.\n\nAs she recovered and was restored to strength, of course these cares\nceased. But now the new instincts of motherhood absorbed her, and,\nbrooding over the rosy child that was her own, caressing its waking, or\nhanging above its sleep, she scarce noted that her husband's absences\nfrom home grew more and more frequent, that strange visitors asked for\nhim, that he came home at midnight oftener than at dusk. Nor was it till\nher child was near a year old that Hitty discovered her husband's old\nand rewakened propensity,--that Abner Dimock came home drunk,--not drunk\nas many men are, foolish and helpless, mere beasts of the field, who\nknow nothing and care for nothing but the filling of their insatiable\nappetite;--this man's nature was too hard, too iron in its moulding, to\ngive way to temporary imbecility; liquor made him savage, fierce,\nbrutal, excited his fiendish temper to its height, nerved his muscular\nsystem, inflamed his brain, and gave him the aspect of a devil; and in\nsuch guise he entered his wife's peaceful Eden, where she brooded and\ncooed over her child's slumbers, with one gripe of his hard hand lifted\nher from her chair, kicked the cradle before him, and, with an awful\nthough muttered oath, thrust mother and child into the entry, locked the\ndoor upon them, and fell upon the bed to sleep away his carouse.\n\nHere was an undeniable fact before Hitty Dimock, one she could no way\nevade or gloss over; no gradual lesson, no shadow of foreboding,\npreluded the revelation; her husband was unmistakably, savagely drunk.\nShe did not sit down and cry;--drearily she gathered her baby in her\narms, hushed it to sleep with kisses, passed down into the kitchen, woke\nup the brands of the ash-hidden fire to a flame, laid on more wood, and,\ndragging old Keery's rush-bottomed chair in front of the blaze, held her\nbaby in her arms till morning broke, careless of anything without or\nwithin but her child's sleep and her husband's drunkenness. Long and\nsadly in that desolate night did she revolve this new misery in her\nmind; the fact was face to face, and must be provided for,--but how to\ndo it? What could she do, poor weak woman, even to conceal this\ndisgrace, much more to check it? Long since she had discovered that\nbetween her and her husband there was no community of tastes or\ninterests; he never talked to her, he never read to her, she did not\nknow that he read at all; the garden he disliked as a useless trouble;\nhe would not drive, except such a gay horse that Hitty dared not risk\nher neck behind it, and felt a shudder of fear assail her whenever his\ngig left the door; neither did he care for his child. Nothing at home\ncould keep him from his pursuits; that she well knew; and, hopeful as\nshe tried to be, the future spread out far away in misty horror and\ndread. What might not, become of her boy, with such a father's\ninfluence? was her first thought;--nay, who could tell but in some fury\nof drink he might kill or maim him? A chill of horror crept over Hitty\nat the thought,--and then, what had not she to dread? Oh, for some\nloophole of escape, some way to fly, some refuge for her baby's innocent\nlife! No,--no,--no! She was his wife; she had married him; she had vowed\nto love and honor and obey,--vow of fearful import now, though uttered\nin all pureness and truth, as to a man who owned her whole heart! Love\nhim!--that was not the dread; love was as much her life as her breath\nwas; she knew no interval of loving for the brute fiend who mocked her\nwith the name of husband; no change or chance could alienate her divine\ntenderness,--even as the pitiful blue sky above hangs stainless over\nreeking battle-fields and pest-smitten cities, piercing with its sad and\nholy star-eyes down into the hellish orgies of men, untouched and\nunchanged by just or unjust, forever shining and forever pure. But honor\nhim! could that be done? What respect or trust was it possible to keep\nfor a self-degraded man like that? And where honor goes down, obedience\nis sucked into the vortex, and the wreck flies far over the lonely sea,\nhistoric and prophetic to ship and shore.\n\nNo! there was nothing to do! her vow was taken, past the power of man to\nbreak; nothing now remained but endurance. Perhaps another woman, with a\nstrong will and vivid intellect, might have set herself to work, backed\nby that very vow that defied poor Hitty, and, by sheer resolution, have\ndragged her husband up from the gulf and saved him, though as by fire;\nor a more buoyant and younger wife might have passed it by as a first\noffence, hopeful of its being also the only one. But an instinctive\nknowledge of the man bereft Hitty of any such hope; she knew it was not\nthe first time; from his own revelations and penitent confessions while\nshe was yet free, she knew he had sinned as well as suffered, and the\npast augured the future. Nothing was left her, she could not escape, she\nmust shut her eyes and her mouth, and only keep out of his way as far as\nshe could. So she clasped her child more tightly, and, closing her heavy\neyes, rocked back and forth till the half-waked boy slept again; and\nthere old Keery found her mistress, in the morning, white as the cold\ndrifts without, and a depth of settled agony in her quiet eyes that\ndimmed the old woman's only to look at.\n\nNeither spoke; nor when her husband strode into the breakfast-room and\ntook his usual place, sober enough, but scarcely regretful of the\nover-night development, did any word of reproach or allusion pass the\nwife's white lips. A stranger would have thought her careless and cold.\nAbner Dimock knew that she was heartbroken; but what was that to him?\nWomen live for years without that organ; and while she lived, so long as\na cent remained of the Hyde estate, what was it to him if she pined\naway? She could not leave him; she was utterly in his power; she was\nhis,--like his boots, his gun, his dog; and till he should tire of her\nand fling her into some lonely chamber to waste and die, she was bound\nto serve him; he was safe.\n\nAnd she offered no sort of barrier to his full indulgence of his will to\ndrink. Had she lifted one of her slender fingers in warning, or given\nhim a look of reproachful meaning, or uttered one cry of entreaty, at\nleast the conscience within him might have visited him with a temporary\nshame, and restrained the raging propensity for a longer interval; but\nseeing her apparent apathy, knowing how timid and unresisting was her\nnature,--that nothing on earth will lie still and be trodden on but a\nwoman,--Abner Dimock rioted and revelled to his full pleasure, while all\nhis pale and speechless wife could do was to watch with fearful eyes and\nstraining ears for his coming, and slink out of the way with her child,\nlest both should be beaten as well as cursed; for faithful old Keery,\nonce daring to face him with a volley of reproaches from her shrill\ntongue, was levelled to the floor by a blow from his rapid hand, and\nbore bruises for weeks that warned her from interference. Not long,\nhowever, was there danger of her meddling. When the baby was a year and\na half old. Keery, in her out-door labors,--now grown burdensome enough,\nsince Mr. Dimock neither worked himself nor allowed a man on the\npremises,--Keery took a heavy cold, and, worn out with a life of hard\nwork, sank into rest quickly, her last act of life being to draw Hitty's\nface down to her own, wrinkled and wan as it was, scarce so old in\nexpression as her mistress's, and with one long kiss and sob speak the\nforeboding and anxious farewell she could not utter.\n\n\"Only you now!\" whispered Hitty to her child, as Keery's peaceful,\nshrouded face was hidden under the coffin-lid and carried away to\nGreenfield Hill. Pitiful whisper! happily all-unmeaning to the child,\nbut full of desolation to the mother, floating with but one tiny plank\namid the wild wrecks of a midnight ocean, and clinging as only the\ndesperate can cling to this vague chance of life.\n\nA rough, half-crazed girl, brought from the alms-house, now did the\ndrudgery of the family. Abner Dimock had grown penurious, and not one\ncent of money was given for comfort in that house, scarce for need. The\ngirl was stupid and rude, but she worked for her board,--recommendation\nenough in Mr. Dimock's eyes; and so hard work was added to the other\nburdens loaded upon his silent wife. And soon came another,\nall-mysterious, but from its very mystery a deeper fear. Abner Dimock\nbegan to stay at home, to be visited at late hours by one or two men\nwhose faces were full of evil and daring; and when, in the dead of the\nlong nights, Hitty woke from her broken and feverish sleep, it was to\nhear muffled sounds from the cellar below, never heard there before; and\nonce, wrapping a shawl about her, she stole down the stairways with bare\nfeet, and saw streams of red light through the chinks of the\ncellar-door, and heard the ring of metal, and muttered oaths, all\ncarefully dulled by such devices as kept the sounds from chance passers\nin the street, though vain as far as the inhabitants of the house itself\nwere concerned. Trembling and cold, she stole back to her bed, full of\ndoubts and fears, neither of which she dared whisper to any one, or\nwould have dared, had she possessed a single friend to whom she could\nspeak. Troubles thickened fast over Hitty; her husband was always at\nhome now, and rarely sober; the relief his absences had been was denied\nher entirely; and in some sunny corner of the uninhabited rooms\nup-stairs she spent her days, toiling at such sewing as was needful, and\nsilent as the dead, save as her life appealed to God from the ground,\nand called down the curse of Cain upon a head she would have shielded\nfrom evil with her own life.\n\nKeen human legislation! sightless justice of men!--one drunken wretch\nsmites another in a midnight brawl, and sends a soul to its account with\none sharp shudder of passion and despair, and the maddened creature that\nremains on earth suffers the penalty of the law. Every sense sobered\nfrom its reeling fury, weeks of terribly expectation heaped upon the\ncringing soul, and, in full consciousness, that murderer is strangled\nbefore men and angels, because he was drunk!--necessary enough, one\nperceives, to the good of society, which thereby loses two worse than\nuseless members; but what, in the name of God's justice, should His\nvicegerent, law, visit upon the man who wrings another life away by slow\ntortures, and torments heart and soul and flesh for lingering years,\nwhere the victim is passive and tenacious, and dies only after\nlong-drawn anguish that might fill the cup of a hundred sudden deaths?\nYet what escapes the vicegerent shall the King himself visit and judge.\n\"For He cometh! He cometh to judge the earth; with righteousness shall\nhe judge the world, and the people with equity.\"\n\nSix months passed after Keery's death, and now from the heights of\nGreenfield and her sunny window Hitty Dimock's white face looked out\nupon a landscape of sudden glory; for October, the gold-bringer, had\ncome, pouring splendor over the earth, and far and wide the forests\nblazed; scarlet and green maples, with erect heads, sentinelled the\nstreet, gay lifeguards of autumn; through dark green cedars the crimson\ncreeper threaded its sprays of blood-red; birches, gilded to their tops,\nswayed to every wind, and drooped their graceful boughs earthward to\nshower the mossy sward with glittering leaves; heavy oaks turned\npurple-crimson through their wide-spread boughs; and the stately\nchestnuts, with foliage of tawny yellow, opened wide their stinging\nhusks to let the nuts fall for squirrel and blue-jay. Splendid sadness\nclothed all the world, opal-hued mists wandered up and down the valleys\nor lingered about the undefined horizon, and the leaf-scented south wind\nsighed in the still noon with foreboding gentleness.\n\nOne day, Abner Dimock was gone, and Hitty stole down to the garden-door\nwith her little child, now just trying to walk, that he might have a\nlittle play on the green turf, and she cool her hot eyes and lips in the\nair. As she sat there watching the pretty clumsiness of her boy, and\nspringing forward to intercept his falls, the influence of sun and air,\nthe playful joy of the child, the soothing stillness of all Nature,\nstole into her heart till it dreamed a dream of hope. Perhaps the\nbudding blossom of promise might become floral and fruitful; perhaps her\nchild might yet atone for the agony of the past;--a time might come when\nshe should sit in that door, white-haired and trembling with age, but as\npeaceful as the autumn day, watching the sports of his children, while\nhis strong arm sustained her into the valley of shadow, and his tender\neyes lit the way.\n\nAs she sat dreaming, suddenly a figure intercepted the sunshine, and,\nlooking up, she saw Abner Dimock's father, the elder Abner, entering the\nlittle wicket-gate of the garden. A strange, tottering old figure, his\nnose and chin grimacing at each other, his bleared eyes telling\nunmistakable truths of cider-brandy and New England rum, his scant locks\nof white lying in confusion over his wrinkled forehead and cheeks, his\nwhole air squalid, hopeless, and degraded,--not so much by the poverty\nof vice as by its demoralizing stamp penetrating from the inner to the\nouter man, and levelling it even below the plane of brutes that perish.\n\n\"Good-day! good-day!\" said he to his son's wife, in a squeaking,\ntremulous tone, that drove the child to his mother's arms,--\"Abner to\nhome?\"\n\n\"No, Sir,\" said Hitty, with an involuntary shudder, that did not escape\nthe bleared blue eye that fixed its watery gaze upon her.\n\n\"Cold, a'n't ye? Better go in, better go in! Come, come along! How d'e\ndo, little feller? don't know yer grandper, hey?\"\n\nThe child met his advances with an ominous scream, and Hitty hurried\ninto the house to give him to the servant's charge, while she returned\nto the sitting-room, where the old man had seated himself in the\nrocking-chair, and was taking a mental inventory of the goods and\nchattels with a momentary keenness in his look that no way reassured\nHitty's apprehensive heart.\n\n\"So, Abner a'n't to home?\"\n\n\"No, Sir.\"\n\n\"Don't know where he's gone, do ye?\"\n\n\"No, Sir.\"\n\n\"Don't never know where he goes, I expect?\"\n\n\"No, Sir.\"\n\n\"Well, when he comes home,--know when he's a-comin' home?\"\n\n\"No, Sir.\"\n\n\"Well, when he doos, you tell him 't some folks come to the tavern last\nnight, 'n' talked pretty loud, 'n' I heerd--Guess 'ta'n't best, though,\nto tell what I heerd. Only you tell Abner 't I come here, and I said\nhe'd better be a-joggin'. He'll know, he'll know,--h'm, yes,\" said the\nold man, passing his hand across his thin blue lips, as if to drive away\nother words better left unsaid,--and then rising from his seat, by the\naid of either arm, gained his balance, and went on, while he fumbled for\nhis stick:--\n\n\"I'd ha' writ, but black and white's a hangin' matter sometimes, 'n'\nwords a'n't; 'n' I hadn't nobody to send, so I crawled along. Don't ye\nforget now! don't ye! It's a pretty consider'ble piece o' business; 'n'\nyou'll be dreffully on't, ef you do forget. Now _don't_ ye forget!\"\n\n\"No, I won't,\" said Hitty, trembling as she spoke; for the old man's\nwords had showed her a depth of dreadful possibility, and an old\nacquaintance with crime and its manoeuvres, that chilled the blood in\nher veins. She watched him out of the gate with a sickening sense of\nterror at her heart, and turned slowly into the house, revolving all\nkinds of plans in her head for her husband's escape, should her fears\nprove true. Of herself she did not think; no law could harm her child;\nbut, even after years of brutality and neglect, her faithful affection\nturned with all its provident thoughtfulness and care at once to her\nhusband; all her wrongs were forgotten, all her sorrows obliterated by\nthis one fear. Well did St. Augustine say, \"God is patient because He is\neternal\": but better and truer would the saying have been, had it run,\n\"God is patient because He is love\": a gospel that He publishes in the\nlives of saints on earth, in their daily and hourly \"anguish of\npatience,\" preaching to the fearful souls that dare not trust His\nlong-suffering by the tenacious love of those who bear His image,\nsaying, in resistless human tones, \"Shall one creature endure and love\nand continually forgive another, and shall I, who am not loving, but\nLove, be weary of thy transgressions, O sinner?\" And so does the silent\nand despairing life of many a woman weave unconsciously its golden\ngarland of reward in the heavens above, and do the Lord's work in a\nstrange land where it cannot sing His songs.\n\nThe day crept toward sunset, and Hitty sat with her wan face pressed to\nthe window-pane, hushing her child in his cradle with one of those low,\nmonotoned murmurs that mothers know; but still her husband did not come.\nThe level sun-rays pierced the woods into more vivid splendor, burnished\ngold fringed the heavy purple clouds in the west, and warm crimson\nlights turned the purple into more triumphant glory; the sun set,\nunstained with mist or tempest, behind those blue and lonely hills that\nguard old Berkshire with their rolling summits, and night came fast,\nsteel-blue and thick with stars; but yet he did not come, the untouched\nmeal on the table was untouched still. Hour after hour of starry\ndarkness crept by, and she sat watching at the window-pane; overhead,\nconstellations marched across the heavens in relentless splendor,\ncareless of man or sorrow; Orion glittered in the east, and climbed\ntoward the zenith; the Pleiades clustered and sparkled as if they missed\ntheir lost sister no more; the Hyades marked the celestial pastures of\nTaurus, and Lyra strung her chords with fire. Hitty rested her weary\nhead against the window-frame and sent her wearier thoughts upward to\nthe stars; there were the points of light that the Chaldeans watched\nupon their plains by night, and named with mystic syllables of their\nweird Oriental tongue,--names that in her girlhood she had delighted to\nlearn, charmed by that nameless spell that language holds, wherewith it\nplants itself ineradicably in the human mind, and binds it with fetters\nof vague association that time and chance are all-powerless to\nbreak,--Zubeneschamali and Zubenelgunebi, Bellatrix and Betelguese,\nsonorous of Rome and Asia both, full of old echoes and the dry resonant\nair of Eastern plains,--names wherein sounded the clash of Bellona's\narmor, and the harsh stir of palm-boughs rustled by a hot wind of the\ndesert, and vibrant with the dying clangor of gongs, and shouts of\nworshipping crowds reverberating through horrid temples of grinning and\nghastly idols, wet with children's blood.\n\nFar, far away, the heavenly procession and their well-remembered names\nhad led poor Hitty's thoughts; worn out with anxiety, and faint for want\nof the food she had forgotten to take, sleep crept upon her, and her\nfirst consciousness of its presence was the awakening grasp of a rough\nhand and the hoarse whisper of her husband.\n\n\"Get up!\" said he. \"Pick up your brat, get your shawl, and come!\"\n\nHitty rose quickly to her feet. One faculty wretchedness gives, the\npower of sudden self-possession,--and Hitty was broad awake in the very\ninstant she was called. Her husband stood beside her, holding a lantern;\nher boy slept in the cradle at her feet.\n\n\"Have you seen your father?\" said she, with quick instinct.\n\n\"Yes, d--n you, be quick! do you want to hang me?\"\n\nQuick as a spirit Hitty snatched her child, and wrapped him in the\nblanket where he lay; her shawl was on the chair she had slept in, her\nhood upon a nail by the door, and flinging both on, with the child in\nher arms, she followed her husband down-stairs, across the back-yard,\nhitting her feet against stones and logs in the darkness, stumbling\noften, but never falling, till the shadow of the trees was past, and the\nstarlight showed her that they were traversing the open fields, now\ncrisp with frost, but even to the tread,--over two or three of these,\nthrough a pine-wood that was a landmark to Hitty, for she well knew that\nit lay between the turnpike-road and another, less frequented, that by\nvarious windings went toward the Connecticut Hue,--then over a tiny\nbrook on its unsteady bridge of logs, and out into a lane, where a\nrough-spoken man was waiting for them, at the head of a strong horse\nharnessed to one of those wagons without springs that New-Englanders\nlike to make themselves uncomfortable in. Her husband turned to her\nabruptly.\n\n\"Get in,\" said he; \"get in behind; there's hay enough; and don't breathe\nloud, or I'll murder you!\"\n\nShe clambered into the wagon and seated herself on the hay, hushing her\nchild, who nestled and moaned in her arms, though she had carried him\nwith all possible care. A sharp cut of the whip sent the powerful horse\noff at full speed, and soon this ill-matched party were fast traversing\nthe narrow road that wound about the country for the use of every farm\nwithin a mile of its necessary course, a course tending toward the\nConnecticut.\n\nHour after hour crept by. Worn out with fatigue, poor Hitty dozed and\nfell back on the soft hay; her child slept, too, and all her troubles\nfaded away in heavy unconsciousness, till she was again awakened by her\nhusband's grasp, to find that dawn was gathering its light roseate\nfleeces in the east, and that their flight was for the present stayed at\nthe door of a tavern, lonely and rude enough, but welcome to Hitty as a\nplace of rest, if only for a moment. The sullen mistress of the house\nasked no questions and offered no courtesy, but, after her guests had\neaten their breakfast, rapidly prepared, she led the way to a bedroom in\nthe loft, where Abner Dimock flung himself down upon the straw bed and\nfell sound asleep, leaving Hitty to the undisturbed care of her child.\nAnd occupation enough that proved; for the little fellow was fretful and\nexcited, so that no hour for thought was left to his anxious and timid\nmother till the dinner-bell awoke her husband and took him downstairs.\nShe could not eat, but, begging some milk for her boy, tended, and fed,\nand sung to him, till he slept; and then all the horrors of the present\nand future thronged upon her, till her heart seemed to die in her\nbreast, and her limbs failed to support her when she would have dragged\nherself out of doors for one breath of fresh air, one refreshing look at\na world untroubled and serene.\n\nSo the afternoon crept away, and as soon as night drew on the journey\nwas resumed. But this night was chill with the breath of a sobbing east\nwind, and the dim stars foreboded rain. Hitty shivered with bitter cold,\nand the boy began to cry. With a fierce curse Abner bade her stop his\ndisturbance, and again the poor mother had hands and heart full to\nsilence the still recurring sobs of the child. At last, after the\nmidnight cocks had ceased to send their challenges from farm to farm,\nafter some remote church-clocks had clanged one stroke on the damp wind,\nthey began to pass through a large village; no lights burned in the\nwindows, but white fences gleamed through the darkness, and sharp gable\nends loomed up against the dull sky, one after another, and the horse's\nhoofs flashed sparks from the paved street before the church, that\nshowed its white spire, spectre-like, directly in their path. Here, by\nsome evil chance, the child awoke, and, between cold and hunger and\nfear, began one of those long and loud shrieks that no power can stop\nthis side of strangulation. In vain Hitty kissed, and coaxed, and\nhalf-choked her boy, in hope to stop the uproar; still he screamed more\nand more loudly. Abner turned round on his seat with an oath, snatched\nthe child from its mother's arms, and rolled it closely in the blanket.\n\n\"Hold on a minute, Ben!\" said he to his companion; \"this yelp must be\nstopped\"; and stepping over to the back of the wagon, he grasped his\nwife tightly with one arm, and with the other dropped his child into the\nstreet. \"Now drive, Ben,\" said he, in the same hoarse whisper,--\"drive\nlike the Devil!\"--for, as her child fell, Hitty shrieked with such a cry\nas only the heart of a mother could send out over a newly-murdered\ninfant. Shriek on shriek, fast and loud and long, broke the slumbers of\nthe village; nothing Abner could do, neither threat nor force, short of\nabsolute murder, would avail,--and there was too much real estate\nremaining of the Hyde property for Abner Dimock to spare his wife yet.\nBen drove fiend-fashion; but before they passed the last house in the\nvillage, lights were glancing and windows grating as they were opened.\nYears after, I heard the story of such a midnight cry borne past\nsleeping houses with the quick rattle of wheels; but no one who heard it\ncould give the right clue to its explanation, and it dried into a\nlegend.\n\nNow Hitty Dimock became careless of good or evil, except one absorbing\ndesire to get away from her husband,--to search for her child, to know\nif it had lived or died. For four nights more that journey was pursued\nat the height of their horse's speed; every day they stopped to rest,\nand every day Hitty's half-delirious brain laid plans of escape, only to\nbe balked by Abner Dimock's vigilance; for if he slept, it was with both\narms round her, and the slightest stir awoke him,--and while he woke,\nnot one propitious moment freed her from his watch. Her brain began to\nreel with disappointment and anguish; she began to hate her husband; a\nband of iron seemed strained about her forehead, and a ringing sound\nfilled her ears; her lips grew parched, and her eye glittered; the last\nnight of their journey Abner Dimock lifted her into the wagon, and she\nfainted on the hay.\n\n\"What in hell did you bring her for, Dimock?\" growled his companion;\n\"women are d----d plagues always.\"\n\n\"She'll get up in a minute,\" coolly returned the husband; \"can't afford\nto leave a goose that lays golden eggs behind; hold on till I lift her\nup. Here, Hitty! drink, I tell you! drink!\"\n\nA swallow of raw spirit certainly drove away the faintness, but it\nbrought fresh fire to the fever that burned in her veins, and she was\nmuttering in delirium before the end of that night's journey brought\nthem to a small village just above the old house on the river that\nfigured in the beginning of this history, and which we trust the patient\nreader has not forgotten. Abner Dimock left his wife in charge of the\nold woman who kept the hovel of a tavern where they stopped, and, giving\nBen the horse to dispose of to some safe purchaser, after he had driven\nhim down to the old house, returned at night in the boat that belonged\nto his negro tenant, and, taking his unconscious wife from her bed,\nrowed down the river and landed her safely, to be carried from the skiff\ninto an upper chamber of the old house, where Jake's wife, Aunt Judy, as\nMr. Dimock styled her, nursed the wretched woman through three weeks of\nfever, and \"doctored\" her with herbs and roots.\n\nThe tenacious Hyde constitution, that was a proverb in Greenfield,\nconquered at last, and Hitty became conscious, to find herself in a\nchamber whose plastered walls were crumbling away with dampness and\nfestooned with cobwebs, while the uncarpeted floor was checkered with\ngreen stains of mildew, and the very old four-post bedstead on which she\nlay was fringed around the rickety tester with rags of green moreen,\nmould-rotted.\n\nHitty sank back on her pillow with a sigh; she did not even question the\nold negress who sat crooning over the fire, as to where she was, or what\nhad befallen her; but accepted this new place as only another misty\ndelirium, and in her secret heart prayed, for the hundredth time, to\ndie.\n\nSlowly she recovered; for prayers to die are the last prayers ever\nanswered; we live against our will, and tempt living deaths year after\nyear, when soul and body cry out for the grave's repose, and beat\nthemselves against the inscrutable will of God only to fall down before\nit in bruised and bleeding acquiescence. So she lived to find herself\nimmured in this damp and crumbling house, with no society but a drinking\nand crime-haunted husband, and the ignorant negroes who served\nhim,--society varied now and then by one or two men revolting enough in\nspeech and aspect to drive Hitty to her own room, where, in a creaking\nchair, she rocked monotonously back and forth, watching the snapping\nfire, and dreaming dreams of a past that seemed now but a visionary\nparadise.\n\nFor now it was winter, and the heavy drifts of snow that lay on Dimock's\nmeadow forbade any explorations which the one idea of finding her child\nmight have driven her to make; and the frozen surface of the river no\nwhite-sailed ship could traverse now, nor the hissing paddle-wheels of a\nsteamer break the silence with intimations of life, active and salient,\nfar beyond the lonely precinct of Abner Dimock's home.\n\nSo the winter passed by. The noises and lights that had awoke Hitty at\nmidnight in the house at Greenfield had become so far an institution in\nthis lonely dwelling that now they disturbed her sleep no more; for it\nwas a received custom, that, whenever Abner Dimock's two visitors should\nappear, the cellar should resound all night with heavy blows and\nclinking of metal, and red light as from a forge streamed up through the\ndoorway; but it disturbed Hitty no more; apathy settled down in black\nmist on her soul, and she seemed to think, to care, for nothing.\n\nBut spring awoke the dead earth, and sleeping roots aroused with fresh\nforces from their torpor, and sent up green signals to the birds above.\nA spark of light awoke in Hitty's eye; she planned to get away, to steal\nthe boat from its hidden cove in the bushes and push off down the\nfriendly current of the river,--anywhere away from him! anywhere! though\nit should be to wreck on the great ocean, but still away from him! Night\nafter night she rose from her bed to hazard the attempt, but her heart\nfailed, and her trembling limbs refused their aid. At length moonlight\ncame to her aid, and when all the house slept she stole downstairs with\nbare, noiseless feet, and sped like a ghost across the meadow to the\nriver-bank. Poor weak hands! vainly they fumbled with the knotted rope\nthat bound the skiff to a crooked elm over-hanging the water,--all in\nvain for many lingering minutes; but presently the obdurate knot gave\nway, and, turning to gather up her shawl, there, close behind her, so\nclose that his hot breath seemed to sear her cheek, stood her husband,\nclear in the moonlight, with a sneer on his face, and the lurid glow of\ndrunkenness, that made a savage brute of a bad man, gleaming in his\ndeep-set eyes. Hitty neither shrieked nor ran; despair nerved\nher,--despair turned her rigid before his face.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"where are you going?\"\n\n\"I am going away,--away from you,--anywhere in the world away from you!\"\nanswered she, with the boldness of desperation.\n\n\"Ha, ha! going away from me!--that's a d--d good joke, a'n't it? Away\nfrom your husband! You fool! you can't get away from me! you're mine,\nsoul and body,--this world and the next! Don't you know that? Where's\nyour promise, eh?--'for better, for worse!'--and a'n't I worse, you\ncursed fool, you? You didn't put on the handcuffs for nothing; heaven\nand hell can't get you away from me as long as you've got on that little\nshiny fetter on your finger,--don't you know that?\"\n\nThe maddened woman made a quick wrench to pull away from him her left\nhand, which he held in his, taunting her with the ring that symbolized\ntheir eternal bonds; but he was too quick for her.\n\n\"Hollo!\" laughed he; \"want to get rid of it, don't you? No, no! that\nwon't do,--that won't do! I'll make it safe!\"\n\nAnd lifting her like a child in his arms, he carried her across the\nmeadow, back to the house, and down a flight of crazy steps into the\ncellar, where a little forge was all ablaze with white-hot coal, and the\ntwo ill-visaged men she well knew by sight were busy with sets of odd\ntools and fragments of metal, while on a bench near by, and in the seat\nof an old chair, lay piles of fresh coin. They were a gang of\ncounterfeiters.\n\nAbner Dimock thrust his wife into the chair, sweeping the gilt eagles to\nthe floor as one of the men angrily started up, demanding, with an oath,\nwhat he brought that woman there for to hang them all.\n\n\"Be quiet, Bill, can't you?\" interposed the other man. \"Don't you see\nhe's drunk? you'll have the Devil to pay, if you cross a drunk Dimock!\"\n\nBut Abner had not heard the first speaker; he was too much occupied with\ntying his wife's arms to the chair,--a proceeding she could nowise\ninterfere with, since his heavy foot was set upon her dress so as to\nhold her own feet in helpless fixedness. He proceeded to take the ring\nfrom her finger, and, searching through a box of various contents that\nstood in one corner, extracted from it a delicate steel chain, finely\nwrought, but strong as steel can be; then, at the forge, with sundry\ntools, carefully chosen and skilfully used, he soldered one end of the\nchain to the ring, and, returning to his wife, placed it again upon her\nfinger.\n\n\"Here, Bill,\" growled he, \"where's that padlock off the tool-chest, eh?\ngive it here! This woman's a fool,--ha, ha, ha!--she wanted to get away\nfrom me, and she's my wife!\"\n\nAnother peal of dissonant laughter interrupted the words.\n\n\"What a d----d good joke! I swear I haven't laughed before, this dog's\nage! And then she was goin' to rid herself of the ring! as if that would\nhelp it! Why, there's the promise in black and white,--'love, honor, and\nobey,'--'I take thee, Abner,'--ha, ha! that's good! But fast bind, fast\nfind; she a'n't going to get rid of the ring. I'll make it as tight as\nthe promise; both of 'em 'll last to doomsday. Give me the padlock, you\nscoundrel!\"\n\nBill, the man he addressed, knew too much to hesitate after the savage\nlook that sent home the last words,--and, drawing from a bag of tools\nand dies a tiny padlock and key, he handed them to Dimock, who passed\nthe chain about Hitty's thin white wrist, and, fastening it with the\npadlock, turned the key, and, withdrawing it from the lock, dropped it\ninto the silvery heat of the forge, and burst into a fit of laughter, so\nsavage and so inhuman that the bearded lips of his two comrades grew\nwhite with horror to hear the devil within so exult in his possession of\na man.\n\nHitty sat, statue-like, in her chair; stooping, the man unbound her, and\nshe rose slowly and steadily to her feet, looking him in the face.\n\n\"Look!\" said she, raising her shackled arm high in air,--\"I shall carry\nit to God!\"--and so fled, up the broken stairway, out into the\nmoonlight, across the meadow,--the three men following fast,--over the\nfallen boughs that winter had strewn along the shore, out under the\ncrooked elm, swift as light, poising on the stern of the boat, that had\nswung out toward the channel,--and once more lifting her hand high into\nthe white light, with one spring she dropped into the river, and its\nblack waters rolled down to the sea.\n\n\n\n\nTHE END OF ALL.\n\n\n  Wandering along a waste\n  Where once a city stood,\n  I saw a ruined tomb,\n  And in that tomb an urn,--\n\n  A sacred funeral-urn,\n  Without a name or date,\n  And in its hollow depths\n  A little human dust!\n\n  Whose dust is this, I asked,\n  In this forgotten urn?\n  And where this waste now lies\n  What city rose of old?\n\n  None knows; its name is lost;\n  It was, and is no more:\n  Gone like a wind that blew\n  A thousand years ago!\n\n  Its melancholy end\n  Will be the end of all;\n  For, as it passed away,\n  The universe will pass!\n\n  Its sole memorial\n  Some ruined world, like ours;\n  A solitary urn,\n  Full of the dust of men!\n\n\n\n\nBIRDS OF THE NIGHT.\n\n\nThere are numerous swarms of insects and many small quadrupeds,\nrequiring partial darkness for their security, that come abroad only\nduring the night or twilight. These would multiply almost without check,\nbut that certain birds are formed with the power of seeing in the dark,\nand, on account of their partial blindness in the daytime, are forced by\nnecessity to seek their food by night. Many species of insects are most\nactive after dewfall,--such, especially, as spend a great portion of\ntheir lifetime in the air. Hence the very late hour at which Swallows\nretire to rest, the hour succeeding sunset providing them with a fuller\nrepast than any other part of the day. No sooner has the Swallow\ndisappeared, than the Whippoorwill and the Night-Jar come forth, to prey\nupon the larger kinds of aerial insects. The Bat, an animal of an\nantediluvian type, comes out at the same time, and assists in lessening\nthese multitudinous swarms. The little Owls, though they pursue the\nlarger beetles and moths, direct their efforts chiefly at the small\nquadrupeds that steal out in the early evening to nibble the tender\nherbs and grasses. Thus the night, except the hours of total darkness,\nis with many species of animals, though they pursue their objects with\ncomparative stillness and silence, a period of general activity.\n\nIn this sketch, I shall treat of the Birds of the Night under two heads,\nincluding, beside the true nocturnal birds that go abroad in the night\nto seek their subsistence, those diurnal birds that continue their songs\nduring a considerable portion of the night. Some species of birds are\npartly nocturnal in their habits. Such is the Chimney Swallow. This bird\nis seldom out at noonday, which it employs in sleep, after excessive\nactivity from the earliest morning dawn. It is seen afterwards circling\nabout in the decline of day, and is sometimes abroad in fine weather the\ngreater part of the night, when the young broods require almost\nunremitted exertions, on the part of the old birds, to procure their\nsubsistence.\n\nThe true nocturnal birds, of which the Owl and the Whippoorwill are\nconspicuous examples, are distinguished by a peculiar sensibility of the\neye, that enables them to see clearly by twilight and in cloudy weather,\nwhile they are dazzled by the broad light of day. Their organs of\nhearing are proportionally delicate and acute. Their wing-feathers also\nhave a peculiar downy softness, so that they fly without the usual\nfluttering sounds that attend the flight of other birds, and are able to\nsteal unawares upon their prey, and make their predal excursions without\ndisturbing the general silence of the hour. This noiseless flight is\nvery remarkable in the Owl, as may be observed, if a tame one be allowed\nto fly about a room, when we can perceive his motions only by our sight.\nIt is a fact worthy of our attention, that this peculiar structure of\nthe wing-feathers does not exist in the Woodcock. Nature makes no\nuseless provisions for her creatures; and hence this nocturnal bird,\nwhich obtains his food by digging into the soil, and gets no part of it\nwhile on the wing, has no need of this contrivance. Neither stillness\nnor stealth would assist him in securing his helpless prey.\n\nAmong the nocturnal birds, the most notorious is the Owl, of which there\nare many species, varying from the size of an Eagle down to the little\nAcadian, which is no larger than a Robin. The resemblance of the Owl to\nthe feline quadrupeds has been a frequent subject of remark. Like the\ncat, he sees most clearly by twilight or the light of the moon, seeks\nhis prey in the night, and spends the principal part of the day in\nsleep. The likeness is made stronger by his tufts of feathers, that\ncorrespond to the ears of the quadruped,--by his large head,--his round,\nfull, and glaring eyes, set widely apart,--by the extreme contractility\nof the pupil,--and in his manners, by his lurking and stealthy habit of\nsurprising his victims. His eyes are partially encircled by a disk of\nfeathers that yields a peculiarly significant expression to his face.\nHis hooked bill turned downwards, so as to resemble the nose in a human\ncountenance, the general flatness of his features, and his upright\nposition, give him a grave and intelligent look; and it was this\nexpression that caused him to be selected by the ancients as the emblem\nof wisdom, and consecrated to Minerva.\n\nThe Owl is remarkable also for the acuteness of his hearing, having a\nlarge ear-drum, and being provided with an apparatus by which he can\nexalt this faculty, when under the necessity of listening with greater\nattention. Hence, while he is silent in his own motions, he is able to\nperceive the least sound from the motion of any other object, and\novertakes his prey by coming upon it in silence and darkness. The\nstillness of his flight is one of the circumstances that add mystery to\nhis character, and which have assisted in rendering him an object of\nsuperstitious dread.\n\nAware of his defenceless condition in the bright daylight, when his\npurblindness would prevent him from evading the attacks of his enemies,\nhe seeks some obscure retreat where he may pass the day without exposing\nhimself to observation. It is this necessity which has caused him to\nmake his abode in desolate and ruined buildings, in old towers and\nbelfries, and in the crevices of dilapidated walls. In these places he\nhides himself from the sight of other birds, who regard him as their\ncommon enemy, and who show him no mercy when he is discovered. Here also\nhe rears his offspring, and with these solitary haunts his image is\nclosely associated. In thinly settled and wooded countries, he selects\nthe hollows of old trees and the clefts of rocks for his retreats. All\nthe smaller Owls, however, seem to multiply with the increase of human\npopulation, subsisting upon the minute animals that accumulate in\nouthouses, orchards, and fallows.\n\nWhen the Owl is discovered in his hiding-place, the alarm is given, and\nthere is a general excitement among the small birds. They assemble in\ngreat numbers, and with loud chattering commence assailing and annoying\nhim in various ways, and soon drive him out of his retreat. The Jay,\nusually his first assailant, like a thief employed as a thief-taker,\nattacks him with great zeal and animation; the Chickadee, the Nuthatch,\nand the small Thrushes peck at his head and eyes; while other birds,\nless bold, fly round him, and by their vociferation encourage his\nassailants and help to terrify their victim.\n\nIt is while sitting on the branch of a tree or on a fence, after his\nmisfortune and his escape, that he is most frequently seen in the\ndaytime; and here he has formed a subject for painters, who have\ncommonly introduced him into their pictures as he appears in one of\nthese open situations. He is likewise represented ensconced in his own\nselect retreats, apparently peeping out of his hiding-place while\nhalf-concealed; and the fact of his being seen in these lonely places\nhas caused many superstitions to be attached to his image. His voice is\nsupposed to bode misfortune, and his spectral visits are regarded as the\nforewarnings of death. His connection with deserted houses and ruins has\ninvested him with a peculiarly romantic character; while the poets, by\nintroducing him to deepen the force of their gloomy and pathetic\ndescriptions, have enlivened these associations; and he deserves,\ntherefore, in a special degree, to be named among those animals which we\ncall picturesque.\n\nThe gravity of the Owl's general appearance, combined with a sort of\nhuman expression in his countenance, undoubtedly caused him to be\nselected by the ancients as the emblem of wisdom. The moderns have\npractically renounced this idea, which had no foundation in the real\ncharacter of the bird, who possesses only the sly and sinister traits\nthat mark the feline race. A very different train of associations and a\nnew series of picturesque images are now suggested by the figure of the\nOwl, who has been portrayed more correctly by modern poetry than by\nancient mythology. He is now universally regarded as the emblem of ruin\nand desolation, true to his character and habits, which are intimately\nallied to this description of scenery.\n\nI will not enter into a speculation concerning the nature and origin of\nthose agreeable emotions which are so generally produced by the sight of\nobjects that suggest the ideas of decay and desolation. It is happy for\nus, that, by the alchemy of poetry, we are able to turn some of our\nmisfortunes into sources of melancholy pleasure, after the poignancy of\ngrief has been assuaged by time. Nature has beneficently provided, also,\nthat many an object, which is capable of communicating no direct\npleasure to our senses, shall affect us agreeably through the medium of\nsentiment. The image of the Owl is calculated to awaken the sentiment of\nruin, and to this feeling of the human soul we may trace the pleasure we\nderive from the sight of this bird in his appropriate scenery. Two Doves\nupon the mossy branch of a tree in a wild and beautiful sylvan retreat\nare the pleasing emblems of innocent love and constancy; but they are\nnot more suggestive of poetic fancies than an Owl sitting upon an old\ngate-post near a deserted house.\n\nI have alluded, in another page, to the faint sounds we hear when the\nNight Birds, on a still summer evening, are flying over short distances\nin a neighboring wood. There is a feeling of mystery excited by these\nsounds, that exalts the pleasure we derive from the delightful influence\nof the hour and the season. But the emotions thus produced are of a\ncheerful kind, and not equal in intensity to the effects of the scarcely\nperceptible sound occasioned by the flight of the Owl, as he glides by\nin the dusk of the evening or in the dim light of the moon. Similar in\nits influence is the dismal voice of this bird, which is harmonized with\ndarkness, and, though in some cases not unmusical, is tuned, as it were,\nto the terrors of that hour when he makes secret warfare upon the\nsleeping inhabitants of the wood.\n\nOne of the most interesting of this tribe of birds is the little Acadian\nOwl, (_Strix Acadica_,) whose note has formerly excited a great deal of\ncuriosity. In \"The Canadian Naturalist,\" an account is given of a rural\nexcursion in April, in the course of which the attention of one of the\nparty is called by his companion, just after sunset, to a peculiar sound\nproceeding from a cedar swamp. It was compared to the measured tinkling\nof a cow-bell, or regular strokes upon a piece of iron, quickly\nrepeated. The one appealed to is able to give no satisfactory\ninformation about it, but remarks, that, \"during the months of April and\nMay, and in the former part of June, we frequently hear, after\nnightfall, the sound just described. From its regularity, it is thought\nto resemble the whetting of a saw, and hence the bird from which it\nproceeds is called the Saw-Whetter.\" The author could not identify the\nbird that uttered this note, but conjectured that it might be a Heron or\na Bittern. It has since been ascertained that this singular note\nproceeds from the Acadian Owl. It is like the sound produced by the\nfiling of a mill-saw, and is said to be the amatory note of the male,\nbeing heard only during the season of incubation.\n\nMr. S.P. Fowler, of Danvers, informs me that \"the Acadian Owl has\nanother note, which we frequently hear in the autumn, after the breeding\nseason is over. The parent birds, then accompanied by their young, while\nhunting their prey during a bright moonlight night, utter a peculiar\nnote, resembling a suppressed moan or a low whistle. The little Acadian,\nto avoid the annoyance of the birds he would meet by day, and the\nblinding light of the sun, retires in the morning, his feathers wet with\ndew and rumpled by the hard struggles he has encountered in seizing his\nprey, to the gloom of the forest or the thick swamp, where, perched on a\nbough, near the trunk of the tree, he sleeps through a summer's day, the\nperfect picture of a _used-up_ little fellow, suffering from the sad\neffects of a night's carouse. But he is an honest bird, notwithstanding\nhis late hours and his idle sleeping days; he is also domestic in his\nhabits, and the father of an interesting family, close at hand, in a\nhollow white-birch, and he is ever ready to give them his support and\nprotection.\"\n\nThe Mottled Owl, (_Strix Asio_) or Screech Owl, is somewhat larger than\nthe Acadian or Whetsaw, and not so familiar as the Barn Owl of Europe,\nthough resembling it in general habits. He commonly builds in the hollow\nof an old tree, also in deserted buildings, whither he resorts in the\ndaytime to find repose and to escape annoyance. His voice is heard most\nfrequently in the latter part of summer, when the young Owlets are\nabroad, and use their cries for purposes of mutual salutation and\nrecognition. This wailing note is singularly wild, and not unmusical. It\nis not properly a screech or a scream, like that of the Hawk or the\nPeacock, but rather a sort of moaning melody, half music and half\nbewailment. This wailing song is far from disagreeable, though it has a\ncadence which is expressive of dreariness and melancholy. It might be\nperformed on a small flute, by commencing with D octave and running down\nby semitones to a fifth below, and frequently repeating the notes, for\nthe space of a minute, with occasional pauses and slight variations,\nsometimes ascending as well as descending the scale. The bird does not\nslur the passages, but utters them with a sort of trembling _staccato_.\nThe separate notes may be distinctly perceived, with intervals of about\na semitone.\n\nThe Owl is not properly regarded as a useful bird. The generality of the\ntribe deserve to be considered only as mischievous birds of prey, and no\nmore entitled to mercy and protection than the Falcons, to which they\nare allied. All the little Owls, however, though guilty of destroying\nsmall birds, are very serviceable in ridding our fields and premises of\nmischievous animals. They likewise destroy multitudes of large nocturnal\ninsects, flying above the summits of the trees in pursuit of them, while\nat other times their flight is low, when watching for the small animals\nthat run upon the ground. It is probably on account of its low flight\nthat the Owl is seldom seen on the wing. Bats, which are employed by\nNature for the same kind of services, fall victims in large numbers to\nthe Owls of different species, who are the principal means of preventing\ntheir multiplication.\n\nI should wander from my present purpose, were I to attempt a sketch of\nthe large Owls, as I design only to treat of those birds which\ncontribute, either as poetic or picturesque objects, to improve the\ncharms of Nature. I shall say but a passing word, therefore, of the\nGreat Snowy Owl, almost exclusively an inhabitant of the Arctic regions,\nwhere he frightens both man and beast with his dismal hootings,--or of\nthe Cat Owl, the prince of these monsters, who should be consecrated to\nPluto,--or of his brother monster, the Gray Owl, that will carry off a\nfull-grown rabbit. There are several other species, more or less\ninteresting, ridiculous, or frightful. I will leave them, to speak of\nbirds of more pleasing habits and a more innocent character.\n\nThe next remarkable family of nocturnal birds comprises the\n_Moth-Hunters_, including, in New England, only two species,--the\nWhippoorwill and the Night-Hawk, or Piramidig. These birds resemble the\nOwls in some of their habits; but in their structure, in their mode of\nsubsistence, and in their general traits of character, they are like\nSwallows. They are shy and solitary, take their food while on the wing,\nabide chiefly in deep woods, and come abroad only at twilight or in\ncloudy weather. They remain, like the Dove, permanently paired, lay\ntheir eggs on the bare ground, and, when perched upon the branch of a\ntree, sit upon it lengthwise, unlike other birds. They are remarkable\nfor their singular voices, of which that of only one species, the\nWhippoorwill, can be considered musical. They are known in all parts of\nthe world, but are particularly numerous in the warmer parts of America.