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Title: The International Weekly Miscellany, Volume I. No. 8
       Of Literature, Art, and Science, August 19, 1850

Author: Various

Release Date: October 19, 2004 [EBook #13796]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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INTERNATIONAL WEEKLY MISCELLANY

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

       *       *       *       *       *

Vol. I. NEW YORK, AUGUST 19, 1850. No. 8.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE THEATER IN RUSSIA AND POLAND.

The following interesting sketch of the Drama in the empire of
the Czar is translated for the _International_ from the Leipzig
_Grenzboten_. The facts it states are not only new to most readers,
but throw incidentally a good deal of light on the condition of that
vast empire, and the state of its population in respect of literature
and art in general:

       *       *       *       *       *

The dramatic taste of a people, the strength of its productive
faculty, the gradual development of its most popular sphere of art,
the theater, contain the key to phases of its character which cannot
always be recognized with the same exactness from other parts of its
history. The tendencies and disposition of the mass come out very
plainly in their relations to dramatic art, and from the audience of
an evening at a theater some inference may be drawn as to the whole
political scope of the nation. In truth, however, this requires
penetration as well as cautious judgment.

In the middle of the last century there were in the kingdom of Poland,
beside the royal art institutions at Warsaw, four strong dramatic
companies, of genuine Polish stamp, which gave performances in the
most fashionable cities. Two of them were so excellent that they
often had the honor to play before the court. The peculiarity of these
companies was that they never performed foreign works, but literally
only their own. The managers were either themselves poets, or had
poets associated with them in business. Each was guided by his poet,
as Wallenstein by his astrologer. The establishment depended on
its dramatic ability, while its performances were limited almost
exclusively to the productions of its poet. The better companies,
however, were in the habit of making contracts with each other, by
which they exchanged the plays of their dramatists. This limitation to
native productions perhaps grew partly out of the want of familiarity
with foreign literature, partly from national feeling, and partly from
the fact that the Polish taste was as yet little affected by that of
the Germans, French, or English. In these circumstances there sprung
up a poetic creative faculty, which gave promise of a good and really
national drama. And even now, after wars, revolutions, and the schemes
of foreign rulers have alternately destroyed and degraded the stage,
and after the Poles have become poetically as well as politically
mere satellites of French ideas and culture, there still exist, as
respectable remains of the good old time, a few companies of players,
which, like their ancient predecessors, have their own poets, and
perform only his pieces, or at least others of Polish origin that he
has arranged and adapted. Such a company, whose principal personage
is called Richlawski, is now in Little Poland, in the cities Radom,
Kielce, Opatow, Sandomir, &c. A second, which generally remains in the
Government of Kalisch, is under the direction of a certain Felinski,
and through his excellent dramatic compositions has gained a
reputation equal to that of the band of Strauss in music. Yet these
companies are only relics. The Polish drama in general has now a
character and destiny which was not to be expected a hundred years
since.

The origin of the Russian theater is altogether more recent. It is
true that Peter the Great meddled a good deal with the theater as well
as with other things, but it was not till the Empress Catharine
that dramatic literature was really emancipated by the court. Under
Alexander and Nicholas the most magnificent arrangements have been
made in every one of the cities that from time to time is honored by
the residence of the Emperor, so that Russia boasts of possessing five
theaters, two of which excel everything in Europe in respect to size
and splendor, but yet possesses no sort of taste for dramatic art. The
stage, in the empire of the Muscovites, is like a rose-bush grafted on
a wild forest tree. It has not grown up naturally from a poetic want
in the people, and finds in the country little or nothing in the way
of a poetic basis. Accordingly, the theater in Russia is in every
respect a foreign institution. Not national in its origin, it has not
struck its roots into the heart of the people. Only here and there
a feeble germ of theatrical literature has made its way through the
obstinate barbarism of the Russian nature. The mass have no feeling
for dramatic poetry, while the cultivated classes exhibit a most
striking want of taste.

But in Russia everything is inverted. What in other nations is
the final result of a long life, is there the beginning. A natural
development of the people appears to its rulers too circuitous,
and in fact would in many things require centuries of preparation.
Accordingly, they seek to raise their subjects to the level of other
races by forcing them outwardly to imitate their usages. Peter the
Great says in his testament: "Let there be no intermission in teaching
the Russian people European forms and customs." The theater in Russia
is one of these forms, and from this it is easy to understand the
condition it is in.

It is true there are in the country a few independent companies
of players, but they are not Russian, or at least were formed as a
speculation by some foreigner. For example, Odessa has often two
such, and sometimes three. The Italian company is said to be good. The
Russian, which has now become permanent, has hitherto been under the
management of a German, and has been very poor. The company in Kiew
consists mostly of Poles, from the old Polish provinces incorporated
with Russia, and has a high reputation. In Poland it would be possible
in every little nest of a city to get together a tolerable company for
dramatic performance. In Russia it would be much easier to raise an
army. The ultimate reason of this striking contrast is the immense
dissimilarity in the character of the two nations. The Pole is
remarkably sanguine, fiery, enthusiastic, full of ideality and
inspiration; the Russian is through and through material, a lover of
coarse physical pleasures, full of ability to fight and cut capers,
but not endowed with a capacity quickly to receive impressions and
mentally elaborate them.

In this respect, the mass and the aristocracy, the serfs and their
masters, are as alike as twins. The noble is quite as coarse as the
peasant. In Poland this is quite otherwise. The peasant may be called
a rough creature, but the noble is almost always a man of refinement,
lacking indeed almost always in scientific information, but never
in the culture of a man of the world. The reason of this is, that
his active, impetuous soul finds constant occasion for maintaining
familiarity with the world around him, and really needs to keep up a
good understanding with it. The Russians know no such want.

Even in St. Petersburg the German was long much more successful than
the native theater, though the number of Russians there is seventeen
times larger than that of the Germans. The Russians who there
visit the theater are the richest and most prominent members of the
aristocracy. They however consider the drama as simply a thing of
fashion. Hence results the curious fact that it is thought a matter
of good taste to be present at the beginning but not to wait for the
end of a piece. It has happened that long before the performance was
over the house was perfectly empty, everyone following the fashion,
in order not to seem deficient in public manners. If there is ever
a great attraction at the theater, it is not the play, but some
splendid show. The Russian lady, in studying the _coiffure_ or the
trailing-robe of an actress, forgets entirely her part in this piece,
if indeed she has ever had an adequate conception of it. For this
reason, at St. Petersburg and Moscow the ballet is esteemed infinitely
higher than the best drama; and if the management should have
the command of the Emperor to engage rope-dancers and athletes,
circus-riders and men-apes, the majority of Russians would be of
opinion that the theater had gained the last point of perfection. This
was the case in Warsaw several years ago, when the circus company of
Tourniare was there. The theaters gave their best and most popular
pieces, in order to guard against too great a diminution of their
receipts. The Poles patriotically gave the preference for the drama,
but the Russians were steady adorers of Madame Tourniare and her
horse. In truth, the lady enjoyed the favor of Prince Paskiewich.
General O---- boasted that during the eleven months that the circus
staid he was not absent from a single performance. The Polish Count
Ledochowski, on the other hand, said that he had been there but once
when he went with his children, and saw nothing of the performance,
because he read Schiller's William Tell every moment. This was Polish
opposition to Russian favoritism, but it also affords an indication of
the national peculiarities of the two races.

From deficiency in taste for dramatic art arises the circumstance that
talent for acting is incomparably scarce among the Russians. Great
as have been the efforts of the last emperors of Russia to add a new
splendor to their capitals by means of the theater, they have not
succeeded in forming from their vast nation artists above mediocrity,
except in low comedy. At last it was determined to establish dramatic
schools in connection with the theaters and educate players; but it
appears that though talent can be developed, it cannot be created at
the word of command. The Emperor Nicholas, or rather his wife, was,
as is said, formerly so vexed at the incapacity of the Russians
for dramatic art, that it was thought best to procure children in
Germany for the schools. The Imperial will met with hindrance, and he
contented himself with taking children of the German race from his own
dominions. The pride of the Russians did not suffer in consequence.

While poetry naturally precedes dramatic art, the drama, on the other
hand, cannot attain any degree of excellence where the theater is in
such a miserable state. It is now scarcely half a century since the
effort was begun to remove the total want of scientific culture in
the Russian nation, but what are fifty years for such a purpose, in
so enormous a country? The number of those who have received the
scientific stimulus and been carried to a degree of intellectual
refinement is very small, and the happy accident by which a man of
genius appears among the small number must be very rare. And in this
connection it is noteworthy, that the Russian who feels himself
called to artistic production almost always shows a tendency to epic
composition.

The difficulties of form appear terrible to the Russian. In
romance-writing the form embarrasses him less, and accordingly they
almost all throw themselves into the making of novels.

As is generally the case in the beginning of every nation's
literature, any writer in Russia is taken for a miracle, and regarded
with stupor. The dramatist Kukolnik is an example of this. He has
written a great deal for the theater, but nothing in him is to be
praised so much as his zeal in imitation. It must be admitted that in
this he possesses a remarkable degree of dexterity. He soon turned to
the favorite sphere of romance writing, but in this also he manifests
the national weakness. In every one of his countless works the most
striking feature is the lack of organization. They were begun and
completed without their author's ever thinking out a plot, or its mode
of treatment.

Kukolnik's "Alf and Adona," in which at least one hundred and fifty
characters are brought upon the stage, has not one whose appearance is
designed to concentrate the interest of the audience. Each comes in to
show himself, and goes out not to be in the way any longer. Everything
is described and explained with equal minuteness, from the pile of
cabbages by the wayside, to the murder of a prince; and instead of a
historical action there is nothing but unconnected details. The same
is the case with his "Eveline and Baillerole," in which Cardinal
Richelieu is represented as a destroyer of the aristocracy, and which
also is made up of countless unconnected scenes, that in part are
certainly done with some neatness. These remarks apply to the works
of Iwan Wanenko and I. Boriczewski, to I. Zchewen's "Sunshine", five
volumes strong; to the compositions of Wolkow, Czerujawski, Ulitinins,
Th. Van Dim, (a pseudonym,) in fact to everything that has yet
appeared.

On the part of the Imperial family, as we have already said,
everything has been done for the Russian stage that could possibly be
done, and is done no where else. The extremest liberality favors the
artists, schools are provided in order to raise them from the domain
of gross buffoonery to that of true art, the most magnificent premiums
are given to the best, actors are made equal in rank to officers of
state, they are held only to twenty-five years' service, reckoning
from their debut,--and finally, they receive for the rest of their
lives a pension equal to their full salaries. High rewards are given
to Russian star-actors, in order if possible to draw talent of every
sort forth from the dry steppes of native art. The Russian actors are
compelled on pain of punishment to go regularly to the German theater,
with a view to their improvement, and in order to make this as
effective as may be, enormous compensations attract the best German
stars to St. Petersburg. And yet all this is useless, and the Russian
theater is not raised above the dignity of a workshop. Only the comic
side of the national character, a burlesque and droll simplicity, is
admirably represented by actors whose skill and the scope of whose
talents may he reckoned equal to the Germans in the same line. But
in the higher walks of the drama they are worthless. The people have
neither cultivation nor sentiment for serious works, while the poets
to produce them, and the actors to represent them, are alike wanting.

Immediately after the submission of Poland in 1831, the theaters,
permanent and itinerant, were closed. The plan was conceived of not
allowing them to be reoepened until they could be occupied by Russian
performers. But as the Government recovered from its first rage,
this was found to be impracticable. The officers of the garrisons in
Poland, however numerous, could never support Russian theaters, and
besides, where were the performers to come from? In Warsaw, however,
it was determined to force a theater into existence, and a Russian
newspaper was already established there. The power of the Muscovites
has done great things, built vast fortresses and destroyed vaster, but
it could not accomplish a Russian theater at Warsaw. Even the paper
died before it had attained a regular life, although it cost a great
deal of money.

Finally came the permission to reoepen the Polish theater, and indeed
the caprice which was before violent against it, was now exceedingly
favorable, but of course not without collateral purposes. The scanty
theater on the Krasinski place, which was alone in Warsaw, except the
remote circus and the little theater of King Stanislaus Augustus,
was given up, and the sum of four millions of florins ($1,600,000)
devoted to the erection of two large and magnificent theaters. The
superintendence of the work of building and the management of the
performances was, according to the Russian system, intrusted to one
General Rautenstrauch, a man seventy years old, and worn out both
in mind and body. The two theaters were erected under one roof, and
arranged on the grandest and most splendid scale. The edifice is
opposite the City Hall, occupies a whole side of the main public
place, and is above 750 feet in length. The pit in each is supported
by a series of immense, stupid, square pilasters, such as architecture
has seldom witnessed out of Russia. Over these pilasters stands
the first row of boxes supported by beautifully wrought Corinthian
columns, and above these rise three additional rows. The edifice is
about 160 feet high and is the most colossal building in Warsaw. As it
was designed to treat the actors in military fashion and according to
Russian style, the building was laid out like barracks and about seven
hundred persons live in it, most of them employed about the theater.
The two stages were built by a German architect under the inspection
of the General whose peremptory suggestions were frequent and
injurious. Both the great theater as it is called, which has four
rows of boxes, and can contain six thousand auditors, and the Variete
theater which is very much smaller, are fitted out with all sorts of
apparatus that ever belonged to a stage. In fact, new machinery has
in many cases been invented for them and proved totally useless. The
Russian often hits upon queer notions when he tries to show his gifts.

On one side a very large and strong bridge has been erected leading
from the street to the stage, to be used whenever the piece requires
large bodies of cavalry to make their appearance, and there are
machines that can convey persons with the swiftness of lightning down
from the sky above the stage, a distance of 56 feet. A machine for
which a ballet has been composed surpasses everything I ever saw in
its size; it serves to transport eighty persons together on a seeming
cloud from the roof to the foot-lights. I was astonished by it when I
first beheld it although I had seen the machines of the grand opera at
Paris: the second time I reflected that it alone cost 40,000 florins
[$16,000].

Under the management of two Russian Generals, who have hitherto been
at the head of the establishment, a vast deal has in this way been
accomplished for mere external show.

The great Russian theatre of St. Petersburg has served for a model,
and accordingly nothing has really been improved except that part of
the performance which is farthest removed from genuine art, namely
the ballet. That fact is that out of Paris the ballet is nowhere
so splendid as in the great theater at Warsaw, not even at St.
Petersburg, for the reason that the Russian is inferior to the Pole in
physical beauty and grace. Heretofore the corps of the St. Petersburg
ballet has twice been composed of Poles, but this arrangement has been
abandoned as derogatory to the national honor. The sensual attractions
of the ballet render it the most important thing in the theater. A
great school for dancers has been established, where pupils may be
found from three to eighteen years old. It is painful to see the
little creatures, hardly weaned from their mothers' breasts--twisted
and tortured for the purposes of so doubtful an occupation as dancing.
The school contains about two hundred pupils, all of whom occasionally
appear together on the boards, in the ballet of Charis and Flora, for
instance, when they receive a trifling compensation. For the rest the
whole ballet corps are bound to daily practice.