\n\nThe Whippoorwill (_Caprimulgus vociferus_) is well known to the\ninhabitants of this part of the world, on account of his nocturnal song.\nThis is heard only in densely wooded and retired situations, and is\nassociated with the solitude of the forest, as well as the silence of\nnight. The Whippoorwill is, therefore, emblematic of the rudeness of\nprimitive Nature, and his voice always reminds us of seclusion and\nretirement. Sometimes he wanders away from the wood into the precincts\nof the town, and sings near some dwelling-house. Such an incident was\nformerly the occasion of superstitious alarm, being regarded as an omen\nof some evil to the inmates of the dwelling. The true cause of these\nirregular visits is probably the accidental abundance of a particular\nkind of insects, which the bird has followed from his retirement.\n\nI believe the Whippoorwill, in this part of the country, is first heard\nin May, and continues vocal until the middle of July. He begins to sing\nat dusk, and we usually hear his note soon after the Veery, the Philomel\nof our summer evenings, has become silent. His song consists of three\nnotes, in a sort of triple or waltz time, with a slight pause after the\nfirst note in the bar, as given below:--\n\n[Illustration: SONG OF THE WHIPPOORWILL. Whip-poor-Will Whip-p'r-Will\nWhip-p'r-Will Whip-]\n\nI should remark, that the bird usually commences his song with the\nsecond syllable of his name, or the second note in the bar. Some birds\nfall short of these intervals; but there seems to be an endeavor, on the\npart of each individual, to reach the notes as they are written on the\nscale. A few sliding notes are occasionally introduced, and an\noccasional preluding cluck is heard when we are near the singer.\n\nThe note of the Quail so closely resembles that of the Whippoorwill,\nthat I have thought it might be interesting to compare the two.\n\n[Illustration: NOTE OF THE QUAIL. Bob White. More Wet.]\n\nSo great is the general similarity of the notes of these two birds, that\nthose of the Quail need only to be repeated several times in succession,\nwithout pause, to be mistaken for those of the Whippoorwill. They are\nuttered with similar intonations; but the voice of the nocturnal bird is\nmore harsh, and his song consists of three notes instead of two.\n\nThe song of the Whippoorwill, though wanting in mellowness of tone, as\nmay be perceived when he is only a short distance from us, is to most\npeople very agreeable, notwithstanding the superstitions associated with\nit. Some persons are not disposed to rank the Whippoorwill among\nsinging-birds, regarding him as more vociferous than musical. But it\nwould be difficult to determine in what respect his notes differ from\nthe songs of other birds, except that they approach more nearly to the\nprecision of artificial music. Yet it will be admitted that considerable\ndistance is required to \"lend enchantment\" to the sound of his voice. In\nsome retired and solitary districts, the Whippoorwills are often so\nnumerous as to be annoying by their vociferations; but in those places\nwhere only two or three individuals are heard during the season, their\nmusic is the source of a great deal of pleasure, and is a kind of\nrecommendation to the place.\n\nI was witness of this, some time since, in one of my botanical rambles\nin the town of Beverly, which is, for the most part, too densely\npopulated to suit the habits of these solitary birds. On one of these\nexcursions, after walking several hours over a rather unattractive\nregion, I arrived at a very romantic spot, known by the unpoetical name\nof Black Swamp. Nature uses her most ordinary materials to form her most\ndelightful landscapes, and often keeps in reserve prospects of\nenchanting beauty, and causes them to rise up, as it were, by magic,\nwhere we should least expect them. Here I suddenly found myself\nencompassed by a charming amphitheatre of hills and woods, and in a\nvalley so beautiful that I could not have imagined anything equal to it.\nA neat cottage stood alone in this spot, without a single architectural\ndecoration, which I am confident would have dissolved the spell that\nmade the whole scene so attractive. It was occupied by a shoemaker, whom\nI recognized as an old acquaintance and a worthy man, who resided here\nwith his wife and children. I asked them if they could live contented so\nfar from other families. The wife of the cottager replied, that they\nsuffered in the winter from their solitude, but in the spring and summer\nthey preferred it to the town,--\"for in this place we hear all the\nsinging-birds, early and late, and the Whippoorwill sings here every\nnight during May and June.\" It was the usual practice of these birds,\nthey told me, to sing both in the morning and the evening twilight; but\nif the moon rose late in the evening, after they had become silent, they\nwould begin to sing anew, as if to welcome her rising. May the birds\ncontinue to sing to this happy family, and may the voice of the\nWhippoorwill never bode them any misfortune!\n\nThe Night-Hawk, or Piramidig, (_Caprimulgus Americanus_,) is similar in\nmany points to the Whippoorwill, and the two species were formerly\nconsidered identical. The former, however, is a smaller bird; he has no\nsong, and exhibits more of the ways of the Swallow. He is marked by a\nwhite spot on his wings, which is very apparent during his flight. He\ntakes his prey in a higher part of the atmosphere,--being frequently\nseen, at twilight and in cloudy weather, soaring above the house-tops in\nquest of insects. The Whippoorwill finds his subsistence chiefly in the\nwoods, and takes a part of it from the branches of trees, while poising\nhimself on the wing, like a Humming-Bird. I believe he is never seen\ncircling aloft like the Night-Hawk.\n\nThe movements of the Night-Hawk, during this flight, are performed, for\nthe most part, in circles, and are very picturesque. The birds are\nusually seen in pairs, at such times, but occasionally there are numbers\nassembled together; and one might suppose they were engaged in a sort of\na\u00ebrial dance, or that they were emulating each other in their attempts\nat soaring to a great height. It is evident that these evolutions\nproceed in part from the pleasure of motion; but they are also connected\nwith their courtship. While they are soaring and circling in the air,\nthey occasionally utter the shrill and broken note which has been\nsupposed to resemble the word Piramidig, whence the name is\nderived,--and now and then they dart suddenly aside, to seize a passing\ninsect.\n\nWhile performing these circumvolutions, the male frequently dives almost\nperpendicularly downwards, a distance of forty feet or more, uttering,\nwhen he turns at the bottom of his descent, a singular note, resembling\nthe twang of a viol-string. This sound has been supposed to proceed from\nthe action of the air, as the bird dives swiftly through it with open\nmouth; but this supposition is rendered improbable by the fact that the\nEuropean species makes a similar sound while sitting on its perch. It\nhas also been alleged that the diving motion of this bird is an act\ndesigned to intimidate those who seem to be approaching his nest; but\nthis cannot be true, because the bird performs the manoeuvre when he has\nno nest to defend. This habit is peculiar to the male, and it is\nprobably one of those fantastic motions which are noticeable among the\nmales of the gallinaceous birds, and are evidently their artifices to\nattract the attention of the female; very many of these motions may be\nobserved in the manners of tame Pigeons.\n\nThe twanging note produced during the precipitate descent of the\nNight-Hawk is one of the picturesque sounds of Nature, and is heard most\nfrequently in the morning twilight, when the birds are busy collecting\ntheir repast of insects. During an early morning walk, while they are\ncircling about, we may hear their cry frequently repeated, and\noccasionally the booming sound, which, if one is not accustomed to it,\nand is not acquainted with this habit of the bird, affects him with a\nsensation of mystery, and excites his curiosity in an extraordinary\ndegree.\n\nThe sound produced by the European species is a sort of drumming or\nwhizzing note, like the hum of a spinning-wheel. The male commences this\nperformance about dusk, and continues it at intervals during a great\npart of the night. It is effected while the breast is inflated with air,\nlike that of a cooing Dove. The Piramidig has the power of inflating\nhimself in the same manner, and he utters this whizzing note when one\napproaches his nest.\n\nThe American Woodcock (_Scolopax minor_) is a more interesting bird than\nwe should infer from his general appearance and physiognomy. He is\nmainly nocturnal in his habits, and his ways are worthy of study and\nobservation. He obtains his food by scratching up the leaves and rubbish\nthat lie upon the surface of the ground in damp and wooded places, and\nby boring into the earth for worms. He remains concealed in the wood\nduring the day, and comes out to feed at twilight, choosing the open\nploughed lands where worms are abundant; though it is probable that in\nthe shade of the wood he is more or less busy in scratching among the\nleaves in the daytime.\n\nThe Woodcock does not commonly venture abroad in the open day, unless he\nbe disturbed and driven from his retreats. He makes his first appearance\nhere in the latter part of April, and at this season we may observe that\nsoaring habit which renders him one of the picturesque objects of\nNature. This soaring takes place soon after sunset, continues during\ntwilight, and is repeated at the corresponding hour in the morning. If\nyou listen at this time near the places of his resort, he will soon\nreveal himself by a lively peep, frequently uttered, from the ground.\nWhile repeating this note, he may be seen strutting about, like a\nturkey-cock, with fantastic jerkings of the tail and a frequent bowing\nof the head; and his mate, I believe, is at this time not far off.\nSuddenly he springs upward, and with a wide circular sweep, uttering at\nthe same time a rapid whistling note, he rises in a spiral course to a\ngreat height in the air. At the summit of his ascent, he hovers about\nwith irregular motions, chirping a medley of broken notes, like\nimperfect warbling. This continues about ten or fifteen seconds, when it\nceases, and he descends rapidly to the ground. We seldom hear him while\nin his descent, but receive the first intimation of it by hearing a\nrepetition of his peep, resembling the sound produced by those minute\nwooden trumpets sold at the German toy-shops.\n\nNo person could watch this playful flight of the Woodcock without\ninterest; and it is remarkable that a bird with short wings and\ndifficult flight should be capable of mounting to so great an altitude.\nIt affords me a vivid conception of the pleasure with which I should\nwitness the soaring and singing of the Skylark, known to me only by\ndescription. I have but to imagine the chirruping of the Woodcock to be\na melodious series of notes, to feel that I am listening to that bird,\nwhich is so familiarized to our imaginations by English poetry that in\nour early days we always expect his greetings with a summer sunrise. It\nis with sadness that we first learn in our youth that the Skylark is not\nan inhabitant of the New World; and our mornings seem divested of a\ngreat portion of their charms, for the want of this poetical\naccompaniment.\n\nThere is another circumstance connected with the habits of the Woodcock\nwhich increases his importance as an actor in the melodrame of Nature.\nWhen we stroll away from the noise and din of the town, where the\nstillness permits us to hear distinctly all those faint sounds which are\nturned by the silence of night into music, we may hear at frequent\nintervals the hum produced by the irregular flights of the Woodcock, as\nhe passes over short distances in the wood, where he is collecting his\nrepast. It resembles the sound of the wings of Doves, rendered distinct\nby the stillness of all other things, and melodious by the distance.\nThere is a feeling of mystery attached to these musical nights that\nyields a savor of romance to the quiet voluptuousness of a summer\nevening.\n\nIt is on such occasions, if we are in a moralizing mood, that we may be\nkeenly impressed with the truth of the saying, that the secret of\nhappiness consists in keeping alive our susceptibilities by frugal\nindulgences, rather than by seeking a multitude of pleasures, that pall\nin exact proportion to their abundance. The stillness and darkness of a\nquiet night produce this enlivening effect upon our minds. Our\nsusceptibility is then awakened to such a degree, that slight sounds and\nfeeble sparks of light convey to our souls an amount of pleasure which\nwe seldom experience in the daytime from sights and sounds of the most\npleasing description. Thus the player in an orchestra can enjoy such\nmusic only as would deafen common ears by its crash of sounds, in which\nthey perceive no connection or harmony; while the simple rustic listens\nto the rude notes of a flageolet in the hands of a clown with feelings\nof ineffable delight. Nature, if the seekers after luxurious and\nexciting pleasures could but understand her language, would say to them,\n\"Except ye become as this simple rustic, ye cannot enter into my\nparadise.\"\n\nThe American Snipe has some of the nocturnal habits of the Woodcock, and\nthe same habit of soaring at twilight, when he performs a sort of\nmusical medley, which Audubon has very graphically described in the\nfollowing passage:--\"The birds are met with in meadows and low grounds,\nand, by being on the spot before sunrise, you may see both (male and\nfemale) mount high, in a spiral manner, now with continuous beats of the\nwings, now in short sailings, until more than a hundred yards high, when\nthey whirl round each other with extreme velocity, and dance, as it\nwere, to their own music; for, at this juncture, and during the space of\nfive or six minutes, you hear rolling notes mingled together, each more\nor less distinct, perhaps, according to the state of the atmosphere. The\nsounds produced are extremely pleasing, though they fall faintly on the\near. I know not how to describe them; but I am well assured that they\nare not produced simply by the beatings of their wings, as at this time\nthe wings are not flapped, but are used in sailing swiftly in a circle,\nnot many feet in diameter. A person might cause a sound somewhat similar\nby blowing rapidly and alternately, from one end to another, across a\nset of small pipes, consisting of two or three modulations. This\nperformance is kept up till incubation terminates; but I have never\nobserved it at any other period.\"\n\nAmong the Heron family we discover a few nocturnal birds, which, though\nnot very well known, have some ways that are singular and interesting.\nGoldsmith considered one of these birds worthy of introduction into his\n\"Deserted Village,\" as contributing to the poetic conception of\ndesolation. Thus, in his description of the grounds which were the\nancient site of the village, we read,--\n\n  \"Along its glades, a solitary guest,\n  The hollow-sounding Bittern guards its nest.\"\n\n\"The Bittern is a shy and solitary bird; it is never seen on the wing in\nthe daytime, but sits, generally with the head erect, hid among the\nreeds and rushes of extensive marshes, from whence it will not stir,\nunless disturbed by the sportsman. When it changes its haunts, it\nremoves in the dusk of the evening, and then, rising in a spiral\ndirection, soars to a vast height. It flies in the same heavy manner as\nthe Heron, and might be mistaken for that bird, were it not for the\nsingularly resounding cry which it utters, from time to time, while on\nthe wing: but this cry is feeble when compared with the hollow booming\nnoise which it makes during the night, in the breeding season, from its\nswampy retreats. From the loudness and solemnity of its note, an\nerroneous notion prevails with the vulgar, that it either thrusts its\nhead into a reed, which serves as a pipe for swelling its note beyond\nits natural pitch, or that it immerges its head in water, and then\nproduces its boomings by blowing with all its might.\"\n\nThe American Bittern is a smaller bird, but is probably a variety of the\nEuropean species. It exhibits the same nocturnal habits, and has\nreceived at the South the name of _Dunkadoo_, from the resemblance of\nits common note to these syllables. This is a hollow-sounding noise, but\nnot so loud as the voice of the Bittern to which Goldsmith alludes. I\nhave heard it by day proceeding from the wooded swamps, and am at a loss\nto explain how so small a bird can produce so low and hollow a note.\nAmong this family of birds are one or two other nocturnal species,\nincluding the Qua-Bird, which is common to both continents; but there is\nlittle to be said of it that would be interesting in this connection.\nThe Herons, however, and their allied species, are birds of remarkable\nhabits, the enumeration and account of which would occupy a considerable\nspace. In an essay on the flight of birds in particular, the Herons\nwould furnish a multitude of very interesting facts.\n\n\nLet us now turn our attention to those diurnal birds that sing in the\nnight as well as in the day, and which might be comprehended under the\ngeneral appellation of Nightingales. These birds do not confine their\nsinging to the night, like the true nocturnal birds, and are most vocal\nwhen inspired by the light of the moon. Europe has several of these\nminstrels of the night. Beside the true Philomel of poetry and romance,\nthe Reed-Thrush and the Woodcock are of this character. In the United\nStates, the Mocking-Bird enjoys the greatest reputation; the\nRose-breasted Grosbeak and the New York Thrush are also nocturnal\nsongsters.\n\nThe Mocking-Bird (_Turdus polyglottus_) is well known in the Middle and\nSouthern States, but seldom passes a season in New England, except in\nthe southern part of Rhode Island and Connecticut, which seem to be the\nnorthern limit of its migrations. Probably, like the Rose-breasted\nGrosbeak, which is constantly extending its limits in an eastern\ndirection, the Mocking-Bird may be gradually making progress\nnorthwardly, so that fifty years hence both of these birds may be common\nin Massachusetts. The Mocking-Bird is familiar in his habits,\nfrequenting gardens and orchards, and perching on the roofs of houses\nwhen singing, like the common Robin. Like the Robin, too, who sings at\nall hours excepting those of darkness, he is a persevering songster, and\nseems to be inspired by living in the vicinity of man. In his manners,\nhowever, he bears more resemblance to the Red Thrush, being\ndistinguished by his vivacity, and the courage with which he repels the\nattacks of his enemies.\n\nThe Mocking-Bird is celebrated throughout the world for his musical\npowers; but it is difficult to ascertain precisely the character and\nquality of his original notes. Hence some naturalists have contended\nthat he has no song of his own, but confines himself to imitations. That\nthis is an error, all persons who have listened to him in his native\nwild-wood can testify. I should say, from my own observations, not only\nthat he has a distinct song, peculiarly his own, but that his imitations\nare far from being equal to his original notes. Yet it is seldom we hear\nhim except when he is engaged in mimicry. In his native woods, and\nespecially at an early hour in the morning, when he is not provoked to\nimitation by the voices of other birds and animals, he sometimes pours\nforth his own wild notes with full fervor. Yet I have often listened\nvainly for hours to hear him utter anything but a few idle repetitions\nof monotonous sounds, interspersed with some ludicrous varieties. Why he\nshould neglect his own pleasing notes, to tease the listener with his\nimitations of all imaginable discords, is not easily explained.\n\nThough his imitations are the cause of his notoriety, they are not the\nutterances upon which his true merit is based. He would be infinitely\nmore valuable as a songster, if he were incapable of imitating a single\nsound. I would add, that as an imitator of the songs of other birds he\nis very imperfect, and in this respect has been greatly overrated by our\nornithologists, who seem to vie with one another in their exaggerations\nof his powers. He cannot utter the notes of the rapid singers; he is\nsuccessful only in his imitations of those birds whose notes are simple\nand moderately delivered. He is, indeed, more remarkable for his\nindefatigable propensity than for his powers. Single sounds, from\nwhatever source they may come, from birds, quadrupeds, reptiles, or\nmachines, he gives very accurately; but I have heard numbers of\nMocking-Birds in confinement attempt to imitate the Canary, and always\nwithout success. There is a common saying, that the Mocking-Bird will\ndie of chagrin, if placed in a cage by the side of a caged Bobolink,\nmortified because he cannot give utterance to his rapid notes. If this\nwere the cause of his death, he would also die when caged in a room with\na Canary, a Goldfinch, or any of the rapidly singing Finches. It is also\nan error to say of his imitations, as the generality of writers assert,\nthat they are improvements upon the originals. When he utters the notes\nof the Red-Bird, the Golden Robin, or the Common Robin, he does not\nimprove them; and when he gives us the screaming of the Jay or the\nmewing of the Cat, he does not change them into music.\n\nAs an original songster, judging him by what he is capable of\nperforming, however unfrequently he may exercise his powers to the best\nadvantage, the Mocking-Bird is probably equalled only by two or three of\nour singing-birds. His notes are loud, varied, melodious, and of great\ncompass. They may be compared to those of the Red Thrush, more rapidly\ndelivered, and having more flute notes and fewer guttural notes and\nsudden transitions. He also sings on the wing and with fervor, like the\nLinnet, while the other Thrushes sing only from their perch. But his\nsong has less variety than that of the Red Thrush, and falls short of it\nin as many respects as it surpasses it. For the greater part of the\ntime, the only notes of the Mocking-Bird, when he is not engaged in\nmimicry, are a sort of melodious whistle, consisting of two notes about\na fourth apart, uttered in quick, but not rapid, succession, and hardly\nto be distinguished from those of the Red-Bird of Virginia.\n\nI heard the notes of the Mocking-Bird the first time in his native\nwilds, during a railroad journey by night, through the Pine Barrens of\nNorth Carolina, in the month of June. The journey was very tiresome and\nunpleasant, nothing being seen, when looking out upon the landscape, but\na gloomy stretch of level forest, consisting of tall pines, thinly\nscattered, without any branches, except at their tops. The dusky forms\nof these trees, pictured against the half-luminous sky, seemed like so\nmany giant spectres watching the progress of our journey, and increased\nthe loneliness of the hour. Before daylight, when the sky was faintly\ncrimsoned around the place where the sun was to come forth, the train\nmade a pause of half an hour, at one of the stations, and the passengers\nalighted. While I was looking at the dreary prospect of desert, tired of\nmy journey and longing for day, suddenly the notes of the Mocking-Bird\ncame to my ear, and changed all my gloomy feelings into delight.\n\nIt is seldom I have felt so vividly the power of one little incident to\nchange the tone of one's feelings and the humor of the occasion. As a\nfew drops of oil, cast upon the surface of the waters, will quiet the\ntroubled waves, so did the glad voice of this merry bird suddenly dispel\nall those sombre feelings which had been fostered by dismal scenes and a\nlonely journey. Nature never seemed so lovely as when the rising dawn,\nwith its tearful beams and purple radiance, was greeted by this warbling\nsalutation, as from some messenger of light, who came to announce that\nMorning was soon to step forth from her throne, and extend over all\nthings her smiles and her beneficence.\n\nOf the other American birds that sing in the night I can say nothing\nfrom my own observation. The most important of these is the New York\nThrush, (_Turdus aquaticus_,) which is said to resemble the River\nNightingale of Europe. This bird, which is common in the Western States,\nis said to sing melodiously night and day. Wilson remarks of this\nspecies, \"They are eminently distinguished by the loudness, sweetness,\nand expressive vivacity of their notes, which begin very high and clear,\nfalling with an almost imperceptible gradation, till they are scarcely\narticulated. At these times the musician is perched on the middle\nbranches of a tree, over a brook or river-bank, pouring out his charming\nmelody, that may be distinctly heard for nearly half a mile. The voice\nof this little bird appeared to me so exquisitely sweet and expressive,\nthat I was never tired listening to it.\" This description is exactly\napplicable to the song of the Veery, supposed to be silent by Wilson,\nwho could not have fallen into such an error, except by having confined\nhis researches chiefly to the Middle and Southern States.\n\nThe Rose-breasted Grosbeak (_Loxia rosea_) is said to be an excellent\nsongster, passing the greater part of the night in singing, and\ncontinuing vocal in confinement. This bird is common in the Western\nStates, but until lately has seldom been seen in New England. I learn,\nhowever, from Mr. Fowler, that \"the Rose-breasted Grosbeak is found in\nEssex County, and, though formerly seldom seen, is becoming every year\nmore common. Like the Wood Thrush and Scarlet Tanager, it is retiring in\nits habits, and is usually found in the most sheltered part of the wood,\nwhere, perched about midway on a tree, in fancied concealment, it\nwarbles its soft, clear, and melodious notes.\" He thinks this bird is\nnot heard so frequently by night as by day, though it often sings in the\nlight of the moon.\n\nIn connection with this theme, we cannot help feeling a sense of regret,\nalmost like melancholy, when we reflect that the true Nightingale and\nthe Skylark, the classical birds of European literature, are strangers\nto our fields and woods. In May and June there is no want of sylvan\nminstrels to wake the morn and to sing the vespers of a sweet summer\nevening. A flood of song wakes us at the earliest daylight; and the shy\nand solitary Veery, after the Vesper-Bird has concluded his evening\nhymn, pours his few pensive notes into the very bosom of twilight, and\nmakes the hour sacred by his melody. But after twilight is sped, and the\nmoon rises to shed her meek radiance over the sleeping earth, the\nNightingale is not here to greet her rising, and to turn her melancholy\nbeams into the cheerfulness of daylight. And when the Queen Moon is on\nher throne,\n\n  \"Clustered around by all her starry Fays,\"\n\nthe Whippoorwill alone brings her the tribute of his monotonous song,\nand soothes the dull ear of Night with sounds which, however delightful,\nare not of heaven. We have become so familiar with the Lark and the\nNightingale, by the perusal of the romance of rural life, that \"neither\nbreath of Morn, when she ascends\" without the charm of this her earliest\nharbinger, \"nor silent Night\" without her \"solemn bird,\" seems holy, as\nwhen we contemplate them in the works of pastoral song. Poetry has\nhallowed to our minds the pleasing objects of the Old World; those of\nthe New have to be cherished in song yet many more years, before they\nwill be equally sacred to our imaginations.\n\nBy some of our writers the Mocking-Bird is put forward as equal in song\nto the Nightingale. This assumption might be worthy of consideration, if\nthe American bird were not a mimic. But his mocking habits almost\nannihilate his value as a songster,--as the effect of a good concert\nwould be spoiled, if the players were constantly introducing, in the\nmidst of their serious performances, snatches of ridiculous tunes and\nuncouth sounds. I have never heard the Nightingale; but if I may judge\nfrom descriptions of its song, and from the notes of those Canaries\nwhich are said to give us perfect imitations of it, we have no bird in\nAmerica that equals this classical songster. The following description,\nby Pliny, which is said to be superior to any other, may afford us some\nidea of the extent of its powers:--\"The Nightingale, that for fifteen\ndays and nights, hid in the thickest shades, continues her note without\nintermission, deserves our attention and wonder. How surprising that so\ngreat a voice can reside in so small a body! Such perseverance in so\nminute an animal! With what musical propriety are the sounds it produces\nmodulated! The note at one time drawn out with a long breath, now\nstealing off into a different cadence, now interrupted by a break, then\nchanging into a new note by an unexpected transition, now seeming to\nrenew the same strain, then deceiving expectation. She sometimes seems\nto murmur within herself; full, deep, sharp, swift, drawling, trembling;\nnow at the top, the middle, and the bottom of the scale. In short, in\nthat little bill seems to reside all the melody which man has vainly\nlabored to bring from a variety of musical instruments. Some even seem\nto be possessed of a different note from the rest, and contend with each\nother with great ardor. The bird, overcome, is then seen to discontinue\nits song only with its life.\"\n\nThe cause of the nocturnal singing of birds that do not go abroad during\nthe night and are strictly diurnal in all their other habits has never\nbeen satisfactorily explained. It is natural that the Whippoorwill,\nwhich is a nocturnal bird, should sing during his hours of wakefulness\nand activity. There is also no difficulty in explaining why Ducks and\nGeese, and some other social birds, should utter their loud alarm-notes,\nwhen they meet with any midnight disturbance. These birds usually have a\nsentinel who keeps awake; and if he give an alarm, the others reply to\nit. The crowing of the Cock bears more analogy to the song of a bird,\nfor it does not seem to be an alarm-note. This domestic bird may be\nconsidered, therefore, a nocturnal songster, if his crowing can be\ncalled a song; though it is remarkable that we seldom hear it during\nevening twilight. The Cock sings his matins, but not his vespers; he\ncrows at the earliest dawn of day, and at midnight upon the rising of\nthe moon, and whenever he is awakened by artificial light. Many\nsinging-birds are accustomed to prolong their notes after sunset to a\nlate hour, and become silent only to commence again at the earliest\ndaybreak. But the habit of singing in the night is peculiar to a small\nnumber of birds, and the cause of it forms a curious subject of inquiry.\n\nBy what means are they enabled to sustain such constant watchfulness,\nsinging and providing subsistence for their offspring during the day,\nand still continuing wakeful and musical while it is night? Why do they\ntake pleasure in singing, when no one will come in answer to their call?\nHave they their worship, like religious beings, and are their midnight\nlays but the outpouring of the fervency of their spirits? Do they\nrejoice, like the clouds, in the presence of the moon, hailing her beams\nas a pleasant relief from the darkness that has surrounded them? Or in\nthe silence of night, are their songs but responses to the sounds of the\ntrees, when they bow their heads and shake their rustling leaves in the\nwind? When they listen to the streamlet, that makes audible melody only\nin the hush of night, do they not answer to it from their leafy perch?\nAnd when the moth flies hummingly through the recesses of the wood, and\nthe beetle sounds his horn, what are their notes but cheerful responses\nto these sounds, that break sweetly upon the quiet of their slumbers?\n\nWilson remarks, that the hunters in the Southern States, when setting\nout on an excursion by night, as soon as they hear the Mocking-Bird\nsing, know that the moon is rising. He quotes a writer who supposes that\nit may be fear that operates upon the birds when they perceive the Owls\nflitting among the trees, and that they sing, as a timid person whistles\nin a lonely place, to quiet their fears. But the musical notes of birds\nare never used by them to express their fears; they are the language of\nlove, sometimes animated by jealousy. It must be admitted that the\nmoonlight awakes these birds, and may be the most frequent exciting\ncause of their nocturnal singing; but it is not true that they always\nwait for the rising of the moon; and if this were the fact, the question\nmay still be asked, why these few species alone should be thus affected.\n\nSince Philosophy can give no explanation of this instinct, let Fancy\ncome to her aid, and assist us in our dilemma,--as when we have vainly\nsought from Reason an explanation of the mysteries of Religion, we\nhumbly submit to the guidance of Faith. With Fancy for our interpreter,\nwe may suppose that Nature has adapted the works of creation to our\nmoral as well as our physical wants; and while she has instituted the\nnight as a time for general rest, she has provided means that shall\nsoften the gloomy effects of darkness. The birds, which are the\nharbingers of all rural delights, are hence made to sing during\ntwilight; and when they cease, the nocturnal songsters become vocal,\nbearing pleasant sensations to the sleepless, and by their lulling\nmelodies preparing us to be keenly susceptible of all agreeable\nemotions.\n\n\nTO THE MOCKING-BIRD.\n\n\n  Carolling bird, that merrily, night and day,\n  Tellest thy raptures from the rustling spray,\n  And wakest the morning with thy varied lay,\n          Singing thy matins,--\n  When we have come to hear thy sweet oblation\n  Of love and joyance from thy sylvan station,\n  Why, in the place of musical cantation,\n          Balk us with pratings?\n\n  We stroll by moonlight in the dusky forest,\n  Where the tall cypress shields thee, fervent chorist!\n  And sit in haunts of Echoes, when thou pourest\n          Thy woodland solo.\n  Hark! from the next green tree thy song commences:\n  Music and discord join to mock the senses,\n  Repeated from the tree-tops and the fences,\n          From hill and hollow.\n\n  A hundred voices mingle with thy clamor;\n  Bird, beast, and reptile take part in thy drama;\n  Out-speak they all in turn without a stammer,--\n          Brisk Polyglot!\n  Voices of Killdeer, Plover, Duck, and Dotterel;\n  Notes bubbling, hissing, mellow, sharp, and guttural;\n  Of Cat-Bird, Cat, or Cart-Wheel, thou canst utter all,\n          And all-untaught.\n\n  The Raven's croak, the chirping of the Sparrow,\n  The scream of Jays, the creaking of Wheelbarrow,\n  And hoot of Owls,--all join the soul to harrow,\n          And grate the ear.\n  We listen to thy quaint soliloquizing,\n  As if all creatures thou wert catechizing,\n  Tuning their voices, and their notes revising,\n          From far and near.\n\n  Sweet bird! that surely lovest the noise of folly;\n  Most musical, but never melancholy;\n  Disturber of the hour that should be holy,\n          With sound prodigious!\n  Fie on thee, O thou feathered Paganini!\n  To use thy little pipes to squawk and whinny,\n  And emulate the hinge and spinning-jenny,\n          Making night hideous!\n\n  Provoking melodist! why canst thou breathe us\n  No thrilling harmony, no charming pathos,\n  No cheerful song of love without its bathos?\n          The Furies take thee,--\n  Blast thy obstreperous mirth, thy foolish chatter,--\n  Gag thee, exhaust thy breath, and stop thy clatter,\n  And change thee to a beast, thou senseless prater!--\n          Nought else can check thee!\n\n  A lengthened pause ensues:--but hark again!\n  From the new woodland, stealing o'er the plain,\n  Comes forth a sweeter and a holier strain!--\n          Listening delighted,\n  The gales breathe softly, as they bear along\n  The warbled treasure,--the delicious throng\n  Of notes that swell accordant in the song,\n          As love is plighted.\n\n  The Echoes, joyful from their vocal cell,\n  Leap with the wing\u00e8d sounds o'er hill and dell,\n  With kindling fervor, as the chimes they tell\n          To wakeful Even:--\n  They melt upon the ear; they float away;\n  They rise, they sink, they hasten, they delay,\n  And hold the listener with bewitching sway,\n          Like sounds from heaven!\n\n\n\n\nA TRIP TO CUBA.\n\n\nHAVANA--THE JESUIT COLLEGE.\n\n\nThe gentlemen of our party go one day to visit the Jesuit College in\nHavana, yclept \"Universidad de Belen.\" The ladies, weary of dry goods,\nmanifest some disposition to accompany them. This is at once frowned\ndown by the unfairer sex, and Can Grande, appealed to by the other side,\nshakes his shoulders, and replies, \"No, you are only miserable women,\nand cannot be admitted into any Jesuit establishment whatever.\" And so\nthe male deputation departs with elation, and returns with airs of\nsuperior opportunity, and is more insufferable than ever at dinner, and\nthereafter.\n\nThey of the feminine faction, on the other hand, consult with more\ndirect authorities, and discover that the doors of Belen are in no wise\nclosed to them, and that everything within those doors is quite at their\ndisposition, saving and excepting the sleeping-apartments of the Jesuit\nfathers,--to which, even in thought, they would on no account draw near.\nAnd so they went and saw Belen, whereof one of them relates as follows.\n\nThe building is spacious, inclosing a hollow square, and with numerous\ngalleries, like European cloisters, where the youth walk, study, and\nplay. We were shown up-stairs, into a pleasant reception-room, where two\npriests soon waited on us. One of these, Padre Doyaguez, seemed to be\nthe decoy-duck of the establishment, and soon fastened upon one of our\nparty, whose Protestant tone of countenance had probably caught his\nattention. Was she a Protestant? Oh, no!--not with that intelligent,\nphysiognomy!--not with that talent! What was her name? Julia (pronounced\n_H_ulia). Hulia was a Roman name, a Catholic name; he had never heard of\na Hulia who was a Protestant;--very strange, it seemed to him, that a\nHulia could hold to such unreasonable ideas. The other priest, Padre\nLluc, meanwhile followed with sweet, quiet eyes, whose silent looks had\nmore persuasion in them than all the innocent cajoleries of the elder\nman. Padre Doyaguez was a man eminently qualified to deal with the sex\nin general,--a coaxing voice, a pair of vivacious eyes, whose cunning\nwas not unpleasing, tireless good-humor and perseverance, and a savor of\nsincerity. Padre Lluc was the sort of man that one recalls in quiet\nmoments with a throb of sympathy,--the earnest eyes, the clear brow, the\nsonorous voice. One thinks of him, and hopes that he is satisfied,--that\ncruel longing and more cruel doubt shall never spring up in that\ncapacious heart, divorcing his affections and convictions from the\nsystem to which his life is irrevocably wedded. No, keep still, Padre\nLluc I think ever as you think now, lest the faith that seems a fortress\nshould prove a prison, the mother a step-dame,--lest the high,\nchivalrous spirit, incapable of a safe desertion, should immolate truth\nor itself on the altar of consistency.\n\nBetween those two advocates of Catholicity, Hulia Protestante walks\nslowly through the halls of the University. She sees first a Cabinet of\nNatural History, including minerals, shells, fossils, and insects, all\nwell-arranged, and constituting a very respectable beginning. Padre Lluc\nsays some good words on the importance of scientific education. Padre\nDoyaguez laughs at the ladies' hoops, which he calls Malakoffs, as they\ncrowd through the doorways and among the glass cases; he repeats\noccasionally, \"_Hulia Protestante_?\" in a tone of mock astonishment, and\nreceives for answer, \"_S\u00ed, Hulia Protestante_.\" Then comes a very\ncreditable array of scientific apparatus,--not of the order employed by\nthe judges of Galileo,--electric and galvanic batteries, an orrery, and\nmany things beside. The library interests us more, with some luxurious\nclassics, a superb Dante, and a prison-cage of forbidden works, of which\nPadre Lluc certainly has the key. Among these were fine editions of\nRousseau and Voltaire, which appeared to be intended for use; and we\ncould imagine a solitary student, dark-eyed and pale, exploring their\ndepths at midnight with a stolen candle, and endeavoring, with\nself-torment, to reconcile the intolerance of his doctrine with the\ncharities of his heart. We imagine such a one lost in the philosophy and\nsentiment of the \"Nouvelle H\u00e9loise,\" and suddenly summoned by the\nconvent-bell to the droning of the Mass, the mockery of Holy Water, the\nfable of the Real Presence. Such contrasts might be strange and\ndangerous. No, no, Padre Lluc! keep these unknown spells from your\nheart,--let the forbidden books alone. Instead of the Confessions of\nJean Jacques, read the Confessions of St. Augustine,--read the new book,\nin three volumes, on the Immaculate Conception, which you show me with\nsuch ardor, telling me that Can Grande, which, in the vernacular, is\nParker, has spoken of it with respect. Beyond the Fathers you must not\nget, for you have vowed to be a child all your life. Those clear eyes of\nyours are never to look up into the face of the Eternal Father; the\nshow-box of the Church must content them, with Mary and the saints seen\nthrough its dusty glass,--the august figure of the Son, who sometimes\nreproved his mother, crowded quite out of sight behind the woman, whom\nit is so much easier to dress up and exhibit. What is this other book\nwhich Parker has read? Padre Doyaguez says, \"Hulia, if you read this,\nyou must become a Catholic.\" Padre Lluc says, \"If Parker has read this\nbook, I cannot conceive that he is not a Catholic.\" The quick Doyaguez\nthen remarks, \"Parker is going to Rome to join the Romish Church.\" Padre\nLluc rejoins, \"They say so.\" Hulia Protestante is inclined to cry out,\n\"The day that Parker becomes a Catholic, I, too, will become one\"; but,\nremembering the rashness of vows and the fallibility of men, she does\nnot adopt that form of expressing _Never_. Parker might, if it pleased\nGod, become a Catholic, and then the world would have two Popes instead\nof one.\n\nWe leave at last the disputed ground of the library and ascend to the\nobservatory, which commands a fine view of the city, and a good sweep of\nthe heavens for the telescope, in which Padre Lluc seemed especially to\ndelight. The observatory is commodious, and is chiefly directed by an\nattenuated young priest, with a keen eye and hectic cheek; another was\noccupied in working out mathematical tables;--for these Fathers observe\nthe stars, and are in scientific correspondence with astronomers in\nEurope. This circumstance gave us real pleasure on their account,--for\nscience, in all its degrees, is a positive good, and a mental tonic of\nthe first importance. Earnestly did we, in thought, commend it to those\nwearied minds which have undergone the dialectic dislocations, the\ndenaturalizations of truth and of thought, which enable rational men to\nbecome first Catholics and then Jesuits. For let there be no illusions\nabout strength of mind, and so on,--this is effected by means of a vast\nmachinery. As, in the old story, the calves were put in at one end of\nthe cylinder and taken out leather breeches at the other, or as glass is\ncut and wood carved, so does the raw human material, put into the\nmachine of the Catholic Church, become fashioned according to the will\nof those who guide it. Hulia Protestante! you have a free step and a\nclear head; but once go into the machine, and you will come out carved\nand embossed according to the old traditional pattern,--you as well as\nanother. Where the material is hard, they put on more power,--where it\nis soft, more care; wherefore I caution you here, as I would in a mill\nat Lowell or Lawrence,--Don't meddle with the shafts,--don't go too near\nthe wheel,--in short, keep clear of the machinery. And Hulia does so;\nfor, at the last attack of Padre Doyaguez, she suddenly turns upon him\nand says, \"Sir, you are a Doctrinary and a Propagandist.\" And the good\nFather suffers her to depart in peace. But first there is the chapel to\nbe seen, with its tawdry and poor ornamentation,--and the dormitories of\nthe scholars, with long double rows of beds and mosquito-nettings. There\nare two of these, and each of them has at one end a raised platform,\nwith curtains and a bed, where rests and watches the shepherd of the\nlittle sheep. Lastly, we have a view of the whole flock, assembled in\ntheir play-ground, and one of them, looking up, sees his mother, who has\nkindly accompanied our visit to the institution. Across the distance\nthat separates us, we see his blue eyes brighten, and, as soon as\npermission is given, he bounds like a young roe to her arms, shy and\ntender, his English blood showing through his Spanish skin,--for he is a\nchild of mixed race. We are all pleased and touched, and Padre Lluc\npresently brings us a daguerreotype, and says, \"It is my mother.\" To us\nit is an indifferent portrait of an elderly Spanish woman,--but to him,\nhow much! With kindest mutual regard we take leave,--a little surprised,\nperhaps, to see that Jesuit priests have mothers, and remember them.\n\n\n\n\nSAN ANTONIO DE LOS BA\u00d1OS.\n\n\n  \"Far from my thoughts, vain world, begone!\"\n\nHowever enchanting Havana may prove, when seen through the moonlight of\nmemory, it seems as good a place to go away from as any other, after a\nstifling night in a net, the wooden shutters left open in the remote\nhope of air, and admitting the music of a whole opera-troupe of dogs,\nincluding bass, tenor, soprano, and chorus. Instead of bouquets, you\nthrow stones, if you are so fortunate as to have them,--if not,\nboot-jacks, oranges, your only umbrella. You are last seen thrusting\nfrantic hands and feet through the iron bars, your wife holding you back\nby the flannel night-gown which you will persist in wearing in this\ndoubtful climate. At last it is over,--the fifth act ends with a howl\nwhich makes you hope that some one of the performers has come to grief.\nBut, alas! it is only a stage _d\u00e9nouement_, whose hero will die again\nevery night while the season lasts. You fall asleep, but the welcome\ncordial has scarcely been tasted when you are aroused by a knock at the\ndoor. It is the night-porter, who wakes you at five by appointment, that\nyou may enjoy your early coffee, tumble into a hired _volante_, and\nreach, half dead with sleep, the station in time for the train that goes\nto San Antonio.\n\nNow, whether you are a partisan of early rising or not, you must allow\nthat sunrise and the hour after is the golden time of the day in Cuba.\nSo this hour of starting,--six o'clock,--so distasteful in our\nlatitudes, is a matter of course in tropical climates. Arriving at the\nstation, you encounter new tribulations in the registering and payment\nof luggage, the transportation of which is not included in the charge\nfor your ticket. Your trunks are recorded in a book, and, having paid a\n_real_ apiece for them, you receive a paper which entitles you to demand\nthem again at your journey's end. The Cuban railways are good, but\ndear,--the charge being ten cents a mile; whereas in our more favored\nland one goes for three cents, and has the chance of a collision and\nsurgeon's services without any extra payment. The cars have windows\nwhich are always open, and blinds which are always closed, or nearly so.\nThe seats and backs of seats are of cane, for coolness,--hardness being\nsecured at the same time. One reaches San Antonio in an hour and a half,\nand finds a pleasant village, with a river running through it, several\nstreets of good houses, several more of bad ones, a cathedral, a\ncockpit, a _volante_, four soldiers on horseback, two on foot, a market,\ndogs, a bad smell, and, lastly, the American Hotel,--a house built in a\nhollow square, as usual,--kept by a strong-minded woman from the States,\nwhose Yankee thrift is unmistakable, though she has been long absent\nfrom the great centres of domestic economy.\n\nMrs. L----, always on the watch for arrivals, comes out to receive us.\nWe are very welcome, she hints, as far as we go; but why are there not\nmore of us? The smallest favors should be thankfully received, but she\nhears that Havana is full of strangers, and she wonders, for her part,\nwhy people will stay in that hot place, and roast, and stew, and have\nthe yellow fever, when she could make them so comfortable in San\nAntonio. This want of custom she continues, during our whole visit, to\ncomplain of. Would it be uncharitable for us to aver that we found other\nwants in her establishment which caused us more astonishment, and which\nwent some way towards accounting for the deficiency complained of? wants\nof breakfast, wants of dinner, wants of something good for tea, wants of\ntowels, wants of candles, wants of ice, or, at least, of the cooling\njars used in the country. Charges exorbitant,--the same as in Havana,\nwhere rents are an ounce a week, and upwards; _volantes_\ndifficult,--Mrs. L. having made an agreement with the one livery-stable\nthat they shall always be furnished at most unreasonable prices, of\nwhich she, supposably, pockets half. On the other hand, the village is\nreally cool, healthy, and pretty; there are pleasant drives over\ndreadful roads, if one makes up one's mind to the _volante_, and\ndelightful river-baths, shaded by roofs of palm-tree thatch. One of the\nbest of these is at the foot of Mrs. L.'s inclosure, and its use is\nincluded in the privileges of the house. The water is nearly tepid,\nclear, and green, and the little fish float hither and thither in\nit,--though men of active minds are sometimes reduced to angle for them,\nwith crooked pins, for amusement. At the hour of one, daily, the ladies\nof the house betake themselves to this refreshment; and there is\nlaughing, and splashing, and holding of hands, and simulation of all the\nVenuses that ever were, from the crouching one of the bath, to the\ntriumphant Cytherea, springing for the first time from the wave.\n\nSuch are the resources of the house. Those of the neighborhood are\nvarious. Foremost among them is the _cafetal_, or coffee-plantation, of\nDon Juan Torres, distant a league from the village, over which league of\nstone, sand, and rut you rumble in a _volante_ dragged by three horses.\nYou know that the _volante_ cannot upset; nevertheless you experience\nsome anxious moments when it leans at an obtuse angle, one wheel in air,\none sticking in a hole, the horses balking and kicking, and the\npostilion swearing his best. But it is written, the _volante_ shall not\nupset,--and so it does not. Long before you see the entrance to the\nplantation, you watch the tall palms, planted in a line, that shield,\nits borders. An avenue of like growth leads you to the house, where\nbarking dogs announce you, and Don Juan, an elderly gentleman in\nslippers and a Panama hat, his hair, face, and eyes all faded to one hue\nof grayness, comes out to accost us. Here, again, Hulia Protestante\nbecomes the subject of a series of attacks, in a new kind. Don Juan\nfirst exhausts his flower-garden upon her, and explains all that is new\nto her. Then she must see his blind Chino, a sightless Samson of a\nCooly, who is working resolutely in a mill. \"_Canta!_\" says the master,\nand the poor slave gives tongue like a hound on the scent. \"_Baila!_\"\nand, a stick being handed him, he performs the gymnastics of his\ncountry, a sort of war-dance without accompaniment. \"_El can!_\" and,\ngiving him a broom, they loose the dog upon him. A curious tussle then\nensues,--the dog attacking furiously, and the blind man, guided by his\nbarking, defending himself lustily. The Chino laughs, the master laughs,\nbut the visitor feels more inclined to cry, having been bred in those\nNorthern habits which respect infirmity. A _real_ dismisses the poor\nsoul with a smile, and then begins the journey round the _cafetal_. The\ncoffee-blossom is just in its perfection, and whole acres in sight are\nwhite with its flower, which nearly resembles that of the small white\njasmine. Its fragrance is said to be delicious after a rain; but, the\nseason being dry, it is scarcely discernible. As shade is a great\nobject in growing coffee, the grounds are laid out in lines of fruit-\ntrees, and these are the ministers of Hulia's tribulation; for Don\nJuan, whether in kindness or in mischief, insists that she shall taste\nevery unknown fruit,--and as he cuts them and hands them to her, she\nis forced to obey. First, a little negro shins up a cocoa-nut-tree,\nand flings down the nut, whose water she must drink. One cocoa-nut she\nendures,--two,--but three? no, she must rebel, and cry out,--\"_No mi\ngusta!_\" Then she must try a bitter orange, then a sour bitter one, then\na sweet lemon, then a huge fruit of triple verjuice flavor. \"What is it\ngood for?\" she asks, after a shuddering plunge into its acrid depths.\n\"Oh,\" says the Don, \"they eat it in the castors instead of vinegar.\"\nThen come _sapotas, mamey_, Otaheite gooseberries. \"Does she like\nbananas?\" he cuts a tree down with his own hand, and sends the bunch of\nfruit to her _volante_;--\"Sugar-cane?\" he bestows a huge bundle of\nsticks for her leisurely rodentation;--he fills her pocket with coral\nbeans for her children. Having, at last, exhausted every polite\nattention, and vainly offered gin, rum, and coffee, as a parting\ndemonstration, Hulia and her partner escape, bearing with them many\nstrange flavors, and an agonizing headache, the combined result of sun\nand acids. Really, if there exist anywhere on earth a society for the\npromotion and encouragement of good manners, it should send a diploma to\nDon Juan, admonishing him only to omit the vinegar-fruit in his further\nwalks of hospitality.\n\nWe take the Sunday to visit the nearest sugar-plantation, belonging to\nDon Jacinto Gonzales. Sun, not shade, being the desideratum in\nsugar-planting, there are few trees or shrubs bordering the\nsugar-fields, which resemble at a distance our own fields of Indian\ncorn, the green of the leaves being lighter, and a pale blue blossom\nappearing here and there. The points of interest here are the machinery,\nthe negroes, and the work. Entering the sugar-house, we find the\n_maquinista_ (engineer) superintending some repairs in the machinery,\naided by another white man, a Cooly, and an imp of a black boy, who\nbegged of all the party, and revenged himself with clever impertinence\non those who refused him. The _maquinista_ was a fine-looking man, from\nthe Pyrenees, very kind and obliging. He told us that Don Jacinto was\nvery old, and came rarely to the plantation. We asked him how the\nextreme heat of his occupation suited him, and for an answer he opened\nthe bosom of his shirt, and showed us the marks of innumerable leeches.\nThe machinery is not very complicated. It consists of a wheel and band,\nto throw the canes under the powerful rollers which crush them, and\nthese rollers, three in number, all moved by the steam-engine. The juice\nflows into large copper caldrons, where it is boiled and skimmed. As\nthey were not at work, we did not see the actual process. Leaving the\nsugar-house, we went in pursuit of the _mayoral_, or overseer, who\nseemed to inhabit comfortable quarters, in a long, low house, shielded\nfrom the sun by a thick screen of matting. We found him a powerful,\nthick-set man, of surly and uncivil manners, girded with a sword, and\nfurther armed with a pistol, a dagger, and a stout whip. He was much too\nimportant a person to waste his words upon us, but signified that the\nmajor-domo would wait on us, which he presently did. We now entered the\nnegro quarter, a solid range of low buildings, formed around a hollow\nsquare, whose strong entrance is closed at nightfall, and its inmates\nkept in strict confinement till the morning hour of work comes round.\nJust within the doorway we encountered the trader, who visits the\nplantations every Sunday, to tempt the stray cash of the negroes by\nvarious commodities, of which the chief seemed to be white bread,\ncalicoes, muslins, and bright cotton handkerchiefs. He told us that\ntheir usual weekly expenditure amounted to about twenty-five dollars.\nBargaining with him stood the negro-driver, a tattooed African, armed\nwith a whip. All within the court swarmed the black bees of the\nhive,--the men with little clothing, the small children naked, the women\ndecent. All had their little charcoal fires, with pots boiling over\nthem; the rooms within looked dismally dark, close, and dirty; there are\nno windows, no air and light save through the ever-open door. The beds\nare sometimes partitioned off by a screen of dried palm-leaf, but I saw\nno better sleeping-privilege than a board with a blanket or coverlet.\nFrom this we turned to the nursery, where all the children incapable of\nwork are kept; the babies are quite naked, and sometimes very handsome\nin their way, black and shining, with bright eyes and well-formed limbs.\nNo great provision is made for their amusement, but the little girls\nnurse them tenderly enough, and now and then the elders fling them a bit\nof orange or _chaimito_, for which they scramble like so many monkeys.\nAppeals are constantly made to the pockets of visitors, by open hands\nstretched out in all directions. To these \"_Nada_\"--\"Nothing\"--is the\nsafe reply; for, if you give to one, the others close about you with\nfrantic gesticulation, and you have to break your way through them with\nsome violence, which hurts your own feelings more than it does theirs.\nOn _strict_ plantations this is not allowed; but Don Jacinto, like Lord\nAshburton at the time of the Maine treaty, is an old man,--a very old\nman; and where discipline cannot be maintained, peace must be secured on\nany terms. We visit next the sugar-house, where we find the desired\ncondiment in various stages of color and refinement. It is whitened with\nclay, in large funnel-shaped vessels, open at the bottom, to allow the\nmolasses to run off. Above are hogsheads of coarse, dark sugar; below is\na huge pit of fermenting molasses, in which rats and small negroes\noccasionally commit involuntary suicide, and from which rum is made.--N.\nB. Rum is not a wicked word in Cuba; in Boston everybody is shocked when\nit is named, and in Cuba nobody is shocked when it is drunk.\n\nAnd here endeth the description of our visit to the sugar-plantation of\nDon Jacinto, and in good time, too,--for by this it had grown so hot,\nthat we made a feeble rush for the _volante_, and lay back in it,\npanting for breath. Encountering a negress with a load of oranges on her\nhead, we bought and ate the fruit with eagerness, though the oranges\nwere bitter. The jolting over three miles of stone and rut did not\nimprove the condition of our aching heads. Arriving at San Antonio, we\nthankfully went to bed for the rest of the morning, and dreamed, only\ndreamed, that the saucy black boy in the boiling-house had run after us,\nhad lifted the curtain of the _volante_, screeched a last impertinence\nafter us, and kissed his hand for a good-bye, which, luckily for him, is\nlikely to prove eternal.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MORRO FORTRESS--THE UNIVERSITY OF HAVANA--THE BENEFICENZA.\n\n\nThe Spanish government experiences an unwillingness to admit foreigners\ninto the Morro, their great stronghold, the causes of which may not be\naltogether mysterious. Americans have been of late especially excluded\nfrom it, and it was only by a fortunate chance that we were allowed to\nvisit it. A friend of a friend of ours happened to have a friend in the\ngarrison, and, after some delays and negotiations, an early morning hour\nwas fixed upon for the expedition.\n\nThe fort is finely placed at the entrance of the harbor, and is in\nitself a picturesque object. It is built of a light, yellowish stone,\nwhich is seen, as you draw near, in strong contrast with the vivid green\nof the tropical waters. We approached it by water, taking a rowboat from\nthe Alameda. As we passed, we had a good view of a daily Havana\nspectacle, the washing of the horses. This being by far the easiest and\nmost expeditious way of cleaning the animals, they are driven daily to\nthe sea in great numbers, those of one party being tied together; they\ndisport themselves in the surge and their wet backs glisten in the sun.\nTheir drivers, nearly naked, plunge in with them, and bring them safely\nback to the shore.\n\nBut for the Morro. We entered without difficulty, and began at once a\nsomewhat steep ascent, which the heat, even at that early hour, made\nlaborious. After some climbing, we reached the top of the parapet, and\nlooked out from the back of the fortress. On this side, if ever on any,\nit will be taken,--for, standing with one's back to the harbor, one\nsees, nearly on the right hand, a point where trenches could be opened\nwith advantage. The fort is heavily gunned and garrisoned, and seems to\nbe in fighting order. The outer wall is separated from the inner by a\npaved space some forty feet in width. The height of both walls makes\nthis point a formidable one; but scaling-ladders could be thrown across,\nif one had possession of the outer wall. The material is the coralline\nrock common in this part of the island. It is a soft stone, and would\nprove, it is feared, something like the cotton-bag defence of New\nOrleans memory,--as the balls thrown from without would sink in, and not\nsplinter the stone, which for the murderous work were to be wished. A\nlittle perseverance, with much perspiration, brought us to a high point,\ncalled the Lantern, which is merely a small room, where the telescope,\nsignal-books, and signals are kept. Here we were received by an official\nin blue spectacles and with a hole in his boot, but still with that air\nof being the chiefest thing on God's earth common to all Spaniards. The\nbest of all was that we brought a sack of oranges with us, and that the\ntime was now come for their employment. With no other artillery than\nthese did we take the very heart of the Morro citadel,--for, on offering\nthem to the official with the hole, he surrendered at once, smiled, gave\nus seats, and sitting down with us, indeed, was soon in the midst of his\nhalf-dozenth orange. Having refreshed ourselves, examined the flags of\nall nations, and made all the remarks which our limited Spanish allowed,\nwe took leave, redescended, and re\u00ebmbarked. One of our party, an old\nsoldier, had meanwhile been busily scanning the points and angles of the\nfortress, pacing off distances, etc., etc. The result of his\nobservations would, no doubt, be valuable to men of military minds. But\nthe writer of this, to be candid, was especially engaged with the heat,\nthe prospect, the oranges, and the soldiers' wives and children, who\npeeped out from windows here and there. Such trifling creatures do come\ninto such massive surroundings, and trifle still!\n\nOur ladies, being still in a furious mood of sight-seeing, desired to\nvisit the University of Havana, and, having made appointment with an\naccomplished Cuban, betook themselves to the College buildings with all\nproper escort. Their arrival in the peristyle occasioned some\nexcitement. One of the students came up, and said, in good English,\n\"What do you want?\" Others, not so polite, stared and whispered in\ncorners. A message to one of the professors was attended with some\ndelay, and our Cuban friend, having gone to consult with him, returned\nto say, with some embarrassment, that the professor would be happy to\nshow the establishment to the ladies on Sunday, at two, P.M., when every\nmale creature but himself would be out of it; but as for their going\nthrough the rooms while the undergraduates were about, that was not to\nbe thought of. \"Why not?\" asked the ladies. \"For your own sake,\" said\nthe messenger, and proceeded to explain that the appearance of the\n_skirted_ in these halls of learning would be followed by such\nill-conduct and indignity of impertinence on the part of the _shirted_\nas might be intolerable to the one and disadvantageous to the other. Now\nthere be women, we know, whose horrid fronts could have awed these saucy\nlittle Cubans into decency and good behavior, and some that we know,\nwhether possessing that power or not, would have delighted in the\nfancied exercise of it. What strong-minded company, under these\ncircumstances, would have turned back? What bolting, tramping, and\nrushing would they not have made through the ranks of the astonished\nprofessors and students? The Anniversary set, for example, who sweep the\npews of men, or, coming upon one forlorn, crush him as a boa does a\nsheep. Our silly little flock only laughed, colored, and retreated to\nthe _volantes_, where they held a council of war, and decided to go\nvisit some establishment where possibly better manners might prevail.\n\nReturning on the Sunday, at the hour appointed, they walked through the\ndeserted building, and found spacious rooms, the pulpits of the\nprofessors, the benches of the students, the Queen's portrait, a very\nlimited library, and, for all consolation, some pleasant Latin sentences\nover the doors of the various departments, celebrating the solace and\ndelights of learning. This was seeing the College, literally; but it was\na good deal like seeing the lion's den, the lion himself being absent on\nleave,--or like visiting the hippopotamus in Regent's Park on those days\nin which he remains steadfastly buried in his tank, and will show only\nthe tip of a nostril for your entrance-fee. Still, it was a pleasure to\nknow that learning was so handsomely housed; and as for the little\nrabble who could not be trusted in the presence of the sex, we forgave\nthem heartily, knowing that soberer manners would one day come upon\nthem, as inevitably as baldness and paternity.\n\nLet me here say, that a few days in Havana make clear to one the\nseclusion of women in the East, and its causes. Wherever the animal\nvigor of men is so large in proportion to their moral power, as in those\ncountries, women must be glad to forego their liberties for the\nprotection of the strong arm. One master is better for them than many.\nWhatever tyranny may grow out of such barbarous manners, the institution\nsprings from a veritable necessity and an original good intention. The\nChristian religion should change this, which is justifiable only in a\nMohammedan country. But where that religion is so loosely administered\nas in Cuba, where its teachers themselves frequent the cock-pit and the\ngaming-table, one must not look for too much of its power in the manners\nand morals of men.\n\nThe Beneficenza was our next station. It is, as its name signifies, an\ninstitution with a benevolent purpose, an orphan asylum and foundling\nhospital in one. The State here charitably considers that infants who\nare abandoned by their parents are as much orphaned as they can become\nby the interposition of death,--nay, more. The death of parents oftenest\nleaves a child with some friend or relative; but the foundling is cut\noff from all human relationship,--he belongs only to the hand that takes\nhim up, when he has been left to die. Despite the kind cruelty of modern\ntheories, which will not allow of suitable provision for the sufferer,\nfor fear of increasing the frequency of the crime by which he suffers,\nour hearts revolt at the miserable condition of those little creatures\nin our great cities, confounded with hopeless pauperism in its desolate\nasylums, or farmed out to starve and die. They belong to the State, and\nthe State should nobly retrieve the world's offence against them. Their\nbroken galaxy shows many a bright star here and there. Such a little\nwailing creature has been found who has commanded great actions and done\ngood service among men. Let us, then, cherish the race of foundlings, of\nwhom Moses was the first and the greatest. The princess who reared him\nsaw not the glorious destiny which lay hid, as a birth-jewel, in his\nlittle basket of reeds. She saw only, as some of us have seen, a\nhelpless, friendless babe. When he dedicated to her his first edition of\nthe Pentateuch--But, nay, he did not; for neither gratitude nor\ndedications were in fashion among the Jews.\n\nWe found the Beneficenza spacious, well-ventilated, and administered\nwith great order. It stands near the sea, with a fine prospect in view,\nand must command a cool breeze, if there be any. The children enjoy\nsea-bathing in summer. The superintendent received us most kindly, and\npresented us to the sisters who have charge of the children, who were\ngood specimens of their class. We walked with them through the neat\ndormitories, and observed that they were much more airy than those of\nthe Jesuit College, lately described. They all slept on the sackings of\nthe cots, beds being provided only in the infirmary. In the latter place\nwe found but two inmates,--one suffering from ordinary Cuban fever, the\nother with ophthalmia.--N.B. Disease of the eyes does not seem to be\ncommon in Cuba, in spite of the tropical glare of the sun; nor do people\nnurse and complain of their eyes there, as with us. We found a separate\nsmall kitchen for the sick, which was neat and convenient. The larger\nkitchen, too, was handsomely endowed with apparatus, and the\nsuperintendent told us, with a twinkle in his eye, that the children\nlived well. Coffee at six, a good breakfast at nine, dinner at the usual\nhour, bread and coffee before bed-time;--this seemed very suitable as to\nquantity, though differing from our ideas of children's food; but it\nmust be remembered that the nervous stimulus of coffee is not found to\nbe excessive in hot climates; it seems to be only what Nature\ndemands,--no more. The kind nun who accompanied us now showed us, with\nsome pride, various large presses, set in the wall, and piled to the top\nwith clean and comfortable children's clothing. We came presently to\nwhere the boys were reciting their catechism. An ecclesiastic was\nhearing them;--they seemed ready enough with their answers, but were\nallowed to gabble off the holy words in a manner almost unintelligible,\nand quite indecorous. They were bright, healthy-looking little fellows,\nranging apparently from eight to twelve in age. They had good\nplay-ground set off for them, and shady galleries to walk up and down\nin. Coming from their quarter, the girls' department seemed quiet\nenough. Here was going on the eternal task of needlework, to which the\nsex has been condemned ever since Adam's discovery of his want of\nwardrobe. Oh, ye wretched, foolish women! why will ye forever sew? \"We\nmust not only sew, but be thankful to sew; that little needle being, as\nthe sentimental Curtis has said, the only thing between us and the worst\nthat may befall.\"\n\nThese incipient women were engaged in various forms of sewing,--the most\nskilful in a sort of embroidery, like that which forms the border of\n_pi\u00f1a_ handkerchiefs. A few were reading and spelling. One poor blind\ngirl sat amongst them, with melancholy arms folded, and learned\nnothing,--they told us, nothing; for the instruction of the blind is not\nthought of in these parts. This seemed piteous to us, and made us\nreflect how happy are _our_ blinds, to say nothing of our deafs and\ndumbs. Idiocy is not uncommon here, and is the result of continual\nintermarriage between near relations; but it will be long before they\nwill provide it with a separate asylum and suitable instruction.\n\nBut now came the saddest part of the whole exhibition,--a sight common\nenough in Europe, but, by some accident, hitherto unseen by us. Here is\na sort of receptacle, with three or four compartments, which turns on a\npivot. One side of it is open to the street, and in it the wretched\nparent lays the more wretched baby,--ringing a small bell, at the same\ntime, for the new admittance; the parent vanishes, the receptacle turns\non its pivot,--the baby is within, and, we are willing to believe, in\nmerciful hands.\n\nThe sight of this made, for the first time, the crime real to me. I saw,\nat a flash, the whole tragedy of desertion,--the cautious approach, the\nfrightened countenance, the furtive act, and the great avenging pang of\nNature after its consummation. What was Hester Prynne's pillory,\ncompared to the heart of any of those mothers? I thought, too, of\nRousseau, bringing to such a place as this children who had the right to\ninherit divine genius, and deserting them for the sordid reason that he\ndid not choose to earn their bread,--the helpless mother weeping at\nhome, and begging, through long years, to be allowed to seek and reclaim\nthem.\n\nWell, here were the little creatures kindly cared for; yet what a\npiteous place was their nursery! Some of the recent arrivals looked as\nif ill-usage had been exhausted upon them before they were brought\nhither. Blows and drugs and starvation had been tried upon them, but,\nwith the tenacity of infancy, they clung to life. They would not\ndie;--well, then, they should live to regret it. Some of them lay on the\nfloor, deformed and helpless; the older ones formed a little class, and\nwere going through some elementary exercise when we passed. The babies\nhad a large room allotted to them, and I found the wet-nurses\napportioned one to each child. This appeared a very generous provision,\nas, in such establishments elsewhere, three and even four children are\ngiven to one nurse. They had comfortable cribs, on each of which was\npinned the name of its little inmate, and the date of its\nentrance;--generally, the name and age of the child are found written on\na slip of paper attached to its clothing, when it is left in the\nreceptacle. I saw on one, \"Cecilio, three weeks old.\" He had been but a\nfew days in the establishment.\n\nOf course, I lingered longest in the babies' room, and longest of all\nnear the crib of the little Cecilio. He was a pretty baby, and seemed to\nme the most ill-used of all, because the youngest. \"Could they not bear\nwith you three weeks, little fellow?\" I said. \"I know those at whose\nfiresides such as you would have been welcome guests. That New York\nwoman whom I met lately, young, rich, and childless,--I could commend\nyou to her in place of the snarling little spaniel fiend who was her\nconstant care and companion.\"\n\nBut here the superintendent made a polite bow, saying,--\"And now your\nWorships have seen all; for the chapel is undergoing repairs, and cannot\nbe visited.\" And so we thanked, and departed.\n\n\n\n\nDANIEL GRAY.\n\n\n  If I shall ever win the home in heaven\n    For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray,\n  In the great company of the forgiven\n    I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.\n\n  I knew him well; in fact, few knew him better;\n    For my young eyes oft read for him the Word,\n  And saw how meekly from the crystal letter\n    He drank the life of his beloved Lord.\n\n  Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted\n    On ready words his freight of gratitude,\n  And was not called upon among the gifted,\n    In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood.\n\n  He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases,\n    Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes;\n  And I suppose, that, in his prayers and graces,\n    I've heard them all at least a thousand times.\n\n  I see him now,--his form, and face, and motions,\n    His homespun habit, and his silver hair,--\n  And hear the language of his trite devotions\n    Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen-chair.\n\n  I can remember how the sentence sounded,--\n    \"Help us, O Lord, to pray, and not to faint!\"\n  And how the \"conquering-and-to-conquer\" rounded\n    The loftier aspirations of the saint.\n\n  He had some notions that did not improve him:\n    He never kissed his children,--so they say;\n  And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him\n    Less than a horseshoe picked up in the way.\n\n  He could see nought but vanity in beauty,\n    And nought but weakness in a fond caress,\n  And pitied men whose views of Christian duty\n    Allowed indulgence in such foolishness.\n\n  Yet there were love and tenderness within him;\n    And I am told, that, when his Charley died,\n  Nor Nature's need nor gentle words could win him\n    From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side.\n\n  And when they came to bury little Charley,\n    They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair,\n  And on his breast a rose-bud, gathered early,--\n    And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there.\n\n  My good old friend was very hard on fashion,\n    And held its votaries in lofty scorn,\n  And often burst into a holy passion\n    While the gay crowds went by, on Sunday morn.\n\n  Yet he was vain, old Gray, and did not know it!\n    He wore his hair unparted, long, and plain,\n  To hide the handsome brow that slept below it,\n    For fear the world would think that he was vain!\n\n  He had a hearty hatred of oppression,\n    And righteous words for sin of every kind;\n  Alas, that the transgressor and transgression\n    Were linked so closely in his honest mind!\n\n  Yet that sweet tale of gift without repentance,\n    Told of the Master, touched him to the core,\n  And tearless he could never read the sentence:\n    \"Neither do I condemn thee: sin no more.\"\n\n  Honest and faithful, constant in his calling,\n    Strictly attendant on the means of grace,\n  Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling,\n    Old Daniel Gray was always in his place.\n\n  A practical old man, and yet a dreamer,\n    He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way,\n  His mighty Friend in heaven, the great Redeemer,\n    Would honor him with wealth some golden day.\n\n  This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit\n    Until in death his patient eye grew dim,\n  And his Redeemer called him to inherit\n    The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him.\n\n  So, if I ever win the home in heaven\n    For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray\n  In the great company of the forgiven\n    I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MINISTER'S WOOING.\n\n\n[Continued.]\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\nThe Doctor sat at his study-table. It was evening, and the slant beams\nof the setting sun shot their golden arrows through the healthy purple\nclusters of lilacs that veiled the windows. There had been a shower that\nfilled them with drops of rain, which every now and then tattooed, with\na slender rat-tat, on the window-sill, as a breeze would shake the\nleaves and bear in perfume on its wings. Sweet, fragrance-laden airs\ntripped stirringly to and fro about the study-table, making gentle\nconfusions, fluttering papers on moral ability, agitating treatises on\nthe great end of creation, mixing up subtile distinctions between\namiable instincts and true holiness, and, in short, conducting\nthemselves like very unappreciative and unphilosophical little breezes.\n\nThe Doctor patiently smoothed back and rearranged, while opposite to him\nsat Mary, bending over some copying she was doing for him. One stray\nsunbeam fell on her light brown hair, tinging it to gold; her long,\ndrooping lashes lay over the wax-like pink of her cheeks, as she wrote\non.\n\n\"Mary,\" said the Doctor, pushing the papers from him.\n\n\"Sir,\" she answered, looking up, the blood just perceptibly rising in\nher cheeks.\n\n\"Do you ever have any periods in which your evidences seem not\naltogether clear?\"\n\nNothing could show more forcibly the grave, earnest character of thought\nin New England at this time than the fact that this use of the term\n\"evidences\" had become universally significant and understood as\nrelating to one's right of citizenship in a celestial, invisible\ncommonwealth.\n\nSo Mary understood it, and it was with a deepening flush she answered\ngently, \"No, Sir.\"\n\n\"What! never any doubts?\" said the Doctor.\n\n\"I am sorry,\" said Mary, apologetically; \"but I do not see how I _can_\nhave; I never could.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the Doctor, musingly, \"would I could say so! There are times,\nindeed, when I hope I have an interest in the precious Redeemer, and\nbehold an infinite loveliness and beauty in Him, apart from anything I\nexpect or hope. But even then how deceitful is the human heart! how\ninsensibly might a mere selfish love take the place of that\ndisinterested complacency which regards Him for what He is in Himself,\napart from what He is to us! Say, my dear friend, does not this thought\nsometimes make you tremble?\"\n\nPoor Mary was truth itself, and this question distressed her; she must\nanswer the truth. The fact was, that it had never come into her blessed\nlittle heart to tremble, for she was one of those children of the\nbride-chamber who cannot mourn, because the bridegroom is ever with\nthem; but then, when she saw the man for whom her reverence was almost\nlike that for her God thus distrustful, thus lowly, she could not but\nfeel that her too calm repose might, after all, be the shallow,\ntreacherous calm of an ignorant, ill-grounded spirit, and therefore,\nwith a deep blush and a faltering voice, she said,--\n\n\"Indeed, I am afraid something must be wrong with me. I _cannot_ have\nany fears,--I never could; I try sometimes, but the thought of God's\ngoodness comes all around me, and I am so happy before I think of it!\"\n\n\"Such exercises, my dear friend, I have also had,\" said the Doctor; \"but\nbefore I rest on them as evidences, I feel constrained to make the\nfollowing inquiries:--Is this gratitude that swells my bosom the result\nof a mere natural sensibility? Does it arise in a particular manner\nbecause God has done me good? or do I love God for what He is, as well\nas for what He has done? and for what He has done for others, as well as\nfor what He has done for me? Love to God which is built on nothing but\ngood received is not incompatible with a disposition so horrid as even\nto curse God to His face. If God is not to be loved except when He does\ngood, then in affliction we are free. If doing _us_ good is all that\nrenders God lovely to us, then not doing us good divests Him of His\nglory, and dispenses us from obligation to love Him. But there must be,\nundoubtedly, some permanent reason why God is to be loved by all; and if\nnot doing us good divests Him of His glory so as to free _us_ from our\nobligation to love, it equally frees the universe; so that, in fact, the\nuniverse of happiness, if ours be not included, reflects no glory on its\nAuthor.\"\n\nThe Doctor had practised his subtile mental analysis till his\ninstruments were so fine-pointed and keen-edged that he scarce ever\nallowed a flower of sacred emotion to spring in his soul without picking\nit to pieces to see if its genera and species were correct. Love,\ngratitude, reverence, benevolence,--which all moved in mighty tides in\nhis soul,--were all compelled to pause midway while he rubbed up his\noptical instruments to see whether they were rising in right order.\nMary, on the contrary, had the blessed gift of womanhood,--that vivid\nlife in the soul and sentiment which resists the chills of analysis, as\na healthful human heart resists cold; yet still, all humbly, she thought\nthis perhaps was a defect in herself, and therefore, having confessed,\nin a depreciating tone, her habits of unanalyzed faith and love, she\nadded,--\n\n\"But, my dear Sir, you are my best friend. I trust you will be faithful\nto me. If I am deceiving myself, undeceive me; you cannot be too severe\nwith me.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" said the Doctor, \"I fear that I may be only a blind leader of\nthe blind. What, after all, if I be only a miserable self-deceiver? What\nif some thought of self has come in to poison all my prayers and\nstrivings? It is true, I think,--yes, I _think_,\" said the Doctor,\nspeaking very slowly and with intense earnestness,--\"I think, that, if I\nknew at this moment that my name never would be written among those of\nthe elect, I could still see God to be infinitely amiable and glorious,\nand could feel sure that He _could_ not do me wrong, and that it was\ninfinitely becoming and right that He should dispose of me according to\nHis sovereign pleasure. I _think_ so;--but still my deceitful\nheart!--after all, I might find it rising in rebellion. Say, my dear\nfriend, are you sure, that, should you discover yourself to be forever\ncondemned by His justice, you would not find your heart rising up\nagainst Him?\"\n\n\"Against _Him_?\" said Mary, with a tremulous, sorrowful expression on\nher face,--\"against my Heavenly Father?\"\n\nHer face flushed, and faded; her eyes kindled eagerly, as if she had\nsomething to say, and then grew misty with tears. At last she said,--\n\n\"Thank you, my dear, faithful friend! I will think about this; _perhaps_\nI may have been deceived. How very difficult it must be to know one's\nself perfectly!\"\n\nMary went into her own little room, and sat leaning for a long time with\nher elbow on the window-seat, watching the pale shells of the\napple-blossoms as they sailed and fluttered downward into the grass, and\nlistened to a chippering conversation in which the birds in the nest\nabove were settling up their small housekeeping accounts for the day.\n\nAfter a while, she took her pen and wrote the following, which the\nDoctor found the next morning lying on his study-table:--\n\n\"MY DEAR, HONORED FRIEND,--How can I sufficiently thank you for your\nfaithfulness with me? All you say to me seems true and excellent; and\nyet, my dear Sir, permit me to try to express to you some of the many\nthoughts to which our conversation this evening has given rise. To love\nGod because He is good to me you seem to think is not a right kind of\nlove; and yet every moment of my life I have experienced His goodness.\nWhen recollection brings back the past, where can I look that I see not\nHis goodness? What moment of my life presents not instances of merciful\nkindness to me, as well as to every creature, more and greater than I\ncan express, than my mind is able to take in? How, then, can I help\nloving God because He is good to me? Were I not an object of God's mercy\nand goodness, I cannot have any conception what would be my feeling.\nImagination never yet placed me in a situation not to experience the\ngoodness of God in some way or other; and if I do love Him, how can it\nbe but because He is good, and to me good? Do not God's children love\nHim because He first loved them?\n\n\"If I called nothing goodness which did not happen to suit my\ninclination, and could not believe the Deity to be gracious and merciful\nexcept when the course of events was so ordered as to agree with my\nhumor, so far from imagining that I had any love to God, I must conclude\nmyself wholly destitute of anything good. A love founded on nothing but\ngood received is not, you say, incompatible with a disposition so horrid\nas even to curse God. I am not sensible that I ever in my life imagined\nanything _but_ good could come from the hand of God. From a Being\ninfinite in goodness everything _must_ be good, though we do not always\ncomprehend how it is so. Are not afflictions good? Does He not even in\njudgment remember mercy? Sensible that 'afflictions are but blessings in\ndisguise,' I would bless the hand that, with infinite kindness, wounds\nonly to heal, and love and adore the goodness of God equally in\nsuffering as in rejoicing.\n\n\"The disinterested love to God, which you think is alone the genuine\nlove, I see not how we can be certain we possess, when our love of\nhappiness and our love of God are so inseparably connected. The joys\narising from a consciousness that God is a benefactor to me and my\nfriends, (and when I think of God, every creature is my friend,) if\narising from a selfish motive, it does not seem to me possible could be\nchanged into hate, even supposing God my enemy, whilst I regarded Him as\na Being infinitely just as well as good. If God is my enemy, it must be\nbecause I deserve He should be such; and it does not seem to me\n_possible_ that I should hate Him, even if I knew He would always be so.\n\n\"In what you say of willingness to suffer eternal punishment, I don't\nknow that I understand what the feeling is. Is it wickedness in me that\nI do not feel a willingness to be left to eternal sin? Can any one\njoyfully acquiesce in being thus left? When I pray for a new heart and a\nright spirit, must I be willing to be denied, and rejoice that my prayer\nis not heard? Could any real Christian rejoice in this? But he fears it\nnot,--he knows it will never be,--he therefore can cheerfully leave it\nwith God; and so can I.\n\n\"Such, my dear friend, are my thoughts, poor and unworthy; yet they seem\nto me as certain as my life, or as anything I see. Am I unduly\nconfident? I ask your prayers that I may be guided aright.\n\n\"Your affectionate friend,\n\n\"MARY.\"\n\nThere are in this world two kinds of natures,--those that have wings,\nand those that have feet,--the winged and the walking spirits. The\nwalking are the logicians: the winged are the instinctive and poetic.\nNatures that must always walk find many a bog, many a thicket, many a\ntangled brake, which God's happy little winged birds flit over by one\nnoiseless flight. Nay, when a man has toiled till his feet weigh too\nheavily with the mud of earth to enable him to walk another step, these\nlittle birds will often cleave the air in a right line towards the bosom\nof God, and show the way where he could never have found it.\n\nThe Doctor paused in his ponderous and heavy reasonings to read this\nreal woman's letter; and being a loving man, he felt as if he could have\nkissed the hem of her garment who wrote it. He recorded it in his\njournal, and after it this significant passage from Canticles:--\n\n\"I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the\nhinds of the field, that ye stir not up nor awake this lovely one till\nshe please.\"\n\nMrs. Scudder's motherly eye noticed, with satisfaction, these quiet\ncommunings. \"Let it alone,\" she said to herself; \"before she knows it,\nshe will find herself wholly under his influence.\" Mrs. Scudder was a\nwise woman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\nIn the course of a day or two, a handsome carriage drew up in front of\nMrs. Scudder's cottage, and a brilliant party alighted. They were\nColonel and Madame de Frontignac, the Abb\u00e9 L\u00e9fon, and Colonel Burr. Mrs.\nScudder and her daughter, being prepared for the call, sat in afternoon\ndignity and tranquillity, in the best room, with their knitting-work.\n\nMadame de Frontignac had divined, with the lightning-like tact which\nbelongs to women in the positive, and to French women in the superlative\ndegree, that there was something in the cottage-girl, whom she had\npassingly seen at the party, which powerfully affected the man whom she\nloved with all the jealous intensity of a strong nature, and hence she\nembraced eagerly the opportunity to see her,--yes, to see her, to study\nher, to dart her keen French wit through her, and detect the secret of\nher charm, that she, too, might practise it.\n\nMadame de Frontignac was one of those women whose beauty is so striking\nand imposing, that they seem to kindle up, even in the most prosaic\napartment, an atmosphere of enchantment. All the pomp and splendor of\nhigh life, the wit, the refinements, the nameless graces and luxuries of\ncourts, seemed to breathe in invisible airs around her, and she made a\nFaubourg St. Germain of the darkest room into which she entered. Mary\nthought, when she came in, that she had never seen anything so splendid.\nShe was dressed in a black velvet riding-habit, buttoned to the throat\nwith coral; her riding-hat drooped with its long plumes so as to cast a\nshadow over her animated face, out of which her dark eyes shone like\njewels, and her pomegranate cheeks glowed with the rich shaded radiance\nof one of Rembrandt's pictures. Something quaint and foreign, something\npoetic and strange, marked each turn of her figure, each article of her\ndress, down to the sculptured hand on which glittered singular and\ncostly rings,--and the riding-glove, embroidered with seed-pearls, that\nfell carelessly beside her on the floor.\n\nIn Antwerp one sees a picture in which Rubens, who felt more than any\nother artist the glory of the physical life, has embodied his conception\nof the Madonna, in opposition to the faded, cold ideals of the Middle\nAges, from which he revolted with such a bound. _His_ Mary is a superb\nOriental sultana, with lustrous dark eyes, redundant form, jewelled\nturban, standing leaning on the balustrade of a princely terrace, and\nbearing on her hand, _not_ the silver dove, but a gorgeous paroquet. The\ntwo styles, in this instance, were both in the same room; and as Burr\nsat looking from one to the other, he felt, for a moment, as one would\nwho should put a sketch of Overbeck's beside a splendid painting of\nTitian's.\n\nFor a few moments, everything in the room seemed faded and cold, in\ncontrast with the tropical atmosphere of this regal beauty. Burr watched\nMary with a keen eye, to see if she were dazzled and overawed. He saw\nnothing but the most innocent surprise and delight. All the slumbering\npoetry within her seemed to awaken at the presence of her beautiful\nneighbor,--as when one, for the first time, stands before the great\nrevelations of Art. Mary's cheek glowed, her eyes seemed to grow deep\nwith the enthusiasm of admiration, and, after a few moments, it seemed\nas if her delicate face and figure reflected the glowing loveliness of\nher visitor, just as the virgin snows of the Alps become incarnadine as\nthey stand opposite the glorious radiance of a sunset sky.\n\nMadame de Frontignac was accustomed to the effect of her charms; but\nthere was so much love in the admiration now directed towards her, that\nher own warm, nature was touched, and she threw out the glow of her\nfeelings with a magnetic power. Mary never felt the cold, habitual\nreserve of her education so suddenly melt, never felt herself so\nnaturally falling into language of confidence and endearment with a\nstranger; and as her face, so delicate and spiritual, grew bright with\nlove, Madame de Frontignac thought she had never seen anything so\nbeautiful, and, stretching out her hands towards her, she exclaimed, in\nher own language,--\n\n\"_Mais, mon Dieu! mon enfant, que tu es belle_!\"\n\nMary's deep blush, at her ignorance of the language in which her visitor\nspoke, recalled her to herself;--she laughed a clear, silvery laugh, and\nlaid her jewelled little hand on Mary's with a caressing movement.\n\n\"_He_ shall not teach you French, _ma toute belle_\" she said, indicating\nthe Abb\u00e9, by a pretty, wilful gesture; \"_I_ will teach you;--and you\nshall teach me English. Oh, I shall try _so_ hard to learn!\" she said.\n\nThere was something inexpressibly pretty and quaint in the childish lisp\nwith which she pronounced English. Mary was completely won over. She\ncould have fallen into the arms of this wondrously beautiful fairy\nprincess, expecting to be carried away by her to Dream-land.\n\nMeanwhile, Mrs. Scudder was gravely discoursing with Colonel Burr and M.\nde Frontignac; and the Abb\u00e9, a small and gentlemanly personage, with\nclear black eye, delicately-cut features, and powdered hair, appeared to\nbe absorbed in his efforts to follow the current of a conversation\nimperfectly understood. Burr, the while, though seeming to be entirely\nand politely absorbed in the conversation he was conducting, lost not a\nglimpse of the picturesque aside which was being enacted between the two\nfair ones whom he had thus brought together. He smiled quietly when he\nsaw the effect Madame de Frontignac produced on Mary.\n\n\"After all, the child has flesh and blood!\" he thought, \"and may feel\nthat there are more things in heaven and earth than she has dreamed of\nyet. A few French ideas won't hurt her.\"\n\nThe arrangements about lessons being completed, the party returned to\nthe carriage. Madame de Frontignac was enthusiastic in Mary's praise.\n\n\"_Cependant_\" she said, leaning back, thoughtfully, after having\nexhausted herself in superlatives,--\"_cependant elle est d\u00e9vote,--et \u00e0\ndix-neuf comment cela se peut il_?\"\n\n\"It is the effect of her austere education,\" said Burr. \"It is not\npossible for you to conceive how young people are trained in the\nreligious families of this country.\"\n\n\"But yet,\" said Madame, \"it gives her a grace altogether peculiar;\nsomething in her looks went to my heart. I could find it very easy to\nlove her, because she is really good.\"\n\n\"The Queen of Hearts should know all that is possible in loving,\" said\nBurr.\n\nSomehow, of late, the compliments which fell so readily from those\ngraceful lips had brought with them an unsatisfying pain. Until a woman\nreally _loves_, flattery and compliment are often like her native air;\nbut when that deeper feeling has once awakened in her, her instincts\nbecome marvellously acute to detect the false from the true. Madame de\nFrontignac longed for one strong, unguarded, real, earnest word from the\nman who had stolen from her her whole being. She was beginning to feel\nin some dim wise what an untold treasure she was daily giving for tinsel\nand dross. She leaned back in the carriage, with a restless, burning\ncheek, and wondered why she was born to be so miserable. The thought of\nMary's saintly face and tender eyes rose before her as the moon rises on\nthe eyes of some hot and fevered invalid, inspiring vague yearnings\nafter an unknown, unattainable peace.\n\nCould some friendly power once have made her at that time clairvoyant\nand shown her the _reality_ of the man whom she was seeing through the\nprismatic glass of her own enkindled ideality! Could she have seen the\ncalculating quietness in which, during the intervals of a restless and\nsleepless ambition, he played upon her heart-strings, as one uses a\nmusical instrument to beguile a passing hour,--how his only\nembarrassment was the fear that the feelings he was pleased to excite\nmight become too warm and too strong, while as yet his relations to her\nhusband were such as to make it dangerous to arouse his jealousy! And if\nhe could have seen that pure ideal conception of himself which alone\ngave him power in the heart of this woman,--that spotless, glorified\nimage of a hero without fear, without reproach,--would he have felt a\nmoment's shame and abasement at its utter falsehood?\n\nThe poet says that the Evil Spirit stood abashed when he saw virtue in\nan angel form! How would a man, then, stand, who meets face to face his\nown glorified, spotless ideal, made living by the boundless faith of\nsome believing heart? The best must needs lay his hand on his mouth at\nthis apparition; but woe to him who feels no redeeming power in the\nsacredness of this believing dream,--who with calculating shrewdness\n_uses_ this most touching miracle of love only to corrupt and destroy\nthe loving! For him there is no sacrifice for sin, no place for\nrepentance. His very mother might shrink in her grave to have him laid\nbeside her.\n\nMadame de Frontignac had the high, honorable nature of the old blood of\nFrance, and a touch of its romance. She was strung heroically, and\neducated according to the notions of her caste and church, purely and\nreligiously. True it is, that one can scarcely call _that_ education\nwhich teaches woman everything except herself,--_except_ the things that\nrelate to her own peculiar womanly destiny, and, on plea of the holiness\nof ignorance, sends her without one word of just counsel into the\ntemptations of life. Incredible as it may seem, Virginie de Frontignac\nhad never read a romance or work of fiction of which love was the\nstaple; the _r\u00e9gime_ of the convent in this regard was inexorable; at\neighteen she was more thoroughly a child than most American girls at\nthirteen. On entrance into life, she was at first so dazzled and\nbewildered by the mere contrast of fashionable excitement with the\nquietness of the scenes in which she had hitherto grown up, that she had\nno time for reading or thought,--all was one intoxicating frolic of\nexistence, one dazzling, bewildering dream.\n\nHe whose eye had measured her for his victim verified, if ever man did,\nthe proverbial expression of the iron hand under the velvet glove. Under\nall his gentle suavities there was a fixed, inflexible will, a calm\nself-restraint, and a composed philosophical measurement of others, that\nfitted him to bear despotic rule over an impulsive, unguarded nature.\nThe position, at once accorded to him, of her instructor in the English\nlanguage and literature, gave him a thousand daily opportunities to\ntouch and stimulate all that class of finer faculties, so restless and\nso perilous, and which a good man approaches always with certain awe. It\nis said that he once asserted that he never beguiled a woman who did not\ncome half-way to meet him,--an observation much the same as a serpent\nmight make in regard to his birds.\n\nThe visit of the morning was followed by several others. Madame de\nFrontignac seemed to conceive for Mary one of those passionate\nattachments which women often conceive for anything fair and\nsympathizing, at those periods when their whole inner being is made\nvital by the approaches of a grand passion. It took only a few visits to\nmake her as familiar as a child at the cottage; and the whole air of the\nFaubourg St. Germain seemed to melt away from her, as, with the\npliability peculiar to her nation, she blended herself with the quiet\npursuits of the family. Sometimes, in simple straw hat and white\nwrapper, she would lie down in the grass under the apple-trees, or join\nMary in an expedition to the barn for hen's eggs, or a run along the\nsea-beach for shells; and her childish eagerness and delight on these\noccasions used to arouse the unqualified astonishment of Mrs. Katy\nScudder.\n\nThe Doctor she regarded with a _na\u00efve_ astonishment, slightly tinctured\nwith apprehension. She knew he was very religious, and stretched her\ncomprehension to imagine what he might be like. She thought of Bossuet's\nsermons walking about under a Protestant coat, and felt vaguely alarmed\nand sinful in his presence, as she used to when entering under the\nshadows of a cathedral. In her the religious sentiment, though vague,\nwas strong. Nothing in the character of Burr had ever awakened so much\ndisapprobation as his occasional sneers at religion. On such occasions\nshe always reproved him with warmth, but excused him in her heart,\nbecause he was brought up a heretic. She held a special theological\nconversation with the Abb\u00e9, whether salvation were possible to one\noutside of the True Church,--and had added to her daily prayer a\nparticular invocation to the Virgin for him.\n\nThe French lessons, with her assistance, proceeded prosperously. She\nbecame an inmate in Mrs. Marvyn's family also. The brown-eyed, sensitive\nwoman loved her as a new poem; she felt enchanted by her; and the\nprosaic details of her household seemed touched to poetic life by her\ninnocent interest and admiration. The young Madame insisted on being\ntaught to spin at the great wheel; and a very pretty picture she made of\nit, too, with her earnest gravity of endeavor, her deepening cheek, her\ngraceful form, with some strange foreign scarf or jewelry waving and\nflashing in odd contrast with her work.\n\n\"Do you know,\" she said, one day, while thus employed in the north room\nat Mrs. Marvyn's,--\"do you know Burr told me that princesses used to\nspin? He read me a beautiful story from the 'Odyssey,' about how\nPenelope cheated her lovers with her spinning, while she was waiting for\nher husband to come home;--_he_ was gone to sea, Mary,--her _true_\nlove,--you understand.\"\n\nShe turned on Mary a wicked glance, so full of intelligence that the\nsnowdrop grew red as the inside of a sea-shell.