The taste of the Russians has made prominent in the ballet exactly
those peculiarities which are least to its credit. It must be
pronounced exaggerated and lascivious. Aside from these faults, which
may be overlooked as the custom of the country, we must admit that the
dancing is uncommonly good.

The greater the care of the management for the ballet, the more
injurious is its treatment of the drama. This is melancholy for the
artists and especially those who have come to the imperial theater
from the provinces, who are truly respectable and are equally good in
comedy and tragedy. The former has been less shackled than the latter
for the reason that it turns upon domestic life. But tragedy is most
frightfully treated by the political censorship, so that a Polish
poet can hardly expect to see his pieces performed on the stage of
his native country. Hundreds of words and phrases such as freedom,
avenging sword, slave, oppression, father-land, cannot be permitted
and are stricken out. Accordingly nothing but the trumpery of mere
penny-a-liners is brought forward, though this sometimes assumes an
appearance of originality. These abortions remain on the stage only
through the talent of the artists, the habit of the public to expect
nothing beyond dullness and stupidity in the drama, and finally, the
severe regulation which forbids any mark of disapprobation under pain
of imprisonment. The best plays are translated from the French, but
they are never the best of their kind. To please the Russians only
those founded on civic life are chosen, and historical subjects are
excluded. Princely personages are not allowed to be introduced on
the stage, nor even high officers of state, such as ministers and
generals. In former times the Emperor of China was once allowed to
pass, but more recently the Bey of Tunis was struck out and converted
into an African nobleman. A tragedy is inadmissible in any case, and
should one be found with nothing objectionable but its name, it is
called drama.

In such circumstances we would suppose that the actors would lose all
interest in their profession. But this is not the case. At least the
cultivated portion of the public at Warsaw never go to the theater to
see a poetic work of art, but only to see and enjoy the skill of the
performers. Of course there is no such thing as theatrical criticism
at Warsaw; but everybody rejoices when the actors succeed in causing
the wretchedness of the piece to be forgotten. The universal regret
for the wretched little theater on the Krasinski place, where
Suczkowska, afterward Mad. Halpert, founded her reputation in the
character of the Maid of Orleans, is the best criticism on the present
state of the drama.

The Russians take great delight in the most trivial pieces. Even
Prince Paskiewich sometimes stays till the close of the last act. To
judge by the direction of his opera-glass, which is never out of his
hand, he has the fortune to discover poetry elsewhere than on the
stage. In truth the Warsaw boxes are adorned by beautiful faces. Even
the young princess Jablonowska is not the most lovely.

The arrangements of the Warsaw theaters are exactly like those of the
Russian theater at St. Petersburg, but almost without exception, the
pupils of the dramatic school, of whom seventeen have come upon the
boards, have proved mere journeymen, and have been crowded aside by
performers from the provincial cities. None of the eminent artists of
late years have enjoyed the advantages of the school. The position
of the actors at Warsaw is just the same as at St. Petersburg. The
day after their first appearance they are regularly taken into duty
as imperial officials, take an oath never to meddle with political
affairs, nor join in any secret society, nor ever to pronounce on the
stage anything more or anything else than what is in the stamped parts
given them by the imperial management.

Actors' salaries at Warsaw are small in comparison with those of other
countries. Forty or fifty silver rubles a month ($26 to $33) pass for
a very respectable compensation, and even the very best performers
rarely get beyond a thousand rubles a year ($650). Madame Halpert
long had to put up with that salary till once Taglioni said to Prince
Paskiewich that it was a shame for so magnificent an artist to be no
better paid than a writer. Her salary was thereupon raised one-half,
and subsequently by means of a similar mediation she succeeded in
getting an addition of a thousand rubles yearly under the head of
wardrobe expenses. This was a thing so extraordinary that the managing
General declared that so enormous a compensation would never again be
heard of in any imperial theatre. The pupils of the dramatic school
receive eighteen rubles monthly, and, according to their performances,
obtain permission every two years to ask an increase of salary. The
period of service extends to twenty-five years, with the certainty
of a yearly pension equal to the salary received at the close of the
period.

For the artist this is a very important arrangement, which enables him
to endure a thousand inconveniences.

There is no prospect of a better state of the Polish drama. Count
Fedro may, in his comedies, employ the finest satire with a view
to its restoration, but he will accomplish nothing so long as the
Generals ride the theater as they would a war horse. On the other
hand, no Russian drama has been established, because the conditions
are wanting among the people. That is a vast empire, but poor in
beauty; mighty in many things, but weak in artistic talents; powerful
and prompt in destruction, but incapable spontaneously and of itself
to create anything.

       *       *       *       *       *



"DEATH'S JEST BOOK, OR THE FOOL'S TRAGEDY."


The _Examiner_, for July 20, contains an elaborate review, with
numerous extracts, of a play just published under this title in
London. "It is radiant," says the critic, "in almost every page with
passion, fancy, or thought, set in the most apposite and exquisite
language. We have but to discard, in reading it, the hope of any
steady interest of story, or consistent development of character:
and we shall find a most surprising succession of beautiful passages,
unrivaled in sentiment and pathos, as well as in terseness, dignity,
and picturesque vigor of language; in subtlety and power of passion,
as well as in delicacy and strength of imagination; and as perfect and
various, in modulation of verse, as the airy flights of Fletcher or
Marlowe's mighty line.

"The whole range of the Elizabethan drama has not finer expression,
nor does any single work of the period, out of Shakspeare, exhibit so
many rich and precious bars of golden verse, side by side with such
poverty and misery of character and plot. Nothing can be meaner than
the design, nothing grander than the execution."

In conclusion, the _Examiner_ observes--"We are not acquainted with
any living author who could have written the Fool's Tragedy; and,
though the publication is unaccompanied by any hint of authorship,
we believe that we are correct in stating it to be a posthumous
production of the author of the Bride's Tragedy; Mr. Thomas Lovell
Beddoes. Speaking of the latter production, now more than a quarter
of a century ago, (Mr. Beddoes was then, we believe, a student
at Pembroke College, Oxford, and a minor,) the _Edinburgh Review_
ventured upon a prediction of future fame and achievement for the
writer, which an ill-chosen and ill-directed subsequent career
unhappily intercepted and baffled. But in proof of the noble natural
gifts which suggested such anticipation, the production before us
remains: and we may judge to what extent a more steady course and
regular cultivation would have fertilized a soil, which, neglected
and uncared for, has thrown out such a glorious growth of foliage and
fruit as this Fool's Tragedy."

The following exquisite lyric is among the passages with which these
judgments are sustained:

  "If thou wilt ease thine heart
  Of love and all its smart,
      Then sleep, dear, sleep;
  And not a sorrow
    Hang any tear on your eyelashes;
      Lie still and deep
    Sad soul, until like sea-wave washes
  The rim o' the sun to-morrow,
      In eastern sky.

  But wilt thou cure thine heart
  Of love and all its smart,
      Then die, dear, die;
  'Tis deeper, sweeter,
    Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming
      With folded eye;
    And then alone, amid the beaming
  Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her
      In eastern sky."

       *       *       *       *       *


WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

Praed, it has always seemed to us, was the cleverest writer in his
way that has ever contributed to the English periodicals. His fugitive
lyrics and arabesque romances, half sardonic and half sentimental,
published with Hookham Frere's "Whistlecraft" and Macaulay's Roundhead
Ballads, in _Knight's Quarterly Magazine_, and after the suspension
of that work, for the most part in the annual souvenirs, are
altogether unequaled in the class of compositions described as
_vers de societie_.--Who that has read "School and School Fellows",
"Palinodia", "The Vicar", "Josephine", and a score of other pieces in
the same vein, does not desire to possess all the author has left us,
in a suitable edition? It has been frequently stated in the English
journals that such a collection was to be published, under the
direction of Praed's widow, but we have yet only the volume prepared
by a lover of the poet some years ago for the Langleys, in this city.
In the "Memoirs of Eminent Etonians," just printed by Mr. Edward
Creasy, we have several waifs of Praed's that we believe will be new
to all our readers. Here is a characteristic political rhyme:

VERSES

ON SEEING THE SPEAKER ASLEEP IN HIS CHAIR IN ONE OF THE DEBATES OF THE
FIRST REFORMED PARLIAMENT.

  Sleep, Mr. Speaker, 'tis surely fair
  If you mayn't in your bed, that you should in your chair.
  Louder and longer now they grow,
  Tory and Radical, Aye and Noe;
  Talking by night and talking by day.
  Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may!

  Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies
  Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes,
  Fielden or Finn in a minute or two
  Some disorderly thing will do;
  Riot will chase repose away
  Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may!

  Sleep, Mr. Speaker. Sweet to men
  Is the sleep that cometh but now and then,
  Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,
  Sweet to the children that work in the mill.
  You have more need of repose than they--
  Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may!

  Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon
  Move to abolish the sun and the moon;
  Hume will no doubt be taking the sense
  Of the House on a question of sixteen pence.
  Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray--
  Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may!

  Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time,
  When loyalty was not quite a crime,
  When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school,
  And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool.
  Lord, how principles pass away--
  Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.

The following is a spirited version of a dramatic scene in the second
book of the Annals of Tacitus:

ARMINIUS.

  Back, Back;--he fears not foaming flood
    Who fears not steel-clad line:--
  No warrior thou of German blood,
    No brother thou of mine.
  Go earn Rome's chain to load thy neck,
    Her gems to deck thy hilt;
  And blazon honor's hapless wreck
    With all the gauds of guilt.

  But wouldst thou have _me_ share the prey?
    By all that I have done,
  The Varian bones that day by day
    Lie whitening in the sun;
  The legion's trampled panoply
    The eagle's shattered wing.
  I would not be for earth or sky
    So scorned and mean a thing,

  Ho, call me here the wizard, boy,
    Of dark and subtle skill,
  To agonize but not destroy,
    To torture, not to kill.
  When swords are out, and shriek and shout
    Leave little room for prayer,
  No fetter on man's arm or heart
    Hangs half so heavy there.

  I curse him by the gifts the land
    Hath won from him and Rome.
  The riving axe, the wasting brand,
    Rent forest, blazing home.
  I curse him by our country's gods,
    The terrible, the dark,
  The breakers of the Roman rods,
    The smiters of the bark.

  Oh, misery that such a ban
    On such a brow should be!
  Why comes he not in battle's van
    His country's chief to be?
  To stand a comrade by my side,
    The sharer of my fame,
  And worthy of a brother's pride,
    And of a brother's name?

  But it is past!--where heroes press
    And cowards bend the knee,
  Arminius is not brotherless,
    His brethren are the free.
  They come around:--one hour, and light
    Will fade from turf and tide,
  Then onward, onward to the fight,
    With darkness for our guide.

  To-night, to-night, when we shall meet
    In combat face to face,
  Then only would Arminius greet
    The renegade's embrace.
  The canker of Rome's guilt shall be
    Upon his dying name;
  And as he lived in slavery,
    So shall he fall in shame.

       *       *       *       *       *

CAMPBELL AND WASHINGTON IRVING.

The Editor of _The Albion_, in noticing the republication by the
Harpers of the very interesting Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell,
by Dr. Beattie, has the following observations upon Mr. Irving's
introductory letter:

"WASHINGTON IRVING, at the request of the publishers, contributed a
very interesting letter to themselves, directing public notice to the
value of this edition. He pays also a hearty and deserved tribute,
not only to the genius of Campbell, but to his many excellencies and
kindly specialities of character. The author of "Hohenlinden," and the
"Battle of the Baltic" stands in need of no man's praise as a lyric
poet--but this sort of testimony to his private worth is grateful
and well-timed. Here is an interesting passage from Mr. Irving's
introductory communication. He is alluding to Campbell's fame and
position, when he himself first made Campbell's acquaintance in
England.

    "'I had considered the early productions of Campbell as
    brilliant indications of a genius yet to be developed, and
    trusted that, during the long interval which had elapsed,
    he had been preparing something to fulfill the public
    expectation; I was greatly disappointed, therefore, to find
    that, as yet, he had contemplated no great and sustained
    effort. My disappointment in this respect was shared
    by others, who took the same interest in his fame, and
    entertained the same idea of his capacity. 'There he is
    cooped up in Sydenham,' said a great Edinburgh critic to me,
    'simmering his brains to serve up a little dish of poetry,
    instead of pouring out a whole caldron.'

    "'Scott, too, who took a cordial delight in Campbell's poetry,
    expressed himself to the same effect. 'What a pity is it,'
    said he to me 'that Campbell does not give full sweep to his
    genius. He has wings that would bear him up to the skies, and
    he does now and then spread them grandly, but folds them up
    again and resumes his perch, as if afraid to launch away. The
    fact is, he is a bugbear to himself. The brightness of his
    early success is a detriment to all his future efforts. _He is
    afraid of the shadow that his own fame casts before him_.'

    "'Little was Scott aware at the time that he, in truth, was
    a 'bugbear' to Campbell. This I infer from an observation of
    Mrs. Campbell's in reply to an expression of regret on my part
    that her husband did not attempt something on a grand Scale.
    'It is unfortunate for Campbell,' said she, 'that he lives in
    the same age with Scott and Byron.' I asked why. 'Oh,' said
    she, 'they write so much and so rapidly. Now Campbell writes
    slowly, and it takes him some time to get under way; and just
    as he has fairly begun, out comes one of their poems, that
    sets the world agog and quite daunts him, so that he throws by
    his pen in despair.'

    "'I pointed out the essential difference in their kinds of
    poetry, and the qualities which insured perpetuity to that of
    her husband. 'You can't persuade Campbell of that,' said she.
    'He is apt to undervalue his own works, and to consider his
    own lights put out, whenever they come blazing out with their
    great torches.'

    "'I repeated the conversation to Scott sometime afterward,
    and it drew forth a characteristic comment. 'Pooh!' said he,
    good-humoredly, 'how can Campbell mistake the matter so
    much. Poetry goes by quality, not by bulk. My poems are mere
    cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, with a cunning hand, and may
    pass well in the market as long as cairngorms are the fashion;
    but they are mere Scotch pebbles after all; now Tom Campbell's
    are real diamonds, and diamonds of the first water.'"

"The foregoing is new to us, and full of a double interest. It is
followed, however, by a statement, that needs a word of explanation.
Mr. Irving says:

    "'I have not time at present to furnish personal anecdotes of
    my intercourse with Campbell, neither does it afford any of a
    striking nature. Though extending over a number of years, it
    was never very intimate. His residence in the country, and
    my own long intervals of absence on the continent, rendered
    our meetings few and far between. To tell the truth, I was
    not much drawn to Campbell, having taken up a wrong notion
    concerning him, from seeing him at times when his mind was
    ill at ease, and preyed upon by secret griefs. I thought
    him disposed to be querulous and captious, and had heard his
    apparent discontent attributed to jealous repining at the
    success of his poetical contemporaries. In a word, I knew
    little of him but what might be learned in the casual
    intercourse of general society; whereas it required the close
    communion of confidential friendship, to sound the depth of
    his character and know the treasures of excellence hidden
    beneath its surface. Beside, he was dogged for years
    by certain malignant scribblers, who took a pleasure in
    misrepresenting all his actions, and holding him up in an
    absurd and disparaging point of view. In what hostility
    originated I do not know, but it must have given much
    annoyance to his sensitive mind, and may have affected
    his popularity. I know not to what else to attribute a
    circumstance to which I was a witness during my last visit to
    England. It was at an annual dinner of the Literary Fund, at
    which Prince Albert presided, and where was collected much
    of the prominent talent of the kingdom. In the course of
    the evening Campbell rose to make a speech. I had not seen
    him for years, and his appearance showed the effect of age
    and ill-health; _it was evident, also, that his mind was
    obfuscated by the wine he had been drinking_. He was confused
    and tedious in his remarks; still, there was nothing but
    what one would have thought would have been received with
    indulgence, if not deference, from a veteran of his fame and
    standing; a living classic. On the contrary, to my surprise, I
    soon observed signs of impatience in the company; the poet was
    repeatedly interrupted by coughs and discordant sounds, and
    as often endeavored to proceed; the noise at length became
    intolerable, and he was absolutely clamored down, sinking
    into his chair overwhelmed and disconcerted. I could not have
    thought such treatment possible to such a person at such a
    meeting. Hallam, author of the Literary History of the Middle
    Ages, who sat by me on this occasion, marked the mortification
    of the poet, and it excited his generous sympathy. Being
    shortly afterward on the floor to reply to a toast, he took
    occasion to advert to the recent remarks of Campbell, and in
    so doing called up in review all his eminent achievements in
    the world of letters, and drew such a picture of his claims
    upon popular gratitude and popular admiration, as to convict
    the assembly of the glaring impropriety they had been guilty
    of--to soothe the wounded sensibility of the poet, and send
    him home to, I trust, a quiet pillow.'

"Now, the very same facts are seen by different observers in a
different point of view. It so happened that we ourselves were present
at this dinner, which took place in 1842; and the painful circumstance
alluded to by Mr. Irving did not produce the effect on us, that it
appears to have produced on him. Without making a long story about
a trifle, we can call to mind no appearance of hostility or ill-will
manifested on that occasion; and on the contrary, recollect, in our
immediate neighborhood, a mournful sense of distress at the scene
exhibited, and sufficiently hinted in the few unpleasant words we
have italicized. A muster of Englishmen preferred coughing down their
favorite bard, to allowing him to mouth out maudlin twaddle, before
the Prince, then first formally introduced to the public, and before
a meeting whereat "was collected much of the prominent talent of the
kingdom." Mr. Irving, himself most deservedly a man of mark, looked
on with much, surprise. Looking on ourselves then, and writing now,
as one of the public, and as one of the many to whom Campbell's name
and fame are inexpressibly dear, we honestly think that of two evils
the lesser was chosen. We think Mr. Hallam's lecture must have been
inaudible to the greater part of the company."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Archbishop of Lemburgh has prohibited his clergy from wearing long
hair like the peasants, and from smoking in public, "like demagogues
and sons of Baal."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Persians have a saying, that "Ten measures of talk were sent down
upon the earth, and the women took nine."

       *       *       *       *       *




AUTHORS AND BOOKS

       *       *       *       *       *

No man is more enshrined in the heart of the French people than the
poet BERANGER. A few weeks since he went one evening with one of his
nephews to the _Clos des Lilas_, a garden in the students' quarter
devoted to dancing in the open air, intending to look for a few
minutes upon a scene he had not visited since his youth, and then
withdraw. But he found it impossible to remain unknown and unobserved.
The announcement of his presence ran through the garden in a moment,
the dances stopped, the music ceased, and the crowd thronged toward
the point where the still genial and lovely old man was standing. At
once there rose from all lips the cry of _Vive Beranger!_ which was
quickly followed by that of _Vive la Republique!_ The poet whose
diffidence is excessive, could not answer a word, but only smiled and
blushed his thanks at this enthusiastic reception. The acclamations
continuing, an agent of the police invited him to withdraw, lest his
presence might occasion disorder. The illustrious songwriter at once
obeyed; by a singular coincidence the door through which he went out
opened upon the place where Marshal Ney was shot. If he were now in
the vein of writing, what a stirring lyric all these circumstances
might suggest.

       *       *       *       *       *

AUDUBON AND WASHINGTON IRVING--THE PLAGUE OF RAILROADS.--The voyager
up the Hudson will involuntarily anathematize the invention of the
rail, when he sees how much of the most romantic beauty has been
defaced or destroyed by that tyranny which, disregarding all private
desire and justice, has filled up bays, and cut off promontories, and
leveled heights, to make way for the intrusive and noisy car. But the
effects of these so-called "improvements," upon the romantic in nature
will be forgotten if he considers the injury and wrong they cause to
persons, and particularly to those whose genius has contributed more
to human happiness than all the inventions in oeconomical art.

The Nestor of our naturalists, and in his field, the greatest as well
as the oldest of our artists, AUDUBON, with the comparatively slight
gains of a long life of devotion to science, and of triumphs which had
made him world-renowned, purchased on the banks of the river, not far
from the city, a little estate which it was the joy as well as the
care of his closing years to adorn with everything that a taste so
peculiarly and variously schooled could suggest. He had made it a
pleasing gate-way to the unknown world, with beautiful walks leading
down to the river whose depth and calmness and solemn grandeur
symboled the waves through which he should pass to the reward of a
life of such toil and enviable glory. He had promise of an evening
worthy of his meridian--when the surveyors and engineers, with their
charter-privileges, invaded his retreat, built a road through his
garden, destroyed forever his repose, and--the melancholy truth is
known--made of his mind a ruin.

WASHINGTON IRVING--now sixty-seven years of age--had found a
resting-place at _Wolfert's Roost_, close by the scenes which lie in
the immortal beauty that radiates from his pages, and when he thought
that in this Tusculum he was safe from all annoying, free to enjoy
the quietness and ease he had earned from the world, the same vandals
laid the track through his grounds, not only destroying all their
beauty and attraction, but leaving fens from which these summer heats
distilled contagion. He has therefore been ill for some weeks, and
as he had never a strong constitution, and has preserved his equable
but not vigorous health only by the most constant carefulness, his
physicians and friends begin to be alarmed for the result. Heaven
avert the end they so fearfully anticipate. He cannot go alone: The
honest Knickerbocker, the gentle Crayon, and the faithful brother
Agapida, with Washington Irving will forever leave the world, which
cannot yet resign itself to the loss of either.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. SEBA SMITH, so well known as the author of the "Letters of Major
Jack Downing," and to a different sort of readers for his more serious
contributions to our literature, has just completed the printing of
an original and very remarkable work, upon which he has been engaged
about two years, entitled "New Elements of Geometry," and it will soon
be published in this city by Putnam, and in London by Bentley. It will
probably produce a sensation in the world of science. Its design is
the reconstruction of the entire methods of Geometry. All geometers,
from the dawn of the science, have built their systems upon these
definitions: _A line is length without breadth_, and _A surface is
length and breadth, without thickness_. Mr. Smith asserts that
these definitions are false, and sustains his position by numerous
demonstrations in the pure Euclidean style. He declares that every
mathematical line has a definite _breadth_, which is as measurable as
its length, and that every mathematical surface has a _thickness_,
as measurable as the contents of any solid. His demonstrations, on
diagrams, seem to be eminently clear, simple, and conclusive. The
effects of this discovery and these demonstrations are, to simplify
very much the whole subject of Geometry and mathematics, and to clear
it of many obscurities and difficulties. All geometers heretofore
have claimed that there are _three kinds_ of quantity in Geometry,
different in their _natures_, and requiring units of different natures
to measure them. Mr. Smith shows that there is but _one_ kind of
quantity in Geometry, and but one kind of unit; and that lines,
surfaces, and solids are always measured by the same identical unit.

Besides the leading features of the work which we have thus briefly
described, it contains many new and beautiful demonstrations of
general principles in Geometry, to which the author was lead by his
new methods of investigation. Among these we may mention one, viz.,
"The square of the hypothenuse of a right-angled triangle equals four
times the area of the triangle, plus the square of the difference of
the other two sides." This principle has been known to mathematicians
by means of arithmetic and algebra, but has never before, we believe,
been reduced to a geometrical demonstration. The demonstration of
this principle by Mr. Smith is one of the clearest, simplest, and
most beautiful in Geometry. The work is divided into three parts,
I. The Philosophy of Geometry, II. Demonstrations in Geometry, and
III. Harmonies of Geometry. The demonstrative character of it is
occasionally enlivened by philosophical and historical observations,
which will add much to its interest with the general reader. We have
too little skill in studies of this sort to be altogether confident
in our opinion, but certainly it strikes us from an examination of the
larger and more important portion of Mr. Smith's essay, that it is an
admirable specimen of statement and demonstration, and that it must
secure to its author immediately a very high rank in mathematical
science. We shall await with much interest the judgments of the
professors. It makes a handsome octavo of some 200 pages.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. FLANDIN, an eminent dilettante and designer attached to the French
embassy in Persia, has published in the last number of the _Revue des
Deux Mondes_ an interesting memoir of the ruins of Persepolis, under
the title of "An Archaiological Journey in Persia." On his route
to the ruins he witnessed melancholy evidence, in the condition of
the surface and population, of the improvidence and noxiousness of
Oriental despotism. He tells us that the remains of the magnificent
palace of Darius are dispersed over an immense _plateau_, which looks
down on the plain of Merdacht. "Assuredly, they are not much, compared
with what they must have been in the time of the last Prince who
sheltered himself under the royal roof. Nevertheless, what is now
found of them still excites astonishment, and inspires a sentiment of
religious admiration for a civilization that could create monuments so
stupendous; impress on them a character of so much grandeur; and give
them a solidity which has prereserved the most important parts until
our days, through twenty-two centuries, and all the revolutions
by which Persia has been devastated. The pillars are covered with
European names deeply cut in the stone. English are far the most
numerous. Very few, however, are of celebrated travelers. We observed,
with satisfaction, those of Sir John Malcolm and Mr. Morier, both of
whom have so successfully treated Persian subjects."

       *       *       *       *       *

EMILE GIRARDIN states in his journal that he paid for the eleven
volumes of Chateaubriand's Posthumous Memoirs as they appeared,
piecemeal, in his _feuilleton_, the sum of ninety-seven thousand
one hundred and eight francs. They occupied a hundred and ninety-two
_feuilletons_, and cost him thus more than a franc a line. Alfred de
Broglie has made these memoirs the test of a paper entitled "Memoirs
de Chateaubriand, a Moral and Political Study," in the _Revue des Deux
Mondes_. It is a severe analysis of the book and the man. He concludes
that Chateaubriand was one of the most vainglorious, selfish and
malignant of his tribe. He, indeed, betrayed himself broadly, but
surviving writers, who knew intimately his private life--such as St.
Beuve--have disclosed more of his habitual libertinism. The Radical
journals, and some of the Legitimists, turn to account the portraits
left in these memoirs of Louis Philippe, Thiers, Guizot, and other
statesmen of the Orleans monarchy. They are effusions of personal and
political spite. Chateaubriand hated the whole Orleans dynasty, and
has not spared the elder Bourbons.

       *       *       *       *       *

GUIZOT has been for thirty years in political life, many of them
a minister, and was long at the head of the government of Louis
Philippe, but is now a poor man. Recently, on the marriage of his
two daughters with two brothers De Witt, the descendants of the great
Hollander, he was unable to give them a cent in the way of marriage
portions. This fact proves the personal integrity of the man more
than a score of arguments. Not only has the native honesty of his
character forbidden him to take advantage of his eminent position
to gain a fortune, but the indomitable pride which is his leading
characteristic, has never stooped to the attractions of public plunder
or the fruits of official speculation. Guizot is not up to the times,
and hence his downfall, but future historians will do justice alike to
his great talents and the uprightness of his intentions.

       *       *       *       *       *

One of the best works yet produced on the History of Art, is by
Schnaase, of Duesseldorf. The first three volumes have been published
and translated into French and English, and have met with great
success in both those languages. The fourth volume is just announced
in Germany. Artists and other competent persons at Duesseldorf who
have seen the proof-sheets, speak in the highest terms not only of its
historical merits, but of the excellence of its criticisms.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fifth volume of the _History of Spain_, by Rousseau St. Hilaire,
includes the period from 1336 to 1649. The professor has been employed
ten years on his enterprise; he is lauded by all the critics for his
research, method, and style. We have recently spoken of this work at
some length in _The International_. The PARIS ACADEMY OF INSCRIPTIONS
and Belles Lettres is constantly sending forth the most valuable
contributions; to the history of the middle ages especially. It is
now completing the publication of the sixth volume of the Charters,
Diplomas, and other documents relating to French History. This volume,
which was prepared by M. Pardessus, includes the period from the
beginning of 1220 to the end of 1270, and comprehends the reign of St.
Louis. The seventh volume, coming down some fifty years later, is also
nearly ready for the printer. Its editor is M. Laboulaye. The first
volume of the Oriental Historians of the Crusaders, translated into
French, is now going through the press, and the second is in course
of preparation. The greater part of the first volume of the Greek
Historians of the same chivalrous wars is also printed, and the work
is going rapidly forward. The Academy is also preparing a collection
of Occidental History on the same subject. When these three
collections are published, all the documents of any value relating
to the Crusades will be easily accessible, whether for the use of the
historian or the romancer. The Academy is also now engaged in getting
out the twenty-first volume of the History of the Gauls and of France,
and the nineteenth of the Literary History of France, which brings the
annals of French letters down to the thirteenth century. It is also
publishing the sixteenth volume of its own memoirs, which contains the
history of the Academy for the last four years, and the work of Freret
on Geography, besides several other works of less interest. From
all this some idea may be formed of the labors and usefulness of the
institution.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. LEVERRIER, the astronomer, has published a long and able argument
in support of the free and universal use of the electric telegraph.
He has supplied a most instructive and interesting exposition of the
employment and utility of the invention, in all the countries in which
it has been established. The American and the several European tariffs
of charge are appended. He explains the different systems, scientific
and practical, in detail, and gives the process and proceeds. He
observes that the practicability of laying the wires _under_ ground
along all the great roads of France, which will protect them from
accidents and mischief, will yield immense advantage to the Government
and to individuals. He appears to prefer Bain's Telegraph, for
communication, to any other, and minutely traces and develops its
mechanism. A bill before the French chambers, which he advocates,
opens to the public the use of the telegraph, but with various
restrictions calculated to prevent _revolutionary_ or seditious
abuses; to prevent illicit speculations in the public funds, and
other bad purposes to which a free conveyance might be applied. The
director of the telegraph is to be empowered to refuse to transmit
what he shall deem repugnant to public order and good morals, and the
government to suspend at will all private correspondence, on one or
many lines.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WORKS OF REV. LEONARD WOODS, D.D., lately Professor of Theology in
the Congregational Seminary of Andover, are in course of publication,
and the third and fourth volumes have just appeared, completing the
theological lectures of the venerable Professor, making in all one
hundred and twenty-eight. In these, the student is furnished with
a complete body of divinity as generally received by the orthodox
denominations in New England, and has presented in a clear, condensed
manner, the matured results of a long life of thought and study
devoted to these subjects.