\n\n\"_Mon enfant_! thou hast a thought _deep in here_!\" she said to Mary,\none day, as they sat together in the grass under the apple-trees.\n\n\"Why, what?\" said Mary, with a startled and guilty look.\n\n\"Why, what? _petite_!\" said the fairy princess, whimsically mimicking\nher accent. \"_Ah! ah! ma belle_! you think I have no eyes;--Virginie\nsees deep in here!\" she said, laying her hand playfully on Mary's heart.\n\"_Ah, petite_!\" she said, gravely, and almost sorrowfully, \"if you love\nhim, wait for him,--_don't marry another_. It is dreadful not to have\none's heart go with one's duty.\"\n\n\"I shall never marry anybody,\" said Mary.\n\n\"Nevare marrie anybodie!\" said the lady, imitating her accents in tones\nmuch like those of a bobolink. \"Ah! ah! my little saint, you cannot\nalways live on nothing but the prayers, though prayers are verie good.\nBut, _ma ch\u00e8re_,\" she added, in a low tone, \"don't you ever marry that\ngood man in there; priests should not marry.\"\n\n\"Ours are not priests,--they are ministers,\" said Mary. \"But why do you\nspeak of him?--he is like my father.\"\n\n\"Virginie sees something!\" said the lady, shaking her head gravely; \"she\nsees he loves little Mary.\"\n\n\"Of course he does!\"\n\n\"Of-course-he-does?--ah, yes; and by-and-by comes the mamma, and she\ntakes this little hand, and she says, 'Come, Mary!' and then she gives\nit to him; and then the poor _jeune homme_, when he comes back, finds\nnot a bird in his poor little nest. _Oh, c'est ennuyeux cela_!\" she\nsaid, throwing herself back in the grass till the clover-heads and\nbuttercups closed over her.\n\n\"I do assure you, dear Madame!\"--\n\n\"I do assure you, dear Mary, _Virginie knows_. So lock up her words in\nyour little heart; you will want them some day.\"\n\nThere was a pause of some moments, while the lady was watching the\ncourse of a cricket through the clover. At last, lifting her head, she\nspoke very gravely,--\n\n\"My little cat! it is _dreadful_ to be married to a good man, and want\nto be good, and want to love him, and yet never like to have him take\nyour hand, and be more glad when he is away than when he is at home; and\nthen to think how different it would all be, if it was only somebody\nelse. That will be the way with you, if you let them lead you into this;\nso don't you do it, _mon enfant_.\"\n\nA thought seemed to cross Mary's mind, as she turned to Madame de\nFrontignac, and said, earnestly,--\n\n\"If a good man were my husband, I would never think of another,--I\nwouldn't let myself.\"\n\n\"How could you help it, _mignonne_? Can you stop your thinking?\"\n\nMary said, after a moment's blush,--\n\n\"I can _try_!\"\n\n\"Ah, yes! But to try all one's life,--oh, Mary, that is too hard! Never\ndo it, darling!\"\n\nAnd then Madame de Frontignac broke out into a carolling little French\nsong, which started all the birds around into a general orchestral\naccompaniment.\n\nThis conversation occurred just before Madame de Frontignac started for\nPhiladelphia, whither her husband had been summoned as an agent in some\nof the ambitious intrigues of Burr.\n\nIt was with a sigh of regret that she parted from her friends at the\ncottage. She made them a hasty good-bye call,--alighting from a splendid\nbarouche with two white horses, and filling their simple best-room with\nthe light of her presence for a last half-hour. When she bade good-bye\nto Mary, she folded her warmly to her heart, and her long lashes drooped\nheavily with tears.\n\nAfter her absence, the lessons were still pursued with the gentle, quiet\nlittle Abb\u00e9, who seemed the most patient and assiduous of teachers; but,\nin both houses, there was that vague _ennui_, that sense of want, which\nfollows the fading of one of life's beautiful dreams! We bid her adieu\nfor a season;--we may see her again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n\nThe summer passed over the cottage, noiselessly, as our summers pass.\nThere were white clouds walking in saintly troops over blue mirrors of\nsea,--there were purple mornings, choral with bird-singing,--there were\ngolden evenings, with long, eastward shadows. Apple-blossoms died\nquietly in the deep orchard grass, and tiny apples waxed and rounded and\nripened and gained stripes of gold and carmine; and the blue eggs broke\ninto young robins, that grew from gaping, yellow-mouthed youth to\nfledged and outflying maturity. Came autumn, with its long Indian\nsummer, and winter, with its flinty, sparkling snows, under which all\nNature lay a sealed and beautiful corpse. Came once more the spring\nwinds, the lengthening days, the opening flowers, and the ever-renewing\nmiracle of buds and blossoms on the apple-trees around the cottage. A\nyear had passed since the June afternoon when first we showed you Mary\nstanding under the spotty shadows of the tree, with the white dove on\nher hand--a year in which not many outward changes have been made in the\nrelations of the actors of our story.\n\nMary calmly spun and read and thought; now and then composing with care\nvery English-French letters, to be sent to Philadelphia to Madame de\nFrontignac, and receiving short missives of very French-English in\nreturn.\n\nThe cautions of Madame, in regard to the Doctor, had not rippled the\ncurrent of their calm, confiding intercourse; and the Doctor, so very\nsatisfied and happy in her constant society and affection, scarcely as\nyet meditated distinctly that he needed to draw her more closely to\nhimself. If he had a passage to read, a page to be copied, a thought to\nexpress, was she not ever there, gentle, patient, unselfish? and scarce\nby the absence of a day did she let him perceive that his need of her\nwas becoming so absolute that his hold on her must needs be made\npermanent.\n\nAs to his salary and temporal concerns, they had suffered somewhat for\nhis unpopular warfare with reigning sins,--a fact which had rather\nreconciled Mrs. Scudder to the dilatory movement of her cherished hopes.\nSince James was gone, what need to press imprudently to new\narrangements? Better give the little heart time to grow over before\nstarting a subject which a certain womanly instinct told her might be\nmet with a struggle. Somehow she never thought without a certain\nheart-sinking of Mary's look and tone the night she spoke with her about\nJames; she had an awful presentiment that that tone of voice belonged to\nthe things that cannot be shaken. But yet, Mary seemed so even, so\nquiet, her delicate form filled out and rounded so beautifully, and she\nsang so cheerfully at her work, and, above all, she was so entirely\nsilent about James, that Mrs. Scudder had hope.\n\nAh, that silence! Do not listen to hear whom a woman praises, to know\nwhere her heart is! do not ask for whom she expresses the most earnest\nenthusiasm! but if there be one she once knew well, whose name she never\nspeaks,--if she seem to have an instinct to avoid every occasion of its\nmention,--if, when you speak, she drops into silence and changes the\nsubject,--why, look there for something! just as, when going through\ndeep meadow-grass, a bird flies ostentatiously up before you, you may\nknow her nest is not there, but far off, under distant tufts of fern and\nbuttercup, through which she has crept with a silent flutter in her\nspotted breast, to act her pretty little falsehood before you.\n\nPoor Mary's little nest was along the sedgy margin of the sea-shore,\nwhere grow the tufts of golden-rod, where wave the reeds, where crimson,\ngreen, and purple sea-weeds float up, like torn fringes of Nereid\nvestures, and gold and silver shells lie on the wet wrinkles of the\nsands.\n\nThe sea had become to her like a friend, with its ever-varying monotony.\nSomehow she loved this old, fresh, blue, babbling, restless giant, who\nhad carried away her heart's love to hide him in some far-off palmy\nisland, such as she had often heard him tell of in his sea-romances.\nSometimes she would wander out for an afternoon's stroll on the rocks,\nand pause by the great spouting cave, now famous to Newport\n_dilettanti_, but then a sacred and impressive solitude. There the\nrising tide bursts with deafening strokes through a narrow opening into\nsome inner cavern, which, with a deep thunder-boom, like the voice of an\nangry lion, casts it back in a high jet of foam into the sea.\n\nMary often sat and listened to this hollow noise, and watched the\never-rising columns of spray as they reddened with the transpiercing\nbeams of the afternoon sun; and thence her eye travelled far, far off\nover the shimmering starry blue, where sails looked no bigger than\nmiller's wings; and it seemed sometimes as if a door were opening by\nwhich her soul might go out into some eternity,--some abyss, so wide and\ndeep, that fathomless lines of thought could not sound it. She was no\nlonger a girl in a mortal body, but an infinite spirit, the adoring\ncompanion of Infinite Beauty and Infinite Love.\n\nAs there was an hour when the fishermen of Galilee saw their Master\ntransfigured, his raiment white and glistening, and his face like the\nlight, so are there hours when our whole mortal life stands forth in a\ncelestial radiance. From our daily lot falls off every weed of\ncare,--from our heart-friends every speck and stain of earthly\ninfirmity. Our horizon widens, and blue, and amethyst, and gold touch\nevery object. Absent friends and friends gone on the last long journey\nstand once more together, bright with an immortal glow, and, like the\ndisciples who saw their Master floating in the clouds above them, we\nsay, \"Lord, it is good to be here!\" How fair the wife, the husband, the\nabsent mother, the gray-haired father, the manly son, the bright-eyed\ndaughter! Seen in the actual present, all have some fault, some flaw;\nbut absent, we see them in their permanent and better selves. Of our\ndistant home we remember not one dark day, not one servile care, nothing\nbut the echo of its holy hymns and the radiance of its brightest\ndays,--of our father, not one hasty word, but only the fulness of his\nmanly vigor and noble tenderness,--of our mother, nothing of mortal\nweakness, but a glorified form of love,--of our brother, not one\nteasing, provoking word of brotherly freedom, but the proud beauty of\nhis noblest hours,--of our sister, our child, only what is fairest and\nsweetest.\n\nThis is to life the true ideal, the calm glass, wherein looking, we\nshall see, that, whatever defects cling to us, they are not, after all,\npermanent, and that we are tending to something nobler than we yet\nare;--it is \"the earnest of our inheritance until the redemption of the\npurchased possession.\" In the resurrection we shall see our friends\nforever as we see them in these clairvoyant hours.\n\nWe are writing thus on and on, linking image and thought and feeling,\nand lingering over every flower, and listening to every bird, because\njust before us there lies a dark valley, and we shrink and tremble to\nenter it.\n\nBut it _must_ come, and why do we delay?\n\n\nTowards evening, one afternoon in the latter part of June, Mary returned\nfrom one of these lonely walks by the sea, and entered the kitchen. It\nwas still in its calm and sober cleanness;--the tall clock ticked with a\nstartling distinctness. From the half-closed door of her mother's\nbedroom, which stood ajar, she heard the chipper of Miss Prissy's voice.\nShe stayed her light footsteps, and the words that fell on her ear were\nthese:--\n\n\"Miss Marvyn fainted dead away;--she stood it till he came to _that_;\nbut then she just clapped both hands together, as if she'd been shot,\nand fell right forward on the floor in a faint!\"\n\nWhat could this be? There was a quick, intense whirl of thoughts in\nMary's mind, and then came one of those awful moments when the powers of\nlife seem to make a dead pause and all things stand still; and then all\nseemed to fail under her, and the life to sink down, down, down, till\nnothing was but one dim, vague, miserable consciousness.\n\nMrs. Scudder and Miss Prissy were sitting, talking earnestly, on the\nfoot of the bed, when the door opened noiselessly, and Mary glided to\nthem like a spirit,--no color in check or lip,--her blue eyes wide with\ncalm horror; and laying her little hand, with a nervous grasp, on Miss\nPrissy's arm, she said,--\n\n\"Tell me,--what is it?--is it?--is he--dead?\"\n\nThe two women looked at each other, and then Mrs. Scudder opened her\narms.\n\n\"My daughter!\"\n\n\"Oh! mother! mother!\"\n\nThen fell that long, hopeless silence, broken only by hysteric sobs from\nMiss Prissy, and answering ones from the mother; but _she_ lay still and\nquiet, her blue eyes wide and clear, making an inarticulate moan.\n\n\"Oh! are they _sure_?--_can_ it be?--_is_ he dead?\" at last she gasped.\n\n\"My child, it is too true; all we can say is, 'Be still, and know that I\nam God!'\"\n\n\"I shall _try_ to be still, mother,\" said Mary, with a piteous, hopeless\nvoice, like the bleat of a dying lamb; \"but I did not think he _could_\ndie! I never thought of that!--I never _thought_ of it!--Oh! mother!\nmother! mother! oh! what shall I do?\"\n\nThey laid her on her mother's bed,--the first and last resting-place of\nbroken hearts,--and the mother sat down by her in silence. Miss Prissy\nstole away into the Doctor's study, and told him all that had happened.\n\n\"It's the same to her,\" said Miss Prissy, with womanly reserve, \"as if\nhe'd been an own brother.\"\n\n\"What was his spiritual state?\" said the Doctor, musingly.\n\nMiss Prissy looked blank, and answered mournfully,--\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nThe Doctor entered the room where Mary was lying with closed eyes. Those\nfew moments seemed to have done the work of years,--so pale, and faded,\nand sunken she looked; nothing but the painful flutter of the eyelids\nand lips showed that she yet breathed. At a sign from Mrs. Scudder, he\nkneeled by the bed, and began to pray,--\"Lord, thou hast been our\ndwelling-place in all generations,\"--prayer deep, mournful, upheaving\nlike the swell of the ocean, surging upward, under the pressure of\nmighty sorrows, towards an Almighty heart.\n\nThe truly good are of one language in prayer. Whatever lines or angles\nof thought may separate them in other hours, _when they pray in\nextremity_, all good men pray alike. The Emperor Charles V. and Martin\nLuther, two great generals of opposite faiths, breathed out their dying\nstruggle in the self-same words.\n\nThere be many tongues and many languages of men,--but the language of\nprayer is one by itself, _in_ all and _above_ all. It is the inspiration\nof that Spirit that is ever working with our spirit, and constantly\nlifting us higher than we know, and, by our wants, by our woes, by our\ntears, by our yearnings, by our poverty, urging us, with mightier and\nmightier force, against those chains of sin which keep us from our God.\nWe speak not of _things_ conventionally called prayers,--vain mutterings\nof unawakened spirits talking drowsily in sleep,--but of such prayers as\ncome when flesh and heart fail, in mighty straits;--_then_ he who prays\nis a prophet, and a Mightier than he speaks in him; for the \"_Spirit_\nhelpeth our infirmities; for we know not what we should pray for as we\nought; but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us, with groanings\nwhich cannot be uttered.\"\n\nSo the voice of supplication, upheaving from that great heart, so\nchildlike in its humility, rose with a wisdom and a pathos beyond what\nhe dreamed in his intellectual hours; it uprose even as a strong angel,\nwhose brow is solemnly calm, and whose wings shed healing dews of\nparadise.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n\nThe next day broke calm and fair. The robins sang remorselessly in the\napple-tree, and were answered by bobolink, oriole, and a whole tribe of\nignorant little bits of feathered happiness that danced among the\nleaves. Golden and glorious unclosed those purple eyelids of the East,\nand regally came up the sun; and the treacherous sea broke into ten\nthousand smiles, laughing and dancing with every ripple, as\nunconsciously as if no form dear to human hearts had gone down beneath\nit. Oh! treacherous, deceiving beauty of outward things! beauty, wherein\nthrobs not one answering nerve to human pain!\n\nMary rose early and was about her morning work. Her education was that\nof the soldier, who must know himself no more, whom no personal pain\nmust swerve from the slightest minutiae of duty. So she was there, at\nher usual hour, dressed with the same cool neatness, her brown hair\nparted in satin bands, and only the colorless cheek and lip differing\nfrom the Mary of yesterday.\n\nHow strange this external habit of living! One thinks how to stick in a\npin, and how to tie a string,--one busies one's self with folding robes,\nand putting away napkins, the day after some stroke that has cut the\ninner life in two, with the heart's blood dropping quietly at every\nstep.\n\nYet it is better so! Happy those whom stern principle or long habit or\nhard necessity calls from the darkened room, the languid trance of pain,\nin which the wearied heart longs to indulge, and gives this trite prose\nof common life, at which our weak and wearied appetites so revolt! Mary\nnever thought of such a thing as self-indulgence;--this daughter of the\nPuritans had her seed within her. A\u00ebrial in her delicacy, as the\nblue-eyed flax-flower with which they sowed their fields, she had yet\nits strong fibre, which no stroke of the flail could break; bruising and\nhackling only made it fitter for uses of homely utility. Mary,\ntherefore, opened the kitchen-door at dawn, and, after standing one\nmoment to breathe the freshness, began spreading the cloth for an early\nbreakfast. Mrs. Scudder, the mean while, was kneading the bread that had\nbeen set to rise over-night; and the oven was crackling and roaring with\na large-throated, honest garrulousness.\n\nBut, ever and anon, as the mother worked, she followed the motions of\nher child anxiously.\n\n\"Mary, my dear,\" she said, \"the eggs are giving out; hadn't you better\nrun to the barn and get a few?\"\n\nMost mothers are instinctive philosophers. No treatise on the laws of\nnervous fluids could have taught Mrs. Scudder a better _r\u00f4le_ for this\nmorning, than her tender gravity, and her constant expedients to break\nand ripple, by changing employments, that deep, deadly under-current of\nthoughts which she feared might undermine her child's life.\n\nMary went into the barn, stopped a moment, and took out a handful of\ncorn to throw to her hens, who had a habit of running towards her and\ncocking an expectant eye to her little hand, whenever she appeared. All\ncame at once flying towards her,--speckled, white, and gleamy with hues\nbetween of tawny orange-gold,--the cocks, magnificent with the bladelike\nwaving of their tails,--and, as they chattered and cackled and pressed\nand crowded about her, pecking the corn, even where it lodged in the\nedge of her little shoes, she said, \"Poor things, I am glad they enjoy\nit!\"--and even this one little act of love to the ignorant fellowship\nbelow her carried away some of the choking pain which seemed all the\nwhile suffocating her heart. Then, climbing into the hay, she sought the\nnest and filled her little basket with eggs, warm, translucent,\npinky-white in their freshness. She felt, for a moment, the customary\nanimation in surveying her new treasures; but suddenly, like a vision\nrising before her, came a remembrance of once when she and James were\nchildren together and had been seeking eggs just there. He flashed\nbefore her eyes, the bright boy with the long black lashes, the dimpled\ncheeks, the merry eyes, just as he stood and threw the hay over her when\nthey tumbled and laughed together,--and she sat down with a sick\nfaintness, and then turned and walked wearily in.\n\n[To be continued.]\n\n\n\n\nROBA DI ROMA.\n\n\n[Continued.]\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nBEGGARS IN ROME.\n\n\nDirectly above the Piazza di Spagna and opposite to the Via di Condotti,\nrise the double towers of the Trinit\u00e0 de' Monti. The ascent to them is\nover one hundred and thirty-five steps, planned with considerable skill,\nso as to mask the steepness of the Pincian, and forming the chief\nfeature of the Piazza. Various landings and dividing walls break up\ntheir monotony; and a red granite obelisk, found in the gardens of\nSallust, crowns the upper terrace in front of the church. All day long,\nthese steps are flooded with sunshine, in which, stretched at length, or\ngathered in picturesque groups, models of every age and both sexes bask\naway the hours when they are free from employment in the studios. Here,\nin a rusty old coat and long white beard and hair, is the _Padre\nEterno_, so called from his constantly standing as model for the First\nPerson of the Trinity in religious pictures. Here is the ferocious\nbandit, with his thick black beard and conical hat, now off duty, and\nsitting with his legs wide apart, munching in alternate bites an onion,\nwhich he holds in one hand, and a lump of bread, which he holds in the\nother. Here is the _contadina_, who is always praying at a shrine with\nupcast eyes, or lifting to the Virgin the little child, among whose dark\ncurls, now lying tangled in her lap, she is on a vigorous hunt for the\nanimal whose name denotes love. Here is the invariable pilgrim, with his\nscallop-shell, who has been journeying to St. Peter's and reposing by\nthe way near aqueducts or broken columns so long that the memory of man\nrunneth not to the contrary, and who is now fast asleep on his back,\nwith his hat pulled over his eyes. When the _forestieri_ come along, the\nlittle ones run up and thrust out their hands for _baiocchi_; and so\npretty are they, with their large, black, lustrous eyes, and their\nquaint, gay dresses, that new comers always find something in their\npockets for them. Sometimes a group of artists, passing by, will pause\nand steadily examine one of these models, turn him about, pose him,\npoint out his defects and excellences, give him a _baiocco_, and pass\non. It is, in fact, the model's exchange. [Footnote: During this last\nwinter, the government have prohibited the models, for I know not what\nreason, from gathering upon these steps; and they now congregate at the\ncorner of the Via Sistina and Capo le Case, near the Pizzicheria, from\nwhich they supply themselves with groceries.]\n\nAll this is on the lower steps, close to the Piazza di Spagna; but as\none ascends to the last platform, before reaching the upper piazza in\nfront of the Trinit\u00e0 de' Monti, a curious squat figure, with two\nwithered and crumpled legs, spread out at right angles and clothed in\nlong stockings, comes shuffling along on his knees and hands, which are\nprotected by clogs. As it approaches, it turns suddenly up from its\nquadrupedal position, takes off its hat, shows a broad, stout, legless\n_torso_, with a vigorous chest and a ruddy face, as of a person who has\ncome half-way up from below the steps through a trap-door, and with a\nsmile whose breadth is equalled only by the cunning which lurks round\nthe corners of the eyes, says, in the blandest and most patronizing\ntones, with a rising inflection, \"_Buon giorno, Signore! Oggi fa bel\ntempo_,\" or \"_fa cattivo tempo_,\" as the case may be. This is no less a\nperson than Beppo, King of the Beggars, and permanent bore of the Scale\ndi Spagna. He is better known to travellers than the Belvedere Torso of\nHercules at the Vatican, and has all the advantage over that wonderful\nwork, of having an admirable head and a good digestion. Hans Christian\nAndersen has celebrated him in \"The Improvvisatore,\" and unfairly\nattributed to him an infamous character and life; but this account is\npurely fictitious, and is neither _vero_ nor _ben trovato_. Beppo, like\nother distinguished personages, is not without a history. The Romans say\nof him, \"_Era un Signore in paese suo_\"--\"He was a gentleman in his own\ncountry,\"--and this belief is borne out by a certain courtesy and style\nin his bearing which would not shame the first gentleman in the land. He\nwas undoubtedly of a good family in the provinces, and came to Rome,\nwhile yet young, to seek his fortune. His crippled condition cut him off\nfrom any active employment, and he adopted the profession of a\nmendicant, as being the most lucrative and requiring the least exertion.\nRemembering Belisarius, he probably thought it not beneath his own\ndignity to ask for an _obolus_. Should he be above doing what a general\nhad done? However this may be, he certainly became a mendicant, after\nchanging his name,--and, steadily pursuing this profession for more than\na quarter of a century, by dint of his fair words, his bland smiles, and\nhis constant \"_Fa buon tempo_\" and \"_Fa cattivo tempo_,\" which, together\nwith his withered legs, were his sole stock in starting, he has finally\namassed a very respectable little fortune. He is now about fifty-five\nyears of age, has a wife and several children; and a few years ago, on\nthe marriage of a daughter to a very respectable tradesman, he was able\nto give her what was considered in Rome a more than respectable dowry.\nThe other day, a friend of mine met a tradesman of his acquaintance\nrunning up the Spanish steps.\n\n\"_Dove andate in una tanta affretta?_\" he inquired.\n\n\"_Al Banchiere mio._\"\n\n\"_Al Banchiere? Ma quale Banchiere sta in su le scale?_\"\n\n\"_Ma Beppo_,\" was the grave answer. \"_Ho bisogna di sessanta scudi, e\nlui mele prester\u00e0 senza difficolt\u00e0._\"\n\n\"_Da vero?_\" said my friend.\n\n\"_Eh sicuro, come gli pare_,\" said the other, as he went on to his\nbanker. [Footnote: \"Where are you going in such haste?\"]\n\n\"To my banker.\"\n\n\"To your banker? But what banker is there above the steps?\"\n\n\"Only Beppo. I want sixty _scudi_, and he can lend them to ma without\ndifficulty.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\nBeppo hires his bank--which is the upper platform of the steps--of the\ngovernment, at a small rent _per annum_; and woe to any poor devil of\nhis profession who dares to invade his premises! Hither, every fair day,\nat about noon, he comes mounted on his donkey and accompanied by his\nvalet, a little boy, who, though not lame exactly, wears a couple of\ncrutches as a sort of livery,--and as soon as twilight begins to thicken\nand the sun is gone, he closes his bank, (it is purely a bank of\ndeposit,) crawls up the steps, mounts a stone post, and there\nmajestically waits for his valet to bring the donkey. But he no more\nsolicits deposits. His day is done; his bank is closed; and from his\npost he looks around, with a patronizing superiority, upon the poorer\nmembers of his profession, who are soliciting, with small success, the\nvarious passers by, as a king smiles down upon his subjects. The donkey\nbeing brought, he shuffles on to its crupper and makes a joyous and\ntriumphant passage down through the streets of the city to his home. The\nbland business smile is gone. The wheedling subserviency of the day is\nover. The cunning eye opens largely. He is calm, dignified, and\nself-possessed. He mentions no more the state of the weather. What's\nHecuba to him, at this free moment of his return? It is the large style\nin which all this is done that convinces me that Beppo was a \"_Signore\nin paese suo_.\" He has a bank, and so has Sir Francis Baring. What of\nthat? He is a gentleman still. The robber knights and barons demanded\ntoll of those who passed their castles, with violence and threats, and\nat the bloody point of their swords. Whoso passes Beppo's castle is\nprayed in courtesy to leave a remembrance, and receives the blandest bow\nand thanks in return. Shall we, then, say, the former are nobles and\ngentlemen,--the other is a miserable beggar? Is it worse to ask than to\nseize? Is it meaner to thank than to threaten? If he who is supported by\nthe public is a beggar, our kings are beggars, our pensions are charity.\nDid not the Princess Royal hold out her hand, the other day, to the\nHouse of Commons? and does any one think the worse of her for it? We are\nall, in measure, beggars; but Beppo, in the large style of kings and\nrobber-barons, asks for his _baiocco_, and, like the merchant-princes,\nkeeps his bank. I see dukes and _guardie nobili_, in shining helmets,\nspurs, and gigantic boots, ride daily through the streets on horseback,\nand hurry to their palaces; but Beppo, erectly mounted on his donkey in\nhis short-jacket, (for he disdains the tailored skirts of a fashionable\ncoat, though at times over his broad shoulders a great blue cloak is\ngrandly thrown, after the manner of the ancient emperors,) is far more\nimpressive, far more princely, as he slowly and majestically moves at\nnightfall towards his august abode. The shadows close around him as he\npasses along; salutations greet him from the damp shops; and darkness at\nlast swallows up for a time the great square _torso_ of the \"King of the\nBeggars.\"\n\nBegging, in Rome, is as much a profession as praying and shop-keeping.\nHappy is he who is born _stroppiato_, with a withered limb, or to whom\nFortune sends the present of a hideous accident or malady; it is a stock\nto set up trade upon. St. Vitus's dance is worth its hundreds of _scudi_\nannually; epileptic fits are also a prize; and a distorted leg and\nhare-lip have a considerable market value. Thenceforth the creature who\nhas the luck to have them is absolved from labor. He stands or lies in\nthe sun, or wanders through the Piazza, and sings his whining,\nlamentable strophe of, \"_Signore, povero stroppiato, datemi qualche cosa\nper amor di Dio!_\"--and when the _baiocco_ falls into his hat, like ripe\nfruit from the tree of the stranger, he chants the antistrophe, \"_Dio la\nbenedica, la Madonna e tutti santi!_\" [Footnote: Signore, a poor\ncripple; \"give me something, for the love of God!--May God bless you,\nthe Madonna, and all the saints!\"] No refusal but one does he recognize\nas final,--and that is given, not by word of mouth, but by elevating the\nfore-finger of the right hand, and slowly wagging it to and fro. When\nthis finger goes up he resigns all hope, as those who pass the gate of\nthe Inferno, replaces his hat and lapses into silence, or turns away to\nsome new group of sunny-haired foreigners. The recipe to avoid beggars\nis, to be black-haired, to wear a full beard, to smoke in the streets,\nspeak only Italian, and shake the fore-finger of the right hand when\nbesieged for charity. Let it not be supposed from this that the Romans\ngive nothing to the beggars, but pass them by on the other side. This is\nquite a mistake. On the contrary, they give more than the foreigners;\nand the poorest class, out of their little, will always find something\nto drop into their hats for charity.\n\nThe ingenuity which the beggars sometimes display in asking for alms is\noften humoristic and satirical. Many a woman on the cold side of thirty\nis wheedled out of a _baiocco_ by being addressed as _Signorina._ Many a\nhalf-suppressed exclamation of admiration, or a prefix of _Bella_,\nsoftens the hearts of those to whom compliments on their beauty come\nrarely. The other day, as I came out of the city gate of Siena, a ragged\nwretch, sitting, with one stump of a leg thrust obtrusively forward, in\nthe dust of the road, called out, \"_Una buona passeggiata, Signorino\nmio!_\" (and this although my little girl, of thirteen years, accompanied\nme.) Seeing, however, that I was too old a bird for that chaff, he\nimmediately added, \"_Ma prima pensi alia conservazione dell' anima\nsua._\" [Footnote: \"A pleasant walk, young gentleman!\"--\"But first pay\nheed to the salvation of your soul.\"] A great many _baiocchi_ are also\ncaught, from green travellers of the middle class, by the titles which\nare lavishly squandered by these poor fellows. _Illustrissimo,\nEccellenza, Altezza_, will sometimes open the purse, when plain\n\"_Mosshoe_\" will not.\n\nThe profession of a beggar is by no means an unprofitable one. A great\nmany drops finally make a stream. The cost of living is almost nothing\nto them, and they frequently lay up money enough to make themselves very\ncomfortable in their old age. A Roman friend of mine, Conte C., speaking\nof them one day, told me this illustrative anecdote:--\n\n\"I had occasion,\" he said, \"a few years ago, to reduce my family,\" (the\nservants are called, in Rome, the family,) \"and having no need of the\nservices of one under-servant, named Pietro, I dismissed him. About a\nyear after, as I was returning to my house, after nightfall, I was\nsolicited by a beggar, who whiningly asked me for charity. There was\nsomething in the voice which struck me as familiar, and, turning round\nto examine the man more closely, I found it was my old servant, Pietro.\n'Is that you, Pietro?' I said; 'you begging here in the streets! what\nhas brought you to this wretched trade?' He gave me, however, no very\nclear account of himself, but evidently desired to avoid me when he\nrecognized who I was. But, shocked to find him in so pitiable a\ncondition, I pressed my questions, and finally told him I could not bear\nto see any one who had been in my service reduced to beggary; and though\nI had no actual need of his services, yet, rather than see him thus, he\nmight return to his old position as servant in my house, and be paid the\nsame wages as he had before. He hesitated, was much embarrassed, and,\nafter a pause, said,--'A thousand thanks, your Excellency, for your\nkindness; but I cannot accept your proposal, because, to tell you the\ntruth, I make more money by this trade of begging.'\"\n\nBut though the beggars often lay by considerable sums of money, so that\nthey might, if they chose, live with a certain degree of comfort, yet\nthey cannot leave off the habit of begging after having indulged it for\nmany years. They get to be avaricious, and cannot bring their minds to\nspend the money they have. The other day, an old beggar, who used to\nfrequent the steps of the Ges\u00f9, when about to die, ordered the hem of\nher garment to be ripped up, saying that there was money in it. In fact,\nabout a thousand _scudi_ were found there, three hundred of which she\nordered to be laid out upon her funeral, and the remainder to be\nappropriated to masses for her soul. This was accordingly done, and her\nsqualid life ended in a pompous procession to the grave.\n\nThe great holidays of the beggars are the country _festas_. Thronging\nout of the city, they spread along the highways, and drag, drive, roll,\nshuffle, hobble, as they can, towards the festive little town.\nEverywhere along the road they are to be met,--perched on a rock, seated\non a bank, squatted beneath a wall or hedge, and screaming, with\noutstretched hand, from the moment a carriage comes in sight until it is\nutterly passed by. As one approaches the town where the _festa_ is held,\nthey grow thicker and thicker. They crop up along the road like\ntoadstools. They hold up every hideous kind of withered arm, distorted\nleg, and unsightly stump. They glare at you out of horrible eyes, that\nlook like cranberries. You are requested to look at horrors, all without\na name, and too terrible to be seen. All their accomplishments are also\nbrought out. They fall into improvised fits; they shake with sudden\npalsies; and all the while keep up a chorus, half whine, half scream,\nwhich suffers you to listen to nothing else. It is hopeless to attempt\nto buy them all off, for they are legion in number, and to pay one\ndoubles the chorus of the others. The clever scamps, too, show the\nutmost skill in selecting their places of attack. Wherever there is a\nsudden rise in the road, or any obstacle which will reduce the gait of\nthe horses to a walk, there is sure to be a beggar. But do not imagine\nthat he relies on his own powers of scream and hideousness alone,--not\nhe! He has a friend, an ambassador, to recommend him to your notice, and\nto expatiate on his misfortunes. Though he himself can scarcely move,\nhis friend, who is often a little ragged boy or girl, light of weight\nand made for a chase, pursues the carriage and prolongs the whine,\nrepeating, with a mechanical iteration, \"_Signore! Signore! datemi\nqualche cosa, Signore!_\" until his legs, breath, and resolution give out\nat last; or, what is still commoner, your patience is wearied out or\nyour sympathy touched, and you are glad to purchase the blessing of\nsilence for the small sum of a _baiocco_. When his whining fails, he\ntries to amuse you; and often resorts to the oddest freaks to attract\nyour notice. Sometimes the little rascal flings himself heels over head\ninto the dust, and executes somersets without number, as if they had\nsome hidden influence on the sentiment of compassion. Then, running by\nthe side of the carriage, he will play upon his lips with both hands,\nmaking a rattling noise, to excite your curiosity. If you laugh, you are\nlost, and he knows it.\n\nAs you reach the gates of the town, the row becomes furious. There are\nscores of beggars on either side the road, screaming in chorus. No\nmatter how far the town be from the city, there is not a wretched,\nmaimed cripple of your acquaintance, not one of the old stumps who have\ndodged you round a Roman corner, not a ragged baron who has levied toll\nfor passage through the public squares, a privileged robber who has shut\nup for you a pleasant street or waylaid you at an interesting church,\nbut he is sure to be there. How they got there is as inexplicable as how\nthe apples got into the dumplings in Peter Pindar's poem. But at the\nfirst ring of a _festa_-bell, they start up from under ground, (those\nwho are legless getting only half-way up,) like Roderick Dhu's men, and\nlevel their crutches at you as the others did their arrows. An English\nlady, a short time since, after wintering at Rome, went to take the\nbaths at Siena in the summer. On going out for a walk, on the first\nmorning after her arrival, whom should she meet but King Beppo, whom she\nhad just left in Rome! He had come with the rest of the nobility for\nrecreation and bathing, and of course had brought his profession with\nhim.\n\nOwing to a great variety of causes, the number of beggars in Rome is\nvery large. They grow here as noxious weeds in a hot-bed. The government\nneither favors commerce nor stimulates industry. Its policy is averse to\nchange of any kind, even though it be for the development of its own\nresources or of the energies of the people. The Church is Brahmanic,\ncontemplating only its own navel. Its influence is specially restrictive\nin Rome, because it is also the State there. It restrains not only\ntrade, but education; it conserves exploded ideas and usages; it prefers\nnot to grow, and looks with abhorrence upon change.\n\nLiterature may be said to be dead in Rome. There is not only no free\npress there, but no press at all. The \"Diario Romano\" contains about as\nmuch news as the \"Acta Diurna\" of the ancient Romans, and perhaps less.\nI doubt whether at present such facts as those given by Petronius, in an\nextract from the latter, would now be permitted to be published.\nHowever, we know that Augustus prohibited the \"Acta Diurna,\"--and the\n\"Diario Romano\" exists still; so that some progress has been made. And\nit must be confessed that Tuscany is scarcely in advance of Rome in this\nrespect; and Naples is behind both. Even the introduction of foreign\nworks is so strictly watched and the censorship so severe, that few\nliberal books pass the cordon. The arguments in favor of a censorship\nare very plain, but not very conclusive. The more compressed the\nenergies and desires of a people, the more danger of their bursting into\nrevolution. There is no safety-valve to passions and desires like the\nutterance of them,--no better corrective to false ideas than the free\nexpression of them. Freedom of thought can never be suppressed, and\nideas kept too long pent up in the bosom, when heated by some sudden\ncrisis of passion, will explode into license and fury. Let me put a\ncolumn from Milton here into my own weak plaster; the words are well\nknown, but cannot be too well known. \"Though all the winds of doctrine,\"\nhe says, \"were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the\nfield, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her\nstrength. Let her and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the\nworse in a free and open encounter? Her confuting is the best and surest\nsuppressing.\" Here in Rome genius rots. The saddest words I almost ever\nheard were from a young Italian of ability and _esprit_.\n\n\"Why,\" said I, in conversation with him, one day, \"do you not devote\nyour talents to some worthy object, instead of frittering them away in\ndancing, chatting, fencing, and morning-calls?\"\n\n\"What would you have me do?\" he answered.\n\n\"Devote yourself to some course of study. Write something.\"\n\n\"_Mio caro_\" was his reply, \"it is useless. How can I write what I\nthink? How can I publish what I write? I have now manuscript works begun\nin my desk, which it would be better to burn. Our only way to be happy\nis to be idle and ignorant. The more we know, the unhappier we must be.\nThere is but one avenue for ambition,--the Church. I was not made for\nthat.\"\n\nThis restrictive policy of the Church makes itself felt everywhere, high\nand low; and by long habit the people have become indolent and supine.\nThe splendid robes of ecclesiastical Rome have a draggled fringe of\nbeggary and vice. What a change there might be, if the energies of the\nItalians, instead of rotting in idleness, could have a free scope!\nIndustry is the only purification of a nation; and as the fertile and\nluxuriant Campagna stagnates into malaria, because of its want of\nventilation and movement, so does this grand and noble people. The\ngovernment makes what use it can, however, of the classes it exploits by\nits system; but things go in a vicious circle. The people, kept at a\nstand-still, become idle and poor; idleness and poverty engender vice\nand crime; crime fills the prisons; and the prisons afford a body of\ncheap slaves to the government.\n\nTo-day, as I am writing, some hundreds of _for\u00e7ats_, in their striped\nbrown uniforms, are tugging at their winches and ropes to drag the\ncolumn of the Immaculate Virgin to its pedestal on the Piazza di Spagna.\nBy the same system of compulsory labor, the government, despite its\nlimited financial resources, is enabled to carry out public projects\nwhich, with well-paid workmen, would be too expensive to be feasible. In\nthis manner, for instance, for an incredibly small sum, was built the\nmagnificent viaduct which spans with its triple tier of arches the\nbeautiful Val di L'Arriccia. But, for my own part, I cannot look upon\nthis system as being other than very bad, in every respect. And when,\nexamining into the prisons themselves, I find that the support of these\npoor criminal slaves is farmed out by the government to some responsible\nperson at the lowest rate that is offered, generally for five or six\n_baiocchi_ apiece _per diem_, and often refarmed by him at a still lower\nrate, until the poor wretches are reduced to the very minimum of\nnecessary food as to quantity and quality, I confess that I cannot look\nwith pleasure on the noble viaduct at L'Arriccia, or the rich column to\nthe Immaculate Virgin, erected by the labor of their hands.\n\nWithin a few years the government seemed to become conscious of the\ngreat number of beggars in Rome, and of the reproach they offered to the\nwise and paternal regulations of the priestcraft. Accordingly, for a\nshort time, they carried on a move in the right direction, which had\nbeen begun by the Triumvirate of 1849, during their short career. Some\nhundreds of the beggars were hired at the rate of a few _baiocchi_ a day\nto carry on excavations in the Forum and in the Baths of Caracalla. The\nselection was most appropriate. Only the old, decrepit, and broken-down\nwere taken,--the younger and sturdier were left. Ruined men were in\nharmony with the ruined temples. Such a set of laborers was never before\nseen. Falstaff's ragged regiment was a joke to them. Each had a\nwheelbarrow, a spade, or pick, and a cloak; but the last was the most\nimportant part of their equipment. Some of them picked at the earth with\na gravity that was equalled only by the feebleness of the effort and the\npoverty of the result. Three strokes so wearied them that they were\nforced to pause and gather strength, while others carried away the\nant-hills which the first dug up. It seemed an endless task to fill the\nwheelbarrows. Fill, did I say? They were never filled. After a bucketful\nof earth had been slowly shovelled in, the laborer paused, laid down his\nspade carefully on the little heap, sighed profoundly, looked as if to\nreceive congratulations on his enormous success, then, flinging, with a\ngrand sweep, the tattered old cloak over his left shoulder, lifted his\nwheelbarrow-shafts with dignity, and marched slowly and measuredly\nforward towards the heap of deposit, as Belisarius might have moved at a\nfuneral in the intervals of asking for _oboli_. But reduced gentlemen,\nwho have been accustomed to carry round the hat as an occupation, always\nhave a certain air of condescension when they work for pay, and, by\ntheir dignity of deportment, make you sensible of their former superior\nstate. Occasionally, in case a _forestiere_ was near, the older, idler,\nand more gentlemanlike profession would be resumed for a moment, (as by\nparenthesis,) and if without success, a sadder dignity would be seen in\nthe subsequent march. Very properly for persons who had been reduced\nfrom beggary to work, they seemed to be anxious both for their health\nand their appearance in public, and accordingly a vast deal more time\nwas spent in the arrangement of the cloak than in any other part of the\nbusiness. It was grand in effect, to see these figures, incumbered in\ntheir heavy draperies, guiding their wheelbarrows through the great\narches of Caracalla's Baths or along the Via Sacra. It often reminded me\nof modern _bassi-rilievi_ and portrait statues, in which gentlemen\nlooking sideways with very modern faces, and both hands full of swords,\npens, or books, stand impotently swaddled up in ancient togas or the\nfolds of similar enormous cloaks. The antique treatment with the modern\nsubject was evident in both. If sometimes, with a foolish spirit of\ninnovation, one felt inclined to ask what purpose in either case these\nheroic mantles subserved, and whether, in fact, they could not be\ndispensed with to advantage, he was soon made to know that his inquiry\nindicated ignorance, and a desire to debase in the one case Man, in the\nother Art.\n\nIt would, however, be a grievous mistake to suppose that all the beggars\nin the streets of Rome are Romans. In point of fact, the greater number\nare strangers, who congregate in Rome during the winter from every\nquarter. Naples and Tuscany send them by thousands. Every little country\ntown of the Abruzzi Mountains yields its contribution. From north,\nsouth, east, and west they flock here as to a centre where good pickings\nmay be had of the crumbs that fall from the rich men's tables. In the\nsummer season they return to their homes with their earnings, and not\none in five of those who haunted the churches and streets in the winter\nis to be seen.\n\nIt is but justice to the Roman government to say that its charities are\nvery large. If, on the one hand, it does not encourage commerce and\nindustry, on the other, it liberally provides for the poor. In\nproportion to its means, no government does more, if so much. Every\nchurch has its _Cassa dei Poveri_. Numerous societies, such as the\n_Sacconi_, and other confraternities, employ themselves in accumulating\ncontributions for the relief of the poor and wretched. Well-endowed\nhospitals exist for the care of the sick and unfortunate; and there are\nvarious establishments for the charge and education of poor orphans. A\nfew figures will show how ample are these charities. The revenue of\nthese institutions is no less than eight hundred and forty thousand\n_scudi_ annually, of which three hundred thousand are contributed by the\nPapal treasury, forty thousand of which are a tax upon the Lottery. The\nhospitals, altogether, accommodate about four thousand patients, the\naverage number annually received amounting to about twelve thousand; and\nthe foundling hospitals alone are capable of receiving upwards of three\nthousand children annually. Besides the hospitals for the sick, there is\nalso a hospital for poor convalescents at Sta Trinit\u00e0 dei Pellegrini, a\nlunatic asylum containing about four hundred patients, one for\nincurables at San Giacomo, a lying-in hospital at San Rocco, and a\nhospital of education and industry at San Michele. There are also\nthirteen societies for bestowing dowries on poor young girls on their\nmarriage; and from the public purse, for the same object, are expended\nevery year no less than thirty-two thousand _scudi_. In addition to\nthese charities, are the sums collected and administered by the various\nconfraternities, as well as the sum of one hundred and seventy-two\nthousand _scudi_ distributed to the poor by the commission of subsidies.\nBut though so much money is thus expended, it cannot be said that it is\nwell administered. The proportion of deaths at the hospitals is very\nlarge; and among the foundlings, it amounted, between the years 1829 and\n1833, to no less than seventy-two _per cent_.\n\nThe arrangements at these institutions were very much improved during\nthe career of the Triumvirate, and, under the auspices of the Princess\nBelgiojoso, cleanliness, order, and system were introduced. The heroism\nof this noble-hearted woman during the trying days of the Roman siege\ndeserves a better record than I can give. She gave her whole heart and\nbody to the regeneration of the hospitals, and the personal care of the\nsick and wounded. Her head-quarters were at the Hospital _dei\nPellegrini_. Day after day and night after night she was at her post,\nnever moving from her chair, except to visit the various wards, and to\ncomfort with tender words the sufferers in their beds. Their faces,\ncontorted with pain, smoothed at her approach; and her hand and voice\ncarried consolation wherever she went. Many a scene have I witnessed\nthere more affecting than any tragedy, in which I knew not which most to\nadmire, the heroism of the sufferers or the tender humanity of the\nconsoler and nurse. In all her arrangements she showed that masterly\nadministrative faculty in which women are far superior to men. When she\ncame to the Pellegrini, all was in disorder; but a few days sufficed to\nreduce a chaotic confusion to exact and admirable system. Hers was the\nbrain that regulated all the hospitals. Always calm, she distributed her\norders with perfect tact and precision, and with a determination of\npurpose and clearness of perception which commanded the minds of all\nabout her. The care, fatigue, and labor which she underwent would have\nbroken down a less determined spirit. Nothing moved except from her\ntouch. In a little damp cell, a pallet of straw was laid on the brick\nfloor, and there, when utterly overcome, she threw herself down to sleep\nfor a couple of hours,--no more; all the rest of the time she sat at her\ndesk, writing orders, giving directions, and supervising the new\nmachinery which owed its existence to her.\n\nWith the return of the Papal government came the old system. Certain it\nis that _that_ system does not work well. Despite the enormous sums\nexpended in charity, the people are poor, the mortality in the hospitals\nis very large. \"Something is rotten in the state of\" Rome.\n\nThere is one noble exception not to be forgotten. To the Hospital of San\nMichele Cardinal Tosti has given a new life and vigor, and set an\nexample worthy of his elevated position in the Church. This foundation\nwas formerly an asylum for poor children and infirm and aged persons;\nbut of late years an industrial and educational system has been\ningrafted upon it, until it has become one of the most enlarged and\nliberal institutions that can anywhere be found. It now embraces not\nonly an asylum for the aged, a house of correction for juvenile\noffenders and women, and a house of industry for children of both sexes,\nbut also a school of arts, in which music, painting, drawing,\narchitecture, and sculpture are taught gratuitously to the poor, and a\nconsiderable number of looms, at which from eight hundred to one\nthousand persons are employed for the weaving of woollen fabrics for the\ngovernment. A stimulus has thus been given to education and to industry,\nand particularly to improvements in machinery and manufacture. Once a\nyear, during the holy week, religious dramas and operas, founded on some\nBiblical subject, are creditably performed by the pupils in a private\ntheatre connected with the establishment. I was never present but at one\nof these representations, when the tragical story of Shadrach, Meshach,\nand Ahednego was performed. Honor to Cardinal Tosti for his successful\nefforts in this liberal direction!\n\nAt many of the convents in Rome, it is the custom at noon to distribute,\ngratis, at the door, a quantity of soup, and any poor person may receive\na bowlful on demand. Many of the beggars thus become pensioners of the\nconvents, and may be seen daily at the appointed hour gathering round\nthe door with their bowl and wooden spoon, in expectation of the _Frate_\nwith the soup. This is generally made so thick with cabbage that it\nmight be called a cabbage-stew; but Soyer himself never made a dish more\nacceptable to the palate of the guests than this. No nightingales'\ntongues at a banquet of Tiberius, no edible birds-nests at a Chinese\nfeast, were ever relished with more gusto. The figures and actions of\nthese poor wretches, after they have obtained their soup, make one sigh\nfor human nature. Each, grasping his portion as if it were a treasure,\nseparates himself immediately from his brothers, flees selfishly to a\ncorner, if he can find one empty, or, if not, goes to a distance, turns\nhis back on his friends, and, glancing anxiously at intervals all\naround, as if in fear of a surprise, gobbles up his cabbage, wipes out\nhis bowl, and then returns to companionship or disappears. The idea of\nsharing his portion with those who are portionless occurs to him only as\nthe idea of a robber to the mind of a miser.\n\nAny account of the beggars of Rome without mention of the Capuchins and\nFranciscans would be like performing the \"Merchant of Venice\" with no\nShylock; for these orders are founded in beggary and supported by\ncharity. The priests do not beg; but their ambassadors, the\nlay-brothers, clad in their long, brown serge, a cord around their\nwaist, and a basket on their arm, may be seen shuffling along at any\nhour and in every street, in dirty sandalled feet, to levy contributions\nfrom shops and houses. Here they get a loaf of bread, there a pound of\nflour or rice, in one place fruit or cheese, in another a bit of meat,\nuntil their basket is filled. Sometimes money is given, but generally\nthey are paid in articles of food. There is another set of these\nbrothers who enter your studio or ring at your bell and present a little\ntin box with a slit in it, into which you are requested to drop any sum\nyou please, for the holidays, for masses, for wax candles, etc. As a big\npiece of copper makes more ring than gold, it is generally given, and\nalways gratefully received. Sometimes they will enter into conversation,\nand are always pleased to have a little chat about the weather. They are\nvery poor, very good-natured, and very dirty. It is a pity they do not\nbaptize themselves a little more with the material water of this world.\nBut they seem to have a hydrophobia. Whatever the inside of the platter\nmay be, the outside is far from clean. They walk by day and they sleep\nby night in the same old snuffy robe, which is not kept from contact\nwith the skin by any luxury of linen, until it is worn out. Dirt and\npiety seem to them synonymous. Sometimes I have deemed, foolishly\nperhaps, but after the manner of my nation, that their goodness would\nnot wash off with the soil of the skin,--that it was more than\nskin-deep; but as this matter is above reason, in better moods I have\nfaith that it would. Still, in disbelieving moments, I cannot help\napplying to them Charles Lamb's famous speech,--\"If dirt were trumps,\nwhat a hand they would have of it!\" Yet, beggars as they are, they have\nthe reputation at Rome of being the most inoffensive of all the\nconventual orders, and are looked upon by the common people with\nkindliness, as being thoroughly sincere in their religious professions.\nThey are, at least, consistent in many respects in their professions and\npractice. They really mortify the flesh by penance, fasting, and\nwretched fare, as well as by dirt. They do not proclaim the virtues and\ncharms of poverty, while they roll about in gilded coaches dressed in\n\"purple and fine linen,\" or gloat over the luxuries of the table. Their\nvices are not the cardinal ones, whatever their virtues may be. The\n\"Miracles of St. Peter,\" as the common people call the palaces of Rome,\nare not wrought for them. Their table is mean and scantily provided with\nthe most ordinary food. Three days in the week they eat no meat; and\nduring the year they keep three _Quaresime_. But, good as they are,\ntheir sour, thin wine, on empty, craving stomachs, sometimes does a mad\nwork; and these brothers in dirt and piety have occasionally violent\nrows and disputes in their refectories over their earthen bottles. It is\nonly a short time since that my old friends the Capuchins got furious\ntogether over their wine, and ended by knocking each other about the\nears with their earthen jars, after they had emptied them. Several were\nwounded, and had time to repent and wash in their cells. But one should\nnot be too hard on them. The temper will not withstand too much fasting.\nA good dinner puts one at peace with the world, but an empty stomach is\nthe habitation often of the Devil, who amuses himself there with pulling\nall the nerve-wires that reach up into the brain. I doubt whether even\nSt. Simeon Stylites always kept his temper as well as he did his fast.\n\nAs I see them walking up and down the alleys of their vegetable garden,\nand under the sunny wall where oranges glow and roses bloom, without the\nleast asceticism, during the whole winter, I do not believe in their\ndoctrine, nor envy them their life. And I cannot but think that the one\nhundred and fifty thousand _Frati_ who are in the Roman States would do\nquite as good service to God and man, if they were an army of laborers\non the Campagna, or elsewhere, as in their present life of beggary and\nself-contemplation. I often wonder, as I look at them, hearty and stout\nas they are, despite their mode of life, what brought them to this pass,\nwhat induced them to enter this order,--and recall, in this connection,\na little anecdote current here in Rome, to the following effect:--A\nyoung fellow, from whom Fortune had withheld her gifts, having become\ndesperate, at last declared to a friend that he meant to throw himself\ninto the Tiber, and end a life which was worse than useless. \"No, no,\"\nsaid his friend, \"don't do that. If your affairs are so desperate,\nretire into a convent, become a Capuchin.\" _\"Ah, non!_\" was the\nindignant answer; \"I am desperate; but I have not yet arrived at such a\npitch of desperation.\"\n\nThough the Franciscans live upon charity, they have almost always a\ngarden connected with their convent, where they raise multitudes of\ncabbages, cauliflowers, _finocchi_, peas, beans, artichokes, and\nlettuce. Indeed, there is one kind of the latter which is named after\nthem,--_capuccini_. But their gardens they do not till themselves; they\nhire gardeners, who work for them. Now I cannot but think that working\nin a garden is just as pious an employment as begging about the streets,\nthough perhaps scarcely as profitable. The opinion, that, in some\nrespects, it would be better for them to attend to this work themselves,\nwas forced upon my mind by a little farce I happened to see enacted\namong their cabbages, the other day, as I was looking down out of my\nwindow. My attention was first attracted by hearing a window open from a\nlittle three-story-high _loggia_, opposite, hanging over their garden. A\nwoman came forth, and, from amid the flower-pots which half-concealed\nher, she dropped a long cord to the ground. \"_Pst, Pst_,\" she cried to\nthe gardener at work below. He looked up, executed a curious pantomime,\nshrugged his shoulders, shook his fore-finger, and motioned with his\nhead and elbow sideways to a figure, visible to me, but not to her, of a\nbrown Franciscan, who was amusing himself in gathering some _finocchi_,\njust round the corner of the wall. The woman, who was fishing for the\ncabbages, immediately understood the predicament, drew up her cord,\ndisappeared from the _loggia_, and the curtain fell upon the little\nfarce. The gardener, however, evidently had a little soliloquy after she\nhad gone. He ceased working, and gazed at the unconscious Franciscan for\nsome time, with a curious grimace, as if he were not quite satisfied at\nthus losing his little perquisite.\n\nThese brown-cowled gentlemen are not the only ones who carry the tin\nbox. Along the curbstones of the public walks, and on the steps of the\nchurches, sit blind old creatures, and shake at you a tin box, outside\nof which is a figure of the Madonna, and inside of which are two or\nthree _baiocchi_, as a rattling accompaniment to an unending invocation\nof aid. Their dismal chant is protracted for hours and hours, increasing\nin loudness whenever the steps of a passer-by are heard. It is the old\nstrophe and antistrophe of begging and blessing, and the singers are so\nwretched that one is often softened into charity. Those who are not\nblind have often a new _Diario_ or _Lunario_ to sell towards the end of\nthe year, and at other times they vary the occupation of shaking the box\nby selling lives of the saints, which are sometimes wonderful enough.\nOne sad old woman, who sits near the Quattro Fontane, and says her\nprayers and rattles her box, always touches my heart, there is such an\nair of forlornness and sweetness about her. As I was returning, last\nnight, from a mass at San Giovanni in Laterano, an old man glared at us\nthrough great green goggles,--to which Jealousy's would have yielded in\nsize and color,--and shook his box for a _baiocco_. \"And where does this\nmoney go?\" I asked. \"To say masses for the souls of those who die over\nopposite,\" said he, pointing to the Hospital of San Giovanni, through\nthe open doors of which we could see the patients lying in their beds.\n\nNor are these the only friends of the box. Often in walking the streets\none is suddenly shaken in your ear, and, turning round, you are startled\nto see a figure entirely clothed in white from head to foot, a rope\nround his waist, and a white _capuccio_ drawn over his head and face,\nand showing, through two round holes, a pair of sharp black eyes behind\nthem. He says nothing, but shakes his box at you, often threateningly,\nand always with an air of mystery. This is a penitent _Saccone_; and as\nthis _confraternit\u00e0_ is composed solely of noblemen, he may be one of\nthe first princes or cardinals in Rome, performing penance in expiation\nof his sins; or, for all you can see, it may be one of your intimate\nfriends. The money thus collected goes to various charities. They always\ngo in couples,--one taking one side of the street, the other the\nopposite,--never losing sight of each other, and never speaking. Clothed\nthus in secresy, these _Sacconi_ can test the generosity of any one they\nplease with complete impunity, and they often amuse themselves with\nstartling foreigners. Many a group of English girls, convoyed by their\nmother, and staring into some mosaic or cameo shop, is scared into a\nscream by the sudden jingle of the box, and the apparition of the\nspectre in white who shakes it. And many a simple old lady retains to\nthe end of her life a confused impression, derived therefrom, of\nInquisitions, stilettos, tortures, and banditti, from which it is vain\nto attempt to dispossess her mind. The stout old gentleman, with a bald\nforehead and an irascibly rosy face, takes it often in another\nway,--confounds the fellows for their impertinence, has serious notions,\nfirst, of knocking them down on the spot, and then of calling the\npolice, but finally concludes to take no notice of them, as they are\nnothing but _Eye_-talians, who cannot be expected to know how to behave\nthemselves in a rational manner. Sometimes a _santa elemosina_ is\ndemanded after the oddest fashion. It was only yesterday that I met one\nof the _confraternit\u00e0_, dressed in a shabby red suit, coming up the\nstreet, with the invariable oblong tin begging-box in his hand,--a\npicture of Christ on one side, and of the Madonna on the other. He went\nstraight to a door, opening into a large, dark room, where there was a\nfull cistern of running water, at which several poor women were washing\nclothes, and singing and chatting as they worked. My red acquaintance\nsuddenly opens the door, letting in a stream of light upon this\nRembrandtish interior, and, lifting his box with the most wheedling of\nsmiles, he says, with a rising inflection of voice, as if asking a\nquestion,--\"_Prezioso sangue di Ges\u00f9 Christo?_\"--( Precious blood of\nJesus Christ?)\n\nThe last, but by no means the meanest, of the tribe of pensioners whom I\nshall mention, is my old friend, \"Beefsteak,\"--now, alas! gone to the\nshades of his fathers. He was a good dog,--a mongrel, a Pole by\nbirth,--who accompanied his master on a visit to Rome, where he became\nso enamored of the place that he could not be persuaded to return to his\nnative home. Bravely he cast himself on the world, determined to live,\nlike many of his two-legged countrymen, upon his wits. He was a dog of\ngenius, and his confidence in the world was rewarded by its\nappreciation. He had a sympathy for the arts. The crowd of artists who\ndaily and nightly flocked to the Lepre and the Caff\u00e8 Greco attracted his\nnotice. He introduced himself to them, and visited them at their studios\nand rooms. A friendship was struck between them and him, and he became\ntheir constant visitor and their most attached ally. Every day, at the\nhour of lunch, or at the more serious hour of dinner, he lounged into\nthe Lepre, seated himself in a chair, and awaited his friends, confident\nof his reception. His presence was always hailed with a welcome, and to\nevery new comer he was formally presented. His bearing became, at last,\nnot only assured, but patronizing. He received the gift of a\nchicken-bone or a delicate titbit as if he conferred a favor. He became\nan epicure, a _gourmet_. He did not eat much; he ate well. With what a\ncalm superiority and gentle contempt he declined the refuse bits a\nstranger offered from his plate! His glance, and upturned nose, and\nquiet refusal, seemed to say,--\"Ignoramus! know you not I am Beefsteak?\"\nHis dinner finished, he descended gravely, and proceeded to the Caff\u00e8\nGreco, there to listen to the discussions of the artists, and to partake\nof a little coffee and sugar, of which he was very fond. At night, he\naccompanied some one or other of his friends to his room, and slept upon\nthe rug. He knew his friends, and valued them; but perhaps his most\nremarkable quality was his impartiality. He dispensed his favors with an\neven hand. He had few favorites, and called no man master. He never\noutstayed his welcome \"and told the jest without the smile,\" never\nremaining with one person for more than two or three days at most. A\ncalmer character, a more balanced judgment, a better temper, a more\nadmirable self-respect,--in a word, a profounder sense of what belongs\nto a gentleman, was never known in any dog. But Beefsteak is now no\nmore. Just after the agitations of the Revolution of '48, with which he\nhad little sympathy,--he was a conservative by disposition,--he\ndisappeared. He had always been accustomed to make a _villegratura_ at\nL'Arriccia during a portion of the summer months, returning only now and\nthen to look after his affairs in Rome. On such visits he would often\narrive towards midnight, and rap at the door of a friend to claim his\nhospitality, barking a most intelligible answer to the universal Roman\ninquiry of \"_Chi \u00e8_?\" \"One morn we missed him at the accustomed\" place,\nand thenceforth he was never seen. Whether a sudden homesickness for his\nnative land overcame him, or a fatal accident befell him, is not known.\nPeace to his manes! There \"rests his head upon the lap of earth\" no\nbetter dog.\n\nIn the Roman studio of one of his friends and admirers, Mr. Mason, I had\nthe pleasure, a few days since, to see, among several admirable and very\nspirited pictures of Campagna life and incidents, a very striking\nportrait of Beefsteak. He was sitting in a straw-bottomed chair, as we\nhave so often seen him in the Lepre, calm, dignified in his deportment,\nand somewhat obese. The full brain, the narrow, fastidious nose, the\nsagacious eye, were so perfectly given, that I seemed to feel the actual\npresence of my old friend. So admirable a portrait of so distinguished a\nperson should not be lost to the world. It should be engraved, or at\nleast photographed.\n\n\n\n\nENCELADUS.\n\n\n  Under Mount Etna he lies;\n      It is slumber, it is not death;\n  For he struggles at times to arise,\n  And above him the lurid skies\n      Are hot with his fiery breath.\n\n  The crags are piled on his breast,\n      The earth is heaped on his head;\n  But the groans of his wild unrest,\n  Though smothered and half suppressed,\n      Are heard, and he is not dead.\n\n  And the nations far away\n      Are watching with eager eyes;\n  They talk together and say,\n  \"To-morrow, perhaps to-day,\n      Enceladus will arise!\"\n\n  And the old gods, the austere\n      Oppressors in their strength,\n  Stand aghast and white with fear,\n  At the ominous sounds they hear,\n      And tremble, and mutter, \"At length!\"\n\n  Ah, me! for the land that is sown\n      With the harvest of despair!\n  Where the burning cinders, blown\n  From the lips of the overthrown\n      Enceladus, fill the air!\n\n  Where ashes are heaped in drifts\n      Over vineyard and field and town,\n  Whenever he starts and lifts\n  His head through the blackened rifts\n      Of the crags that keep him down!\n\n  See, see! the red light shines!\n      'Tis the glare of his awful eyes!\n  And the storm-wind shouts through the pines\n  Of Alps and of Apennines,\n      \"Enceladus, arise!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE ZOUAVES.\n\n\nThe decree of October 1, 1830, approved by a royal ordinance, March 21,\n1831, created two battalions of Zouaves. To perceive the necessity for\nthis body of troops, to understand the nature of the service required of\nthem, and to obtain a just notion of their important position in African\naffairs, it will be necessary to glance, for a moment, at the previous\nhistory of Algeria under the Deys, and especially at the history of that\nTurkish militia which they were to replace,--a body of irresponsible\ntyrants, which, since 1516, had exercised the greatest power in Africa,\nand had rendered their name hated and feared by the most distant tribes.\n\nAlgeria was settled in 1492, by Moors driven from Spain. They recognized\na kind of allegiance to the Sultan of Turkey, which was, however, only\nnominal; he appointed their Emirs, but further than this there was no\nrestraint on their actions. Hard pressed by the Spaniards in 1509, the\nEmirs sent in haste to Turkey for aid; and Barbarossa, a noted pirate,\nsailed to their help, drove out the Christians, but fixed upon the Moors\nthe yoke of Turkish sovereignty. In 1516, he declared himself Sultan, or\nDey, of Algiers; and his brother succeeding him, the Ottoman power was\nfirmly established in the Northwest of Africa. Hated by the people of\nthis great territory, both Moors and Arabs, menaced not only by their\ndissensions, but frequently attacked by the Christians from the North,\nthere was but one method by which the Dey could maintain his power. He\nformed a large body of mercenary soldiers, drawn entirely from Turkey,\nunited with himself and each other by a feeling of mutual dependence and\ncommon danger, and bound by no feeling of interest or affection to the\ninhabitants of the soil. Brave they were, as they proved in 1541,\nagainst Charles the Fifth, whose forces they defeated and nearly\ndestroyed at Haratsch,--in 1565, at the siege of Malta,--in 1572, in the\nseafight of Lepanto,--in many smaller combats at different times,\ndefending their land triumphantly in 1775 against the Spaniards under\nO'Reilly and Castejon. Hardy and ready they were, from the very\nnecessity of the case; for they were hated and dreaded beyond measure by\nthe Arabs, and theirs was a life of constant exertion. Other than united\nthey could not be; for they were in continual warfare of offence or of\ndefence; they suppressed rebellion and anarchy,--for without a leader\nand union they had been cut off by the restless foe, whose piercing eyes\nwatched, and whose daggers waited only _for the time_. In constant\ndanger, they could not sink into that sloth that eats out the heart of\nEastern and Southern nations; for it was only in unrest that safety\nlay;--he who slumbered on those burning plains, no less than the sleeper\non Siberian ice, was lost utterly and without remedy.\n\nThis body of troops, called the _Odjack_, elected or deposed Deys at\npleasure; the Dey, nominally their ruler, was in reality their tool. In\none period of twenty years there were six Deys, of whom four were\ndecapitated, one abdicated through fear, and one died peacefully in the\nexercise of his governing functions. [Footnote: _Voyage pour la\nR\u00e9demption des Captifs aux Royaumes d'Alger et de Tunis, fait en 1720._\nParis, 1721.] In 1629, they declared the kingdom free from the\ndomination of Turkey; soon after, they expelled the Koulouglis, or\nhalf-breed Turks, and enslaved the Moors. Admitting some of the latter\nto service in the militia, they never allowed them to hope for\nadvancement in the State, or, what was the same thing, the army. Only\nTurks, or in some instances renegade Christians, could lead the\nsoldiers, whom thus no feeling of local patriotism mollified in their\ncourse of savage cruelty, grinding the face of the poor natives till\nspirit and hope were lost and resistance ceased to be a settled idea in\ntheir minds.\n\nNow when the French navy came up to the port of Algiers, June 12, 1830,\nthe unity between the soldiers and their master, Hussein Pacha, was\ntottering on the verge of dissolution; a plot against his life had just\nbeen discovered, he had punished the ringleaders with death, and many\nwho had been concerned in the conspiracy felt that there was no safety\nfor them with him. Beaten constantly in every skirmish or battle, they\nconceived a high respect for the military genius of the invaders, and,\nere the close of the summer campaign, offered their services in a body\nto General Clausel; this offer he promptly declined, and they thereupon\nwithdrew, carrying their swords to the aid of other powers less\nscrupulous.\n\nThe news, however, that the terrible Odjack had offered themselves to\nserve under the French spread a lively terror through the Arab tribes,\nwho, believing themselves about to suffer an aggravation of their\nalready intolerable oppression, experienced a sensation of relief and an\nelevation of spirit no less marked, on hearing that the newly formed\ngovernment had rejected their services. Perceiving the fear in which\nthese Algerine Praetorians were held by the tribes, Marshal Clausel\nconceived the plan of replacing them by a corps of light infantry,\nconsisting of two battalions, to perform the services of household\ntroops, and to receive some name as significant as that held by their\npredecessors under the old _r\u00e9gime_. Consequently, after some\nconsideration, the newly constituted body was called by the name of\n_Zouaves_, from the Arabic word _Zouaoua_.\n\nThe Zouaoua are a tribe, or rather a confederation of tribes, of the\nKabyles, who inhabit the gorges of the Jurjura Mountains, the boundary\nof Algeria on the east, separating it from the province of Constantine.\nThey are a brave, fierce, laborious people, whose submission to the\nTurks was never more than nominal; yet they were well known in the city\nof Algiers, whither they came frequently to exchange the products of\ntheir industry for the luxuries of comparative civilization. As they had\nthe reputation of being the best soldiers in the Regency, and had\noccasionally lent their services to the Algerine princes, their name was\ngiven to the new military force; while, to give it the character of a\nFrench corps, the number of native soldiers received into its ranks was\nlimited, and all its officers, from the highest to the lowest grade,\nwere required to be native-born Frenchmen. The service in this corps was\naltogether voluntary, none being appointed to the Zouaves who did not\nseek the place; but there were found enough young and daring spirits who\nembraced with enthusiasm this life, so harassing, so full of privation,\nof rude labor, of constant peril. The first battalion was commanded by\nMajor Maumet; the second by Captain Duvivier, (since General,) who died\nin Paris, 1848, of wounds received in the African service. Levaillant,\n(since General of Division,) Verge, (now General of Brigade,) and\nMolli\u00e8re, who died Colonel, of wounds received at the siege of Rome,\nwere officers in these first two battalions.\n\nScarcely six weeks had elapsed since their formation, when the Zouaves\ntook the field under Marshal Clausel, marching against Medeah, an\nimportant station in the heart of Western Algeria. On the hill of\nMouza\u00efa they fought their first battle, in which they were completely\nsuccessful. They remained two months as a garrison in Medeah. Here they\nshowed proofs of a valor and patience most extraordinary. Left alone in\na frontier post, constantly in the vicinity of a savage foe, watching\nand fighting night and day, leaving the gun only to take up the spade,\ncompelled to create everything they needed, reduced to the last\nextremities for food, cut off from all communications,--it was a rough\ntrial for this little handful of new soldiers. The place was often\nattacked; they were always at their posts; till in the last days of\nApril they were recalled, and the fortress yielded up to the feeble Bey\nwhom the French had decided to establish there. In June, troubles having\nagain arisen, General Berthez\u00e8ne conducted some troops of the regular\narmy to Medeah, to which was added the second battalion of Zouaves,\nunder its gallant captain, Duvivier. On his return, the troops were\nattacked with fury on the hill of Mouza\u00efa, the spot where the Zouaves\nhad in February of the same year received their baptism of fire. Wearied\nwith the long night-march, borne down by insupportable heat, stretched\nin a long straggling line through mountain-passes, the commander of the\nvan severely wounded at the first discharge, they themselves separated,\nwithout chiefs, and surrounded by enemies, the French troops recoiled;\nwhen Duvivier, seeing the peril that menaced the army, advanced with his\nbattalion. Shouting their war-cry, they rushed on the Kabyles, supported\nby the Volunteers of the Chart, or French Zouaves, thundering forth the\nMarseillaise; turning the pursuers into pursued, they covered the\nretreat of their associates to the farm of Mouza\u00efa, where the army\nrallied and proceeded without further loss to Algiers. This retreat, and\nits attendant circumstances, made the Zouaves, before regarded, if not\nwith contempt, at least with dislike, _free of the camp_.\n\nBut now the losses sustained by the two battalions began to be seriously\nfelt,--for the growing hostility of the Arabs rendered it difficult to\nrecruit from native sources; and an ordinance of the king, dated March\n7,1833, united the two battalions into one, consisting of ten companies,\neight of which were to be exclusively European, and two to be _not_\nexclusively Algerine,--it being required that in each native company\nthere should be at least twelve Frenchmen. Duvivier was called to\nBougie; Maumet was compelled by his wounds to return to Paris; Captain\nLamorici\u00e8re was, therefore, appointed chief of the united battalion,\nhaving given proof of his capacity in every way,--whether as soldier,\nlinguist, or negotiator,--being a wise and prudent man. It is to the\ntraining the Zouaves received under this remarkable man that much of\ntheir subsequent success must be ascribed. In his dealings with the\nArabs he had shown himself the first who could treat with them by other\nmeans than the rifle or bayonet. [Footnote: _Annales Alg\u00e9riennes_, Tom.\nii. p. 72.] In his capacity of Lieutenant-Colonel of Zouaves he showed\ntalents of a high order. He infused into them the spirit, the activity,\nthe boldness and impetuosity which he himself so remarkably possessed,\nwith a certain independence of character which demanded from those who\ncommanded them a resolute firmness on essential, and a dignified\nindulgence on unessential points. [Footnote: _Conqu\u00eate d'Alger_. Par A.\nNettement. p. 546.] To the course of discipline used by him, and still\nmaintained in this arm of the service, are due their tremendous working\npower, their tirelessness, their self-dependence, and all their\nqualities differing from those of other soldiers; so that by his means\none of the most irregular species of warfare has produced a body of\nirresistible regular soldiers, and border combats have given rise to the\nmost rigid discipline in the world.\n\nThe post of Dely Ibrahim was assigned to the Zouaves. At this place they\nwere obliged to work laboriously, making for themselves whatever was\nneeded; whether as masons, ditchers, blacksmiths, carpenters, or\nfarmers,--whatever business was to be performed, they were, or learned\nto be, sufficient for it. No idlers in that camp,--each must earn his\ndaily bread. What time was not devoted to labor was given to the\npractice of arms and the acquisition of instruction in all departments\nof military science; so that many a soldier was there fitted for the\nposition he afterwards acquired, of officer, colonel, or general. To\nfence with the mounted bayonet, to wrestle, to leap, to climb, to run\nfor miles, to swim, to make and to destroy temporary bridges, to throw\nup earth-walls, to carry great weights, to do, in short, what Indians\nlearn to do, and much that they do not learn,--these served as the\nrelaxations of the unwearied Zouaves. To vary the monotony of such a\nlife, there was enough adventure to be found for the seeking,--now an\nincursion into the Sahel, or into the plains of Mitidja, or a wild foray\nthrough the northern gorges of the Atlas. Day by day progress appeared;\nthey learned to march rapidly and long, to sustain the extremes of\nhunger, thirst, and weather, and to manoeuvre with intelligent\nprecision; diligently fitting themselves, in industry, discipline, and\nwarlike education, for the position they had to fill. Their costume and\nequipment were brought near perfection; they wore the Turkish dress,\nslightly modified,--a dress perfectly suited to the changes of that\nclimate, and without which their movements would have been cramped and\nconstrained. Only the officers retained the uniform of the hussars,\nwhich is rich and easy to wear. The cost of a suitable Turkish uniform\nwould have been too heavy for them, besides that the dress of a Turk of\nrank is somewhat ridiculous. Certain officers on the march used,\nhowever, to wear the _fez_, or, as the Arabs called it, the _chechia_.\nLamorici\u00e8re was known in Algeria as _Bou Chechia_, or _Papa with the\nCap_,--as he was known later in Oran as _Bou Araoua, Papa with the\nStick_. One finds, however, nothing of Orientalism in the regulations of\nthis body of troops; not the least negligence or slovenliness is allowed\nin the most trifling detail. In fine, the care, and that descending to\nnote the smallest minutiae, which brought this race of soldiers to such\na pitch of perfection, leaving them their gayety and sprightliness, and,\nnotwithstanding the rigidness of the discipline, giving solidity and\nprecision to irregular troops, was rewarded by success unparalleled in\nhistory. It was the best practical school for soldiers and officers; and\nmany of the best generals in the French army began their military career\nin the wild guerrilla combats or the patient camp-life of this band of\nheroes.\n\nNearly two years had passed away in this training, when Marshal Clausel\nreturned to Africa, and led the Zouaves, whose fitness for the service\nhe well knew, into Oran. Here they added fresh laurels to those already\nacquired. In the expedition of Mascara, where they fought under the eye\nof the Duke of Orl\u00e9ans, they covered themselves with glory; insomuch\nthat on his return to Paris he procured a decree, 1835, constituting the\nFirst Regiment of Zouaves, of two battalions, of six companies each,\nand, should occasion justify the measure, of ten companies. Lamorici\u00e8re\ncontinued in command.\n\nIn 1836 the Zouaves again took the hill of Mouza\u00efa. This time they razed\nits fortifications even with the ground, and returned to Algiers, where\nthey remained during General Clausel's first and unfortunate expedition\ninto Constantine, the eastern province of French Africa. In 1837 the\nsecond expedition was made, and in this the Zouaves took part. One of\nthe divisions of the army was under the command of the Duke of N\u00e9mours.\nIn this division were the Zouaves under Lamorici\u00e8re, who here showed\nthemselves worthy of their renown. Fighting by the side of the most\nexcellent soldiers in the regular army, they proved themselves bravest\nwhere all were brave. They were placed at the head of the first column\nof attack. Lamorici\u00e8re was the first officer on the breach, and carried\nall before him. The soldiers whom he had trained supported him nobly;\nbut when they had won the day, they found that many companies were\ndecimated, some nearly annihilated; numbers of their officers were dead\nin the breach, \"Those who are not mortally wounded rejoice at this great\nsuccess,\" said an officer to the Duke; and it was a significant\nsentence. [Footnote: Verbal report of Colonel Combes to the Duke of\nN\u00e9mours,--conclusion.]\n\nTo form some notion of those troops, among whom the Zouaves showed\nthemselves like the gods in the war of Troy, one anecdote will suffice,\nchosen from many which prove the valor of the army my generally. The\nrear-guard at Mansourah was under the command of Changarnier; it was\nreduced to three hundred men; he halted this little troop and said,\n\"Come, my men, look these fellows in the face; they are six thousand,\nyou are three hundred; surely the match is even.\" This speech was\nsufficient. The Frenchmen awaited the onset till the enemy was within\npistol-shot; then, after a murderous volley, they charged on the Arabs,\nwho broke and fled in dismay. During the remainder of the day they would\nnot approach this band nearer than long rifle range. [Footnote:\n_Moniteur_, December 16, 1833; report of Marshal Clausel.]\n\nThe siege of Constantine may properly be said to have ended the war of\noccupation in Africa. Hitherto we have seen the Zouaves only in time of\nactive war, or in the defence of hill-forts, obliged to unity through\nfear of an ever-menacing foe, and laboring for their own preservation or\ncomfort only; but now commenced a new training for them, no less severe\nand dangerous, in which they showed themselves equally willing and\ncompetent,--a war against stubborn Nature in all her most forbidding\naspects. Under the blazing suns of that tropical climate they\nrecommenced at Coleah the work already begun at Dely Ibrahim; ditches\nwere to be dug, works thrown up, roads made, draining accomplished,\nfarms tended, all that was necessary for the establishment of those\npermanent colonies which France was so anxious to settle in Algeria was\nto be done by the Zouaves; yet, despite that terrible labor, the danger\nand hardship, the sickness and death, the ranks of the regiment filled\nup rapidly; and, joined by the wrecks of the battalion of Mechouar, they\nwere kept full to overflowing. This battalion of Mechouar was a troop\nleft by Clausel in the _mechouar_, or citadel, of Tlemcen, in the West\nof Oran, under the command of Captain Cavaignac; on the conclusion of\nthe war, in 1837, they, of course, returned to their regiment at Coleah.\n\nThis deceitful peace lasted only till 1839. In this year the vigilant\ncolonel of Zouaves perceived in his native troops alarming symptoms of\nmutiny, and learned, to his surprise, that they were in a ripe condition\nfor revolt. Wild Santons of the desert, emissaries, doubtless, of\nAbd-el-Kader, held secret meetings near the camp; many soldiers attended\nthem, and were seduced by artfully prepared inflammatory harangues and\nprophecies. In the month of December, 1839, at the raising of the\nstandard of Islam, the natives flocked in vast numbers to rid the land\nof the Christians; and most of the native Zouaves deserted to join the\nfortunes of the prince whom they reverenced as a prophet. Old soldiers,\ntrained in the French service to a thorough acquaintance with European\ntactics, and gray with battling long for Lamorici\u00e8re, suddenly left him,\nand by their knowledge of the art of war gave great advantage to the\nArab force. In their combats with the Sultan, the Zouaves not\ninfrequently found that a sharp resistance or a masterly retreat on the\npart of the enemy was executed under the direction of one of their\nformer comrades in arms. It was a critical moment for the Zouaves; but\nat the announcement of the renewal of hostilities volunteers flowed in\non all sides, whether of young men full of ardor and excitement, or, as\nin many instances, of old soldiers who had already served their time.\nAfter a winter of petty skirmishing and reestablishing in Algeria the\nsemblance of security, the Duke of Orl\u00e9ans led the army, considerably\nreinforced, in a raid against the Arabs under Abd-el-Kader in their own\nterritory. The Zouaves accompanied this expedition, and whether in their\ncharges against the mountaineers, who, with the aid of the Arab\nregulars, defended each pass, or sustaining the shock of the provincial\ncavalry, or even standing unmoved before the attack of Abd-el-Kader's\nterrible \"Reds,\" [Footnote: The mounted body-guard of Abd-el-Kader, so\ncalled by the French from their complete red uniform.] they maintained\ntheir character of rapid, intrepid, and successful soldiers. What names\nwe find in this regiment! Lamorici\u00e8re, Regnault, Renault, (now General\nof Division,) Cavaignac, Lefl\u00f4, (now General of Brigade,) and St.\nArnaud, who died Marshal of France two days after the victory of the\nAlma.\n\nA singular instance of the _handiness_ of the Zouaves is found in the\nnotice of their forced march on this campaign, undertaken May 20th, to\nsupport the retreating Seventeenth Light Infantry. Their cartridges were\nfired away, the regulars of Abd-el-Kader were upon them, and nothing\nseemed to remain but an heroic death, when, \"Comrades,\" cried one, \"see,\nhere are stones!\" Not a word more; each caught the hint, and, with\nsimultaneous volleys of stones, drove off the charging enemy, and broke\ntheir way to where the remains of the Seventeenth rallied under Colonel\nBedeau, after a retreat more properly to be called a continual attack!\n\nHard at work during the winter of 1840-41, General Bugeaud found these\nindefatigable soldiers in perfect condition to take the field again,\nwhen he landed in April. There had been sharp fighting during the past\nyear at Mouza\u00efa, in which the Zouaves always led the van, and were, as\nin every engagement they ever fought, covered with honor. \"The Second,\nelectrified by the example of its officers, and led by Colonel\nChangarnier, flung itself on the intrenchments; the redoubts were\ncarried, etc. At the same time, in the other column, Lamorici\u00e8re led the\nway with his Zouaves, followed by the other troops. The Zouaves\nsurmounted the almost impassable cliffs, attacked and carried two lines\nof intrenchment, and, in the teeth of a murderous fire, forced a third;\na few moments later the two columns joined, and, rushing up the\nacclivity, planted the flag of France on the highest peak of the Atlas.\"\n[Footnote: Report of Marshal Val\u00e9e: _Moniteur_.] Little variation is\nfound in the reports of generals concerning the Zouaves at this time;\nthey say of these troops always, \"The First,\" or \"The Second, was\ncovered with glory.\"\n\nBut now, with the arrival of Bugeaud, the war in Africa was changed;\nhitherto it had been a mere war of occupation,--a holding of the ground\nalready French against the attacking Arabs; now it was to be a duel, a\nwar of devastation; thus only could France hope to tame the\nindefatigable Abd-el-Kader, and permanently hold her own. The trouble\nwas not so much to fight him as to get near enough to fight him; for he\npursued a truly Fabian policy, and being lighter armed, was consequently\nswifter than the invaders. Under Marshal Clausel, the French, drawing\nwith them the heavy wagons and munitions of European warfare, were\nobliged to follow the high-roads, and the Arabs could never be taken by\nsurprise; scouts gave information of their numbers, and after harassing\nmarches they would find that the foe had either retreated to unknown\nfastnesses or assembled on the spot in prodigious force. Now Lamorici\u00e8re\nproposed a plan, in the execution of which he was eminently successful.\nBugeaud's design was, to follow the Arabs into the desert, to climb the\nsteep mountains, to plunge into their chasms, to storm every hill-fort,\nand to drive, step by step, the swift Abd-el-Kader far from the land\nwhich his presence so troubled; but how? for swift troops are\nlight-armed, carry no luggage, and but little provision; and to follow\nwithout food the Arabs who concealed food in _silos_, _caches_ in the\nground, seemed hopeless. Lamorici\u00e8re required but his Zouaves, who\ncarried only four days' provisions, and no baggage of any sort; when\nthey drew near any of these _silos_, which were always, of course, in\nthe vicinity of the deserted villages, he spread out his troops in a\nlong crescent, and they advanced slowly, rooting up the ground with\ntheir bayonets till some one struck on the stone or pebbles covering the\nprecious deposit. Thus, without wagons, trained to tireless activity,\nthey could follow the Arabs from _douar_ to _douar_ with little delay,\nand with fatal effect.\n\nGreat reinforcements were sent to Africa, and the Zouaves were not\nforgotten; for, in the royal ordinance of September 8th, 1841, the\nregiment was raised to three battalions of nine companies; only one of\nthe nine, however, could receive natives, so that but three native\ncompanies now existed, and few Algerines were found even in these. The\nreasons seem to have been threefold: first, the danger from mutiny;\nsecond, the evils arising from the mixture of the two races, which had\naugmented their vices, without a corresponding improvement in their good\nqualities; third, and perhaps most important of all, the discontent very\nproperly felt by the French Zouaves, who were compelled to work at the\ntrenches, to dig, to plant, etc., while the Mussulmans utterly refused\nto take part in this, to their mind, degrading toil. The Gordian knot\nwas cut, and all difficulty done away, by making the regiment, in\neffect, exclusively European. Thus reorganized and reinforced, the\nregiment, on receiving the standard sent it by the king, immediately\nseparated,--one battalion marching for Oran, one for Constantine, while\nthe other remained at Blidah, in Algeria.\n\nThe year 1842 was full of great results; the new system worked well,\ngreat numbers of tribes laid down their arms and swore fealty to France,\nand the provinces were more than nominally in the hands of the French.\nStill many of the more distant and powerful tribes held to their\nallegiance to the Prophet Sultan. The war gradually took on itself the\nform of a civil contest, and mutual animosities gave rise to many\noccasions for sanguinary combats; one of these, in the valley of the\nCheliff, September, 1842, lasted unintermittingly for thirty-six hours!\nIn this battle, and that of Oued Foddah, and, in fact, in almost every\nbattle of those years, the Zouaves took an honorable part. In mountain\nfights, long marches over burning sands, repulses of cavalry, at\nJurjura, Ouarsanis, among the Beni Menasser, at the Smalah, in the\nstruggles of Bedeau with the Moroccan cavalry, and in the memorable\nbattle of Isly, they did good service; their history was but a narrative\nof brilliant exploits. In many of their hill fights, the deserters of\n1839 gave much trouble. In a skirmish, 1844, on the south side of the\nAur\u00e8s, in which Captain Espinasse (died General of Division, Magenta,\nJune 6th, 1859) was concerned, and wounded four times, an old native\nZouave commanded the Kabyles, and defended their principal position with\nmuch skill.\n\nIn fine, to recount the hundredth part of their deeds,--to make out a\nlist of their soldiers, sub-officers, or officers who have been since\npromoted to high honors,--to trace minutely each step by which they\nmounted to their present position, would be to write, not an article,\nbut a book. In 1842 the natives disappeared finally from their ranks;\nthe best and bravest soldiers of the African army eagerly sought their\nplaces, attracted by the uniform, the manner of life, the constant\ndanger and no less constant excitement, the liberty allowed, the glory\never open to all. As their numbers were decimated by the continual\nwarfare, the ranks were immediately filled by the descendants of those\nbrave Gauls who once said, \"If the heavens fall, what care we? We will\nsupport them on the points of our lances!\" In 1848, the Zouaves received\na large accession from Paris; the _gamins_ of the Revolution were sent\nto them in great numbers; out of this unpromising, rebellious material,\nsome of the finest of these admirable troops have been made. And now,\nwhen the entry into this regiment was longed for by so many, as a\nspecies of promotion, on the 13th of February, 1852, Louis Napoleon,\nthen President of the Republic, decreed that three regiments of Zouaves\nbe formed, each on one of the three battalions as a nucleus, taking the\nnumber of the battalion as its own. Thus the first regiment was formed\nat Blidah, in Algiers; the second at Oran, in Oran; the third at\nConstantine, in the province of Constantine. Officers of the corps of\ninfantry were eligible to the new regiments, holding the same grade; the\nmen were to be drawn from any infantry corps in the army, on their own\napplication, if the Minister of War saw proper. None were accepted but\nmen physically and morally in excellent condition; the officers had, for\nthe most part, already served with credit; the under-officers and\nsoldiers had been many years in the service; and even many corporals,\nand not a few ensigns and lieutenants, voluntarily relinquished their\npositions to serve in the rank-and-file of the new corps. So, occupied\nin pacificating and securing the three provinces, the regiments lost\nnothing of their former renown; obedient to orders, and fearless of\ndanger, it was no idle compliment paid them by Louis Napoleon, when, in\nthe winter of 1853-4, be said, \"If the war break out, we must show our\nZouaves to the Russians.\" They were a body trained in the school of a\nterrible experience of twenty-four years; they had learned, like the\nlion-hunter, Gerard, to take death by the mane, and look into his fiery\neyes without blenching; they were fit for this service, which demanded\nthe best nerve of the two most powerful nations of the world. What they\ndid there is known to all; at the battle of the Alma, Marshal St. Arnaud\nwas unable to repress his admiration, calling them \"the bravest soldiers\nin the world.\" All Europe, at first wondering at these strange troops,\nwith their wild dress, their half-savage manners, and strange method of\nwarfare, found speedy cause to admire their courage and success; France\nwas proud of their renown, and they became immensely popular in Paris,\nsure proof of their remarkable qualities. Their oddities, their courage,\ntheir imperfect knowledge of the distinctions of _meum_ and _tuum_,\ntheir wondering, childlike simplicity, furnished themes for endless\nsongs and caricatures; the comedy of \"Les Zouaves\" met with great\nsuccess; and the cant name for them, \"Zouzou,\" is to be heard at any\ntime in the streets. In 1855, the Fourth Zouaves was created, consisting\nof but two battalions, and enrolled in the Imperial Guard; they are\ndistinguished from the others by wearing a white turban, while that of\nthe other regiments is green; since the formation of this regiment, no\nnew corps have been added. The peace with Russia, in 1856, was not peace\nfor the Zouaves, who returned, desiring nothing better, to Africa,\nwhere, in the continued war, they found congenial employment till the\nfinal submission of the last tribes, July 15, 1857, dissolved the army\nof Kabylia, and made them, perforce, peaceful, till the 26th of April of\nthis year brought them to win fresh laurels on a new field.\n\nVague reports, assertions without proof, have been not infrequently\nmade, to the effect that the Zouaves are in character cruel, dissolute,\nand excessively given to hard drinking. That they are absolutely free\nfrom the first charge I shall not attempt to deny; that they are more so\nthan other men, in like circumstances, there is no proof; there is even\ngood reason to state the contrary, if we may judge by instances, of\nwhich, for want of space, one shall suffice here. The Zouaves were in\nthe van of the army, on their march toward the Tell; in their charge was\na large body of prisoners, wounded, and helpless women, old men, and\nchildren, whom they were conducting to the Tell, to restore them to\ntheir homes. The weather was intensely hot, even for Africa; the nearest\nwell was eleven leagues distant; and the sufferings of the poor people\nmust have been dreadful indeed. Mothers flung down their infants on the\nburning sand, and pressed madly on to save themselves from the most\nhorrible of deaths; old men and boys sunk exhausted, panting, declaring\nthey could go no farther. \"Then it was,\" says an eyewitness, \"that the\nZouaves behaved like very Sisters of Charity, rather than rough bearded\nsoldiers; they divided their last morsel with these unfortunates, gave\nthem drink from their own scanty stores, and, putting their canteens to\nthe mouths of the dying, revived them with the precious draught. They\nraised the screaming infants, overturned and held ewes, that they might\nsuckle the poor creatures, abandoned in despair by their mothers, and,\nin many instances, carried them the whole distance in their arms. At\nnight they ate nothing, giving their food to the helpless prisoners,\nwhose lives they thus saved at the risk of their own.\" If in war they\n\"imitate the action of the tiger,\" we have every reason to believe that\nin peace they are, to say the least, not less humane than others.