The fourth volume is occupied with theological letters. The first
121 pages contain those to Unitarians; next follows the Reply to
Dr. Ware's Letters to Unitarians and Calvinists, and Remarks on Dr.
Ware's Answer, a series remarkable for courtesy and kindness toward
opponents, and clearness and faithfulness in the expression of what
was regarded as truth. Following these, are eight letters to Dr.
Taylor of New Haven; An Examination of the Doctrine of Perfection,
as held by Mr. Mahan and others, and a letter to Mr. Mahan; A
Dissertation on Miracles, and the Course of Theological Study as
pursued at the Seminary at Andover. One more volume will complete the
works of this long active and eminent divine.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE REV. ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D., we learn from the correspondence of the
_Christian Inquirer_, is living upon the farm where he was born, in
Sheffield, Massachusetts, having, in the successive improvements of
many years, converted the original house into an irregular but most
comfortable and pleasant dwelling. The view from the back piazza is
as fine as can be commanded anywhere in Berkshire, and should the
shifting channel of the Housatonic only be accommodating enough to
wind a little nearer the house, or even suffer some not impossible
stoppage which would convert the marshy meadow in front into a lake,
nothing can be conceived of which could then improve the situation. In
this lovely retirement, Dr. Dewey endeavors to unite labor and study;
working with his own hands, with hoe and rake, in a way to surprise
those who only know how he can handle a pen. He is preparing, in a
leisurely way, for a course of Lectures for the Lowell Institute, upon
a theme admirably suited to his previous studies, and in which it is
evident his whole mind and heart are bound up. We are glad to know
that it is not until winter after next that this work must be taken
from the anvil.

       *       *       *       *       *

DR. HOOKER, we learn, has again proceeded to a new and unexplored
region in India, in the prosecution of his important botanical labors.
THE AUTHOR OF THE AMBER WITCH, the Pomeranian pastor, Meinhold,
has been condemned to three months' imprisonment, and a fine of one
hundred thalers, besides costs, for slander against another clergyman
named Stosch, in a communication published in the _New Prussian
Zeitung_. The sentence was rendered more severe than usual in such
cases by the fact that Meinhold, who appears to possess more talent
than temper, had previously been condemned for the same offense
against another party. The _Amber Witch_ is one of the "curiosities of
literature", for in the last German edition the author is obliged to
prove that it is entirely a work of imagination, and not, as almost
all the German critics believed it to be when it appeared, the reprint
of an old chronicle. It was, in fact, written as a trap for the
disciples of Strauss and his school, who had pronounced the Scriptures
of the Old and New Testaments to be a collection, of legends, from
historical research, assisted by "internal evidence". Meinhold did
not spare them when they fell into the snare, and made merry with the
historical knowledge and critical acumen that could not detect
the contemporary romancer under the mask of the chronicler of two
centuries ago, while they decided so positively as to the authority of
the most ancient writings in the world. He has been in prison before.

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE NIGHT SIDE OF NATURE[1]", by Catharine Crowe, so well known as
one of the cleverest of the younger set of literary women in England,
we have already mentioned as in the press of Mr. Redfield; it is
now published, and we commend it as one of the most entertaining and
curious works that has ever appeared on the "wonders of the invisible
world". We quote from the judicious critic of the _Tribune_ the
following paragraphs in regard to it:

[Footnote 1: The Night side of Nature; or, Ghosts and Ghost Seers. By
Catherine Crowe. New York. J.S. Redfield.]

"The author of this work is an accomplished German scholar. Without
being a slave to the superstitious love of marvels and prodigies, her
mind evidently leans toward the twilight sphere, which lies beyond
the acknowledged boundaries of either faith or knowledge. She seems
to be entirely free from the sectarian spirit; she can look at facts
impartially, without reference to their bearing on favorite dogmas;
nor does she claim such a full, precise and completely-rounded
acquaintance with the mysteries of the spiritual world, whether from
intuition or revelation, as not to believe that there may be more
"things in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in our philosophy."
In this respect, it must be owned that she has not the advantage of
certain religious journals in this city, like the _Christian Inquirer_
and _The Independent_, for instance--which have been so fully
initiated into the secrets of universal truth as to regard all inquiry
into such subjects either as too vulgar for a Christian gentleman,
_comme il faut_, or as giving a "sanction to the atheistic
delusion that there may be a spiritual or supernatural agency" in
manifestations which are not accounted for by the New-England Primer.
Mrs. Crowe, on the contrary, supposes that there may be something
worthy of philosophical investigation in those singular phenomena,
which, surpassing the limits of usual experience, have not yet found
any adequate explanation.

"The phrase 'Night Side of Nature' is borrowed from the Germans, who
derive it from the language of astronomers, designating the side of
a planet that is turned from the sun, as its night side. The Germans
draw a parallel between our vague and misty perceptions, when deprived
of the light of the sun, and the obscure and uncertain glimpses we
obtain of the vailed department of nature, of which, though comprising
the solution of the most important questions, we are in a state of
almost total ignorance. In writing a book on these subjects, the
author disclaims the intention of enforcing any didactic opinions. She
wishes only to suggest inquiry and stimulate observation, in order to
gain all possible light on our spiritual nature, both as it now exists
in the flesh and is to exist hereafter out of it.

"It is but justice to say, that the present volume is a successful
realization of the purpose thus announced. It presents as full a
collection of facts on the subject as is probably to be found in any
work in the English language, furnishing materials for the formation
of theoretic views, and illustrating an obscure but most interesting
chapter in the marvelous history of human nature. It is written
with perfect modesty, and freedom from pretense, doing credit to the
ability of the author as a narrator, as well as to her fairness and
integrity as a reasoner."

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. MILNE EDWARDS presented at a recent meeting of the _Academy of
Sciences_, in the name of the Prince of Canino, (C. Bonaparte), the
first part of the Prince's large work, _Conspectus Generum Avium_.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. GUIZOT has addressed a long letter to each of the five classes
of the Institute of France, to declare that he cannot accept the
candidateship offered him for a seat in the Superior Council of Public
Instruction.

       *       *       *       *       *

SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON is to be a candidate for the House
of Commons, with Col. Sibthorp, for Lincoln. He has a new play
forthcoming for the Princess's Theatre.

       *       *       *       *       *

MISS STRICKLAND has in preparation a series of volumes on the Queens
of Scotland, as a companion to her, interesting and successful work on
the Queens of England.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MARQUIS DE FOUDRAS has published _Un Caprice de Grande
Dame_--clever, but as corrupt as her other works.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. HERBERT'S NEW BOOKS.--The _Southern Quarterly Review_ for July
has the following notice of "Frank Forester's Fish and Fishing in the
United States and British Provinces," recently published by Stringer &
Townsend:

"There are few of our writers so variously endowed and accomplished as
Mr. Herbert; of a mind easily warmed and singularly enthusiastic, the
natural bent of his talent inclines him to romance. He has accordingly
given us several stories abounding in stately scenes, and most
impressive portraiture. Well skilled in the use of the mother tongue,
as in the broad fields of classical literature, he has written essays
of marked eloquence, and criticisms of excellent discrimination and a
keen and thorough insight. His contributions to our periodicals have
been even more happy than his fictions. With a fine imagination, he
inherits a _penchant_ and a capacity for poetry, which has enabled him
to throw off, without an effort, some of the most graceful fugitive
effusions which have been written in America. His accomplishments are
as various as his talents. He can paint a landscape as sweetly as
he can describe it in words. He is a sportsman of eager impulse, and
relishes equally well the employments of the fisherman and hunter.
He is a naturalist, as well as a sportsman, and brings, to aid his
practice and experience, a large knowledge, from study, of the habits
of birds, beasts and fishes. He roves land and sea in this pursuit,
forest and river, and turns, with equal ease and readiness, from
a close examination of Greek and Roman literature, to an emulous
exercise of all the arts which have afforded renown to the aboriginal
hunter. The volume before us--one of many which he has given to this
subject--is one of singular interest to the lover of the rod and
angle. It exhibits, on every page, a large personal knowledge of
the finny tribes in all the northern portions of our country, and
well deserves the examination of those who enjoy such pursuits and
pastimes. The author's pencil has happily illustrated the labors of
his pen. His portraits of the several fishes of the United States are
exquisitely well done and truthful. It is our hope, in future pages,
to furnish an ample review of this, and other interesting volumes, of
similar character, from the hand of our author. We have drawn to them
the attention of some rarely endowed persons of our own region, who,
like our author, unite the qualities of the writer and the sportsman;
from whom we look to learn in what respects the habits and characters
of northern fish differ from our own, and thus supply the deficiency
of the work before us. The title of this work is rather too general.
The author's knowledge of the fish, and of fishing, in the United
States, is almost wholly confined to the regions north of the
Chesapeake, and he falls into the error, quite too common to the
North, of supposing this region to be the whole country. Another
each volume as that before us will be necessary to do justice to the
Southern States, whose possessions, in the finny tribes of sea and
river, are of a sort to shame into comparative insignificance all the
boasted treasures of the North. It would need but few pages in our
review, from the proper hands, to render this very apparent to the
reader. Meanwhile, we exhort him to seek the book of Mr. Herbert, as a
work of much interest and authority, so far as it goes."

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUTNAM is preparing some elegantly embellished works for the
holiday season. Among others, an edition, in octavo, of Miss Fenimore
Cooper's charming _Rural Hours_, embellished by twenty finely-colored
drawings of birds and flowers; _The Picturesque Souvenir_, or Letters
of a Traveler in Europe and America, by Bryant, embellished by
a series of finely-executed engravings; and _The Alhambra_, by
Washington Irving, with designs by Darley, uniform with the splendid
series of Mr. Irving's Illustrated Works, some time in course
of publication. We have also seen a specimen copy of a superbly
illustrated edition of _The Pilgrim's Progress_, printed on
cream-colored paper, as smooth as ivory; and the exquisite designs by
Harvey, nearly three hundred in number, are among the most effective
ever attempted for the elucidation of this first of all allegories.
Professor Sweetser's new work, _Menial Hygiene_, or an Examination of
the Intellect and Passions, designed to illustrate their Influence on
Health and the Duration of Life, will be published in the course
of the present month. Professor Church's _Treatise on Integral and
Differential Calculus_, a revised edition; _The Companion_, or _After
Dinner Table Talk_, by Chelwood Evelyn, with a fine portrait of Sydney
Smith; _The History of Propellers, and Steam Navigation_, illustrated
by engravings: a manual, said to combine much valuable information on
the subjects, derived from the most authentic sources, by Mr. Robert
MacFarlane, editor of the _Scientific American_; and Mr. Ridner's
_Artist's Chromatic Hand-Book, or Manual of Colors_, will also be
speedily issued by the same publisher. Mr. Putnam's own production,
_The World's Progress, or Dictionary of Dates_, containing a
comprehensive manual of reference in facts, or epitome of historical
and general statistical knowledge, with a corrected chronology, &c.,
is expected to appear in a few weeks. Mr. Theodore Irving's _Conquest
of Florida_ is also in progress.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is said that Meyerbeer has already completed a grand opera with the
title of _L'Africaine_, and is now engaged on a comic opera. This is
probably nothing more than one of the trumpets which this composer
knows so well how to blow beforehand. Meyerbeer is not greater in
music than in the art of tickling public expectation and keeping the
public aware of his existence.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Lorgnette_ has just appeared in a volume.

       *       *       *       *       *




RECENT DEATHS.

       *       *       *       *       *

AUGUSTUS WILLIAM NEANDER.

OF this most eminent Christian scholar of the nineteenth century,
_The Tribune_ furnishes the following brief sketch. "The name of
JOHANN AUGUST WILHELM NEANDER is familiar to a large number of our
countrymen, both on account of his important contributions to the
science of theology, and his personal intimacy with many of our
eminent scholars, who have enjoyed the benefit of his instructions,
or who have made his acquaintance while pursuing their travels in
Germany. Although he had attained a greater age than might have been
anticipated from his habits as a confirmed invalid, being in his
sixty-second year, his decease cannot be announced without causing an
emotion of surprise and regret to a numerous circle who recognized in
him one of the most faithful and conscientious Christian teachers of
the present day.

"NEANDER, as it is well known, was descended from Jewish parents,
by whom he was instructed in the rudiments of religion, and at a
subsequent period of life became a convert to the Christian faith, by
personal inquiry and experience. He was born at Goettingen, in 1789,
but passed a considerable portion of his youth at Hamburg, where he
was initiated into the rudiments of a classical education. After he
had made a profession of Christianity, he continued his studies for
a short time at the Universities of Halle and Goettingen, returned to
Hamburg, and finally completed his University career at Heidelberg.
The following year he was called to the University of Berlin, as
Professor of Theology, where he soon gave promise of the brilliant
eminence which he has since attained. His first publications were
on special topics of ecclesiastical history, including treatises on
'The Emperor Julian and his Age,' 'St. Bernard and his Age,' 'The
Development of the Principal Systems of the Gnostics,' 'St. Chrysostom
and the Church in his Age,' and 'The Spirit of Tertullian,' with
an 'Introduction to his Writings.' These treatises are remarkable
monuments of diligence, accuracy, profoundness of research and breadth
of comprehension, showing the same intellectual qualities which
were afterward signally exhibited in the composition of his masterly
volumes on the history of the Christian Religion. His earliest
production in this department had for its object to present the most
important facts in Church history, in a form adapted to the great mass
of readers, without aiming at scientific precision or completeness.
This attempt was eminently successful. The first volume of his
great work entitled 'General History of the Church and the Christian
Religion,' was published in 1825, and it was not till twenty years
afterward that the work was brought to a close. The appearance of this
work formed a new epoch in ecclesiastical history. It at once betrayed
the power of a bold and original mind. Instead of consisting of a
meager and arid collection of facts, without scientific order, without
any vital coherence or symmetry, and without reference to the cardinal
elements of Christian experience, the whole work, though singularly
chaste and subdued in its tone, throbs with the emotions of genuine
life, depicting the influence of Christianity as a school for the
soul, and showing its radiant signatures of Divinity in its moral
triumphs through centuries.