\n\nThe author of \"Recollections of an Officer\" [Footnote: _Souvenirs d'un\nOfficier du 2me de Zouaves_. Paris, 1859.] sums up the character of the\nZouaves in a few words which clear them from the other two charges,\nthose of dissoluteness and drunkenness. He says,--\"Beside the condition\nof success resulting from the first organization, it must be said, that,\nsomewhat later, the happy idea came to be adopted, of giving to the\nZouaves destined to fight in the light-armed troops the costume of\n_Chasseurs-\u00e0-pied_. The recruitment added also not a little to the\nreputation which the Zouaves so rapidly acquired; the soldiers are all\ndrawn, not from conscripts, but from applicants for the service. Many\nare Parisians, or, at all events, inhabitants of the other great French\ncities; most have already served,--are therefore inured to the\nwork,--accustomed to privations, which they undergo gayly,--to fatigues,\nat which they joke,--to dangers in battle, which they treat as mere\nplay. They are proud of their uniform, which does not resemble that of\nany other corps,--proud of that name, _Zouave_, of mysterious\norigin,--proud of the splendid actions with which each succeeding day\nenriches the history of their troops,--happy in the liberty they\nexperience, both in garrison and on expeditions. It is said that the\nZouaves love wine; it is true; but they are rarely seen intoxicated;\nthey seek the pleasures of conviviality, not the imbrutement of\ndrunkenness. These regiments count in their ranks officers, who,\n_ennuied_ by a lazy life, have taken up the musket and the\n_chechia_,--under-officers, who, having already served, brave, even\nrash, seek to win their epaulettes anew in this hard service, and gain\neither a glorious position or a glorious death,--old officers of the\n_garde mobile_,--broad-shouldered marines, who have served their time on\nshipboard, accustomed to cannon and the thunderings of the\ntempest,--young men of family, desirous to replace with the red ribbon\nof the Legion of Honor, bought and colored with their blood, the\ndishonor of a life gaped wearily away on the pavements of Paris.\n\n\"Composed of such elements, one can scarcely imagine the body of Zouaves\nother than brilliant in the field of battle. The officers are generally\nchosen from the regiments of the line, men remarkable for strength,\ncourage, and prudence; full of energy, pushing the love of their colors\nto its last limit, always ready to confront death and to run up to meet\ndanger, they seek glory rather than promotion. To train up their\nsoldiers, to give them an example, in their own persons, of all the\nmilitary virtues,--such are their only cares. Our ancestors said,\n'_Noblesse, oblige_'; these choose the same motto. _Their_ nobility is\nnot that of old family-titles, but the uniform in which they are\nclothed, the title of officer of Zouaves. _Esprit de corps_, that\nreligion of the soldier, is carried by the Zouaves to its highest pitch;\nthe common soldiers would not consent to change their turban for the\nepaulettes of an ensign in the other service; and many an ensign, and\nnot a few captains, have preferred to await their advancement in the\nZouaves rather than immediately obtain it by entering other regiments.\nThere exists, moreover, between the soldiers and officers, a military\nfraternity, which, far from destroying discipline, tends rather to draw\nmore closely its bonds. The officer sees in his men rather companions in\ndanger and in glory than inferiors; he willingly attends to their\ncomplaints, and strives to spare them all unnecessary privations. Where\nthey are exposed to difficulties, he does not hesitate to employ all the\nmeans in his power to aid them. In return, the soldier professes for his\nofficer an affection, a devotion, a sort of filial respect. Discipline,\nhe knows, must be severe, and he does not grumble at its penalties. In\nbattle, he does not abandon his chief; he watches over him, will die for\nhis safety, will not let him fall into the hands of the enemy if\nwounded. At the bivouac he makes the officer's fire, though his own\nshould die for want of fuel; cares for his horse, arranges his\nfurniture; if any delicacy in the way of food can be procured, he brings\nit to the chief. Convinced of the desire of their master that the\nsoldiers shall be well fed, the Zouaves often insist that a part of\ntheir pay be expended for procuring the provisions of the tribe.\n[Footnote: In accordance with Arab customs, the Zouaves, who (to use the\nordinary expression) \"live in common,\" compose a circle to which they\ngive the name of _tribe_. In the tribe, each one has his allotted task:\none attends to making the fires and procuring wood; another draws water\nand does the cooking; another makes the coffee and arranges the camp,\netc.] The colonel is the man most venerated by these soldiers, who look\nupon him as the father of the family. They are proud of the colonel's\nsuccess, and happy to have contributed to his honor or advancement. When\nan order comes directly from him, be sure it will be religiously obeyed.\n'When _papa_ says anything,' they repeat, one to another, 'it must be\ndone. Papa knows it is _already_ done; be wants us to be the best\nchildren possible.' In critical moments, the colonel can use the\nseverest Draconian code, without having anything to fear from the\ndisapprobation of his men.\"\n\n\n\n\nMY PSALM.\n\n\n  I mourn no more my vanished years:\n      Beneath a tender rain,\n  An April rain of smiles and tears,\n      My heart is young again.\n\n  The west winds blow, and, singing low,\n      I hear the glad streams run;\n  The windows of my soul I throw\n      Wide open to the sun.\n\n  No longer forward nor behind\n      I look in hope or fear;\n  But, grateful, take the good I find,\n      The best of now and here.\n\n  I plough no more a desert land,\n      To harvest weed and tare;\n  The manna dropping from God's hand\n      Rebukes my painful care.\n\n  I break my pilgrim staff, I lay\n    Aside the toiling oar;\n  The angel sought so far away\n    I welcome at my door.\n\n  The airs of Spring may never play\n      Among the ripening corn,\n  Nor freshness of the flowers of May\n      Blow through the Autumn morn;--\n\n  Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look\n      Through fringed lids to heaven,\n  And the pale aster in the brook\n      Shall see its image given;--\n\n  The woods shall wear their robes of praise,\n      The south wind softly sigh,\n  And sweet, calm days in golden haze\n      Melt down the amber sky.\n\n  Not less shall manly deed and word\n      Rebuke an age of wrong;\n  The graven flowers that wreathe the sword\n      Make not the blade less strong.\n\n  But smiting hands shall learn to heal,\n      To build as to destroy;\n  Nor less my heart for others feel\n      That I the more enjoy.\n\n  All as God wills, who wisely heeds\n      To give or to withhold,\n  And knoweth more of all my needs\n      Than all my prayers have told!\n\n  Enough that blessings undeserved\n      Have marked my erring track,--\n  That, wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,\n      His chastening turned me back,--\n\n  That more and more a Providence\n      Of love is understood,\n  Making the springs of time and sense\n      Sweet with eternal good,--\n\n  That death seems but a covered way\n      Which opens into light,\n  Wherein no blinded child can stray\n      Beyond the Father's sight,--\n\n  That care and trial seem at last,\n      Through Memory's sunset air,\n  Like mountain-ranges overpast,\n      In purple distance fair,--\n\n  That all the jarring notes of life\n      Seem blending in a psalm,\n  And all the angles of its strife\n      Slow rounding into calm.\n\n  And so the shadows fall apart,\n      And so the west winds play;\n  And all the windows of my heart\n      I open to the day!\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE.\n\n\nWHAT HE SAID, WHAT HE HEARD, AND WHAT HE SAW.\n\n\nThere has been a sort of stillness in the atmosphere of our\nboarding-house since my last record, as if something or other were going\non. There is no particular change that I can think of in the aspect of\nthings; yet I have a feeling as if some game of life were quietly\nplaying and strange forces were at work, underneath this smooth surface\nof every-day boarding-house life, which would show themselves some fine\nmorning or other in events, if not in catastrophes. I have been\nwatchful, as I said I should be, but have little to tell as yet. You may\nlaugh at me, and very likely think me foolishly fanciful to trouble\nmyself about what is going on in a middling-class household like ours.\nDo as you like. But here is that terrible fact to begin with,--a\nbeautiful young girl, with the blood and the nerve-fibre that belong to\nNature's women, turned loose among live men.\n\n--_Terrible_ fact?\n\nVery terrible. Nothing more so. Do you forget the angels who lost heaven\nfor the daughters of men? Do you forget Helen, and the fair women who\nmade mischief and set nations by the ears before Helen was born? If\njealousies that gnaw men's hearts out of their bodies,--if pangs that\nwaste men to shadows and drive them into raving madness or moping\nmelancholy,--if assassination and suicide are dreadful possibilities,\nthen there is always something frightful about a lovely young woman.--I\nlove to look at this \"Rainbow,\" as her father used sometimes to call\nher, of ours. Handsome creature that she is in forms and colors,--the\nvery picture, as it seems to me, of that \"golden blonde\" my friend whose\nbook you read last year fell in love with when he was a boy, (as you\nremember, no doubt,)--handsome as she is, fit for a sea-king's bride, it\nis not her beauty alone that holds my eyes upon her. Let me tell you one\nof my fancies, and then you will understand the strange sort of\nfascination she has for me.\n\nIt is in the hearts of many men and women--let me add children--that\nthere is a _Great Secret_ waiting for them,--a secret of which they get\nhints now and then, perhaps oftener in early than in later years. These\nhints come sometimes in dreams, sometimes in sudden startling\nflashes,--second wakings, as it were,--a waking out of the waking state,\nwhich last is very apt to be a half-sleep. I have many times stopped\nshort and held my breath, and felt the blood leaving my cheeks, in one\nof these sudden clairvoyant flashes. Of course I cannot tell what kind\nof a secret this is; but I think of it as a disclosure of certain\nrelations of our personal being to time and space, to other\nintelligences, to the procession of events, and to their First Great\nCause. This secret seems to be broken up, as it were, into fragments, so\nthat we find here a word and there a syllable, and then again only a\nletter of it; but it never is written out for most of us as a complete\nsentence, in this life. I do not think it could be; for I am disposed to\nconsider our beliefs about such a possible disclosure rather as a kind\nof premonition of an enlargement of our faculties in some future state\nthan as an expectation to be fulfilled for most of us in this life.\nPersons, however, have fallen into trances,--as did the Reverend William\nTennent, among many others,--and learned some things which they could\nnot tell in our human words.\n\nNow among the visible objects which hint to us fragments of this\ninfinite secret for--which our souls are waiting, the faces of women are\nthose that carry the most legible hieroglyphics of the great mystery.\nThere are women's faces, some real, some ideal, which contain something\nin them that becomes a positive element in our creed, so direct and\npalpable a revelation is it of the infinite purity and love. I remember\ntwo faces of women with wings, such as they call angels, of Fra\nAngelico,--and I just now came across a print of Raphael's Santa\nApollina, with something of the same quality,--which I was sure had\ntheir prototypes in the world above ours. No wonder the Catholics pay\ntheir vows to the Queen of Heaven! The unpoetical side of Protestantism\nis, that it has no women to be worshipped.\n\nBut mind you, it is not every beautiful face that hints the Great Secret\nto us, nor is it only in beautiful faces that we find traces of it.\nSometimes it looks out from a sweet sad eye, the only beauty of a plain\ncountenance; sometimes there is so much meaning in the lips of a woman,\nnot otherwise fascinating, that we know they have a message for us, and\nwait almost with awe to hear their accents. But this young girl has at\nonce the beauty of feature and the unspoken mystery of expression. Can\nshe tell me anything? Is her life a complement of mine, with the missing\nelement in it which I have been groping after through so many\nfriendships that I have tired of, and through--Hush! Is the door fast?\nTalking loud is a bad trick in these curious boarding-houses.\n\nYou must have sometimes noted this fact that I am going to remind you of\nand to use for a special illustration. Riding along over a rocky road,\nsuddenly the slow monotonous grinding of the crushing gravel changes to\na deep heavy rumble. There is a great hollow under your feet,--a huge\nunsunned cavern. Deep, deep beneath you, in the core of the living rock,\nit arches its awful vault, and far away it stretches its winding\ngalleries, their roofs dripping into streams where fishes have been\nswimming and spawning in the dark until their scales are white as milk\nand their eyes have withered out, obsolete and useless.\n\nSo it is in life. We jog quietly along, meeting the same faces, grinding\nover the same thoughts,--the gravel of the soul's highway,--now and then\njarred against an obstacle we cannot crush, but must ride over or round\nas we best may, sometimes bringing short up against a disappointment,\nbut still working along with the creaking and rattling and grating and\njerking that belong to the journey of life, even in the\nsmoothest-rolling vehicle. Suddenly we hear the deep underground\nreverberation that reveals the unsuspected depth of some abyss of\nthought or passion beneath us.----\n\nI wish the girl would go. I don't like to look at her so much, and yet I\ncannot help it. Always that same expression of something that I ought to\nknow,--something that she was made to tell and I to hear,--lying there\nready to fall off from her lips, ready to leap out of her eyes and make\na saint of me, or a devil or a lunatic, or perhaps a prophet to tell the\ntruth and be hated of men, or a poet whose words shall flash upon the\ndry stubble-field of worn-out thoughts and burn over an age of lies in\nan hour of passion.\n\nIt suddenly occurs to me that I may have put you on the wrong track. The\nGreat Secret that I refer to has nothing to do with the Three Words. Set\nyour mind at ease about that,--there are reasons I could give you which\nsettle all that matter. I don't wonder, however, that you confounded the\nGreat Secret with the Three Words.\n\nI LOVE YOU is all the secret that many, nay, most women have to tell.\nWhen that is said, they are like China-crackers on the morning of the\nfifth of July. And just as that little patriotic implement is made with\na slender train which leads to the magazine in its interior, so a sharp\neye can almost always see the train leading from a young girl's eye or\nlip to the \"I love you\" in her heart. But the Three Words are not the\nGreat Secret I mean. No, women's faces are only one of the tablets on\nwhich that is written in its partial, fragmentary symbols. It lies\ndeeper than Love, though very probably Love is a part of it. Some, I\nthink,--Wordsworth might be one of them,--spell out a portion of it from\ncertain beautiful natural objects, landscapes, flowers, and others. I\ncan mention several poems of his that have shadowy hints which seem to\nme to come near the region where I think it lies. I have known two\npersons who pursued it with the passion of the old alchemists,--all\nwrong evidently, but infatuated, and never giving up the daily search\nfor it until they got tremulous and feeble, and their dreams changed to\nvisions of things that ran and crawled about their floor and ceilings,\nand so they died. The vulgar called them drunkards.\n\nI told you that I would let you know the mystery of the effect this\nyoung girl's face produces on me. It is akin to those influences a\nfriend of mine has described, you may remember, as coming from certain\nvoices. I cannot translate it into words,--only into feelings; and these\nI have attempted to shadow by showing that her face hinted that\nrevelation of something we are close to knowing, which all imaginative\npersons are looking for either in this world or on the very threshold of\nthe next.\n\nYou shake your head at the vagueness and fanciful incomprehensibleness\nof my description of the expression in a young girl's face. You forget\nwhat a miserable surface-matter this language is in which we try to\nreproduce our interior state of being. Articulation is a shallow trick.\nFrom the light Poh! which we toss off from our lips as we fling a\nnameless scribbler's impertinences into our waste-baskets, to the\ngravest utterance which comes from our throats in our moments of deepest\nneed, is only a space of some three or four inches. Words, which are a\nset of clickings, hissings, lispings, and so on, mean very little,\ncompared to tones and expression of the features. I give it up; I\nthought I could shadow forth in some feeble way, by their aid, the\neffect this young girl's face produces on my imagination; but it is of\nno use. No doubt your head aches, trying to make something of my\ndescription. If there is here and there one that can make anything\nintelligible out of my talk about the Great Secret, and who has spelt\nout a syllable or two of it on some woman's face, dead or living, that\nis all I can expect. One should see the person with whom he converses\nabout such matters. There are dreamy-eyed people to whom I should say\nall these things with a certainty of being understood;--\n\n  That moment that his face I see,\n  I know the man that must hear me:\n      To him my tale I teach.\n\n----I am afraid some of them have not got a spare quarter for this\nAugust number, so that they will never see it.\n\n----Let us start again, just as if we had not made this ambitious\nattempt, which may go for nothing, and you can have your money refunded,\nif you will make the change.\n\nThis young girl, about whom I have talked so unintelligibly, is the\nunconscious centre of attraction to the whole solar system of our\nbreakfast-table. The little gentleman, leans towards her, and she again\nseems to be swayed as by some invisible gentle force towards him. That\nslight inclination of two persons with a strong affinity towards each\nother, throwing them a little out of plumb when they sit side by side,\nis a physical fact I have often noticed. Then there is a tendency in all\nthe men's eyes to converge on her; and I do firmly believe, that, if all\ntheir chairs were examined, they would be found a little obliquely\nplaced, so as to favor the direction in which their occupants love to\nlook.\n\nThat bland, quiet old gentleman, of whom I have spoken as sitting\nopposite to me, is no exception to the rule. She brought down some\nmignonette one morning, which she had grown in her chamber. She gave a\nsprig to her little neighbor, and one to the landlady, and sent another\nby the hand of Bridget to this old gentleman.\n\n----Sarvant, Ma'am! Much obleeged,--he said, and put it gallantly in his\nbutton-hole.--After breakfast he must see some of her drawings. Very\nfine performances,--very fine!--truly elegant productions,--truly\nelegant!--Had seen Miss Linley's needle-work in London, in the year\n(eighteen hundred and little or nothing, I think he said,)--patronized\nby the nobility and gentry, and Her Majesty,--elegant, truly elegant\nproductions, very fine performances; these drawings reminded him of\nthem;--wonderful resemblance to Nature; an extraordinary art, painting;\nMr. Copley made some very fine pictures that he remembered seeing when\nhe was a boy. Used to remember some lines about a portrait written by\nMr. Cowper, beginning,--\n\n  \"Oh that those lips had language! Life has past\n  With me but roughly since I saw thee last.\"\n\nAnd with this the old gentleman fell to thinking about a dead mother of\nhis that he remembered ever so much younger than he now was, and\nlooking, not as his mother, but as his daughter should look. The dead\nyoung mother was looking at the old man, her child, as she used to look\nat him so many, many years ago. He stood still as if cataleptic, his\neyes fixed on the drawings till their outlines grew indistinct and they\nran into each other, and a pale, sweet face shaped itself out of the\nglimmering light through which he saw them.--What is there quite so\nprofoundly human as an old man's memory of a mother who died in his\nearlier years? Mother she remains till manhood, and by-and-by she grows,\nas it were, to be as a sister; and at last, when, wrinkled and bowed and\nbroken, he looks back upon her in her fair youth, he sees in the sweet\nimage he caresses, not his parent, but, as it were, his child.\n\nIf I had not seen all this in the old gentleman's face, the words with\nwhich he broke his silence would have betrayed his train of thought.\n\n----If they had only taken pictures then as they do now!--he said.--All\ngone! all gone! nothing but her face as she leaned on the arms of her\ngreat chair; and I would give a hundred pound for the poorest little\npicture of her, such as you can buy for a shilling of anybody that you\ndon't want to see.--The old gentleman put his hand to his forehead so as\nto shade his eyes. I saw he was looking at the dim photograph of memory,\nand turned from him to Iris.\n\nHow many drawing-books have you filled,--I said,--since you began to\ntake lessons?--This was the first,--she answered,--since she was here;\nand it was not full, but there were many separate sheets of large size\nshe had covered with drawings.\n\nI turned over the leaves of the book before us. Academic studies,\nprincipally of the human figure. Heads of sibyls, prophets, and so\nforth. Limbs from statues. Hands and feet from Nature. What a superb\ndrawing of an arm! I don't remember it among the figures from Michel\nAngelo, which seem to have been her patterns mainly. From Nature, I\nthink, or after a cast from Nature.--Oh!----\n\n----Your smaller studies are in this, I suppose,--I said, taking up the\ndrawing-book with a lock on it.----Yes,--she said.--I should like to see\nher style of working on a small scale.--There was nothing in it worth\nshowing,--she said; and presently I saw her try the lock, which proved\nto be fast. We are all caricatured in it, I haven't the least doubt. I\nthink, though, I could tell by her way of dealing with us what her\nfancies were about us boarders. Some of them act as if they were\nbewitched with her, but she does not seem to notice it much. Her\nthoughts seem to be on her little neighbor more than on anybody else.\nThe young fellow John appears to stand second in her good graces. I\nthink he has once or twice sent her what the landlady's daughter calls\nb\u00f3-kays of flowers,--somebody has, at any rate.--I saw a book she had,\nwhich must have come from the divinity-student. It had a dreary\ntitle-page, which she had enlivened with a fancy portrait of the\nauthor,--a face from memory, apparently,--one of those faces that small\nchildren loathe without knowing why, and which give them that inward\ndisgust for heaven so many of the little wretches betray, when they hear\nthat these are \"good men,\" and that heaven is full of such.--The\ngentleman with the \"diamond\"--the Koh-i-noor, so called by us--was not\nencouraged, I think, by the reception of his packet of perfumed soap. He\npulls his purple moustache and looks appreciatingly at Iris, who never\nsees him, as it should seem. The young Marylander, who I thought would\nhave been in love with her before this time, sometimes looks from his\ncorner across the long diagonal of the table, as much as to say, I wish\nyou were up here by me, or I were down there by you,--which would,\nperhaps, be a more natural arrangement than the present one. But nothing\ncomes of all this,--and nothing has come of my sagacious idea of finding\nout the girl's fancies by looking into her locked drawing-book.\n\nNot to give up all the questions I was determined to solve, I made an\nattempt also to work into the little gentleman's chamber. For this\npurpose, I kept him in conversation, one morning, until he was just\nready to go up-stairs, and then, as if to continue the talk, followed\nhim as he toiled back to his room. He rested on the landing and faced\nround toward me. There was something in his eye which said, Stop there!\nSo we finished our conversation on the landing. The next day, I mustered\nassurance enough to knock at his door, having a pretext ready.--No\nanswer.--Knock again. A door, as if of a cabinet, was shut softly and\nlocked, and presently I heard the peculiar dead beat of his thick-soled,\nmisshapen boots. The bolts and the lock of the inner door were\nunfastened,--with unnecessary noise, I thought,--and he came into the\npassage. He pulled the inner door after him and opened the outer one at\nwhich I stood. He had on a flowered silk dressing-gown, such as \"Mr.\nCopley\" used to paint his old-fashioned merchant-princes in; and a\nquaint-looking key in his hand. Our conversation was short, but long\nenough to convince me that the little gentleman did not want my company\nin his chamber, and did not mean to have it.\n\nI have been making a great fuss about what is no mystery at all,--a\nschoolgirl's secrets and a whimsical man's habits. I mean to give up\nsuch nonsense and mind my own business.--Hark! What the deuse is that\nodd noise in his chamber?\n\n----I think I am a little superstitious. There were two things, when I\nwas a boy, that diabolized my imagination,--I mean, that gave me a\ndistinct apprehension of a formidable bodily shape which prowled round\nthe neighborhood where I was born and bred. The first was a series of\nmarks called the \"Devil's footsteps.\" These were patches of sand in the\npastures, where no grass grew, where even the low-bush blackberry, the\n\"dewberry,\" as our Southern neighbors call it, in prettier and more\nShakspearian language, did not spread its clinging creepers,--where even\nthe pale, dry, sadly-sweet \"everlasting\" could not grow, but all was\nbare and blasted. The second was a mark in one of the public buildings\nnear my home,--the college dormitory named after a Colonial Governor. I\ndo not think many persons are aware of the existence of this\nmark,--little having been said about the story in print, as it was\nconsidered very desirable, for the sake of the institution, to hush it\nup. In the northwest corner, and on the level of the third or fourth\nstory, there are signs of a breach in the walls, mended pretty well, but\nnot to be mistaken. A considerable portion of that corner must have been\ncarried away, from within outward. It was an unpleasant story; and I do\nnot care to repeat the particulars; but some young men had been using\nsacred things in a profane and unlawful way, when the occurrence, which\nwas variously explained, took place. The story of the Appearance in the\nchamber was, I suppose, invented afterwards; but of the injury to the\nbuilding there could be no question; and the zig-zag line, where the\nmortar is a little thicker than before, is still distinctly visible. The\nqueer burnt spots, called the \"Devil's footsteps,\" had never attracted\nattention before this time, though there is no evidence that they had\nnot existed previously, except that of the late Miss M., a \"Goody,\" so\ncalled, or sweeper, who was positive on the subject, but had a strange\nhorror of referring to an affair of which she was thought to know\nsomething.--I tell you it was not so pleasant for a little boy of\nimpressible nature to go up to bed in an old gambrel-roofed house, with\nuntenanted, locked upper-chambers, and a most ghostly garret,--with the\n\"Devil's footsteps\" in the fields behind the house, and in front of it\nthe patched dormitory where the unexplained occurrence had taken place\nwhich startled those godless youths at their mock devotions, so that one\nof them was an idiot from that day forward, and another, after a\ndreadful season of mental conflict, took holy orders and became renowned\nfor his ascetic sanctity.\n\nThere were other circumstances that kept up the impression produced by\nthese two singular facts I have just mentioned. There was a dark\nstoreroom, on looking through the keyhole of which, I could dimly see a\nheap of chairs and tables, and other four-footed things, which seemed to\nme to have rushed in there, frightened, and in their fright to have\nhuddled together and climbed up on each other's backs,--as the people\ndid in that awful crush where so many were killed, at the execution of\nHolloway and Haggerty. Then the Lady's portrait, up-stairs, with the\nsword-thrusts through it,--marks of the British officers' rapiers,--and\nthe tall mirror in which they used to look at their red coats,--confound\nthem for smashing its mate!--and the deep, cunningly wrought arm-chair\nin which Lord Percy used to sit while his hair was dressing;--he was a\ngentleman, and always had it covered with a large _peignoir_, to save\nthe silk covering my grandmother embroidered. Then the little room\ndown-stairs, from which went the orders to throw up a bank of earth on\nthe hill yonder, where you may now observe a granite obelisk,--\"the\nstudy,\" in my father's time, but in those days the council-chamber of\narmed men,--sometimes filled with soldiers;--come with me, and I will\nshow you the \"dents\" left by the butts of their muskets all over the\nfloor.--With all these suggestive objects round me, aided by the wild\nstories those awful country-boys that came to live in our service\nbrought with them,--of contracts written in blood and left out over\nnight, not to be found the next morning,--removed by the Evil One, who\ntakes his nightly round among our dwellings, and filed away for future\nuse,--of dreams coming true,--of death-signs,--of apparitions,--no\nwonder that my imagination got excited, and I was liable to\nsuperstitious fancies.\n\nJeremy Bentham's logic, by which he proved that he couldn't possibly see\na ghost, is all very well--in the day-time. All the reason in the world\nwill never get those impressions of childhood, created by just such\ncircumstances as I have been telling, out of a man's head. That is the\nonly excuse I have to give for the nervous kind of curiosity with which\nI watch my little neighbor, and the obstinacy with which I lie awake\nwhenever I hear anything going on in his chamber after midnight.\n\nBut whatever further observations I may have made must be deferred for\nthe present. You will see in what way it happened that my thoughts were\nturned from spiritual matters to bodily ones, and how I got my fancy\nfull of material images,--faces, heads, figures, muscles, and so\nforth,--in such a way that I should have no chance in this number to\ngratify any curiosity you may feel, if I had the means of so doing.\n\nIndeed, I have come pretty near omitting my periodical record this time.\nIt was all the work of a friend of mine, who would have it that I should\nsit to him for my portrait. When a soul draws a body in the great\nlottery of life, where every one is sure of a prize, such as it is, the\nsaid soul inspects the said body with the same curious interest with\nwhich one who has ventured into a \"gift enterprise\" examines the\n\"massive silver pencil-case\" with the coppery smell and impressible\ntube, or the \"splendid gold ring\" with the questionable specific\ngravity, which it has been his fortune to obtain in addition to his\npurchase.\n\nThe soul, having studied the article of which it finds itself\nproprietor, thinks, after a time, it knows it pretty well. But there is\nthis difference between its view and that of a person looking at us:--we\nlook from within, and see nothing but the mould formed by the elements\nin which we are incased; other observers look from without, and see us\nas living statues. To be sure, by the aid of mirrors, we get a few\nglimpses of our outside aspect; but this occasional impression is always\nmodified by that look of the soul from within outward which none but\nourselves can take. A portrait is apt, therefore, to be a surprise to\nus. The artist looks only from without. He sees us, too, with a hundred\naspects on our faces we are never likely to see. No genuine expression\ncan be studied by the subject of it in the looking-glass.\n\nMore than this; he sees us in a way in which many of our friends or\nacquaintances never see us. Without wearing any mask we are conscious\nof, we have a special face for each friend. For, in the first place,\neach puts a special reflection of himself upon us, on the principle of\nassimilation referred to in my last record, if you happen to have read\nthat document. And secondly, each of our friends is capable of seeing\njust so far, and no farther, into our face, and each sees in it the\nparticular thing that he looks for. Now the artist, if he is truly an\nartist, does not take any one of these special views. Suppose he should\ncopy you as you appear to the man who wants your name to a\nsubscription-list, you could hardly expect a friend who entertains you\nto recognize the likeness to the smiling face which sheds its radiance\nat his board. Even within your own family, I am afraid there is a face\nwhich the rich uncle knows, that is not so familiar to the poor\nrelation. The artist must take one or the other, or something compounded\nof the two, or something different from either. What the daguerreotype\nand photograph do is to give the features and one particular look, the\nvery look which kills all expression, that of self-consciousness. The\nartist throws you off your guard, watches you in movement and in repose,\nputs your face through its exercises, observes its transitions, and so\ngets the whole range of its expression. Out of all this he forms an\nideal portrait, which is not a copy of your exact look at any one time\nor to any particular person. Such a portrait cannot be to everybody what\nthe ungloved call \"as nat'ral as life.\" Every good picture, therefore,\nmust be considered wanting in resemblance by many persons.\n\nThere is one strange revelation which comes out, as the artist shapes\nyour features from his outline. It is that you resemble so many\nrelatives to whom you yourself never had noticed any particular likeness\nin your countenance.\n\nHe is at work at me now, when I catch some of these resemblances,\nthus:--\n\nThere! that is just the look my father used to have sometimes; I never\nthought I had a sign of it. The mother's eyebrow and grayish-blue eye,\nthose I knew I had. But there is a something which recalls a smile that\nfaded away from my sister's lips--how many years ago! I thought it so\npleasant in her, that I love myself better for having a trace of it.\n\nAre we not young? Are we not fresh and blooming? Wait a bit. The artist\ntakes a mean little brush and draws three fine lines, diverging outwards\nfrom the eye over the temple. Five years.--The artist draws one\ntolerably distinct and two faint lines, perpendicularly between the\neyebrows. Ten years.--The artist breaks up the contours round the mouth,\nso that they look a little as a hat does that has been sat upon and\nrecovered itself, ready, as one would say, to crumple up again in the\nsame creases, on smiling or other change of feature.--Hold on! Stop\nthat! Give a young fellow a chance! Are we not whole years short of that\ninteresting period of life when Mr. Balzac says that a man, etc., etc.,\netc.?\n\nThere now! That is ourself, as we look after finishing an article,\ngetting a three-mile pull with the ten-foot sculls, redressing the\nwrongs of the toilet, and standing with the light of hope in our eye and\nthe reflection of a red curtain on our cheek. Is he not a POET that\npainted us?\n\n  \"Blest be the art that can immortalize!\"\n\nCOWPER\n\n----Young folks look on a face as a unit; children who go to school with\nany given little John Smith see in his name a distinctive appellation,\nand in his features as special and definite an expression of his sole\nindividuality as if he were the first created of his race. As soon as we\nare old enough to get the range of three or four generations well in\nhand, and to take in large family histories, we never see an individual\nin a face of any stock we know, but a mosaic copy of a pattern, with\nfragmentary tints from this and that ancestor. The analysis of a face\ninto its ancestral elements requires that it should be examined in the\nvery earliest infancy, before it has lost that ancient and solemn look\nit brings with it out of the past eternity; and again in that brief\nspace when Life, the mighty sculptor, has done his work, and Death, his\nsilent servant, lifts the veil and lets us look at the marble lines he\nhas wrought so faithfully; and lastly, while a painter who can seize all\nthe traits of a countenance is building it up, feature after feature,\nfrom the slight outline to the finished portrait.\n\n----I am satisfied, that, as we grow older, we learn to look upon our\nbodies more and more as a temporary possession, and less and less as\nidentified with ourselves. In early years, while the child \"feels its\nlife in every limb,\" it lives in the body and for the body to a very\ngreat extent. It ought to be so. There have been many very interesting\nchildren who have shown a wonderful indifference to the things of earth\nand an extraordinary development of the spiritual nature. There is a\nperfect literature of their biographies, all alike in their essentials;\nthe same \"disinclination to the usual amusements of childhood\"; the same\nremarkable sensibility; the same docility; the same conscientiousness;\nin short, an almost uniform character, marked by beautiful traits, which\nwe look at with a painful admiration. It will be found that most of\nthese children are the subjects of some constitutional unfitness for\nliving, the most frequent of which I need not mention. They are like the\nbeautiful, blushing, half-grown fruit that falls before its time because\nits core is gnawed out. They have their meaning,--they do not live in\nvain,--but they are windfalls. I am convinced that many healthy children\nare injured morally by being forced to read too much about these little\nmeek sufferers and their spiritual exercises. Here is a boy that loves\nto run, swim, kick football, turn somersets, make faces, whittle, fish,\ntear his clothes, coast, skate, fire crackers, blow squash \"tooters,\"\ncut his name on fences, read about Robinson Crusoe and Sinbad the\nSailor, eat the widest-angled slices of pie and untold cakes and\ncandies, crack nuts with his back teeth and bite out the better part of\nanother boy's apple with his front ones, turn up coppers, \"stick\"\nknives, call names, throw stones, knock off hats, set mousetraps, chalk\ndoorsteps, \"cut behind\" anything on wheels or runners, whistle through\nhis teeth, \"holler\" Fire! on slight evidence, run after soldiers,\npatronize an engine-company, or, in his own words, \"blow for tub No.\n11,\" or whatever it may be;--isn't that a pretty nice sort of a boy,\nthough he has not got anything the matter with him that takes the taste\nof this world out? Now, when you put into such a hot-blooded,\nhard-fisted, round-cheeked little rogue's hand a sad-looking volume or\npamphlet, with the portrait of a thin, white-faced child, whose life is\nreally as much a training for death as the last month of a condemned\ncriminal's existence, what does he find in common between his own\noverflowing and exulting sense of vitality and the experiences of the\ndoomed offspring of invalid parents? The time comes when we have learned\nto understand the music of sorrow, the beauty of resigned suffering, the\nholy light that plays over the pillow of those who die before their\ntime, in humble hope and trust. But it is not until he has worked his\nway through the period of honest, hearty animal existence, which every\nrobust, child should make the most of,--not until he has learned the use\nof his various faculties, which is his first duty,--that a boy of\ncourage and animal vigor is in a proper state to read these tearful\nrecords of premature decay. I have no doubt that disgust is implanted in\nthe minds of many healthy children by early surfeits of pathological\npiety. I do verily believe that He who took children in His arms and\nblessed them loved the healthiest and most playful of them just as well\nas those who were richest in the tuberculous virtues. I know what I am\ntalking about, and there are more parents in this country who will be\nwilling to listen to what I say than there are fools to pick a quarrel\nwith me. In the sensibility and the sanctity which often accompany\npremature decay I see one of the most beautiful instances of the\nprinciple of compensation which marks the Divine benevolence. But to get\nthe spiritual hygiene of robust natures out of the exceptional regimen\nof invalids is just simply what we Professors call \"bad practice\"; and I\nknow by experience that there are worthy people who not only try it on\ntheir own children, but actually force it on those of their neighbors.\n\n----Having been photographed, and stereographed, and chromatographed, or\ndone in colors, it only remained to be phrenologized. A polite note from\nMessrs. Bumpus and Crane, requesting our attendance at their\nPhysiological Emporium, was too tempting to be resisted. We repaired to\nthat scientific Golgotha.\n\nMessrs. Bumpus and Crane are arranged on the plan of the man and the\nwoman in the toy called a \"weather-house,\" both on the same wooden arm\nsuspended on a pivot,--so that when one comes to the door, the other\nretires backwards, and _vice vers\u00e2_. The more particular speciality of\none is to lubricate your entrance and exit,--that of the other to polish\nyou off phrenologically in the recesses of the establishment. Suppose\nyourself in a room full of casts and pictures, before a counter-full of\nbooks with taking titles. I wonder if the picture of the brain is there,\n\"approved\" by a noted Phrenologist, which was copied from _my_, the\nProfessor's, folio plate in the work of Gall and Spurzheim. An extra\nconvolution, No. 9, _Destructiveness_, according to the list beneath,\nwhich was not to be seen in the plate, itself a copy of Nature, was very\nliberally supplied by the artist, to meet the wants of the catalogue of\n\"organs.\" Professor Bumpus is seated in front of a row of\nwomen,--horn-combers and gold-beaders, or somewhere about that range of\nlife,--looking so credulous, that, if any Second-Advent Miller or Joe\nSmith should come along, he could string the whole lot of them on his\ncheapest lie, as a boy strings a dozen \"shiners\" on a stripped twig of\nwillow.\n\nThe Professor (meaning ourselves) is in a hurry, as usual; let the\nhorn-combers wait,--he shall be bumped without inspecting the\nantechamber.\n\nTape round the head,--22 inches. (Come on, old 23 inches, if you think\nyou are the better man!)\n\nFeels of thorax and arm, and nuzzles round among muscles as those horrid\nold women poke their fingers into the salt-meat on the provision-stalls\nat the Quincy Market. Vitality, No. 5 or 6, or something or other.\n_Victuality_, (organ at epigastrium,) some other number equally\nsignificant.\n\nMild champooing of head now commences. Extraordinary revelations!\nCupidipbilous, 6! Hymeniphilous, 6+! Paediphilous, 5! Deipniphilous, 6!\nGelasmiphilous, 6! Muslkiphilous, 5! Uraniphilous, 5! Glossiphilous, 8!!\nand so on. Meant for a linguist.--Invaluable information. Will invest in\ngrammars and dictionaries immediately.--I have nothing against the grand\ntotal of my phrenological endowments.\n\nI never set great store by my head, and did not think Messrs. Bumpus and\nCrane would give me so good a lot of organs as they did, especially\nconsidering that I was a _dead_-head on that occasion. Much obliged to\nthem for their politeness. They have been useful in their way by calling\nattention to important physiological facts. (This concession is due to\nour immense bump of Candor.)\n\n_A short Lecture on Phrenology, read to the Boarders at our\nBreakfast-Table._\n\nI shall begin, my friends, with the definition of a _Pseudo-science_. A\nPseudo-science consists of _a nomenclature_, with a self-adjusting\narrangement, by which all positive evidence, or such as favors its\ndoctrines, is admitted, and all negative evidence, or such as tells\nagainst it, is excluded. It is invariably connected with some lucrative\npractical application. Its professors and practitioners are usually\nshrewd people; they are very serious with the public, but wink and laugh\na good deal among themselves. The believing multitude consists of women\nof both sexes, feeble-minded inquirers, poetical optimists, people who\nalways get cheated in buying horses, philanthropists who insist on\nhurrying up the millennium, and others of this class, with here and\nthere a clergyman, less frequently a lawyer, very rarely a physician,\nand almost never a horse-jockey or a member of the detective police.--I\ndid not say that Phrenology was one of the Pseudo-sciences.\n\nA Pseudo-science does not necessarily consist wholly of lies. It may\ncontain many truths, and even valuable ones. The rottenest bank starts\nwith a little specie. It puts out a thousand promises to pay on the\nstrength of a single dollar, but the dollar is very commonly a good one.\nThe practitioners of the Pseudo-sciences know that common minds, after\nthey have been baited with a real fact or two, will jump at the merest\nrag of a lie, or even at the bare hook. When we have one fact found us,\nwe are very apt to supply the next out of our own imagination. (How many\npersons can read Judges xv. 16 correctly the first time?) The\nPseudo-sciences take advantage of this.--I did not say that it was so\nwith Phrenology.\n\nI have rarely met a sensible man who would not allow that there was\n_something_ in Phrenology. A broad, high forehead, it is commonly\nagreed, promises intellect; one that is \"villanous low\" and has a huge\nhind-head back of it, is wont to mark an animal nature. I have as rarely\nmet an unbiassed and sensible man who really believed in the bumps. It\nis observed, however, that persons with what the Phrenologists call\n\"good heads\" are more prone than others toward plenary belief in the\ndoctrine.\n\nIt is so hard to prove a negative, that, if a man should assert that the\nmoon was in truth a green cheese, formed by the coagulable substance of\nthe Milky Way, and challenge me to prove the contrary, I might be\npuzzled. But if he offer to sell me a ton of this lunar cheese, I call\non him to prove the truth of the caseous nature of our satellite, before\nI purchase.\n\nIt is not necessary to prove the falsity of the phrenological statement.\nIt is only necessary to show that its truth is not proved, and cannot\nbe, by the common course of argument. The walls of the head are double,\nwith a great air-chamber between them, over the smallest and most\nclosely crowded \"organs.\" Can you tell how much money there is in a\nsafe, which also has thick double walls, by kneading its knobs with your\nfingers? So when a man fumbles about my forehead, and talks about the\norgans of _Individuality_, _Size_, etc., I trust him as much as I should\nif he felt of the outside of my strong-box and told me that there was a\nfive-dollar- or a ten-dollar-bill under this or that particular rivet.\nPerhaps there is; _only he doesn't know anything about it_. But this is\na point that I, the Professor, understand, my friends, or ought to,\ncertainly, better than you do. The next argument you will all\nappreciate.\n\nI proceed, therefore, to explain the self-adjusting mechanism of\nPhrenology, which is _very similar_ to that of the Pseudo-sciences. An\nexample will show it most conveniently.\n\nA. is a notorious thief. Messrs. Bumpus and Crane examine him and find a\ngood-sized organ of Acquisitiveness. Positive fact for Phrenology. Casts\nand drawings of A. are multiplied, and the bump _does not lose_ in the\nact of copying.--I did not Hay it gained.--What do you look so for? (to\nthe boarders.)\n\nPresently B. turns up, a bigger thief than A. But B. has no bump at all\nover Acquisitiveness. Negative fact; goes against Phrenology.--Not a bit\nof it. Don't you see how small Conscientiousness is? _That's_ the reason\nB. stole.\n\nAnd then comes C., ten times as much a thief as either A. or B.,--used\nto steal before he was weaned, and would pick one of his own pockets and\nput its contents in another, if he could find no other way of committing\npetty larceny. Unfortunately, C. has a _hollow_, instead of a bump, over\nAcquisitiveness. Ah, but just look and see what a bump of\nAlimentiveness! Did not C. buy nuts and ginger-bread, when a boy, with\nthe money he stole? Of course you see why he is a thief, and how his\nexample confirms our noble science.\n\nAt last comes along a case which is apparently a _settler_, for there is\na little brain with vast and varied powers,--a case like that of Byron,\nfor instance. Then comes out the grand reserve-reason which covers\neverything and renders it simply impossible ever to corner a\nPhrenologist. \"It is not the size alone, but the _quality_ of an organ,\nwhich determines its degree of power.\"\n\nOh! oh! I see.--The argument may be briefly stated thus by the\nPhrenologist: \"Heads I win, tails you lose.\" Well, that's convenient.\n\nIt must be confessed that Phrenology has a certain resemblance to the\nPseudo-sciences. I did not say it was a Pseudo-science.\n\nI have often met persons who have been altogether struck up and amazed\nat the accuracy with which some wandering Professor of Phrenology had\nread their characters written upon their skulls. Of course the Professor\nacquires his information solely through his cranial inspections and\nmanipulations.--What are you laughing at? (to the boarders).--But let us\njust _suppose_, for a moment, that a tolerably cunning fellow, who did\nnot know or care anything about Phrenology, should open a shop and\nundertake to read off people's characters at fifty cents or a dollar\napiece. Let us see how well he could get along without the \"organs.\"\n\nI will suppose myself to set up such a shop. I would invest one hundred\ndollars, more or less, in casts of brains, skulls, charts, and other\nmatters that would make the most show for the money. That would do to\nbegin with. I would then advertise myself as the celebrated Professor\nBrainey, or whatever name I might choose, and wait for my first\ncustomer. My first customer is a middle-aged man. I look at him,--ask\nhim a question or two, so as to hear him talk. When I have got the hang\nof him, I ask him to sit down, and proceed to fumble his skull,\ndictating as follows:--\n\n\n                            SCALE FROM I TO 10.\n\n  LIST OF FACULTIES FOR CUSTOMER.     PRIVATE NOTES FOR MY PUPIL:\n                                   _Each to be accompanied with a wink._\n\n    _Amativeness_, 7.            Most men love the conflicting sex, and all\n                               men love to be told they do.\n\n    _Alimentiveness_, 8.         Don't you see that he has burst off his\n                               lowest waistcoat-button with feeding,--hay?\n\n    _Acquisitiveness_, 8.      Of course. A middle-aged Yankee.\n\n    _Approbativeness_, 7+.       Hat well brushed. Hair ditto. Mark the\n                               effect of that _plus_ sign.\n\n    _Self-esteem_, 6.          His face shows that.\n\n    _Benevolence_, 9.          That'll please him\n\n    _Conscientiousness_, 8-1/2. That fraction looks first-rate.\n\n    _Mirthfulness_, 7.         Has laughed twice since he came in.\n\n    _Ideality_, 9.             That sounds well.\n\n    _Form, Size, Weight, Color, }\n    Locality, Eventuality, etc.,}   4 to 6. Average everything that\n    etc.,_                      }              can't be guessed.\n\n                                    And so of the other faculties.\n\n\nOf course, you know, that isn't the way the Phrenologists do. They go\nonly by the bumps.--What do you keep laughing so for? (to the boarders.)\nI only said that is the way _I_ should practise \"Phrenology\" for a\nliving.\n\n_End of my Lecture._\n\n----The Reformers have good heads generally. Their faces are commonly\nserene enough, and they are lambs in private intercourse, even though\ntheir voices may be like\n\n  The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore,\n\nwhen heard from platform. Their greatest spiritual danger is from the\nperpetual _flattery of abuse_ to which they are exposed. These lines are\nmeant to caution them.\n\n\n\n\nSAINT ANTHONY THE REFORMER.\n\n\nHIS TEMPTATION.\n\n\n  No fear lest praise should make us proud!\n    We know how cheaply that is won;\n  The idle homage of the crowd\n    Is proof of tasks as idly done.\n\n  A surface-smile may pay the toil\n    That follows still the conquering Right,\n  With soft, white hands to dress the spoil\n    That sunbrowned arms have clutched in fight.\n\n  Sing the sweet song of other days,\n    Serenely placid, safely true,\n  And o'er the present's parching ways\n    Thy verse distils like evening dew.\n\n  But speak in words of living power,--\n    They fall like drops of scalding rain\n  That plashed before the burning shower\n    swept o'er the cities of the plain!\n\n  Then scowling Hate turns deadly pale,--\n    Then Passion's half-coiled adders spring,\n  And, smitten through their leprous mail,\n    Strike right and left in hope to sting.\n\n  If thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath,\n    They feet on earth, they heart above,\n  Canst walk in peace they kingly path,\n    Unchanged in trust, unchilled in love,--\n\n  Too kind for bitter words to grieve,\n    Too firm for clamor to dismay,\n  When Faith forbids thee to believe,\n    And Meekness calls to disobey,--\n\n  Ah, then beware of mortal pride!\n    The smiling pride that calmly scorns\n  Those foolish fingers, crimson dyed\n    In laboring on thy crown of thorns!\n\n\n\n\nTHE ITALIAN WAR.\n\n\nWar has been pronounced the condition of humanity; and it is certain\nthat conflict of some kind rages everywhere and at all times. The most\ncombative people on earth are the advocates of universal and perpetual\npeace. There is something essentially defiant in the action of men who\navowedly seek the abolition of a custom that has existed since the days\nof Cain, and which was well known to those magnificent beasts that\nranged over the earth's face long before man began to dream or was\ndreamed of. To fight seems a necessity of the animal nature, whether the\nanimal be called tiger, bull, or man. Those who have fought assure us\nthat there is a positive pleasure in battle. That clever young woman,\nMiss Flora Mac-Ivor, who passed most of her life in the very highest\nfighting society, assures us, that men, when confronted with each other,\nhave a certain instinct for strife, as we see in other male animals,\nsuch as dogs, bulls, and so forth. It is even so; and, further, the\nfondness that men have for accounts and details of battles is another\nevidence of the popularity of war, and an absolute stumbling-block in\nthe way of the Peace Society, which has the hardest of combats to fight.\n\nThe journals of the world are at this time full of the details of a war\nsuch as that world has not witnessed since 1815, and in comparison with\nwhich even the Russian War was but a second-rate contest. The old\nquarrel between Austria and France, which has repeatedly caused the\npeace of Europe to be broken since the days of Frederick III. and Louis\nXI., has been renewed in our time with a fierceness and a vehemence and\non a scale that would have astonished Francis I., Charles V., Richelieu,\nTurenne, Cond\u00e9, Louis XIV., Eug\u00e8ne, and even Napoleon himself, the most\nmighty of whose contests with Austria alone cannot be compared with that\nwhich his nephew is now waging with the House of Lorraine. For, in 1805\nand in 1809, Napoleon was not merely the ruler of France, but had at his\ncontrol the resources of many other countries. Belgium and Holland were\nthen at the command of France, and now they are independent monarchies,\nholding strictly the position of neutrals. In 1809, Napoleon had those\nvery German States for his active allies that now threaten Napoleon\nIII.; and some of the hardest fighting on the French side, in the first\ndays of the campaign, was the work of Bavarians and other German\nsoldiers. That part of Poland which then constituted the Grand Duchy of\nWarsaw was among his dependent principalities; and Russia sent an army\nto his aid. In 1805, Napoleon I. had far more of Italian assistance than\nNapoleon III. has had at the time we write; and in 1809, the entire\nPeninsula obeyed his decrees as implicitly as they were obeyed by\nFrance. Napoleon III. entered upon the war with the hereditary rival of\nhis country with no other ally than Sardinia, though it is now evident\nthat there was an \"understanding\" between him and the Czar, not pointing\nto an attack on England, but to prevent the intervention of the Germans\nin behalf of Austria, by holding out the implied threat of an attack on\nGermany by Russia, should its rulers or people move against the allies.\n\nWhatever may be thought of the motives of the French Emperor, and\nhowever little most men may be disposed to believe in his generosity, it\nis impossible to refrain from admiring the promptness and skill with\nwhich he has acted, or to deny to him the merit of courage in daring to\npronounce so decidedly against the Austrians at a time when he could not\nhave reasonably reckoned upon a single ally beyond the limits of Italy,\nwhen England, under Tory rule, was more disposed to act against him than\nwith him, and when the hostility of Germany, and its readiness to\nsupport the Slavonic empire of Austria, were unequivocally expressed. So\ngreat indeed, were the odds against him, that we find in that fact the\nchief reason for the indisposition of the world to believe in the\npossibility of war, and its extraordinary surprise when war actually\nbroke out.\n\nTo those who had closely scanned the affairs of Europe, and who observed\nthem by the light of the history of nearly four centuries, the coming of\nwar was no surprise. They foresaw it, and predicted its occurrence some\ntime before that famous lecture which the Emperor of the French\nadministered to the Emperor of Austria in the person of Baron H\u00fcbner.\nWith them, the question was not, Shall there be a war?--but it was, When\nwill the war break out? They reasoned from the _cause_ of the quarrel\nbetween the two empires; while those who so long clung to the belief\nthat peace would be preserved, and who so plausibly argued in support of\ntheir theory as to impose upon wellnigh the whole world, concerned\nthemselves only with its _occasion_. The former referred to things that\nlay beyond the range of temporary politics, and, while admitting that\nthe shock of actual conflict might be postponed even for a few years,\nwere certain that such conflict must come, even if in the interval there\nshould happen an entire change of government in France. France might be\nimperial, or royal, or republican, she might be Bonapartean, or\nHenriquist, or Orl\u00e9ansist, or democratic,--tri-color, white, blue or\nred,--but the quarrel would come, and cause new campaigns. The latter\nthinking that the dispute was on the Italian question only, and knowing\nthat that was susceptible of diplomatic settlement, and believing that\nthere would be a union of European powers to accomplish such settlement,\nrather than allow peace to be disturbed, never could suppose that the\nbalance of probabilities would be found on the side of war. It is due to\nthem to say, that a variety of causes conduced not merely to make them\nfirm in their faith, but to win for their views the general approbation\non mankind. Prominent among these was the striking fact, that there had\nbeen no European was, strictly so called, with the single exception of\nthe Russian contest,--and that was highly exceptional in its\ncharacter,--for four-and-forty years. The generation that is passing\naway, and the generation that is most active in discharging the business\nof the world, never had seen a grand conflict between Christian states,\nin which mighty armies had operated on vast and various fields. Old men\nrecollected the wars of Napoleon, but the number of such men is not\nlarge, and their influence on opinion is small. Of quarrels and threats\nof war all had seen enough; but this only tended to make them slow to\nbelieve that war was really at hand. If so many quarrels had taken\nplace, and had been settled without resort to arms, assuredly the new\nquarrel might be settled, and Europe get on peaceably for a few years\nmore without warfare. Neither the invasion of Spain in 1823, nor the\nrevolution of 1830, nor the Eastern question of 1840, nor the universal\noutbreaks of 1848-9, nor the threats of Russia against Turkey when she\nsought to compel the Sultan to give up those who had eaten his salt to\nthe gallows of Arad, nor the repeated discussions of the practicability\nof a French conquest of England had led to a general war. If so many and\nso black clouds had been dispersed without storms, it was not reasonable\nto believe that the cloud which rose in the beginning of 1859 might also\nbreak, and leave again a serene sky. It may be added that we have all of\nus come to the conclusion that this is the best age the world has ever\nknown, as in most respects it is; and it seemed scarcely compatible with\nour estimate of the age's excellence to believe that it _could_ send a\ncouple of million of men into the field for the purpose of cutting one\nanother's throats, except clearly as an act of self-defence. Man is the\nsame war-making animal now that he was in the days of Marathon, but he\nreadily admits the evils of war, and is peremptory in demanding that\nthey shall not be incurred save for good and valid reasons. He is as\nready to fight as ever he was, but he must fight for some definite\ncause,--for a cause that will bear examination: and it did not seem\npossible that a mere dispute concerning the manner in which Austria\ngoverned her Italian dominions was of sufficient moment to light up the\nflames of war anew on a scale as gigantic as ever they were made to\nblaze during the days of Napoleon. Then, so far as the Russian War threw\nany light upon the policy of France, the fair inference was that she at\nleast was not disposed to fight. France made the peace by which that war\nwas brought to a sudden end. She dictated that peace, much to the\ndisgust of the English, who had just become thoroughly roused, and who,\nlittle anticipating the Indian mutiny, were for carrying on the contest\nuntil Russia should be thoroughly humiliated. Considering all these\nthings, it was not unreasonable to believe that peace could be\nmaintained, and that Austria, far from taking the initiative in the war,\nwould be found ready to make such concessions as should lead to the\nindefinite postponement of hostilities.\n\nThose who reasoned from the mere occasion of the war were perfectly\nright, from their point of view. Unfortunately for their reputation for\nsagacity, their premises were entirely wrong, and hence the viciousness\nof their conclusion. If we would know the cause of the war, we must\nbanish from our minds all that is said about the desire of Napoleon III\nfor vengeance on the conquerors of his uncle, all that we are told of\nhis sentimental wish for the elevation of the Italian people to a\nnational position, and all that is predicated of his ambitious longings\nfor the reconstruction of the First Empire. We must regard Napoleon III\nin the light of what he really is, namely, one of the greatest statesmen\nthat ever lived, or we shall never be able to understand what are his\npurposes. We have nothing to do with his morals, but have to regard him\nonly as the chief of France, pursuing the policy he believes best\ncalculated to advance that country's interests, and doing so in strict\naccordance with her historical traditions, and in the same manner in\nwhich it was pursued by the ablest of the Valois kings, by Henry IV. and\nSully, by Richelieu and Mazarin, by Louis XIV., by the chiefs of the\nFirst Republic, and by Napoleon I. He may be a good man or a bad man,\nbut his character is entirely aside from the question, the nature and\nmerits of which have no necessary connection with the nature and merits\nof the men engaged in effecting its solution. Let us examine the\nsubject, and see if we cannot find an intelligent, reasonable cause for\nNapoleon's course of action, that shall harmonize with the duties, we\nmight almost say the instincts, of a great French statesman. The\nexamination will embrace nothing recondite, but we are confident it will\nshow that the French Emperor is no Quixote, and that he has been forced\ninto the war by the necessities of his situation, and by the very\nnatural desire he feels to prevent France from being compelled to\ndescend to a secondary place in the scale of European nations.\n\nModern Europe, in the sense in which we understand the term, dates from\nthe last quarter of the Fifteenth Century. Then England ceased to\nattempt permanent conquests on the continent. Then Spain assumed\nEuropean rank and definite position. But two powers then began\nespecially to show themselves, and to play parts which both have\nmaintained down to the present time. The one was France, which then\nceased to dread English invasions, from the effects of which she was\nrapidly recovering, whereby she was left to employ her energies on\nforeign fields. The other was the _House of Austria_, which, by a series\nof fortunate marriages, became, in the short period of forty years, the\nmost powerful family the modern world has ever known. On the day when\nMaximilian, son of Frederick III., Emperor of Germany, wedded Mary of\nBurgundy, daughter of Charles the Bold, the rivalry between France and\nthe Austrian family began. Philip, son of that marriage, married Juana,\ndaughter of Ferdinand and Isabella; and their son, Charles I. of the\nSpains, became Charles V. of Germany. Thus there centred in his person a\ndegree of power such as no other sovereign could boast, and which alone\nwould have sufficed to make him the rival of the King of France, Francis\nI., had no personal feeling entered into the relations between them. But\nsuch feeling existed, and grew out of their competition for the imperial\ncrown. The previous ill-will between the Valois and the Hapsburg was\ngreatly increased, and assumed such force as permanently to color the\ncourse of European history from that day to this. The rivalry of Charles\nand Francis was the cause of many contests, and the French monarch,\nthough he was \"The Most Christian King,\" in the opinion of some, more\nthan once aided, or offered to aid, the German Protestants against the\nEmperor. To Philip II. and Henry II. the rivalry of their fathers\ndescended as an inheritance. It was in their warfare that the Battle of\nSt. Quentin was fought. The progress of the Reformation led monarchs in\nthose days to take a view of affairs not much unlike that which monarchs\nof this century took in the days of the Holy Alliance, and after the\nrevolution of 1830. The hatred of Protestantism led the two kings to\ndraw together, though Henry II. had had no mean part in that work which\nhad enabled the Protestant Maurice of Saxony to render abortive all the\nplans of Charles V. for the full restoration of Catholicism in Germany.\nDuring the thirty years that followed the death of Henry II., the\ndissensions of France had rendered her unable to contend with the House\nof Austria, then principally represented by the Spanish branch of that\nfamily; and Philip II. at one time thought of obtaining the crown of\nthat country for a member of his own house. But no sooner had Henry IV.\nascended the French throne, and established himself firmly thereon, than\nthe rivalry of France and Austria became as clearly pronounced as it had\nbeen in the reign of Francis I.; and at the time of his death that most\npopular of the Bourbon kings was engaged on a plan having for its object\nthe subversion of the Austrian power. His assassination changed the\ncourse of events for a few years; but Richelieu became the ally of the\nSwedes and Protestant Germans in the Thirty Years' War, though he was a\nCardinal, had destroyed the political power of the Huguenots, and might\nhave aspired to the Papacy. Mazarin, another Cardinal, followed\nRichelieu's policy. Louis XIV. was repeatedly at war with the House of\nAustria, though he was the son of an Austrian princess, and was married\nto another. His last war with that house was for the throne of Spain,\nwhen the elder branch of the Hapsburgs died out, in 1700. Louis XV. had\ntwo contests with Austria; but in 1756, under the lead of Count Kaunitz,\nFrance and Austria were united, and acted together in the Seven Years'\nWar, the incidents and effects of which were by no means calculated to\nreconcile the French to the departure of their government from its\nancient policy. One of the causes of the French Revolution was the\nAustrian alliance, and one of its effects was the complete rupture of\nthat alliance. Austria was the most determined foe that the French\nRepublic and Empire ever encountered. Including the war of 1815, there\nwere six contests between Austria and republican and imperial France. In\nall these wars Austria was the aggressor, and showed herself to be the\nenemy of _France_ as well as of those _French principles_ which so\nfrightened the conservatives of the world in those days. In the first\nwar, she took possession of French places for herself, and not for the\nHouse of Bourbon; and in the last she purposed a partition of France,\nlong after Louis XVIII. had been finally restored, and when Napoleon was\nat or near St. Helena. She demanded that Alsace and Lorraine should be\nmade over to her, in the autumn of 1815. She sought to induce Prussia to\nunite with her by offering to support any demand that she might make for\nFrench territory; and, failing to move that power, endeavored to get the\nsmaller German States to act with her,--the same States, indeed, that\nare now so hostile to France, and which talk of a march upon Paris, and\nof a reduction of French territorial strength. Nothing prevented the\nAustrian idea from being reduced to practice but the opposition of\nRussia and England, neither of which had any interest in the spoliation\nof France, while both had no desire to see Austria rendered stronger\nthan she was. It was to England that Austria owed her Italian\npossessions, which, in 1814, she at first had the sense not to wish to\nbe cumbered with; and to make her still more powerful north of the Alps\nwas not to be thought of even by the Liverpools and Castlereaghs. The\nCzar, too, had in his thoughts a closer connection with France than it\nsuited him then to avow, and for purposes of his own; and therefore he\ncould not desire the sensible diminution of the power of a country the\nresources of which he expected to employ. Nicholas inherited his\nbrother's ideas and designs, and we are to attribute much of the\nill-feeling that he exhibited towards the Orl\u00e9ans dynasty to his\ndisappointment; for the revolution that elevated that dynasty to the\nFrench throne destroyed the hope that he had entertained of having\nFrench aid to effect the conquest of Turkey. There never would have been\na siege of Sebastopol, if the elder branch of the Bourbons had continued\nto rule in France. It required even a series of revolutions to bring\nFrance to that condition in which the Western Alliance was possible. But\nthere would have been something more than \"an understanding\" between\nFrance and Russia concerning Austria, had the government of the\nRestoration endured a few years beyond 1830. It suited the Austrian\ngovernment to show considerable coldness towards the Orl\u00e9ans dynasty;\nbut assuredly so wise a man as Prince Metternich, and who had such\nexcellent means of information, never could have believed otherwise than\nthat the establishment of that dynasty saved Austria from being assailed\nby both Russia and France.\n\nThe rivalry of France and Austria being understood, and that rivalry\nleading to war whenever occasion therefor chances to arise, it remains\nto inquire what is the occasion of the existing contest. When Napoleon\nIII. became head of France, as Prince-President, at the close of 1848,\nAustria was the last power with which he could have engaged in war,\nsupposing that he had then been strong enough to control the policy of\nFrance, and it had suited him to make an occasion for war. She was then\nengaged in her death-and-life struggles with Hungarians, Italians, and\nothers of her subjects who that year threw off her yoke, while the\nSardinians had endeavored to obtain possession of Lombardy and Venice.\nFrancis Joseph became chief of the Austrian Empire at the same time that\nLouis Napoleon ascended to the same point in France. Certainly, if the\nobject of France had been the mere weakening and spoliation of Austria,\nthen was the time to assail her, when one half her subjects were\nfighting the other half, when the Germans outside of her empire were by\nno means her friends, and when it was far from clear that she could rely\nupon assistance from Russia. Austria was then in a condition of\nhelplessness apparently so complete, that many thought her hour had\ncome; but those who knew her history, and were aware how often she had\nrecovered from just such crises, held no belief of the kind. Yet if\nFrance had assailed her at that time, Austria must have lost all her\nItalian provinces; and it is now generally admitted, that, if Cavaignac\nhad sent a French army into Italy immediately after the victory won by\nRadetzky over Charles Albert at Somma Campagna, (July 26th, 1848,) the\n\"Italian question\" would then have been settled in a manner that would\nhave been satisfactory to the greater part of Europe, and have rendered\nsuch a war as is now waging in Italy quite impossible. Russia could have\ndone nothing to prevent the success of the French arms, and it is\nprobable that Austria would have abandoned the contest without fighting\na battle. At an earlier period she had signified her readiness to allow\nthe incorporation of most of Lombardy with Sardinia, she to retain the\ncountry beyond the Mincio, and to hold the two great fortresses of\nPeschiera (at the southern extremity of the Lago di Garda, and at the\npoint where the river issues from the lake) and Mantua. She even asked\nthe aid of France and England to effect a peace on this basis, but\nunsuccessfully. Cavoignac's anomalous political position prevented him\nfrom aiding the Italians. He was a Liberal, but the actual head of the\nreactionists in France of all colors, of men who looked upon the\nItalians as ruffians wedded to disorder, while Austria, in their eyes,\nwas the champion of order. France did nothing, and in December Louis\nNapoleon became President. An opportunity was soon afforded him to\ninterfere in Italian affairs. The armistice that had existed between the\nAustrians and the Sardinians after the 9th of August, 1848, was\ndenounced on the 12th of March, 1849, by the latter; and Radetzky closed\nthe order of the day, issued immediately after this denunciation was\nmade, with the words,--\"Forward, soldiers, to Turin!\" The intentions of\nthe Sardinians must have been known to Louis Napoleon, but he took no\nmeasures to aid them. He saw Piedmont conquered in a campaign of\n\"hours.\" He saw Brescia treated by Haynau as Tilly treated Magdeburg. He\nsaw the long and heroical defence of Venice against the Austrians,\nduring the dreary spring and summer of '49,--a defence as worthy of\nimmortality as the War of Chiozza, and indicating the presence of the\nspirit of Zeno, and Contarini, and Pisani in the old home of those\npatriots. But nothing moved him. He would not even mediate in behalf of\nthe Venetians; and it was by the advice of the French consul and the\nFrench admiral on the station that Venice finally surrendered, but not\nuntil she had exhausted the means of defence and life. At that time, few\nmen in America but were in the habit of denouncing the French President\nfor his indifference to the Italian cause. He was charged with having\nbeen guilty of a blunder and a crime. His consent to the expedition to\nRome aggravated his offence, for it was an act of intervention on the\nwrong side. But the passage of ten years enables us to be more just to\nhim than it was possible for us to be in 1849. He was not firm in his\nseat. He was but a temporary chief of the State. He was surrounded by\nenemies, political and personal, who were seeking his overthrow, without\nany regard for the tenure of his office. He knew not his power. His\nobject was the restoration of internal peace to France, her recovery\nfrom the weakness info which she had fallen or had been precipitated. He\ndared not offend the Catholics, who saw then, as they see now, a\nchampion in Austria. He was the victim of circumstances, and he had to\nbow before them, in order that he might finally become their master.\nThen he had no occasion for a quarrel with Austria. She was at the\nlowest ebb her fortunes had known since the day that the Turks appeared\nfor the second time before Vienna. She could not have maintained herself\nin Italy, even after the successes of Radetzky, had not Nicholas sent\none hundred and fifty thousand men to her assistance in Hungary. What\nhad France to fear from her? No more than she had to fear from her on\nthe day after Austerlitz.\n\nYears rolled on, and brought with them great changes; and the greatest\nof those changes was to be seen in Italy, in reference to the position\nof Austria there, and its effect upon France. Austria rapidly\nre\u00ebstablished her power in Italy, not only over Lombardy and Venice, but\nover every part of the Peninsula, excepting Sardinia. Tuscany was\nconnected with her by various ties, and was ruled as she wished it to be\nruled. Parma and Modena were hers in every sense. She was the patron and\nprotector of the abominable Bomba, and her support alone enabled him to\ndefy the sentiment of the civilized world, and to indulge in cruelties\nsuch as would have added new infamy to the name of Ezzelino. She upheld\nthe misgovernment of the Papal States, which has made Rome the scandal\nof Europe. All the nominal rulers of the Italian States, with the\nhonorable exception of the King of Sardinia, were her vassal princes,\nand were no more free to act without her consent than were the kings the\nRoman Republic and Empire allowed to exist within their dominions free\nto act without the consent of the proconsuls. What the proconsul of\nSyria was to the little potentates mentioned in the New Testament, the\nAustrian viceroy in the Lombardo-Venetian kingdom was to the nominal\nrulers of the various Italian States. It only remained to bring Sardinia\nwithin this ring-fence of sea and mountains to convert all Italy into an\nAustrian dependency. There is nothing like this in history, we verily\nbelieve. In the short period of ten years after the capture of Milan by\nRadetzky, (August 4, 1848,) the Austrians had established themselves\ncompletely in nearly every part of Italy. Of the twenty-seven millions\nof people that compose her population, twenty-two millions were as much\nat the command of Austria as were the Hungarians and Bohemians. Had she\nhad the sense to use her power, not with mildness only, but beneficially\nto this great mass of men, and had nothing occurred to disturb her\nplans, she would have nearly doubled the number of her subjects, and\nhave more than doubled her resources. She would have become a great\nmaritime state, and have converted the Mediterranean into an Austrian\nlake. Had they been well governed, the Italians might, and most probably\nwould, have accepted their condition, and have become loyal subjects of\nthe House of Lorraine. Foreign rule is no new thing to them, nor have\nthey ever been impatient under its existence, when it has existed for\ntheir good. The people rarely are hostile to any government that is\nconducted with ordinary fairness. There is no greater error than that\ninvolved in the idea that revolutions or changes of any kind originate\nfrom below, that they proceed from the people. Almost invariably they\ncome from above, from governmental action; and it is ever in the power\nof a government to make itself perpetual. The term of its existence is\nin its own hands. At the very worst for Austria, she might have\naccomplished in Italy what was accomplished there three centuries ago by\nSpain, then ruled by the elder branch of the Hapsburgs. She might have\ncommanded almost everything within its limits, with Sardinia to play\nsome such part as was then played by Venice.\n\nThis is said on the supposition, first, that her government should have\nbeen mild and conciliatory, active only for good, and that all her\ninterference with local rule should have been on the side of humanity;\nand, second, that no foreign power should have interfered to prevent the\nfull development of her policy. Unfortunately for her, but fortunately\nfor other nations, and especially so for Italy, she not only did _not_\ngovern well, but governed badly; and there was a great power which was\ndeeply, vitally interested--moved by the all-controlling principle of\nself-preservation--in watching all her movements, and in finding\noccasion to drive her out of Italy. She was not content with upholding\nmisgovernment in Naples, Rome, Tuscany, Modena, Parma, and elsewhere,\nbut she meant to subvert the constitutional polity established in the\nSub-Alpine Kingdom of Sardinia. The enemy of constitutionalism and\nfreedom everywhere, she was especially hostile to their existence in the\nlittle state that bordered on a portion of her Italian possessions,\nwhence they always threatened Lombardy with a plague she detests far\nmore heartily than she detests cholera. No natural boundary or _cordon\nmilitaire_ could suffice to stay the march of principles. Nothing would\nanswer but the subversion of the Sardinian constitution and the bringing\nof that nation's government into harmony with the admirable rule that\nexisted, under the double-headed eagle's protection, in Naples and\nModena. Unless all Austrian history be false, Austria's object for years\nhas been a revolution in Sardinia, and Rome has aided her. This is the\nnecessity of her moral situation with reference to her little neighbor.\nThe world has smiled at Austria's late complaint that Sardinia menaced\nher, it seemed so like the wolf's protestation that the lamb was doing\nhim an injury; but it was really well founded, though not entitled to\nmuch respect. Sardinia _did_ menace Austria. She menaced her by the\nforce of her example,--as the honest man menaces the rogue, as the\npeaceful man menaces the ruffian, as the charitable man menaces the\nmiser, as the Good Samaritan menaced the priest and Levite. In the sense\nthat virtue ever menaces vice, and right constantly menaces wrong,\nSardinia was a menace to Austria;--and as we often find the wrongdoer\ndenouncing the good as subverters of social order, we ought not to be\nastonished at the plaintive whine of the master of thrice forty legions\nat the conduct of the decorous, humane, and enlightened Victor Emanuel.\n\nThe only foreign power that had a direct, immediate, positive interest\nin preventing the establishment of Austrian power over Italy was France.\nSeveral other powers had some interest adverse to the success of the\nAustrian scheme, but it was so far below that which France felt, that it\nis difficult to make any comparison between the several cases. England,\nspeaking generally, might not like the idea of a new naval power coming\ninto existence in the Mediterranean, which, with great fleets and\ngreater armies, might come to have a controlling influence in the East,\nand prevent the establishment of her power in Egypt and Syria. She might\nsee with some jealousy the further development of Austrian commerce,\nwhich has been so successfully pursued in the Mediterranean and the\nLevant since 1815. But then England is not very remarkable for\nforethought, and she has a just confidence in her own naval power.\nBesides, would not Austria, in the event of her adding Italy virtually\nto her dominions, become the ally of England in the business of\nsupporting Turkey against Russia, and in preventing the further\nextension of Russian power to the South and the East? The old\ntraditionary policy of England pointed to an Austrian alliance, and\nnations are tenacious of their traditions. The war in Italy was\nunquestionably precipitated by Austria's belief that in the last resort\nshe could rely upon English support; and she made a fatal delay in her\nmilitary movements in deference to English interposition. Prussia could\nnot be expected to see the increase of the power of the House of Austria\nwith pleasure; but it was possible that the extension of its dominions\nto the South, by giving it new objects of ambition, and forcing upon it\na leading part in Eastern affairs, might cause that house to pay less\nregard to German matters, leaving them to be managed by the House of\nHohenzollern. Russia, under the system that Nicholas pursued, could not\nhave seen Austria absorb Italy without resisting the process at any\ncost; but Alexander IV., [Footnote: I call the present czar Alexander\nthe _Fourth_, as there have been three other Alexanders _sovereigns_ of\nRussia; but he is generally styled Alexander the _Second_.] a wiser man\nthan his father was, never would have gone to war to prevent it, his\nviews being directed to those internal reforms the success of which is\nlikely to create a _Russian People_, and to place his empire in a far\nhigher position than it has ever yet occupied. Yet Russia could not have\nwitnessed Austria's success with pleasure; and the readiness with which\nshe has agreed to aid France, should the Germans aid Austria, is proof\nsufficient that she is desirous that Austria should not merely be\nprevented from extending her territory, but actually reduced in extent\nand in means. From no part of Europe have come more decided\ncondemnations of the course of Austria than from the Russian capital.\nThe language of the St. Petersburg journals touching the Treaties of\nVienna has been absolutely contemptuous; and that language is all the\nmore oracular and significant because we know that the editors of those\njournals must have been inspired by the government. It has been justly\nregarded as expressing the views of the Czar, and of the statesmen who\ncompose his cabinet. Though not disposed for war, and probably sincerely\ndesirous of the preservation of peace everywhere, the rulers of Russia\nare quite ready to support France in all proper measures that she may\nadopt to drive the Austrians from every part of the Italian Peninsula.\nThey are too sagacious not to see that France cannot hold a league of\nItalian territory, and the reduction of Austrian power is just so much\ngained towards the ultimate realization of their Oriental policy.\n\nOf the other European powers, and of their opinions respecting the\neffect of Austrian supremacy, little need be said. Such countries as\nSweden, Denmark, Holland, Belgium, and Portugal have little weight in\nthe European system, individually or collectively. Even Spain, though\nshe is not the feeble nation many of our countrymen are pleased to\nrepresent her, when seeking to find a _reason_ for the seizure of\nCuba,--even Spain, we say, could not be much moved by the prospect of\nAustria's reaching to that condition of vast strength which would\nnecessarily follow from her undisputed ascendency in Italy. The lesser\nGerman States would probably have seen Austria's increase with pleasure,\npartly because it would have helped to remove their fears of France and\nRussia, and partly because it would have been flattering to their pride\nof race, the House of Austria being Germanic in its character, though\nruling directly over but few Germans,--few, we mean, in comparison with\nthe Slaves, Magyars, Italians, and other races that compose the bulk of\nits subjects. Turkey alone had a direct interest in Austria's success,\nas promising her protection against all the other great European powers;\nbut Turkey is not, properly speaking, a member of the European\nCommonwealth.\n\nBut the case was very different with France. She is the first nation of\nContinental Europe,--a position she has held for nearly four centuries,\nthough sometimes her fortunes have been reduced very low, as during the\nclosing days of the Valois dynasty, and in 1815; but even in 1815 she\nhad the melancholy consolation of knowing that it required the combined\nexertions of all Europe to conquer her. Her wonderful elasticity in\nrising superior to the severest visitations has often surprised the\nworld, and those who remember 1815 will be most astonished at her\npresent position in Europe, or rather in Christendom. Her position,\nhowever, has always been the result of indefatigable exertions, and a\nvariety of circumstances have made those exertions necessary on several\noccasions. Great as France is now, and great as she has been at several\nperiods of her history since the death of Mazarin, it may be doubted if\nshe is so great as she was at the date of the Treaty of Westphalia, the\nwork of her arms and her diplomacy (1648). At that time, and for many\nyears afterwards, several nations had no pronounced political existence\nthat now are powers of the first class. Russia had no weight in Europe\nuntil the last years of Louis XIV., and her real importance commenced\nfifty years after that monarch was placed in his grave. Prussia, though\nshe attained to a respectable position at the close of the seventeenth\ncentury, the date of the creation of her monarchy, did not become a\nfirst-class power until two generations later, and as the result of the\nSeven Years' War. The United States count but eighty-three years of\nnational life; and they have had international influence less than half\nof that time. England, which the restoration of the Stuarts caused to\nsink so low in those very years during which Louis XIV. was at the\nzenith of his greatness, has been for one hundred and seventy years the\nequal of France. On the other hand, the two nations with which France\nwas formerly much connected, Turkey and Sweden, have ceased to influence\nevents. France allied herself with Turkey in the early years of her\nstruggle with the House of Austria, to the offence of Christian peoples;\nand the relations between Paris and Constantinople were long maintained\non the basis of common interest, the only tie that has ever sufficed to\nbind nations. Both countries were the enemies of Austria. The second\nhalf of the Thirty Years' War was maintained, on the part of the enemies\nof Austria, by the alliance of France and Sweden; and between these\ncountries a good understanding frequently prevailed in after-times, the\ngrowth of Russia serving to force Sweden into the arms of France. Poland\nhas disappeared from the list of nations, and her territory has\naugmented the resources of two countries that had no political weight in\nthe first century of the Bourbon kings, and those of France's rival.\nThus France has relatively fallen. That ancient international system of\nwhich she was the centre for nearly one hundred and fifty years--say\nfrom the middle of the reign of Henry IV. to the Peace of\nAix-la-Chapelle, (1599-1748)--has passed entirely away from the world,\nand never can be restored. France has seldom seriously thought of\nattempting its restoration, though some of her statesmen, and probably a\nlarge majority of the more intelligent of her people, have from time to\ntime warmly favored the idea of the reconstruction of Poland; and of all\nthe errors of Napoleon I., his failure to realize that idea was\nunquestionably the greatest. The turn that things took in the French\nRevolution enabled France to establish an hegemony in Europe, which\nmight have been long preserved but for the disasters of 1812; but the\nempire of Napoleon I. was never a political empire, being only of a\nmilitary character. France then led Europe, but she lost her ascendency\non the first reverse, like Sparta after Leuctra. History has no parallel\nto the change that the France of 1814 presented to the France of 1812.\nOn the 1st of October, 1812, the French were at Moscow; on the 1st of\nApril, 1814, the allies were in Paris. Eighteen months had done work\nthat no man living at the first date had expected to see accomplished.\nWhat happened in 1815 was but the complement of 1814. Then France was\nstruck down, trampled upon, spoiled, insulted, and mulcted in immense\nsums of money; and finally forced to pay the cost of an armed police,\nheaded by Wellington himself, which held her chief fortresses for three\nyears, and saw that her chains were kept bright and strong. Never, since\nLysander demolished the Long Walls of Athens to the music of the Spartan\nflute, had the world seen so bitter a spectacle of national humiliation,\nso absolute a reversal of fortune,--the long-conquering legions\nperishing by the sword, and him who had headed so many triumphal\nprocessions perishing as it were in the Mamertine dungeon.\n\nIt was from the nadir to which she had thus fallen, that the rulers of\nFrance, acting as the agents of its people, have been laboring to raise\nher ever since 1815. They have had a twofold object in view. They have\nsought territory, in order that France might not be driven into the list\nof second-class nations,--and military glory, to make men forget\nVittoria, and Leipzig, and Waterloo. All the governments of France have\nbeen alike in this respect, no matter how much they have differed in\nother respects. The legitimate Bourbons,--of whom an American is bound\nto speak well, for they were our friends, and often evinced a feeling\ntowards us that exceeded largely anything that is required by the terms\nor the spirit of a political alliance,--the solitary Orl\u00e9ans King, the\nshadowy Republic of '48, and the imperial government, all have\nendeavored to do something to elevate France, to win for her new\nglories, and to regain for her her old position. The expedition into\nSpain, in 1823, ostensibly made in the interest of Absolutism, was\nreally undertaken for the purpose of rebaptizing the white flag in fire.\nCharles X. and M. de Polignac were engaged in a great scheme of foreign\npolicy when they fell, the chief object of which, on their side, was the\nrestoration to France of the provinces of the Rhine,--and which Russia\nfavored, because she knew, that, unless the Bourbons could do something\nto satisfy their people, they must remain powerless, and it did not\nanswer her purpose that they should be otherwise than powerful. The\nconquest of Algiers was made for the purpose of gratifying the French\npeople, and with the intention of spreading French dominion over\nNorthern Africa. It was a step towards the acquisition of Egypt, for\nwhich land France has exhibited a strange longing. In this way the loss\nof French India and French America, things of the old monarchy, were to\nbe compensated. The government of Louis Philippe expended mines of gold\nand seas of blood in Africa, much to the astonishment of prudent men,\nwho had no idea of the end upon which its eyes were fixed. When the\nRepublic of 1848 was improvised, even Lamartine, not an unjust man,\ncould talk of the rights of France in Italy, and of her proper influence\nthere; and the wicked attack on the Romans, in 1849, was prompted by a\ndesire to make French influence felt in that country in a manner that\nshould be clear to the sense of mankind.\n\nWhen Louis Napoleon became President of France, it was impossible for\nhim to devote much attention to foreign affairs. His aim was to make\nhimself Emperor, to restore the Napoleon dynasty. This, after a hard\nstruggle, he effected in 1851-'52. It must be within the recollection of\nall that the French invasion question was never more vehemently\ndiscussed in England than during the ten or twelve months that followed\nthe _coup d'\u00e9tat_. This happened because it was assumed that the Emperor\n_must_ do something to revenge the injuries his house and France had\nsuffered from that alliance of which England was the chief member and\nthe purse-holder. Whether he ever thought of assailing England, no man\ncan say; for he never yet communicated his thoughts on any important\nsubject to any human being. We may assume, however, that he would not\nhave attacked England without having made extensive preparations for\nthat purpose; and long before such preparations could have been\nperfected, the Eastern question was forced upon the attention of Europe,\nand the two nations which were expected to engage in war as foes united\ntheir immense armaments to thwart the plans of Russia. Blinded by his\nfeelings, and altogether mistaking the character of the English people,\nthe Czar treated Napoleon III. contemptuously, and sought to bring about\nthe partition of Turkey by the aid of England alone. It will always\nfurnish material for the ingenious writers of the history of things that\nmight have been, whether the French Emperor would have accepted the\nCzar's proposition, had it been made to him. Certainly it would have\nenabled him to do great things for France, while by the same course of\naction he could have struck heavy blows at both England and Austria. As\nit was, he joined England to oppose Russia, and the English have borne\nfull and honorable testimony to his fidelity to his engagements. The war\nconcluded, his attention was directed to Italy, and he sought to\nmeliorate the condition of that country; but Austria would not hear even\nof the discussion of Italian affairs. The events that marked the course\nof things in Paris, in the spring of 1856, showed that nothing could be\nhoped for Italy from Austria. She spoke, through Count Buol, as if she\nregarded the whole Peninsula as peculiarly her property, meddling with\nwhich on the part of other powers was sheer impertinence, and not to be\nborne with good temper, or even the show of it.\n\nThe twenty-second meeting of the Congress of Paris, held the 8th of\nApril, was long, exciting, and important; for then several European\nquestions were discussed, among them being the affairs of Italy. The\nprotocol of that day proves the sensitiveness of the Austrian\nplenipotentiaries and the earnestness of those of Sardinia. Eight days\nlater, the Sardinian plenipotentiaries, Cavour and De Villa Marina,\naddressed to the governments of France and England a Memorial relating\nto the affairs of Italy, in the course of which occur expressions that\nmust have had a strong effect on the mind of Napoleon III. \"Called by\nthe sovereigns of the small states of Italy, who are powerless to\nrepress the discontent of their subjects,\" says the Memorial, \"Austria\noccupies militarily the greater part of the Valley of the Po and of\nCentral Italy, and makes her influence felt in an irresistible manner,\n_even in the countries where she has no soldiers_. Resting on one side\non Ferrara and Bologna, her troops extend themselves to Ancona, the\nlength of the Adriatic, which has become in a manner an Austrian lake;\non the other, mistress of Piacenza, which, contrary to the spirit, if\nnot to the letter, of the Treaties of Vienna, she labors to transform\ninto a first-class fortress, she has a garrison at Parma, and makes\ndispositions to deploy her forces all along the Sardinian frontier, from\nthe Po to the summit of the Apennines. This permanent occupation by\nAustria of territories which do not belong to her _renders her absolute\nmistress of nearly all Italy_, destroys the equilibrium established by\nthe Treaties of Vienna, and is a continual menace to Piedmont.\" In\nconclusion, the plenipotentiaries say,--\"Sardinia is the only state in\nItaly that has been able to raise an impassable barrier to the\nrevolutionary spirit, and at the same time remain independent of\nAustria. It is the counterpoise to her invading influence. If Sardinia\nsuccumbed, exhausted of power, abandoned by her allies,--if she also was\nobliged to submit to Austrian domination, _then the conquest of Italy by\nthis power would be achieved_; and Austria, after having obtained,\nwithout its costing her the least sacrifice, the immense benefit of the\nfree navigation of the Danube, and the neutralization of the Black Sea,\n_would acquire a preponderating influence in the West_. This is what\nFrance and England would never wish,--this they will never permit.\"\n\nThese are grave and weighty words, and were well calculated to produce\nan effect on the mind of Napoleon III.; and we are convinced that they\nfurnish a key to his conduct toward Austria, and set forth the occasion\nof the Italian War. The supremacy of Austria once completely asserted\nover Italy, France would necessarily sink in the European scale in\nprecisely the same proportion in which Austria should rise in it. The\nsubjects of Francis Joseph would number sixty millions, while those of\nNapoleon III. would remain at thirty-six millions. The sinews of war\nhave never been much at the command of Austria, but possession of Italy\nwould render her wealthy, and enable her to command that gold which\nmoves armies and renders them effective. Her commerce would be increased\nto an incalculable extent, and she would have naval populations from\nwhich to conscribe the crews for fleets that she would be prompt to\nbuild. Her voice would be potential in the East, and that of France\nwould there cease to be heard. She would become the first power of\nEurope, and would exercise an hegemony far more decided than that which\nRussia held for forty years after 1814. It was to be expected that the\nItalians would cease fruitlessly to oppose her, and, their submission\nleading to her abandonment of the repressive system, they might become a\nbold and an adventurous people, helping to increase and to consolidate\nher power. They might prove as useful to her as the Hungarians and\nBohemians have been, whom she had conquered and misruled, but whose\nyouth have filled her armies. All these things were not only possible,\nbut they were highly probable; and once having become facts, what\nsecurity would France have that she would not be attacked, conquered,\nand partitioned? With sixty millions of people, and supported by the\nsentiment and arms of Germany, Austria could seize upon Alsace and\nLorraine, and other parts of France, and thus reduce her strength\npositively as well as relatively. All that was talked of in 1815, and\nmore than all that, might be accomplished in sixty years from that date,\nand while Napoleon III. himself should still be on the throne he had so\nstrangely won. That degradation of France which the uncle's ambition had\nbrought about at the beginning of the century would be more than\nequalled at the century's close through the nephew's forbearance. The\nvery names of Napoleon and Bonaparte would become odious in France, and\ncontemptible everywhere. On the other hand, should he interfere\nsuccessfully in behalf of Italian nationality, he would reduce the\nstrength of Austria, and prevent her from becoming an overshadowing\nempire. Her population and her territory would be essentially lessened.\nShe would be cut off from all hope of making Italy her own, would be\ncompelled to abandon her plans of commercial and maritime greatness,\nwould be disregarded in the East, would not be courted by England, would\nlose half her influence in Germany, and would not be in a condition to\nmenace France in any quarter. The glory of the French arms would be\nincreased, the weight of France would be doubled, new lustre would shine\nfrom the name of Napoleon, the Treaties of Vienna would be torn up by\nthe nation against which they had been directed, the most determined foe\nof the Bonaparte family would be punished, and that family's power would\nbe consolidated.