"His smaller work on the first development of Christianity in the
Apostolic Age is marked by the same spirited characteristics, while
his 'Life of Jesus' is an able defense of the historical verity of
the sacred narrative against the ingenious and subtle suggestions of
Strauss.

"The writings and theological position of NEANDER have been fully
brought before the American public by Profs. ROBINSON, TORREY,
McCLINTOCK, SEARS, and other celebrated scholars who have done much to
diffuse a knowledge of the learned labors of Germany among intelligent
thinkers in our own country. NEANDER was free from the reproach which
attaches to so many of his fellow laborers, of covertly undermining
the foundation of Christianity, under the pretense of placing it on a
philosophical basis. His opinions are considered strictly evangelical,
though doubtless embodied in a modified form. In regard to the extent
and soundness of his learning, the clearness of his perceptions,
and the purity and nobleness of his character, there can be but one
feeling among those who are qualified to pronounce a judgment on the
subject.

"NEANDER was never married. He was the victim of almost constant ill
health. In many of his personal habits he was peculiar and eccentric.
With the wisdom of a sage, he combined the simplicity of a child. Many
amusing anecdotes are related of his oddities in the lecture-room,
which will serve to enliven the biography that will doubtless be
prepared at an early date. We have received no particulars concerning
his death, which is said to have been announced by private letters to
friends in Boston."

       *       *       *       *       *

JACOB JONES, U.S.N.

COMMODORE JACOB JONES, of the United States Navy, died in Philadelphia
on the 6th inst. He was born in Smyrna, Kent county, Delaware, in
the year 1770, and was therefore, eighty years of age. He was of
an eminently respectable family, and commenced life as a physician,
having studied the profession at the University of Pennsylvania. He
afterward became clerk of the Supreme Court of Delaware for his native
county. When about twenty-nine years old he entered the navy, and made
his first cruises under Commodore Barry. He was a midshipman on board
the frigate United States, when she bore to France Chief Justice
Ellsworth and General Davie, as envoys extraordinary to the French
Republic. He was next appointed to the Ganges as midshipman. On the
breaking out of the war with Tripoli, he was stationed on the frigate
Philadelphia, under Commodore Bainbridge. The disaster which befell
that ship and her crew before Tripoli, forms a solemn page in our
naval history; atoned, however, by the brilliant achievements to which
it gave rise. Twenty months of severe captivity among a barbarous
people, and in a noxious climate, neither broke the spirit nor
impaired the constitution of Jones. Blest by nature with vigorous
health and an invincible resolution, when relieved from bondage by the
bravery of his countrymen, he returned home full of life and ardor.
He was soon after promoted to a lieutenancy. He was now for some time
employed on the Orleans station, where he conducted himself with
his usual judgment and propriety, and was a favorite in the polite
circles of the Orleans and Mississippi territories. He was shortly
after appointed to the command of the brig Argus, stationed for the
protection of our commerce on the southern maritime frontier. In this
situation he acted with vigilance and fidelity, and though there were
at one time insidious suggestions to the contrary, it has appeared
that he conformed to his instructions, promoted the public interest,
and gave entire satisfaction to the government. In 1811, he was
transferred to the command of the sloop-of-war Wasp, mounting eighteen
twenty-four pound carronades, and dispatched, in the spring of 1812,
with communications to the courts of St. Cloud and St. James. Before
he returned, war had been declared against Great Britain. He refitted
his ship with all possible dispatch, and repaired to sea, but met with
no other good fortune than the capture of an inconsiderable prize. He
next sailed from Philadelphia on the 13th of October, and on the 18th
of the same month encountered a heavy gale, during which the Wasp
lost her jibboom and two seamen. On the following night, the watch
discovered five strange sail steering eastward. The Wasp hauled to
the windward and closely watched their movements until daylight next
morning, when it was found that they were six large merchant vessels
under convoy of a sloop of war. The former were well manned, two
of them mounting sixteen guns each. Notwithstanding the apparent
disparity of force. Captain Jones determined to hazard an attack;
and as the weather was boisterous, and the swell of the sea unusually
high, he ordered down top-gallant yards, closely reefed the top-sails,
and prepared for action. We cannot give a detail of this brilliant
engagement, which resulted in the capture of the Frolic. It was one of
the most daring and determined actions in our naval history. The force
of the Frolic consisted of sixteen thirty-two pound carronades, four
twelve-pounders on the maindeck, and two twelve-pound carronades.
Both vessels had more men than was essential to their efficiency; but
while there was an equality of strength in the crews, there was an
inequality in the number of guns and weight of metal--the Frolic
having four twelve-pounders more than the Wasp. The exact number of
killed and wounded on board the Frolic could not be ascertained with
any degree of precision; but, from the admissions of the British
officers, it was supposed that their loss in killed was about thirty,
including two officers, and in wounded, between forty and fifty. The
captain and every other officer on board were more or less severely
wounded. The Wasp sustained a loss of only five men killed, and five
wounded.

While erecting jurymasts on board the Frolic, soon after, a suspicious
sail was seen to windward, upon which Captain Jones directed
Lieutenant Biddle to shape her course for Charleston, or any other
port of the United States, while the Wasp should continue upon
her cruise. The sail coming down rapidly, both vessels prepared
for action, but it was soon discovered, to the mortification of
the victors in this well-fought action, that the new enemy was a
seventy-four, which proved to be the Poictiers, commanded by Admiral
Beresford. Firing a shot over the Frolic, she passed her, and soon
overhauled the Wasp, which, in her crippled state, was unable to
escape. Both vessels were thus captured, and carried into Bermuda.
After a few weeks, a cartel was proposed by which the officers
and crew of the Wasp were conveyed to New York. On the return of
Captain Jones to the United States, he was everywhere received with
demonstrations of respect for the skill and gallantry displayed in his
combat with the enemy. The legislature of Delaware gave him a vote
of thanks, and a piece of plate. On the motion of James A. Bayard,
of Delaware, Congress appropriated twenty-five thousand dollars, as
a compensation to the commander, his officers, and crew, for the loss
they had sustained by the recapture of the Frolic. They also voted
a gold medal to the Captain, and a silver medal to each of his
commissioned officers. As a farther evidence of the confidence of
government, Captain Jones was ordered to the command of the frigate
Macedonian, recently captured from the British by Decatur. She was
rapidly fitted out under his direction, in the harbor of New York,
and proposed for one of Decatur's squadron, which was about to sail on
another expedition. In May 1811, the squadron attempted to put to
sea, but, in sailing up Long Island Sound, encountered a large British
force, which compelled the United States vessels to retreat into
New London. In this situation the enemy continued an uninterrupted
blockade during the war. Finding it impossible to avoid the vigilance
of Sir Thomas Hardy, who commanded the blockading fleet, the
government ordered Captain Jones to proceed with his officers and crew
to Sackett's Harbor, and report to Commodore Chauncey, as commander of
the frigate Mohawk, on lake Ontario. There the Americans maintained
an ascendency, and continued to cruise until October, when the British
squadron, under Sir James Yeo, left Kingston, with a greatly superior
force, which caused the United States squadron to return to Sackett's
Harbor. It seemed, indeed, that the contest now depended on the
exertions of the ship carpenters. Two line of battle ships were placed
on the stocks, and were advancing rapidly to completion, when, in
February 1815, the news of peace arrived, with orders to suspend
further operations on these vessels. A few weeks after the peace was
announced, Captain Jones with his officers and crew was ordered to
repair to the seaboard, and again to take command of the Macedonian,
to form part of the force against the Algerines, then depredating on
our commerce in the Mediterranean. As soon as the Algerian Regency was
informed that war existed between the United States and Great Britain,
the Dey dispatched his cruisers to capture all American merchant
vessels. To punish these freebooters, nine or ten vessels were fitted
out and placed under Decatur. This armament sailed from New York in
May, 1815, and when off Cadiz was informed that the Algerines were
along the southern coast of Spain. Two days after reaching the
Mediterranean, the United States squadron fell in with and captured
the Algerine frigate Messuado, mounting forty-six guns, and the next
day captured a large brig of war, both of which were carried into the
port of Carthagena, in Spain. The American squadron then proceeded to
the bay of Algiers, where its sudden and unexpected appearance excited
no slight surprise and alarm in the Regency. The Dey reluctantly
yielded to every demand to him; he restored the value of the property
belonging to American merchants which he had seized, released all the
prisoners he had captured, and relinquished forever all claims on the
annual tribute which he had received. After having thus terminated
the war with Algiers, and formed an advantageous treaty, the
squadron proceeded to other Barbary capitals, and adjusted some minor
difficulties, which, however, were of importance to our merchants.
After touching at several of the islands in the Mediterranean, at
Naples, and at Malaga, the entire force came back to the United States
early in December. From this period till his death, no event of
much importance distinguished the career of Commodore Jones. He was,
however, almost constantly employed in various responsible positions,
his appointment to which evinced the confidence government placed
in his talents and discretion. In 1821, he took the command of a
squadron, for the protection of our trade in the Mediterranean, in
which he continued for three years. On his return he was offered a
seat in the Board of Navy Commissioners, but, finding bureau duties
irksome, he accepted, in 1826, the command of our navy in the
Pacific, where he also continued three years, Afterward he was placed
in command of the Baltimore station, where he remained, with the
exception of a short interval, until transferred to the harbor of
New York. Since 1847, he had held the place of Governor of the United
States Naval Asylum, on the Schuylkill, near Philadelphia.

       *       *       *       *       *

JULIA BETTERTON GLOVER.

An actress who has been admired and respected by three generations of
play-goers has quitted the stage of life in the person of Mrs. Glover.
The final exit was somewhat sudden, as it seemed to the general
public; but it was anticipated by her friends. A friendly biographer
in the _Morning Chronicle_ explains the circumstances; first referring
to the extraordinary manifestations of public feeling which attended
Mrs. Glover's last farewell, at Drury-Lane Theater, on Friday, the
12th of July.

"In our capacity of spectators we did not then see occasion to mention
what had otherwise come to our knowledge--that the evidences of
extreme suffering manifested by Mrs. Glover on that evening--her
inability to go through her part, except as a mere shadow of her
former self, and the substitution of an apologetic speech from Mr.
Leigh Murray for the address which had been written for her by a
well-known and talented amateur of the drama--arose not merely from
the emotion natural on a farewell night, after more than half a
century of active public service, but also from extreme physical
debility, the result of an attack of illness of a wasting character,
which had already confined that venerable lady to her bed for many
days. In fact, it was only the determination of Mrs. Glover herself
not to disappoint the audience, who had been invited and attracted for
many weeks before, that overruled the remonstrances of her friends
and family against her appearing at all. She was then utterly unfit
to appear on the stage in her professional character, and the most
serious alarm was felt lest there should be some sudden and fatal
catastrophe. The result of the struggle of feeling she then underwent,
superadded as it was to the physical causes which had undermined her
strength, was, that Mrs. Glover sunk under the disease which had been
consuming her, and quitted this life on Monday night."

Mrs. Glover, born Julia Betterton, was daughter of an actor named
Betterton, who held a good position on the London stage toward
the close of the last century. She is said to have been a lineal
descendant of the great actor of the same name. Her birthday was
the 8th January, 1781. Brought up, as most of our great actors and
actresses have been, "at the wings," she was even in infancy sent on
the stage in children's parts. She became attached to the company of
Tate Wilkinson, for whom she played, at York, the part of the _Page_
in _The Orphan_; and she also exercised her juvenile talents in the
part of _Tom Thumb_, for the benefit of George Frederick Cooke, who on
the occasion doffed his tragic garb and appeared in the character of
_Glumdalcar_. Another character which she played successfully with
Cooke was that of the little _Duke of York_ in _Richard the Third_;
into which, it is recorded, she threw a degree of spirit and childish
roguishness that acted as a spur on the great tragedian himself, who
never performed better than when seconded by his childish associate.
In 1796 she had attained such a position in the preparatory school
of the provincial circuits, chiefly at Bath, that she was engaged at
Covent Garden; in the first instance at L10 a week, and ultimately for
five years at L15 a week, rising to L20; terms then thought "somewhat
extraordinary and even exorbitant". Miss Betterton first appeared in
London in October 1797, fifty-three years ago, as _Elvira_, in Hannah
More's tragedy of _Percy_. Her success was great; and in a short time
she had taken such a hold of popular favor, that when Mrs. Abington
returned for a brief period to the stage, Miss Betterton held her
ground against the rival attraction, and even secured the admiration
of Mrs. Abington herself. Her subsequent engagements were at
Drury-Lane and Covent-Garden alternately, till she made that long
engagement at the Haymarket, during which she has become best known to
the present generation of playgoers. Her more recent brief engagement
with Mr. Anderson, at Drury-Lane, and her last one with Mr. W. Farren,
at the Strand Theater, whither she contributed so much to attract
choice audiences, are fresh in the memory of metropolitans. Looking
back to Mrs. Glover's "long and brilliant career upon the stage, we
may pronounce her one of the most extraordinary women and accomplished
actresses that have ever graced the profession of the drama." Mrs.
Glover had a daughter, Phillis, a very clever young actress, at the
Haymarket Theater, who has been dead several years. Her two sons are
distinguished, the one as a popular musical composer, and the other as
a clever tragedian--the latter with considerable talent, also, as an
amateur painter.

A London correspondent of the _Spirit of the Times_ gives an
interesting account of the Glover benefit, and the "last scenes."

       *       *       *       *       *

MADAME GAVAUDAN is dead. To many it will be necessary to explain
that Madame Gavaudan was, in her time, one of the most favorite
singing-actresses and acting songstresses belonging to the _Opera
Comique_ of Paris; and that, after many years of popularity, she
retired from the stage in 1823.

       *       *       *       *       *

GENERAL BERTHAND, Baron de Sivray, died early in July at Luc, in
France, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. He was an officer before
the first revolution, and served through all the wars of the Republic
and the Empire.

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT R. BAIRD, a son of the Rev. Dr. Baird, and a young man of
amiable character and considerable literary abilities, which had been
illustrated for the most part, we believe, in translation, was drowned
in the North River at Yonkers on Tuesday evening, the 6th instant,
about seven o'clock. The deceased had gone into the water to bathe in
company with several others, and was carried by the rising tide into
deep water, where, as he could swim but little, he sunk to rise no
more, before help could reach him. This premature and sudden death has
overwhelmed his parents and friends in the deepest distress. He was
twenty-five years old.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DEATH OF MR. S. JOSEPH, the sculptor, known by his statue of
Wilberforce in Westminster Abbey and his statue of Wilkie in the
National Gallery, is mentioned in the English papers. His busts
exhibit a fine perception of character, and many a delicate grace in
the modeling. Mr. Joseph was long a resident in Edinburgh. He modeled
a bust of Sir Walter Scott about the same time that Chantrey modeled
his--that bust which best preserves to us the features and character
of the great novelist.

       *       *       *       *       *

JAMES WRIGHT, author of the _Philosophy of Elocution_ and other works
chiefly of a religious character, died at Brighton, England, on the
9th of July, aged 68.

       *       *       *       *       *

SIR THOMAS WILDE, who has just been promoted to the Woolsack, as Baron
Truro, we learn from the _Illustrated News_, was born in 1782. After
practicing as an attorney, he was called to the bar by the Honorable
Society of the Inner Temple, the 7th February, 1817. He joined
the Western Circuit, and soon rose into considerable practice. His
knowledge of the law, combined with his great eloquence, made him one
of the most successful advocates of his time. He was for many years
the confidential and legal adviser of the late Alderman Sir Matthew
Wood, and his connection with that gentleman caused him to be engaged
as one of the senior counsel for the Queen on the celebrated trial of
Queen Caroline. Though surrounded by rivals of the highest eminence
and the brightest fame, Wilde always stood among the foremost,
and obtained briefs in some of the greatest causes ever tried. For
instance, he was engaged on the winning side in the famous action
of Small v. Atwood, in which his fees are said to have amounted to
something enormous. In 1824 he became a sergeant-at-law; and he was
appointed King's Sergeant in 1827, and Solicitor-General in 1839,
when he received the honor of knighthood. In 1841 he first became
Attorney-General; and after a second time holding that office, he
succeeded the late Sir Nicholas Conyngham Tindal, as Lord Chief
Justice of the Common Pleas. His recent appointment as Lord Chancellor
places him at the very summit of his profession.

       *       *       *       *       *

[FROM THE _LONDON LADIES' COMPANION_.]

THE MORNING SONG.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

A new "English Song," by Barry Cornwall, is now--more's the pity--a
too rare event in the musical year. We are at once doing our readers
a pleasure, and owning a welcome kindness, in publishing, by the
author's permission, these words, set by M. Benedict, and sung by
Madame Sontag.

  The world is waking into light;
    The dark and sullen night hath flown:
  Life lives and re-assumes its might,
    And nature smiles upon her throne.
      And the Lark,
      Hark!
    _She_ gives welcome to the day,
    In a merry, merry, lay,
    Tra la!--lira, lira, lira, la!

  Soft sounds are sailing through the air;
    Sweet sounds are springing from the stream;
  And fairest things, where all is fair,
    Join gently in the grateful theme.
      And the Lark, &c., &c.

  The morn, the morn is in the skies;
    The reaper singeth from the corn;
  The shepherd on the hills replies;
    And all things now salute the morn,
      Even the Lark, &c., &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

[FROM ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.]

A LESSON.

If society ever be wholly corrupted, it will be by the idea that it is
already so. Some cynics believe in virtue, sincerity, and happiness,
only as traditions of the past, and by ridicule seek to propagate the
notion. This vain and pedantic philosophy would turn all hearts to
stone, and arm every man with suspicion against all others, declaiming
against the romance of life, as empty sentimentalism; against the
belief in goodness, as youth's sanguine folly; and the hope of pure
happiness, as a fanciful dream, created by a young imagination, to be
dissipated by the teaching of a few years' struggle with the world.

If this be wisdom, I am no philosopher, and I never wish to be one;
for sooner would I float upon the giddy current of fancy, to fall
among quicksands at last, than travel through a dull and dreary world,
without confidence in my companions. That we may be happy, that we
may find sincere friends, that we may meet the good, and enjoy the
beautiful on earth, is a creed that will find believers in all hearts
unsoured by their own asceticism. Virtue will sanctify every fireside
where we invite her to dwell, and if the clouds of misfortune darken
and deform the whole period of our existence, it is a darkness that
emanates from ourselves, and a deformity created by us to our own
unhappiness.

Yet this is not relating the little story which is the object of my
observations. The axiom which I wish to lay down, to maintain, and to
prove correct, is, that married life may be with most people, should
be with all, and is with many, a state of happiness. The reader
may smile at my boldness, but the history of the personages I shall
introduce to walk their hour on this my little stage, will justify my
adopting the maxim.

M. Pierre Lavalles, owner of a vineyard, near a certain village
in the south of France, wooed and wedded Mdlle. Julie Gouchard.
Exactly where they dwelt, and all the precise circumstances of their
position, I do not mean to indicate, and if I might offer a hint to
my contemporaries, it would be a gentle suggestion that they occupy
too much time, paper, and language in geographical and genealogical
details, very wearisome, because very unnecessary. Monsieur Pierre
Lavalles then lived in a pretty house, near a certain village in a
vine-growing district of the south of France, and when he took his
young wife home, he showed her great stores of excellent things,
calculated well for the comfortable subsistence of a youthful and
worthy couple. Flowers and blossoming trees shed odor near the lattice
windows, verdure soft and green was spread over the garden, and the
mantling vine "laid forth the purple grape," over a rich and sunny
plantation near at hand. The house was small, but neat, and well
furnished in the style of the province, and Monsieur and Madame Pierre
Lavalles lived very happily in plenty and content.

Here I leave them, and introduce the reader to Monsieur Antoine
Perron, notary in the neighboring village.

Let me linger over a notice of this individual. He was a good man, and
what is more curious an honest lawyer. Indeed, in spite of my happy
theory, I may say that such a good man, and such a good lawyer you
could seldom meet. All the village knew him; he mixed up in every
one's quarrels; not, as is usually the case, to make confusion worse
confounded by a double-tongued hypocrisy, but to produce conciliation;
he mingled in every one's affairs, not to pick up profit for himself,
but to prevent the villagers from running into losses and imprudent
speculations; he talked much, yet, it was not slander, but advice; he
thought more, yet it was not over mischief, but on schemes of good;
he was known to everybody, yet none that knew him respected him the
less on that account. He was a little, spare, merry-looking man, that
sought to appear grave when he was most inclined to merriment, and
if he considered himself a perfect genius in his plans for effecting
good, his vanity may be pardoned, because of the food it fed on.

M. Antoine Perron considered himself very ingenious, and if he had a
fault, it was his love of originality. He never liked to perform any
action in a common way, and never chuckled so gaily to himself, as
when he had achieved some charitable end by some extraordinary means.

It was seven months after the marriage of M. Pierre Lavalles, M.
Antoine Perron sat in his little parlor, and gazed with a glad eye
upon the cheerful fire, for the short winter was just terminating.
Leaning forward in his chair, he shaded his face with his hands, and
steadily perused the figures among the coals with a most pleasant
countenance. The room was small, neat, and comfortable, for the notary
prospered, in his humble way and seeking only comfort found it, and
was content.

Suddenly a violent knocking at the door aroused him from his reverie,
and he heard his old servant rushing to open it. In a moment, two
persons were ushered into the room, and the notary leaped to his
feet in astonishment at the extraordinary scene before him. Had a
thunderbolt cloven the roof, and passed through his hearth to its
grave in the center of the globe, or had the trees that nodded their
naked branches without the window commenced a dance upon the snowy
ground, he had not been more surprised.

Monsieur Pierre Lavalles, and Madame Pierre Lavalles stood just inside
the doorway. Never had Monsieur Perron seen them before, as he saw
them now. Like turtle-doves, with smiling eyes, and affectionate
caress, they had lived in happy harmony during the seven months of
their married life, and motherly dames, when they gave their daughters
away, bade them prosper and be pleasant in their union, as they had
been joyous in their love, pleasant and joyous, as neighbor Lavalles
and his wife.

Now, Pierre stood red and angry, with his right arm extended,
gesticulating toward his wife. Julie stood red and angry, with her
left arm extended, gesticulating toward her husband. Eyes, that had
only radiated smiles, flashed with fierce passion, as the turtle doves
remained near the door, each endeavoring to anticipate the other in
some address to the worthy notary. He, aghast and perplexed, waited
for the _denouement_.

"Madame," said Monsieur Pierre Lavalles, "allow me to speak."

"Monsieur," said Madame Pierre Lavalles. "I insist--"

"But, Madame, it is my--"

"But, Monsieur, I say I will."

"And yet I will."

"But no--"

"Madame, I shall."

"Then be careful what you do; M. Perron, M. Lavalles is mad."

Then the lady, having thus emphatically declared herself, resigned the
right of speech to her husband, who began to jerk out in disconnected
phrases a statement of his case. Seven days ago he had annoyed his
wife by some incautious word; she had annoyed him by an incautious
answer; he had made matters worse by an aggravating retort; and she
had widened the breach by a bitter reply. This little squall was
succeeded by a cool calm, and that by a sullen silence, until some
sudden friction kindled a new flame, and finally, after successive
storms and lulls, there burst forth a furious conflagration, and
in the violent collision of their anger, the seven-months' married
pair vowed to separate, and with that resolve had visited M. Perron.
Reconciliation they declared was beyond possibility, and they
requested the notary at once to draw up the documents that should
consign them to different homes, to subsist on a divided patrimony,
in loveless and unhappy marriage. Each told a tale in turn, and the
manner of relation added fuel to the anger of the other. The man and
the woman seemed to have leaped out of their nature in the accession
of their passion. Pity that a quarrel should ever dilate thus, from a
cloud the size of a man's hand to a thunder-storm that covers heaven
with its black and dismal canopy.

Neither would listen to reason. The duty of the notary was to prepare
the process by which they were to be separated.

"Monsieur," he said, "I will arrange the affair for you; but you are
acquainted with the laws of France in this respect!"

"I know nothing of the law," replied M. Pierre Lavalles.

"Madame," said the notary, "your wish shall be complied with. But you
know what the law says on this head?"

"I never read a law book," sharply ejaculated Madame Pierre Lavalles.

"Then," resumed the notary, "the case is this. You must return to
your house, and I will proceed to settle the proceedings with the
Judicatory Court at Paris. They are very strict. You must furnish me
with all the documents relative to property."

"I have them here," put in the husband, by way of parenthesis.

"And the whole affair including correspondence, preparations of
instruments, &c., will be settled in less than three months."

"Three months?"

"Three months. Yes, in less than three months."

"Then I will live with a friend at the village, until it is finished,"
said Madame Lavalles, in a decided, peremptory tone, usual with ladies
when they are a little ashamed of themselves, or any one else.

"Oh, very well, Madame,--oh, very well."

"Not at all well, Madame; not at all well, Monsieur," said the notary,
with a solid, immovable voice. "You must live as usual. If you doubt
my knowledge of the law, you will, by reading through these seven
books, find that this fact is specified."

But the irritated couple were not disposed to undertake the
somniferous task, and shortly left the house, as they had come,
walking the same way, but at a distance of a yard or so one from
another.

Two months and twenty-seven days had passed, when the notary issued
from his house, and proceeded toward the house where Monsieur and
Madame Lavalles dwelt. Since the fatal night I have described, he
had not encountered them, and he now, with a bland face and confident
head, approached the dwelling.

It was a pretty place. Passing through the sunny vineyards where the
spring was just calling out the leaves, and the young shoots in their
tints of tender green were sprouting in the warmth of a pleasant day;
the notary entered a garden. Here the flowers, in infant bloom, had
prepared the earth for the coming season, for summer in her gay attire
was tripping from the south, and as she passed, nature wove garlands
to adorn her head, and wreathe about her arms. Early blossoms lent
sweetness to the breath of the idle winds that loitered in this
delightful spot, and the fair young primrose was sown over the
parterres, with other flowers of spring, the most delicate and softly
fragrant, that come out to live their hour in modesty and safety,
while the earth affords them room, and before the bright and gaudy
bloom of a riper season eclipses their beauty, bidding them, blushing,
close their petals.

Early roses twined on either side the porch, and as the notary
entered, nothing struck him more than the neat and cheerful appearance
of the place. A demoiselle ushered him into a little parlor, where
Monsieur Pierre Lavalles, and Madame Julie Lavalles, had just sat down
to partake breakfast.

A small table was drawn up close to the open window, and vernal
breezes found welcome in the chamber. A snowy cloth hung down to the
well-polished floor, and tall white cups were placed upon it to rival
it in purity and grace. Cakes of bread, such bread as is only had in
France, with delicious butter, and rich brown foaming coffee frothed
with cream, were spread before them, and a basket of fresh spring
flowers, sparkling with dew and beautifully odorous, scented the whole
chamber with a delicate perfume.

The husband and wife sat side by side, with pleasant looks, and so
engaged in light and amiable conversation, that they hardly noticed
the entrance of the notary. The storm had vanished and left no trace.
Flushes of anger, flashes of spite, quick breathings, and disordered
looks--all these had passed, and now smiles, and eyes lit only with
kindness, and bosoms beating with calm content, and looks all full of
love, were alone to be observed.

When M. Antoine Perron entered, they started; at length, and then
recollecting his mission, blushed crimson, looked one at another, and
then at the ground, awaiting his address.

"Monsieur, and Madame," said the notary, "according to your desires
I come with all the documents necessary for your separation, and the
division of your property. They only want your signature, and we will
call in your servant to be witness."

"Stay," exclaimed Madame Julie, laughing at her husband, "Pierre,
explain to M. Perron."

"Ah, Monsieur Perron," said Monsieur Antoine Lavalles, "we had
forgotten that, and hoped you had also. Say not a word of it to any
one."

"No, not a word," said Madame Julie. "We never quarreled but once
since we married, and we never mean to quarrel again."

"Not unless you provoke it," said Monsieur Lavalles, audaciously. "But
M. Perron, you will take breakfast with us?"

"You're a wicked wretch," said Madame Julie, tapping him on the cheek.
"After breakfast, M. Perron, we will sign the papers."

"After breakfast," said M. Pierre Lavalles, "we will burn them."