\n\nSuch, we verily believe, were the reasons that led Napoleon III. to plan\nan attack on Austria, that attack which has been so brilliantly\ncommenced. That he has gone to war for the liberation of Italy, merely\nas such, we do not suppose; but that must follow front his policy,\nbecause in that way alone can his grand object be effected. The freedom\nof the Peninsula will be brought about, because it is necessary for the\nwelfare of France, for the maintenance of her weight in Europe, that it\nshould be brought about. That the Emperor is insensible of the glory\nthat would come from the rehabilitation of Italy, we do not assert. We\nthink he is very sensible of it, and that he enjoys the satisfaction\nthat comes from the performance of a good deed as much as if he were not\na usurper and never had overthrown a nominal republic. But we cannot\nagree with those who say that the liberation of Italy was the pure and\nsimple purpose of the war. He means that Austria shall not have Italy,\nand his sobriety of judgment enables him to understand that France\ncannot have it. That country is to belong to the children of the soil,\nwho, with ordinary wisdom and conduct, will be able to prevent it from\nagain relapsing under foreign rule. The Emperor understands his epoch,\nand will attempt nothing that shall excite against himself and his\ndynasty the indignation of mankind. If not a saint, he is not a\nsenseless sinner.\n\nOur article is so long, that we cannot discuss the questions, whether\nNapoleon III. is not animated by the desire of vengeance, and whether,\nhaving chastised Russia and Austria, he will not turn his arms against\nPrussia and England. Our opinion is that he will do nothing of the kind.\nPrussia is not likely to afford him any occasion for war; and if he\nshould make one, he would have to fight all the other German powers at\nthe same time, and perhaps Russia. The only chance that exists for a\nPrussian war is to be found in the wrath of the Germans, who, at the\ntime we write, have assumed a very hostile attitude towards France, and\nwish to be led from Berlin; but the government of Prussia is discreet,\nand will not be easily induced to incur the positive loss and probable\ndisgrace that would follow from a Russian invasion, like that which took\nplace in 1759. As to England, the Emperor would be mad to attempt her\nconquest; and he knows too well what is due to his fame to engage in a\npiratical dash at London. An invasion of England can never be safely\nundertaken except by some power that is master of the seas; and England\nis not in the least disposed to abandon her maritime supremacy. There\nwould have to be a Battle of Actium before her shores could be in\ndanger, and she must have lost it; and no matter what is said concerning\nthe excellence of the French navy, that of England is as much ahead of\nit in all the elements of real, enduring strength, as it has been at any\nother period of the history of the two countries.\n\n\n\n\nREVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.\n\n\n_The Iron-Manufacturer's Guide to the Furnaces, Forges, and\nRolling-Mills of the United States_. By J.P. LESLEY. New York: John\nWiley. 1859.\n\nThis valuable book is published by the Secretary of the American\nIron-Association, and by authority of the same. This Association--now\nfour years old--is not a common trades-union, nor any impotent\ncombination to resist the law of supply and demand. Its general objects,\nas stated in the constitution, are \"to procure regularly the statistics\nof the trade, both at home and abroad; to provide for the mutual\ninterchange of information and experience, both scientific and\npractical; to collect and preserve all works relating to iron, and to\nform a complete cabinet of ores, limestones, and coals; to encourage the\nformation of such schools as are designed to give the young iron-master\na proper and thorough scientific training, preparatory to engaging in\npractical operations.\" In pursuance of this wise and liberal policy, the\nAssociation has now published this \"Iron-Manufacturer's Guide,\"\ncontaining, first, a descriptive catalogue of all the furnaces, forges,\nand rolling-mills of the United States and Canada; secondly, a\ndiscussion of the physical and chemical properties of iron, and its\ncombinations with other elements; thirdly, a complete survey of the\ngeological position, chemical, physical, or mechanical properties, and\ngeographical distribution of the ores of iron in the United States.\n\nThe directory to the iron-works of the United States and Canada\nenumerates 1545 works of various kinds, of which 386 are now abandoned;\n560 blast-furnaces, 389 forges, and 210 rolling-mills are now in\noperation; and the directory states the position, capacity, and\nprominent characteristics of each furnace, forge, or mill, the names of\nthe owners or agents, and, in many cases, the date of the construction\nof the works, and their annual production. The great importance of the\niron-manufacture, as a branch of industry, in this country, is clearly\ndemonstrated by this very complete catalogue. It shows that in the year\n1856 there were nearly twelve hundred active iron-factories in the\nUnited States, and that they produced about eight hundred and fifty\nthousand tons of iron, worth fifty millions of dollars. When we consider\nthat the greater part of the iron thus produced is left in a rough and\ncrude state, merely extracted from its ores and made ready for the use\nof the blacksmith, the machinist, and the engineer,--when we remember\nthat human labor multiplies by hundreds and by thousands the value of\nthe raw material, that a bar of iron which costs five dollars will make\nthree thousand dollars' worth of penknife-blades and two hundred and\nfifty thousand dollars' worth of watch-springs, we begin to understand\nthe importance of the iron-manufacture, as an element of national\nwealth, independence, and power.\n\nA fourth part of all the iron-works which have been constructed in this\ncountry have been abandoned by their projectors, in despair of competing\nwith the cheap iron from abroad, which the low _ad-valorem_ tariffs have\nadmitted to the American market. The story which these ruined works\nmight tell, of hopes disappointed, capital sunk, and labor wasted, would\nbe long and dreary. From an excellent diagram, appended to the \"Guide,\"\nillustrating the duties on iron, the importations, and the price of the\nmetal, for each year since 1840, we learn that the average annual\nimportation of iron under the specific tariff of 1842 was 77,328 tons,\nwhile under the _ad-valorem_ tariff of 1846 it was 373,864 tons. The\nincrease in the importation of foreign iron under the tariff of 1846 was\nmore than ten times the increase of the population, and more than\nthirty-eight times the increase in the domestic production. The\niron-masters of this country have been compelled to struggle against a\nhost of formidable difficulties,--adverse legislation, the ruinous\ncompetition of English iron, the dearness of labor, and the high rates\nof interest on borrowed capital. These have all been met and, let us hope,\nin good part overcome. Slowly, and with many hindrances and disasters,\nthe iron-business is gaining strength, and achieving independence\nof foreign competition and the tender mercies of legislators.\nVery conclusive evidence of this gradual growth is presented\nin the unusually accurate statistics of the \"Iron-Manufacturer's\nGuide.\" Of the 1,209,913 tons of iron consumed in the United States\nin the year 1856, 856,235 tons, or seventy-one per cent, of the whole,\nwas of domestic manufacture. The catalogue of iron-works shows that\nthe country now possesses many extensive and well-constructed works,\nof which some are still owned by the men who built them, but the\nlarger part have descended, at great sacrifices, to the hands of\nmore fortunate proprietors. Beside the accumulated stock of machinery,\nknowledge of the ores and fuel has been gained, experience has\nrefuted many errors and pointed out the dangers and difficulties to\nhe overcome, the natural channels of communication throughout the\ncountry have been opened, and a large body of skilled workmen has been\ntrained for the business and seeks steady employment. Whenever a rise in\nthe price of iron stimulates the manufacture, the domestic production of\niron suddenly expands, and increases with a rapidity which gives\nevidence of wonderful elasticity and latent strength. Twice within\ntwenty years the production of American iron has nearly doubled in a\nperiod of three years. Twelve years ago no railroad-iron was made in the\nUnited States. In 1853 we imported 300,000 tons of rails, and in 1854\n280,000 tons; but in 1855 only 130,000 tons were imported, while 135,000\ntons were made at home, and in 1856, again, nearly one half of the\n310,000 tons of rails consumed was of domestic production. The admitted\nsuperiority of the American rails has undoubtedly contributed to this\nresult.\n\nIn spite of these encouraging signs, these sure indications of the\nsuccess which at no distant day will reward this branch of American\nindustry, it must not be imagined that checks and reverses are hereafter\nto be escaped. The production of the year 1857 promised in the summer to\nbe much larger than that of 1856; but the panic of September wrought the\nsame effect in the iron-business as in all the other manufactures of the\ncountry, and in the spring of 1858 more than half of the iron-works of\nthe United States were standing idle. Mr. Lesley states that the returns\nreceived in answer to the circular issued by the Iron-Association, July\n1, 1858, were, almost without exception, unfavorable, and that these\nreplies are sufficient to prove a very serious diminution in the\nproduction of iron for the year 1858. When the manufacture of iron, in\nits various branches, has expanded to its true proportions, and has\nreached a magnitude and importance second only to the agricultural\ninterest of the country, the iron-masters of that generation may read in\nthis first publication of the Iron-Association the record of the\nstruggles and trials of their more adventurous, but less fortunate\npredecessors.\n\nThe construction of the directory which constitutes the first part of\nthe \"Guide\" might be improved in several respects. An alphabetical\narrangement of the furnaces, forges, and rolling-mills, in each State,\nwould be much more convenient for reference than the obscure and\nuncertain system which has been followed. If a State can be divided,\nlike Pennsylvania, into two or three sections, by strongly marked\ngeological features, it would, perhaps, be well to subdivide the list of\nits iron-works into corresponding sections, and then to make the\narrangement of each section alphabetical. But convenience of reference\nis the essential property of a directory; and to that convenience the\nnatural desire to follow a geological or geographical arrangement should\nhe sacrificed. Some important items of information, such as the means of\ntransportation, and the distance of each furnace or forge from its\nmarket, are not given in all cases; the power by which the works are\ndriven, whether steam or water, is not uniformly stated; and the\npressure of the blast used, that very important condition of success in\nthe management of a furnace, is stated in only a very few instances. A\nuseful piece of information, seldom given in the descriptions of forges\nand rolling-mills, is the source from which the iron used in the works\nis obtained; and it is also desirable that the nature of the work done\nin each forge or mill should be invariably stated. It would he\ninteresting to know the number of men employed in the iron-manufacture\nthroughout the country, and it would not seem difficult for the\nAssociation to add this fact to the very valuable statistics which they\nhave already collected. The descriptions of abandoned works are not all\nprinted in small type. If this rule is adopted in the directory, it\nshould be uniformly adhered to. The maps accompanying the directory,\nwhich were made by the photolithographic process, are all on too small a\nscale, and consequently lack clearness. The colored lithographs, which\nexhibit the anthracite furnaces of Pennsylvania and the iron works of\nthe region east of the Hudson River, are altogether the best\nillustrations in the book.\n\nAn elaborate discussion of iron as a chemical element occupies another\ndivision of the book. Its purpose is to instruct the iron master in the\nchemical properties and relations of the metal with which he deals; and\nto this end it should be clear, concise, and definite, and, leaving all\ndisputed points, should explain the known and well-determined\ncharacteristics of iron and its compounds with other elements. Mr.\nLesley, the compiler of the book, distinctly states in the Preface that\nhe is no chemist, and we are therefore prepared to meet the occasional\ninaccuracies observable in this chemical portion of the \"Guide.\" It\nlacks condensation and system; matters of very little moment receive\ndisproportionate attention; and pages are filled with discussions of\nnice points of chemical science still in dispute among professed\nchemists, and wholly out of place in what should be a brief elementary\ntreatise on the known properties of iron. If these questions in dispute\nwere such as the practical experience of the iron-master might settle,\nor, indeed, throw any light upon, there would be an obvious propriety in\nstating the points at issue; but if the question concerns the best\nchemical name for iron-rust, or the largest possible per cent. of carbon\nin steel, the practical metallurgist should not be perplexed with\nproblems in analytical chemistry which the best chemists have not yet\nsolved.\n\nValuable space is occasionally occupied by the too rhetorical statement\nof matters which would have been better presented in a simpler way;\nthus, the fervid description of oxygen, however appropriate in Faraday's\nadmirable lectures before the Royal Institution, is out of place in the\n\"Iron-Manufacturer's Guide.\" We must also enter an earnest protest\nagainst the importation, upon any terms, of such words as\n\"ironoxydulcarbonate,\" \"ironoxydhydrate,\" and the adjective \"anhydrate.\"\nSome descriptions of considerable imaginative power have found place\neven in the directory of works. From the description of the Allentown\nfurnaces we learn, with some surprise, that \"no finer object of art\ninvites the artist\"; and again, \"that the _repose_ of bygone _centuries_\nseems to sit upon its immense walls, while the roaring _energy_ of the\npresent day fills it with a truer and better life than the revelry of\nKenilworth or the chivalry of Heidelberg.\" The average age of the\nAllentown works subsequently appears to be nine years.\n\nAnother principal division of Mr. Lesley's book treats of the ores of\niron in the United States. This portion of the book contains much\nvaluable and interesting information, which has never been published\nbefore in so complete and satisfactory a form. The geographical and\ngeological position of every ore-bank in the country, which has been\nopened and worked, is fully described, with many details of the peculiar\nproperties, mineralogical associations, and history of each bed or mine.\nThe inexhaustible wealth of the country in ores of iron is clearly\nshown, and the superiority of the American ores to the English needs no\nother demonstration than can be found on the pages of this catalogue of\nour ore-beds. Two or three geological maps, to illustrate the\ndistribution of the ores, would have been an instructive addition to the\nbook. In this section, as in the preceding one on the chemistry of iron,\nmuch space is misapplied to the discussion of questions of structural\ngeology, of opposing theories of the formation of veins, and other\nscientific problems with which the iron-master is not concerned, and\nwhich he cannot be expected to understand, much less to solve. We regret\nthe more this unnecessary introduction of comparatively irrelevant\nmatters, when we find, at the close of the volume, that the unexpected\nlength of the discussion of the ores has prevented the publication of\nseveral chapters on the machinery now in use, the hot-blast and\nanthracite coal, the efforts to obtain malleable iron directly from the\nore, and the history and present condition of the iron-manufacture in\nAmerica.\n\nThe American Iron-Association, by their Secretary, have accomplished a\nvery laborious and valuable work, in accumulating and digesting the mass\nof facts and statistics embodied in this, the first \"Iron-Manufacturer's\nGuide\"; but the subject is as inexhaustible as the mineral wealth of the\ncountry, and we shall look for the future publications of the society\nwith much interest.\n\n\n_An Essay on Intuitive Morals_. Being an Attempt to Popularize Ethical\nScience. Part I. Theory of Morals. First American Edition, with\nAdditions and Corrections by the Author. Boston: Crosby, Nichols, & Co.\n1859. pp. 294.\n\nFour years ago last March this book appeared in England, published by\nLongman; a thin octavo, exciting little attention there, and scarcely\nmore on this side the water, where the best English books have of late\nyears found their first appreciation. The first notice of it printed in\nthis country, so far as we know, appeared in the \"Harvard Magazine\" for\nJune, 1855,--a publication so obscure, that, to most readers of the\nATLANTIC, this will be their first knowledge of its existence. About two\nyears later, Part II appeared in England, and then both books were\nreviewed in the \"Christian Examiner\"; yet, to all intents and purposes,\nthis new edition is a new book, and we shall treat it as such. We have\nas yet a reprint of Part I. only, but we trust the publishers will soon\ngive us the other,--\"The Practice of Morals,\"--which, if less valuable\nthan this, is still so much better than most works of its kind as to\ndemand a republication.\n\nThe author--a woman--(for, to the shame of our _virile secus_ be it\nsaid, a woman has written the best popular treatise on Ethics in the\nlanguage)--divides her First Part into four chapters:--\n\n    I. What Is the Moral Law?\n   II. Where the Moral Law is found.\n  III. That the Moral Law can be obeyed.\n   IV. Why the Moral Law should be obeyed.\n\nThis, as will be seen, is an exhaustive analysis. To the great question\nof the first chapter, after a full discussion, she gives this answer:--\n\n\"The Moral Law is the resumption of the eternal necessary Obligation of\nall Rational Free Agents to do and feel those Sentiments which are\nRight. The identification of this law with His will constitutes the\nHoliness of the Infinite God. Voluntary and disinterested obedience to\nthis law constitutes the Virtue of all finite creatures. Virtue is\ncapable of infinite growth, of endless approach to the Divine nature and\nto perfect conformity with the law. God has made all rational free\nagents for virtue, and all worlds for rational free agents. _The Moral\nLaw, therefore, not only reigns throughout His creation_, (all its\nbehests being enforced thereon by His omnipotence,) _but is itself the\nreason why that creation exists_.\"--pp. 62-63.\n\nThis is certainly good defining, and the passage we have Italicized has\nthe true Transcendental ring. Indeed, the book is a system of Kantian\nEthics, as the author herself says in her Preface; and the tough old\nK\u00f6nigsberg professor has no reason to complain of his gentle expounder.\nUnlike most British writers,--with the grand exception of Sir William\nHamilton, the greatest British metaphysician since Locke and Hume,--she\n_understands_ Kant, admires and loves him, and so is worthy to develop\nhis knotty sublimities. This alone would be high praise; but we think\nshe earns a more original and personal esteem.\n\nThe question of the second chapter she thus answers:--\n\n\"The Moral Law is found in the Intuitions of the Human Mind. These\nIntuitions are natural; but they are also revealed. Our Creator wrought\nthem into the texture of our souls to form the groundwork of our\nthoughts, and made it our duty first to examine and then to erect upon\nthem by reflection a Science of Morals. But He also continually aids us\nin such study, and He increases this aid in the ratio of our obedience.\nThus Moral Intuitions are both Human and Divine, and the paradoxes in\ntheir nature are thereby solved.\"--p. 136.\n\nThis statement may, perhaps, be received without cavil by most readers;\nbut the reasoning on which it depends is the weakest part of the book,\nand we shall be surprised if some hard-headed divine, who fears that\nthis doctrine of Intuition will pester his Church, does not find out the\nflaws in the argument. It will be urged, for instance, that, in\nconfessing that the Science of Morals can never be as exact as that of\nMathematics, because we have no terminology for Ethics so exact as for\nGeometry, she, in effect, yields the whole question, and leaves us in\nthe old slough of doubt where Pyrrho and Pascal delighted to thrust us,\nand where the Church threatens to keep us, unless we will pay her tolls\nand pick our way along her turnpike. But though her major and minor\npremises may not be on the best terms with each other,--even though they\nmay remind us of that preacher of whom Pierrepont Edwards said, \"If his\ntext had the smallpox, his sermon would not catch it,\"--her conclusion\nis sound, and as inspiring now as when the poet said,--\n\n  \"Est Deus in nobis, agitante calescimus illo,\"--\n\nor when George Fox trudged hither and thither over Europe with the same\nnoble tune sounding in his ears.\n\nIn the third chapter the old topics are treated, which, according to\nMilton, the fallen angels discussed before Adam settled the debate by\nsinning,--\n\n  \"Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute,\"--\n\nand it is concluded that the Moral Law can be obeyed:--\n\n\"1st. Because the Human Will is free. 2d. Because this freedom, though\ninvolving present sin and suffering, is foreseen by God to result\neventually in the Virtue of every creature endowed therewith.\"\n\nIn this chapter the history of the common doctrine of Predestination is\nadmirably sketched, (pp. 159-164, note.) and the grounds for our belief\nin Free Will more clearly stated than we remember to have seen\nelsewhere. Especially fine is her method of reducing Foreordination to\nsimple Ordination, by directing attention to the fact that with God\nthere is no Past and Future, but an Endless Now; as Tennyson sings in\n\"In Memoriam,\"--\n\n  \"Oh, if indeed that eye foresee,\n  Or see, (in Him is no before.)\"--\n\nand as Dante sang five centuries ago.\n\nBut it is the last chapter which best shows the power of the author and\nthe pure and generous spirit with which the whole book is filled. Here\nshe shows why the Moral Law should be obeyed; and dividing the advocates\nof Happiness as a motive into three classes, Euthumists, Public\nEudaimonists, and Private Eudaimonists, she refutes them all and\nestablishes her simple scheme, which she states in these words:--\n\n\"The law itself, the Eternal Right, for right's own sake, that alone\nmust be our motive, the spring of our resolution, the ground of our\nobedience. Deep from our inmost souls comes forth the mandate, the bare\nand simple law claiming the command of our whole existence merely by its\nproper right, and disdaining alike to menace or to bribe.\"\n\nThe terms _Euthumism_ and _Eudaimonism_ are, perhaps, peculiar to this\nessay, and may need some explanation. The Euthumist is one who assumes\nmoral pleasure as a sufficient reason why virtue should be sought; the\nEudaimonist believes we should be virtuous for the sake of affectional,\nintellectual, and sensual pleasure; if he means the pleasure of all\nmankind, he is a Public Eudaimonist; but if he means the pleasure of the\nindividual, he is a Private Eudaimonist. Democritus is reckoned the\nfirst among Euthumists; and in England this school has been represented,\namong others, by Henry More and Cumberland, by Sharrock, [Footnote:\nSharrock is a name unfamiliar to most readers. His [Greek: Hypothesis\naethikae] published in 1660, contains the first clear statement of\nEuthumism made by any Englishman. See p.223.] Hutcheson, and Shaftesbury.\nPaley thrust himself among Public Eudaimonists, and our author well\nexposes his grovelling morals, aiming to produce the \"greatest happiness\nof the greatest number,\" a system which has too long been taught among\nthe students of our colleges and high schools. But he properly belongs\nto the Private Eudaimonists; for this interpreter of ethics to the\ningenuous youth of England and America says, \"Virtue is the doing good\nto mankind in obedience to the will of God, _and for the sake of\neverlasting happiness_. According to which definition, the good of\nmankind is the subject, the will of God the rule, _and everlasting\nhappiness the motive of virtue_.\"\n\nIt is such heresies as this, and the still grosser pravities into which\nthe ethics of expediency run, that this book will do much to combat.\nNothing is more needed in our schools for both sexes than the systematic\nteaching of the principles here set forth; and we have no doubt this\nvolume could be used as a text-book, at least with some slight omissions\nand additions, such as a competent teacher could well furnish. Portions\nof it, indeed, were some years since read by Mrs. Lowell to her classes,\nand are now incorporated in her admirable book, \"Seed Grain\"; nor does\nthere seem to be any good reason why it should not be introduced at\nCambridge. With a short introduction containing the main principles of\nmetaphysics, and with the omission of some rhetorical passages unsuited\nto a text-book, it might supplant the books of both intellectual and\nmoral philosophy now in use in our higher schools.\n\nBut it is not as a school-book that this essay is to be considered; it\nwill find a large and increasing circle of readers among the mature and\nthe cultivated, and these will perceive that few have thought so\nprofoundly or written so clearly on these absorbing topics. Take, for\nexample, the classification of _possible_ beings, made in the first\nchapter:--\n\n\"Proceeding on our premises, that the omnipotence of God is not to be\nsupposed to include self-contradictions, we observe at the outset, that\n(so far as we can understand subjects so transcendent) there were only,\nin a moral point of view, three orders of beings possible in the\nuniverse:--1st. One Infinite Being. A Rational Free Agent, raised by the\ninfinitude of his nature above the possibility of temptation. He is the\nonly _Holy_ Being. 2d. Finite creatures who are Rational Free Agents,\nbut exposed by the finity of their natures to continual temptations.\nThese beings are either _Virtuous_ or _Vicious_. 3d. Finite creatures\nwho are not rational nor morally free. These beings are _Unmoral_, and\nneither virtuous nor vicious.\"--pp. 24-25.\n\nNothing can be shorter or more thorough than this statement, and, if\naccepted, it settles many points in theology as well as in ethics.\n\nThen, too, the comparison, in the last chapter, of the Law of Honor,\nconsidered as a system of morals, with the systems of Paley and Bentham,\nshows a fine perception of the true relation of chivalry to ethics, and\ngives occasion for one of the most eloquent passages in the book:--\n\n\"I envy not the moralist who could treat disdainfully of Chivalry. It\nwas a marvellous principle, that which could make of plighted faith a\nlaw to the most lawless, of protection to weakness a pride to the most\nferocious. While the Church taught that personal duty consisted in\nscourgings and fastings, and social duty in the slaughter of Moslems and\nburning of Jews, Chivalry roused up a man to reverence himself through\nhis own courage and truth, and to treat the weakest of his\nfellow-creatures with generosity and courtesy.... Recurring to its true\ncharacter, the Law of Honor, when duly enlarged and rectified, becomes\nhighly valuable. We perceive, that, amid all its imperfections and\naberrations, it has been the truest voice of intuition, amid the\nlamentations of the believer in 'total depravity,' and the bargaining of\nthe expediency-seeking experimentalist. While the one represented Virtue\nas a Nun and the other as a Shop-woman, the Law of Honor drew her as a\nQueen,--faulty, perhaps, but free-born and royal. Much service has this\nlaw done to the world; it has made popular modes of thinking and acting\nfar nobler than those inculcated from many a pulpit; and the result is\npatent, that many a 'publican and sinner,' many an opera-frequenting,\nbetting, gambling man of the world, is a far safer person with whom to\ntransact business than the Pharisee who talks most feelingly of the\n'frailties of our fallen nature.'\"--pp. 267-270.\n\nThe learning shown in the book, though not astonishing, like Sir William\nHamilton's, is sufficient and always at the author's service. The text\nthroughout, and especially the notes on Causation, Predestination,\nOriginal Sin, and Necessary Truths, will amply support our opinion. But\nbetter than either learning or logic is that noble and devout spirit\npervading every page, and convincing the reader, that, whether the\nsystem advanced be true or false, it is the result of a genuine\nexperience, and the guide of a pure and generous life.\n\nThe volume is neatly printed, but lacks an index sadly, and shows some\nerrors resulting from the distance between the author and the\nproof-reader. Such is the misuse of the words \"woof\" and \"warp\" on page\n56; evidently a slip of the pen, since the same terms are correctly used\nelsewhere in the volume.\n\n\n_Memoirs of the Empress Catharine II._ Written by herself. With a\nPreface by A. HERZEN. Translated from the French. New York: D. Appleton\n& Co. 12mo. pp. 309.\n\nIt would seem, that, if any one of the women celebrated in history\nshould, more than all the others, have shrunk from writing her own\nmemoirs, that woman was the petty German princess whom opportunity and\nher own crafty ambition made absolutest monarch of all the Russias under\nthe name of Catharine II. And of that abandoned and shameless personal\ncareer which has made her name a reproach to her sex, and covered her\nmemory with an infamy that the administrative glories of her reign serve\nonly to cast into a blacker shadow, even she has shrunk from committing\nthe details to paper. Indeed, in these Memoirs, she alludes to but one\nof her amours,--that with Sergius Soltikoff, which was the first, (if we\nmay be sure that she had a first,)--and which seems clearly to have been\nelevated, if not purified, by a true and deep affection. That it was so\nappears not by any protestation or even calm assertion of her own, which\nin an autobiography might be reasonably doubted, but from the unstudied\ntenderness of her allusions to him; from the fact, which indirectly\nappears, that he first cooled towards her, and the pang--not of wounded\nvanity--which this gave her; and yet more unmistakably from the\nforgiveness which she, imperious and relentless as she was, extended,\nmanifestly, again and again, to her errant lover.\n\nThe Memoirs are confined to events which occurred between 1744 and\n1760,--the period of Catharine's girlhood and youthful womanhood; but\nalthough she brings herself before us, a young creature of fifteen,\n\"with her hair dressed _\u00e0 la Moise_,\" (which, in the benightment of our\nbearded ignorance, we suppose to mean that astounding style in which the\nexcellent Mistress Hannah More is represented in the frontispiece to her\nMemoirs, with each particular hair standing on end,--a crimped glory of\nradiating powder,) she appears no less ambitious, crafty, designing,\nselfish, and self-conscious then than when she drops her pen as she is\ndeepening the traits of the matured woman of thirty. She went to Russia\nto be betrothed to the Grand Duke, afterwards Peter III., to whom she\nwas at first utterly indifferent, and whom she soon began to despise and\nregard with personal aversion; and yet when there was a chance that she\nmight be released from this union, she seems not to have known the\nslightest thrill of joy or felt the least sensation of relief, although\nshe was then not sixteen years old,--so entirely was her mind bent upon\nthe crown of Russia. Partly to attain her end, and partly because it\nsuited her intriguing, managing nature, she set herself immediately to\nthe acquirement of the favor of the Empress on the one hand, and\npopularity on the other. The first she sought by an absolute submission\nof her will to that of Elizabeth, giving her self-negation an air of\ngrateful deference; the latter she obtained, as most very popular people\nobtain their popularity, by adroit flattery,--the subtlest form of which\nwas, in her case, as it ever is, the manifestation of an interest in the\naffairs of persons utterly indifferent to the flatterer. This moral\nemollient she applied, as popular people usually do, without\ndiscrimination. She remarks that she was liked because she was \"the same\nto everybody\"; and it is noteworthy that the same is said almost\ninvariably of very popular persons, and in way of eulogy, by the very\npeople into whose favor they have licked their way; the latter always\nseeming to be blinded by the titillation of their own cuticles to the\nfact that the most worthless and disagreeable individuals--those with\nwhom they would scorn to be put upon a level--have received the same\ncoveted evidences of personal regard. When will the world learn that the\nman, of whom we sometimes hear and read, who is absolutely without an\nenemy, must either be very unscrupulous or very weak? Catharine's\nduplicity in this respect seems to have been as constant as it was\nartful, during the years in which it was necessary for her purpose to\nmake friends; and it was rewarded, as it almost always is, when\nskilfully practised, with entire success.\n\nCatharine seems to have written these Memoirs partly for her own\nsatisfaction and partly to justify her course to her son Paul and his\nsuccessors. Therefore they record much that is of little value or\ninterest to the general reader; and that, indeed, is unintelligible,\nexcept to those who are intimately acquainted with the Russian Court\nduring the reign of Elizabeth. Such persons will find in these pages\nmuch authentic matter which will confirm or unsettle their previous\nbelief as to the secret intrigues of that court, political and personal.\nTo the great mass of readers, the revelations of the internal economy of\nthe Court of Russia in the middle of the last century, and of the\nmanners and morals of the persons who composed it, which are freely made\nby the author of these imperial confessions, will constitute their\nprincipal, if not their only interest. In this respect they will well\nrepay the attentive perusal of every person who likes the study of human\nnature. The picture which they present is striking, and its various\nparts keep alive the attention which its first sight awakens. Yet it\ncannot be regarded with pleasure by any reader of undepraved taste; and\na consideration of it is absolutely fatal to the faith which is\ncherished by many deluded minds in the social, if not in the ethical\nvirtues of an ancient aristocracy. In this respect Catharine's \"Memoirs\"\nare not peculiar. For it is remarkable, that in all the published\nmemoirs, journals, and confessions of members of royal households,\n(there may be an exception, but we do not remember it,) court-life\nwithin-doors has appeared devoid of every grace and beauty, and deformed\nby all that is coarse, brutal, sordid, and grovelling. Even that grace,\nalmost a virtue, which has its name from courts, seems not to exist in\nthem in a genuine form; and instead of it we find only a hollow,\nglittering sham, which has but an outward semblance to real courtesy,\nand which itself even is produced only on occasions more or less public\nand for purposes more or less selfish.\n\nRussia in its most civilized parts was half barbarous in the days of\nCatharine's youth, and society at the Court of St. Petersburg seems to\nhave been distinguished from that in the other circles of the empire\nonly by an addition of the vices of civilization to those of barbarism.\nThe women blended the manners and tastes of Indian squaws and French\n_marquises_ of the period; the men modelled themselves on Peter the\nGreat, and succeeded in imitating him in everything except his wisdom\nand patriotism. The business of life was, first, to avoid being sent to\nSiberia or Astracan,--next and last, to get other people sent thither;\nits pleasure, an alternation of gambling and orgies. Catharine makes\nsome excuse for her unrestrained sexual license, which shows that she\nwrote for posterity. For what need of extenuation in this regard for a\nwoman whose immediate predecessors were Catharine I., and. Anne and\nElizabeth, and who lived in a court where, on the simultaneous marriage\nof three of its ladies, a bet was made between the Hetman Count\nRasoumowsky and the Minister of Denmark,--not which of the brides would\nbe false to her marriage vows,--that was taken for granted with regard\nto all,--but which would be so first! It turned out that he who bet on\nthe Countess Anne Voronzoff, daughter of the Vice-Chancellor of the\nEmpire, and bride to Count Strogonoff, who was the plainest of the three\nand at the time the most innocent and childlike, won the wager. The bet\nwas wisely laid; for she was likely to be soonest neglected by her\nhusband.\n\nWhat semblance of courtesy these highborn gamblers, adulterers, and\nselfish intriguers showed in their daily life appears in their behavior\nto a M. Brockdorf, against whom Catharine had ill feelings, more or less\njustifiable. This M. Brockdorf, who was high in favor with the Grand\nDuke, was unfortunately ugly--having a long neck, a broad, flat head,\nred hair, small, dull, sunken eyes, and the corners of his mouth hanging\ndown to his chin. So, among those court-bred people, \"whenever M.\nBrockdorf passed through the apartments, every one called out after him\n'Pelican,'\" because \"this bird was the most hideous we knew of.\" But\nwhat regard for the feelings of a person of inferior rank could be\nexpected from his enemies, in a court where the dearest ties and the\ntenderest sorrows were dashed aside with the formal brutality recorded\nby Catharine in the following remarkable paragraph?--\n\n\"A few days afterwards, the death of my father was announced to me. It\ngreatly afflicted me. For a week I was allowed to weep as much as I\npleased; but at the end of that time, Madame Tchoglokoff came to tell me\nthat I had wept enough,--that the Empress ordered me to leave off,--that\nmy father was not a king. I told her, I knew that he was not a king; and\nshe replied, that it was not suitable for a Grand Duchess to mourn for a\nlonger period a father who had not been a king. In fine, it was arranged\nthat I should go out on the following Sunday, and wear mourning for six\nweeks.\"\n\nIt is worthy of especial note that these people, though they led this\nsensual, selfish, heartless life, trampling on natural affection and\ndoing as they would not be done by, prided themselves very much on the\northodoxy of their faith, were sorely afraid of going to hell, and were\nconsequently very regular and rigid in the performance of their\nreligious duties. Catharine was no whit behind the rest in this respect.\nThough bred a Lutheran, she was most exemplary in her observance of all\nthe requirements of the Greek Church; and even carried her hypocrisy so\nfar, that, when, on occasion of a dangerous and probably fatal illness,\nit was proposed that she should see a Lutheran clergyman, she replied by\nasking for Simon Theodorsky, a prelate of the Greek Church, who came and\nhad an edifying interview with her. And all this was done, as she says,\nfor effect, chiefly with the soldiers and common people, among whom it\nmade a sensation and was much talked of. This, by the way, is the only\nreference which occurs in the Memoirs to any interest below that of the\nhighest nobility. As for the people of Russia, the right to draw their\nblood with the knout and make them sweat roubles into the royal treasury\nwas taken as much for granted as the light and the air, by those who,\neither through fraud or force, could sit in the seat of Peter the Great.\nThey regarded it as no less an appanage or perquisite of that seat than\nthe jewels in the imperial diadem, and would as soon have thought of\ndefending a title to the one as to the other. And the possession of the\nthrone, with the necessary consent of the dominant party of the high\nnobility, seems to have been, and still to be, the only requisite for\nthe unquestioned exercise of this power; for, as to legitimacy and\ndivine dynastic right, was not Catharine I. a Livoman peasant? Catharine\nII. a German princess, who dethroned and put to death the grandson of\nPeter the Great? and does she not confess in these Memoirs that her son,\nthe Emperor Paul, was not the son of Peter's grandson, but of Sergius\nSoltikoff? so that in the reigning house of Russia there is not a drop\nof the blood of Romanoff. And Catharine's confession, which M. Herzen\nemphasizes so strongly, conveys to the Russian nobles no new knowledge\non this subject; for an eminent Russian publicist being asked, on the\nappearance of this book, if it were generally known in Russia that Paul\nwas the son of Soltikoff, replied,--\"No one who knew anything ever\ndoubted it.\" And perhaps the descendants of the Boiards are quite\ncontent that their sovereign should have illegally sprung from the loins\nof a member of one of the oldest and noblest of the purely Russian\nfamilies, rather than from those of a prince of the petty house of\nHolstein Gottorp. But then what is this principle of Czarism, which is\nnot a submission to divine right, but which causes one man to sustain,\nperhaps to place, another in a position which puts his own life at the\nmercy of the other's mere caprice?\n\nCatharine tells many trifling, but interesting incidents, of various\nnature, in these Memoirs: of how, after the birth of her first child,\nshe was left utterly alone and neglected, so that she famished with\nthirst for the lack of some one to bring her water; how her child was\ntaken from her at its birth, and kept from her, she hardly being allowed\neven to see it; how it was always wrapped in fox-skins and seal-skins,\ntill it lay in a continual bath of perspiration; how the members of the\nroyal family itself were so badly accommodated, that sometimes they were\nmade ill by walking through passages open to wind and rain, and\nsometimes stifled by over-crowded rooms; how at the imperial\nmasquerades, during one season, the men were ordered to appear in\nwomen's dresses, and the women in the _propria quae maribus,_--the\nformer hideous in large whaleboned petticoats and high feathered\nhead-dresses, the latter looking like scrubby little boys with very\nthick legs,--and all that the Empress Elizabeth might show her tall and\ngraceful figure and what beautiful things she used to walk with, which\nCatharine says were the handsomest that she ever saw; how in this court,\nwhere marriage was the mere shadow of a bond, it was yet deemed a matter\nof the first nuptial importance that a lady of the court should have her\nhead dressed for the wedding by the hands of the Empress herself, or, if\nshe were too ill, by those of the Grand Duchess; how Catharine used, at\nOranienbaum, to dress herself from head to foot in male attire, and go\nout in a skiff, accompanied only by an old huntsman, to shoot ducks and\nsnipe, sometimes doubling the Cape of Oranienbaum, which extends two\nversts into the sea,--and how thus the fortunes of the Russian Empire,\nduring the latter half of the eighteenth century, were at the mercy of a\nspring-tide, a gust of wind, or the tipping of a shallop. There is even\na recipe for removing tan and sunburn, which the beautiful Grand Duchess\nused at the instance of the beautiful Empress; and, as both the imperial\nbelles testify to its great efficacy, it would be cruel not to give all\npossible publicity to the fact that it was composed of white of egg,\nlemon juice, and French brandy; but, alas! the proportion in which these\nconstituents are to be mixed is not recorded.\n\nOf the authenticity of these Memoirs there appears to be no reasonable\ndoubt, and we believe that none has been expressed. They were found,\nafter the death of Catharine, in a sealed envelope addressed to her son\nPaul, in whose lifetime no one saw them but the friend of his childhood,\nPrince Kourakine. He copied them; and, about twenty years after the\ndeath of Paul, three or four copies were made from the Kourakine copy.\nThe Emperor Nicholas caused all these to be seized by the secret police,\nand it is only since his death that one or two copies have again made\ntheir appearance at Moscow (where the original is kept) and St.\nPetersburg. From one of these M. Herzen made his transcript. They fail\nto palliate any of Catharine's crimes, or in the least to brighten her\nreputation, and add nothing to our knowledge of her sagacity and her\nadministrative talents; but they are yet not without very considerable\npersonal interest and historical value.\n\n\n_Milch Cows and Dairy Farming_; comprising the Breeds, Breeding, and\nManagement, in Health and Disease, of Dairy and other Stock; the\nSelection of Milch Cows, with a full Explanation of Guenon's Method; the\nCulture of Forage Plants, and the Production of Milk, Butter, and\nCheese: embodying the most recent Improvements, and adapted to Farming\nin the United States and British Provinces, with a Treatise upon the\nDairy Husbandry of Holland; to which is added Horsfall's System of Dairy\nManagement. By CHARLES L. FLINT, Secretary of the Massachusetts State\nBoard of Agriculture; Author of a Treatise on Grasses and Forage Plants.\nLiberally illustrated. Boston: Phillips, Sampson, & Co. pp. 416.\n\nThis very useful treatise contains a full account of the best breeds of\ncattle and of the most approved methods of crossing so as to develop\nqualities particularly desirable; directions for choosing good milkers\nby means of certain natural signs; a description of the most useful\ngrasses and other varieties of fodder; and very minute instructions for\nthe making of good butter and the proper arrangement and care of\ndairies. The author has had the advantage of practical experience as a\ndairyman, while his position as Secretary of the Massachusetts Board of\nAgriculture has afforded him more than common opportunity of learning\nthe experience of others.\n\nA volume of this kind cannot fail to commend itself to farmers and\ngraziers, and will be found valuable also by those who are lucky enough\nto own a single cow. The production of good milk, butter, and meat is a\nmatter of interest to all classes in the community alike; and Mr.\nFlint's book, by pointing out frankly the mistakes and deficiencies in\nthe present methods of our farmers and dairymen, and the best means of\nremedying them, will do a good and much-needed service to the public. He\nshows the folly of the false system of economy which thinks it good\nfarming to get the greatest quantity of milk with the least expenditure\nof fodder, and which regards poor stock as cheaper because it costs less\nmoney in the original outlay.\n\nIf Dean Swift was right in saying that he who makes two blades of grass\ngrow where one grew before is of more service to mankind than he who\ntakes a city, we should be inclined to rank him hardly second as a\nbenefactor of his race who causes one pound of good butter to be made\nwhere two pounds of bad were made before. We believe that more unsavory\nand unwholesome grease is consumed in the United States under the\n_alias_ of butter than in any other civilized country, and we trust that\na wide circulation of Mr. Flint's thoroughly executed treatise will tend\nto reform a great and growing evil. The tendency in America has always\nbeen to make a shift with what _will do_, rather than to insist on\nhaving what is best; and we welcome this book as likely to act as a\ncorrective in one department, and that one of the most important. The\nvalue of the volume is increased by numerous illustrations and a good\nindex.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS.\n\nThe Young Housekeeper's Friend. By Mrs. Cornelius. Revised and Enlarged.\nBoston. Brown, Taggard, & Chase. 12mo. pp. 254. 75 cts.\n\nThe New and the Old; or California and India in Romantic Aspects. By\nJ.W. Palmer, M.D. With Thirteen Illustrations. New York. 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ROGERS AND CAMPBELL.\n\n      *       *       *       *       *\n\nFor Twenty Subscribers and Forty Dollars, either of the following:--\n\nHUME'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND, 6 vols., sheep, library style.\nGIBBON'S HISTORY OF ROME, 6 vols., library style.\nTHE ROLLO BOOKS, 14 vols., elegantly illustrated.\n\nOr either of the following British Poets, octavo edition, retail price\n$5.00, bound in full morocco:\n\nSHAKESPEARE.       HEMANS.\nBYRON.             COWPER.\nSCOTT.             MILTON.\nBEN JONSON.        MOORE.\nMONTOGOMERY.       BURNS.\nLANDON.            ROGERS AND CAMPBELL.\nHOOD.\n\nThe Postage on the above premiums will, in all cases, be prepaid by the\nPublishers, thus delivering to each person the books he is entitled to,\nfree of charge. The terms are extremely liberal, and offer inducements\nfor Clubbing never before offered by any publishing house in the\ncountry.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIMPORTANT TO FARMERS AND DAIRY-MEN!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe would respectfully announce that we have become the publishers of\nthat\n\nVALUABLE AND BEAUTIFUL WORK,\n\nMilch Cows and Dairy Farming,\n\nTHE BEST WORK EXTANT ON THE SUBJECT.\n\nComprising the Breeds, Breeding and Management, in Health and Disease of\nDairy and other Stock; the Selection of Milch Cows, with a full\nexplanation of Guenon's Method; the Culture of Forage Plants, and the\nproduction of\n\nMILK, BUTTER, AND CHEESE;\n\nEmbodying the most recent improvements, and adapted to Farming in the\nUnited Status and British Provinces; with a treatise upon the\n\nDAIRY HUSBANDRY OF HOLLAND;\n\nto which is added\n\nHORSFALL'S SYSTEM OF DAIRY MANAGEMENT.\n\nBy CHARLES L. FLINT,\n\n_Sec'y of the Mass. State Board of Agriculture; author of \"A Treatise on\nGrasses and Forage Plants,\" etc._\n\nFULLY AND BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED WITH 130 ENGRAVINGS.\n\n12mo. 416 pp. Price $1.25.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_The Chapter on the Diseases of Dairy Stock, mostly prepared by Dr. C.M.\nWood and Dr. J.H. Dadd, is worth many times the cost of the book_!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOPINIONS OF THE PRESS.\n\nThe most valuable work for universal use among farmers that has ever\nbeen published in this country. There is scarcely any thing worth\nknowing about how to select a cow, how to treat her, and how to make\nbutter and cheese, that cannot be found in this volume.--_New York\nTribune_.\n\nWe recommend the work to every one who keeps a cow, or intends to do\nso.--_Ohio Farmer_.\n\nWe recommend it _as a matter of economy_; because, if studied, it cannot\nfail to impart facts of more value to most dairy-men and dairy-women\nthan several times its cost.--_New England Farmer_.\n\nIt should be in the hands of every owner of a cow.--_Vermont Stock\nJournal_.\n\nIt can but rank as a standard American Dairy book,--the best, we have no\nhesitation in saying, yet issued on the subject--_Country Gentleman_.\n\nThe more we examine the book the better we like it. To say that it is\nsuperior to any work hitherto published on that subject, is not enough;\nit is a better book of its kind than we had hoped to have an opportunity\nof welcoming to the shelves of our agricultural library.--_Wisconsin\nFarmer_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPUBLISHED BY\n\nPHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY,\n\n13 Winter Street, Boston.\n\nSOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS AND PERIODICAL AGENTS THROUGHOUT THE COUNTRY.\n\nN.B. Copies will be sent by mail, postage-paid, on receipt of the\nadvertised price. A dollar bill and eight three-cent stamps may be\nenclosed and sent by letter to the publishers, for a single copy. Or ten\ncopies will be sent to any address in the United States, _postage, or\nfreight paid_, for ten dollars.\n\nAny Bookseller, Periodical Agent, or Postmaster, can procure a copy by\nmail, if requested, at the wholesale price.","title":"The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 04, No. 22, August, 1859: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":90295}