"We shall see," said the notary. "Sign them or burn them. Madame Julie
Lavalles, your coffee is charming."

       *       *       *       *       *

After seven months' harmony, do not let seven days' quarrel destroy
the happiness of home. Do not follow the directions of a person in a
passion. Allow him to cool and consider his purpose.

       *       *       *       *       *

[FROM DICKENS'S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.]

DUST;

OR UGLINESS REDEEMED.

On a murky morning in November, wind north-east, a poor old woman
with a wooden leg was seen struggling against the fitful gusts of the
bitter breeze, along a stony zigzag road, full of deep and irregular
cart-ruts. Her ragged petticoat was blue, and so was her wretched
nose. A stick was in her left hand, which assisted her to dig and
hobble her way along; and in her other hand, supported also beneath
her withered arm, was a large rusty iron sieve. Dust and fine ashes
filled up all the wrinkles in her face; and of these there were a
prodigious number, for she was eighty-three years old. Her name was
Peg Dotting.

About a quarter of a mile distant, having a long ditch and a
broken-down fence as a foreground, there rose against the muddled-gray
sky, a huge Dust-heap of a dirty black color, being, in fact, one
of those immense mounds of cinders, ashes, and other emptyings
from dust-holes and bins, which have conferred celebrity on certain
suburban neighborhoods of a great city. Toward this dusky mountain old
Peg Dotting was now making her way.

Advancing toward the Dust-heap by an opposite path, very narrow, and
just reclaimed from the mud by a thick layer of freshly-broken flints,
there came at the same time Gaffer Doubleyear, with his bone-bag slung
over his shoulder. The rags of his coat fluttered in the east-wind,
which also whistled keenly round his almost rimless hat, and troubled
his one eye. The other eye, having met with an accident last week, he
had covered neatly with an oyster-shell, which was kept in its place
by a string at each side, fastened through a hole. He used no staff
to help him along, though his body was nearly bent double, so that his
face was constantly turned to the earth, like that of a four-footed
creature. He was ninety-seven years of age. As these two patriarchal
laborers approached the great Dust-heap, a discordant voice hallooed
to them from the top of a broken wall. It was meant as a greeting of
the morning, and proceeded from little Jem Clinker, a poor deformed
lad, whose back had been broken when a child. His nose and chin were
much too large for the rest of his face, and he had lost nearly
all his teeth from premature decay. But he had an eye gleaming with
intelligence and life, and an expression at once patient and hopeful.
He had balanced his misshapen frame on the top of the old wall, over
which one shriveled leg dangled, as if by the weight of a hob-nailed
boot that covered a foot large enough for a plowman.

In addition to his first morning's salutation of his two aged friends,
he now shouted out in a tone of triumph and self-gratulation, in which
he felt assured of their sympathy--

"Two white skins, and a tor'shell-un!"

It may be requisite to state that little Jem Clinker belonged to the
dead-cat department of the Dust-heap, and now announced that a prize
of three skins, in superior condition. had rewarded him for being
first in the field.

He was enjoying a seat on the wall, in order to recover himself from
the excitement of his good fortune.

At the base of the great Dust-heap the two old people now met their
young friend--a sort of great-grandson by mutual adoption--and they
at once joined the party who had by this time assembled as usual, and
were already busy at their several occupations.

But besides all these, another individual, belonging to a very
different class, formed a part of the scene, though appearing only on
its outskirts. A canal ran along at the rear of the Dust-heap, and on
the banks of its opposite side slowly wandered by--with hands clasped
and hanging down in front of him, and eyes bent vacantly upon his
hands--the forlorn figure of a man, in a very shabby great-coat, which
had evidently once belonged to one in the position of a gentleman. And
to a gentleman it still belonged--but in _what_ a position! A scholar,
a man of wit, of high sentiment, of refinement, and a good fortune
withal--now by a sudden turn of law bereft of the last only, and
finding that none of the rest, for which (having his fortune) he
had been so much admired, enabled him to gain a livelihood. His
title-deeds had been lost or stolen, and so he was bereft of
everything he possessed. He had talents, and such as would have been
profitably available had he known how to use them for his new purpose;
but he did not; he was misdirected; he made fruitless efforts in his
want of experience; and he was now starving. As he passed the great
Dust-heap, he gave one vague, melancholy gaze that way, and then
looked wistfully into the canal. And he continued to look into the
canal as he slowly moved along, till he was out of sight.

A Dust-heap of this kind is often worth thousands of pounds. The
present one was very large and very valuable. It was in fact a large
hill, and being in the vicinity of small suburb cottages, it rose
above them like a great black mountain. Thistles, groundsel, and rank
grass grew in knots on small parts which had remained for a long time
undisturbed; crows often alighted on its top, and seemed to put on
their spectacles and become very busy and serious; flocks of sparrows
often made predatory descents upon it; an old goose and gander might
sometimes he seen following each other up its side, nearly midway;
pigs rooted around its base,--and now and then, one bolder than the
rest would venture some way up, attracted by the mixed odors of some
hidden marrow-bone enveloped in a decayed cabbage-leaf--a rare event,
both of these articles being unusual oversights of the Searchers
below.

The principal ingredient of all these Dust-heaps is fine cinders
and ashes; but as they are accumulated from the contents of all the
dust-holes and bins of the vicinity, and as many more as possible,
the fresh arrivals in their original state present very heterogeneous
materials. We cannot better describe them than by presenting a brief
sketch of the different departments of the Searchers and Sorters,
who are assembled below to busy themselves upon the mass of original
matters which are shot out from the carts of the dustmen.

The bits of coal, the pretty numerous results of accident and
servants' carelessness, are picked out, to be sold forthwith; the
largest and best of the cinders are also selected, by another party,
who sell them to laundresses, or to braziers (for whose purposes coke
would do as well;) and the next sort of cinders, called the _breeze_,
because it is left after the wind has blown the finer cinders through
an upright sieve, is sold to the brick-makers.

Two other departments, called the "soft-ware" and the "hard-ware,"
are very important. The former includes all vegetable and animal
matters--everything that will decompose. These are selected and bagged
at once, and carried off as soon as possible, to be sold as manure
for plowed land, wheat, barley, &c. Under this head, also, the dead
cats are comprised. They are generally the perquisites of the women
searchers. Dealers come to the wharf, or dust-field, every evening;
they give sixpence for a white cat, fourpence for a colored cat, and
for a black one according to her quality. The "hard-ware" includes all
broken pottery pans, crockery, earthenware, oyster-shells, &c., which
are sold to make new roads.

The bones are selected with care, and sold to the soap-boiler. He
boils out the fat and marrow first, for special use, and the bones are
then crushed and sold for manure.

Of rags, the woollen rags are bagged and sent off for hop-manure; the
white linen rags are washed, and sold to make paper, &c.

The "tin things" are collected and put into an oven with a grating at
the bottom, so that the solder which unites the parts melts, and runs
through into a receiver. This is sold separately; the detached pieces
of tin are then sold to be melted up with old iron, &c.

Bits of old brass, lead, &c., are sold to be molted up separately, or
in the mixture of ores.

All broken glass vessels, as cruets, mustard-pots, tumblers,
wine-glasses, bottles, &c., are sold to the old-glass shops.

As for any articles of jewelry, silver spoons, forks, thimbles, or
other plate and valuables, they are pocketed off-hand by the first
finder. Coins of gold and silver are often found, and many "coppers."

Meantime, everybody is hard at work near the base of the great
Dust-heap. A certain number of cart-loads having been raked and
searched for all the different things just described, the whole of it
now undergoes the process of sifting. The men throw up the stuff, and
the women sift it.

"When I was a young girl," said Peg Dotting--

"That's a long while ago, Peggy," interrupted one of the sifters: but
Peg did not hear her.

"When I was quite a young thing," continued she, addressing old John
Doubleyear, who threw up the dust into her sieve, "it was the fashion
to wear pink roses in the shoes, as bright as that morsel of ribbon
Sally has just picked out of the dust; yes, and sometimes in the
hair, too, on one side of the head, to set off the white powder and
salve-stuff. I never wore one of these head-dresses myself--don't
throw up the dust so high, John--but I lived only a few doors lower
down from those as did. Don't throw up the dust so high, I tell
'ee--the wind takes it into my face."

"Ah! There! What's that?" suddenly exclaimed little Jem, running as
fast as his poor withered legs would allow him toward a fresh heap,
which had just been shot down on the wharf from a dustman's cart. He
made a dive and a search--then another--then one deeper still. "I'm
sure I saw it!" cried he, and again made a dash with both hands into a
fresh place, and began to distribute the ashes and dust and rubbish on
every side, to the great merriment of all the rest.

"What did you see, Jemmy?" asked old Doubleyear, in a compassionate
tone.

"Oh, I don't know," said the boy, "only it was like a bit of something
made of real gold!"

A fresh burst of laughter from the company assembled followed this
somewhat vague declaration, to which the dustmen added one or two
elegant epithets, expressive of their contempt of the notion that they
could have overlooked a bit of anything valuable in the process of
emptying sundry dust-holes, and carting them away.

"Ah," said one of the sifters, "poor Jem's always a-fancying something
or other good but it never comes."

"Didn't I find three cats this morning?" cried Jem, "two on 'em white
'uns! How you go on!"

"I meant something quite different from the like o' that," said the
other; "I was a-thinking of the rare sights all you three there have
had, one time and another."

The wind having changed, and the day become bright, the party at work
all seemed disposed to be more merry than usual. The foregoing remark
excited the curiosity of several of the sifters, who had recently
joined the "company": the parties alluded to were requested to favor
them with the recital; and though the request was made with only a
half-concealed irony, still it was all in good-natured pleasantry, and
was immediately complied with. Old Doubleyear spoke first:

"I had a bad night of it with the rats some years ago--they runn'd
all over the floor, and over the bed, and one on 'em come'd and guv a
squeak close into my ear--so I couldn't sleep comfortable. I wouldn't
ha' minded a trifle of it, but this was too much of a good thing.
So I got up before sunrise, and went out for a walk; and thinking I
might as well be near our work-place, I slowly come'd down this way!
I worked in a brick-field at that time, near the canal yonder. The sun
was just a rising up behind the Dust-heap as I got in sight of it,
and soon it rose above, and was very bright; and though I had two eyes
then, I was obligated to shut them both. When I opened them again, the
sun was higher up; but in his haste to get over the Dust-heap, he had
dropped something. You may laugh--I say he dropped something. Well
I can't say what it was, in course--a bit of his-self, I suppose.
It was just like him--a bit on him, I mean--quite as bright--just
the same--only not so big. And not up in the sky, but a-lying and
sparkling all on fire upon the Dust-heap. Thinks I--I was a younger
man then by some years than I am now--I'll go and have a nearer look.
Though you be a bit o' the sun, maybe you won't hurt a poor man. So
I walked toward the Dust-heap, and up I went, keeping the piece of
sparkling fire in sight all the while. But before I got up to it, the
sun went behind a cloud--and as he went out--like, so the young 'un
he had dropped, went out arter him. And I had to climb up the heap for
nothing, though I had marked the place vere it lay very percizely. But
there was no signs at all on him, and no morsel left of the light as
had been there. I searched all about; but found nothing 'cept a bit 'o
broken glass as had got stuck in the heel of an old shoe. And that's
my story. But if ever a man saw anything at all, I saw a bit o' the
sun; and I thank God for it. It was a blessed sight for a poor ragged
old man of threescore and ten, which was my age at that time."

"Now, Peggy!" cried several voices, "tell us what you saw. Peg saw a
bit o' the moon."

"No," said Mrs. Dotting, rather indignantly; "I'm no moon-raker. Not
a sign of the moon was there, nor a spark of a star the time I speak
on."

"Well--go on, Peggy--go on."

"I don't know as I will," said Peggy.

But being pacified by a few good-tempered, though somewhat humorous,
compliments, she thus favored them with her little adventure:

"There was no moon, or stars, or comet, in the 'versal heavens, nor
lamp nor lantern along the road, when I walked home one winter's night
from the cottage of Widow Pin, where I had been to tea with her and
Mrs. Dry, as lived in the almshouses. They wanted Davy, the son of
Bill Davy the milkman, to see me home with the lantern, but I wouldn't
let him, 'cause of his sore throat. Throat!--no it wasn't his throat
as was rare sore--it was--no, it wasn't--yes, it was--it was his toe
as was sore. His big toe. A nail out of his boot had got into it. I
_told_ him he'd be sure to have a bad toe, if he didn't go to church
more regular, but he wouldn't listen; and so my words come'd true.
But, as I was a-saying, I wouldn't let him by reason of his sore
throat--toe, I mean--and as I went along, the night seemed to grow
darker and darker. A straight road, though, and I was so used to it by
day-time, it didn't matter for the darkness. Hows'ever, when I come'd
near the bottom of the Dust-heap as I had to pass, the great dark
heap was so 'zackly the same as the night, you couldn't tell one
from t'other. So, thinks I to myself--_what_ was I thinking of at
this moment?--for the life o' me I can't call it to mind; but that's
neither here nor there, only for this--it was a something that led me
to remember the story of how the devil goes about like a roaring lion.
And while I was a-hoping he might not he out a-roaring that night,
what should I see rise out of one side of the Dust-heap, but a
beautiful shining star, of a violet color. I stood as still, as
stock-still as any I don't-know-what! There it lay, as beautiful as
a new-born babe, all a-shining in the dust! By degrees I got courage
to go a little nearer--and then a little nearer still--for, says I
to myself, I'm a sinful woman, I know, but I have repented, and do
repent constantly of all the sins of my youth and the backslidings
of my age--which have been numerous; and once I had a very heavy
backsliding--but that's neither here nor there. So, as I was a-saying,
having collected all my sinfulness of life, and humbleness before
Heaven, into a goodish bit of courage, forward I steps--a little
furder--and a leetle furder more--_un_-til I come'd just up to the
beautiful shining star lying upon the dust. Well, it was a long time I
stood a-looking down at it, before I ventured to do what I arterwards
did. But at last I did stoop down with both hands slowly--in case
it might burn, or bite--and gathering up a good scoop of ashes as
my hands went along. I took it up, and began a-carrying it home, all
shining before me, and with a soft blue mist rising up round about it.
Heaven forgive me! I was punished for meddling with what Providence
had sent for some better purpose than to be carried borne by an old
woman like me, whom it had pleased Heaven to afflict with the loss
of one leg, and the pain, ixpinse, and inconvenience of a wooden one.
Well, I _was_ punished; covetousness had its reward; for, presently,
the violet light got very pale, and then went out; and when I reached
home, still holding in both hands all I had gathered up, and when I
took it to the candle, it had burned into the red shell of a lobsky's
head, and its two black eyes poked up at me with a long stare--and I
may say, a strong smell, too--enough to knock a poor body known."

Great applause, and no little laughter, followed the conclusion of old
Peggy's story, but she did not join in the merriment. She said it was
all very well for young folks to laugh, but at her age she had enough
to do to pray; and she had never said so many prayers, nor with so
much fervency, as she had done since she received the blessed sight
of the blue star on the Dust-heap, and the chastising rod of the
lobster's head at home.

Little Jem's turn now came: the poor lad was, however, so excited by
the recollection of what his companions called "Jem's Ghost," that he
was unable to describe it in any coherent language. To his imagination
it had been a lovely vision,--the one "bright consummate flower" of
his life, which he treasured up as the most sacred image in his heart.
He endeavored, in wild and hasty words, to set forth, how that he had
been bred a chimney-sweep; that one Sunday afternoon he had left a set
of companions, most on 'em sweeps, who were all playing at marbles in
the church-yard, and he had wandered to the Dust-heap, where he had
fallen asleep; that he was awoke by a sweet voice in the air, which
said something about some one having lost her way!--that he, being now
wide awake, looked up, and saw with his own eyes a young Angel, with
fair hair and rosy cheeks, and large white wings at her shoulders,
floating about like bright clouds, rise out of the dust! She had on
a garment of shining crimson, which changed as he looked upon her
to shining gold. She then exclaimed, with a joyful smile, "I see the
right way!" and the next moment the Angel was gone!

As the sun was just now very bright and warm for the time of year,
and shining full upon the Dust-heap in its setting, one of the men
endeavored to raise a laugh at the deformed lad, by asking him if he
didn't expect to see just such another angel at this minute, who had
lost her way in the field on the other side of the heap; but his jest
failed. The earnestness and devout emotion of the boy to the vision of
reality which his imagination, aided by the hues of sunset, had thus
exalted, were too much for the gross spirit of banter, and the speaker
shrunk back into his dust-shovel, and affected to be very assiduous in
his work.

Before the day's work was ended, however, little Jem again had a
glimpse of the prize which had escaped him on the previous occasion.
He instantly darted, hands and head foremost, into the mass of cinders
and rubbish, and brought up a black mass of half-burnt parchment,
entwined with vegetable refuse, from which he speedily disengaged an
oval frame of gold, containing a miniature, still protected by its
glass, but half covered with mildew from the damp. He was in ecstacies
at the prize. Even the white catskins paled before it. In all
probability some of the men would have taken it from him, "to try
and find the owner," but for the presence and interference of his
friends Peg Dotting and old Doubleyear, whose great age, even among
the present company, gave them a certain position of respect and
consideration. So all the rest now went their way, leaving the three
to examine and speculate on the prize.

These Dust-heaps are a wonderful compound of things. A banker's cheque
for a considerable sum was found in one of them. It was on Merries &
Farquhar, in 1847. But bankers' cheques, or gold and silver articles,
are the least valuable of their ingredients. Among other things, a
variety of useful chemicals are extracted. Their chief value, however,
is for the making of bricks. The fine cinder-dust and ashes are used
in the clay of the bricks, both for the red and gray stacks. Ashes
are also used as fuel between the layers of the clump of bricks, which
could not be burned in that position without them. The ashes burn
away, and keep the bricks open. Enormous quantities are used. In
the brickfields at Uxbridge, near the Drayton Station, one of the
brickmakers alone will frequently contract for fifteen or sixteen
thousand chaldrons of this cinder-dust, in one order. Fine coke, or
coke-dust, affects the market at times as a rival; but fine coal, or
coal-dust, never, because it would spoil the bricks.

As one of the heroes of our tale had been originally--before his
promotion--a chimney-sweeper, it may be only appropriate to offer a
passing word on the genial subject of soot. Without speculating on
its origin and parentage, whether derived from the cooking of a
Christmas-dinner, or the production of the beautiful colors and odors
of exotic plants in a conservatory, it can briefly be shown to possess
many qualities both useful and ornamental.

When soot is first collected, it is called "rough soot", which,
being sifted, is then called "fine soot", and is sold to farmers for
manuring and preserving wheat and turnips. This is more especially
used in Herefordshire, Bedfordshire, Essex, &c. It is rather a costly
article, being fivepence per bushel. One contractor sells annually as
much as three thousand bushels; and he gives it as his opinion, that
there must be at least one hundred and fifty times this quantity (four
hundred and fifty thousand bushels per annum) sold in London. Farmer
Smutwise, of Bradford, distinctly asserts that the price of the soot
he uses on his land is returned to him in the straw, with improvement
also to the grain. And we believe him. Lime is used to dilute soot
when employed as a manure. Using it pure will keep off snails, slugs,
and caterpillars from peas and various other vegetables, as also from
dahlias just shooting up, and other flowers; but we regret to add that
we have sometimes known it kill or burn up the things it was intended
to preserve from unlawful eating. In short, it is by no means so
safe to use for any purpose of garden manure, as fine cinders and
wood-ashes, which are good for almost any kind of produce, whether
turnips or roses. Indeed, we should like to have one fourth or fifth
part of our garden-beds composed of excellent stuff of this kind.
From all that has been said, it will have become very intelligible
why these Dust-heaps are so valuable. Their worth, however, varies
not only with their magnitude, (the quality of all of them is much
the same,) but with the demand. About the year 1820, the Marylebone
Dust-heap produced between four thousand and five thousand pounds. In
1832, St. George's paid Mr. Stapleton five hundred pounds a year, not
to leave the Heap standing, but to carry it away. Of course he was
only too glad to be paid highly for selling his Dust.

But to return. The three friends having settled to their satisfaction
the amount of money they should probably obtain by the sale of the
golden miniature-frame, and finished the castles which they had built
with it in the air, the frame was again infolded in the sound part of
the parchment, the rags and rottenness of the law were cast away, and
up they rose to bend their steps homeward to the little hovel where
Peggy lived, she having invited the others to tea, that they might
talk yet more fully over the wonderful good luck that had befallen
them.

"Why, if there isn't a man's head in the canal!" suddenly cried little
Jem. "Looky there!--isn't that a man's head?--Yes; it's a drownded
man!"

"A drownded man, as I live!" ejaculated old Doubleyear.

"Let's get him out, and see!" cried Peggy. "Perhaps the poor soul's
not quite gone."

Little Jem scuttled off to the edge of the canal, followed by the two
old people. As soon as the body had floated nearer, Jem got down into
the water, and stood breast-high, vainly measuring his distance, with
one arm out, to see if he could reach some part of the body as it was
passing. As the attempt was evidently without a chance, old Doubleyear
Managed to get down into the water behind aim, and holding him by one
hand, the boy was thus enabled to make a plunge forward as the body
was floating by. He succeeded in reaching it, but the jerk was too
much for his aged companion, who was pulled forward into the canal. A
loud cry burst from both of them, which was yet more loudly echoed by
Peggy on the bank. Doubleyear and the boy were now struggling almost
in the middle of the canal, with the body of the man twirling about
between them. They would inevitably have been drowned, had not old
Peggy caught up a long dust-rake that was close at hand--scrambled
down up to her knees in the canal--clawed hold of the struggling group
with the teeth of the rake, and fairly brought the whole to land. Jem
was first up the bank, and helped up his two heroic companions; after
which, with no small difficulty, they contrived to haul the body
of the stranger out of the water. Jem at once recognized in him the
forlorn figure of the man who had passed by in the morning, looking so
sadly into the canal as he walked along.

It is a fact well known to those who work in the vicinity of these
great Dust-heaps, that when the ashes have been warmed by the sun,
cats and kittens that have been taken out of the canal and buried a
few inches beneath the surface, have usually revived; and the same has
often occurred in the case of men. Accordingly, the three, without a
moment's hesitation, dragged the body along to the Dust-heap, where
they made a deep trench, in which they placed it, covering it all over
up to the neck.

"There now," ejaculated Peggy, sitting down with a long puff to
recover her breath, "he'll lie very comfortable, whether or no."

"Couldn't lie better," said old Doubleyear, "even if he knew it."

The three now seated themselves close by, to await the result.

"I thought I'd a lost him," said Jem, "and myself too; and when I
pulled Daddy in arter me, I guv us all three up for this world."

"Yes," said Doubleyear, "it must have gone queer with us if Peggy had
not come in with the rake. How d'yee feel, old girl? for you've had
a narrow escape too. I wonder we were not too heavy for you, and so
pulled you in to go with us."

"The Lord be praised!" fervently ejaculated Peggy, pointing toward
the pallid face that lay surrounded with ashes. A convulsive twitching
passed over the features, the lips trembled, the ashes over the breast
heaved, and a low moaning sound, which might have come from the bottom
of the canal, was heard. Again the moaning sound, and then the eyes
opened, but closed almost immediately.

"Poor dear soul," whispered Peggy, "how he suffers in surviving. Lift
him up a little. Softly. Don't be afeard. We're only your good angels,
like--only poor cinder-sifters--don'tee be afeard."

By various kindly attentions and maneuvers such as these poor people
had been accustomed to practice on those who were taken out of the
canal, the unfortunate gentleman was gradually brought to his senses.
He gazed about him, as well he might--now looking in the anxious,
though begrimed, faces of the three strange objects, all in their
"weeds" and dust--and then up at the huge Dust-heap, over which the
moon was now slowly rising.

"Land of quiet Death!" murmured he, faintly, "or land of Life, as dark
and still--I have passed from one into the other; but which of ye I am
now in, seems doubtful to my senses."

"Here we are, poor gentleman," cried Peggy, "here we are, all friends
about you. How did'ee tumble into the canal?"

"The Earth, then, once more!" said the stranger, with a deep sigh. "I
know where I am, now. I remember this great dark hill of ashes--like
Death's kingdom, full of all sorts of strange things, and put to many
uses."

"Where do you live?" asked old Doubleyear. "Shall we try and take you
home, sir?"

The stranger shook his head mournfully. All this time, little Jem had
been assiduously employed in rubbing his feet and then big hands; in
doing which, the piece of dirty parchment, with the miniature-frame,
dropped out of his breast-pocket. A good thought instantly struck
Peggy.

"Run, Jemmy dear--run with that golden thing to Mr. Spikechin, the
pawnbroker's--get something upon it directly, and buy some nice
brandy--and some Godfrey's cordial--and a blanket, Jemmy--and call a
coach, and get up outside on it, and make the coachee drive back here
as fast as you can."

But before Jemmy could attend to this, Mr. Waterhouse, the stranger
whose life they had preserved, raised himself on one elbow, and
extended his hand to the miniature-frame. Directly he looked at it he
raised himself higher up--turned it about once or twice--then caught
up the piece of parchment, and uttering an ejaculation which no
one could have distinguished either as of joy or of pain, sank back
fainting.

In brief, this parchment was a portion of the title-deeds he had lost;
and though it did not prove sufficient to enable him to recover his
fortune, it brought his opponent to a composition, which gave him an
annuity for life. Small as this was, he determined that these poor
people, who had so generously saved his life at the risk of their
own, should be sharers in it. Finding that what they most desired was
to have a cottage in the neighborhood of the Dust-heap, built large
enough for all three to live together, and keep a cow, Mr. Waterhouse
paid a visit to Manchester Square, where the owner of the property
resided. He told his story, as far as was needful, and proposed to
purchase the field in question.

The great Dust-Contractor was much amused, and his daughter--a very
accomplished young lady--was extremely interested. So the matter was
speedily arranged to the satisfaction and pleasure of all parties. The
acquaintance, however, did not end here. Mr. Waterhouse renewed his
visits very frequently, and finally made proposals for the young
lady's hand, she having already expressed her hopes of a propitious
answer from her father.

"Well, Sir," said the latter, "you wish to marry my daughter, and she
wishes to marry you. You are a gentleman and a scholar, but you have
no money. My daughter is what you see, and she has no money. But I
have; and therefore, as she likes you and I like you, I'll make you
both an offer. I will give my daughter twenty thousand pounds,--or you
shall have the Dust-heap. Choose!"

Mr. Waterhouse was puzzled and amused, and referred the matter
entirely to the young lady. But she was for having the money, and no
trouble. She said the Dust-heap might be worth much, but they did not
understand the business.

"Very well," said her father, laughing, "then, there's the money."

This was the identical Dust-heap, as we know from authentic
information, which was subsequently sold for forty thousand pounds,
and was exported to Russia to rebuild Moscow.

       *       *       *       *       *

[FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.]

AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY.

In one of the dirtiest and most gloomy streets leading to the Rue
St. Denis, in Paris, there stands a tall and ancient house, the lower
portion of which is a large mercer's shop. This establishment is held
to be one of the very best in the neighborhood, and has for many years
belonged to an individual on whom we will bestow the name of Ramin.

About ten years ago, Monsieur Ramin was a jovial red-faced man of
forty, who joked his customers into purchasing his goods, flattered
the pretty _grisettes_ outrageously, and now and then gave them a
Sunday treat at the barrier, as the cheapest way of securing their
custom. Some people thought him a careless, good-natured fellow, and
wondered how, with his off-hand ways, he contrived to make money so
fast, but those who knew him well saw that he was one of those who
"never lost an opportunity." Others declared that Monsieur Ramin's
own definition of his character was, that he was a "_bon enfant_,"
and that "it was all luck." He shrugged his shoulders and laughed when
people hinted at his deep scheming in making, and his skill in taking
advantage of Excellent Opportunities.

He was sitting in his gloomy parlor one fine morning in spring,
breakfasting from a dark liquid honored with the name of onion soup,
glancing at the newspaper, and keeping a vigilant look on the shop
through the open door, when his old servant Catharine suddenly
observed:

"I suppose you know Monsieur Bonelle has come to live in the vacant
apartment on the fourth floor?"

"What!" exclaimed Monsieur Ramin, in a loud key.

Catharine repeated her statement, to which her master listened in
total silence.

"Well!" he said at length, in his most careless tones, "what about
the old fellow?" and he once more resumed his triple occupation of
reading, eating, and watching.

"Why," continued Catharine, "they say he is nearly dying, and that his
housekeeper, Marguerite, vowed he could never get up stairs alive. It
took two men to carry him up; and when he was at length quiet in bed,
Marguerite went down to the porter's lodge, and sobbed there a whole
hour, saying her poor master had the gout, the rheumatics, and a bad
asthma; that though he had been got up stairs, he would never come
down again alive; that if she could only get him to confess his sins
and make his will, she would not mind it so much; but that when
she spoke of the lawyer or the priest, he blasphemed at her like a
heathen, and declared that he would live to bury her and everybody
else."

Monsieur Ramin heard Catharine with great attention, forgot to finish
his soup, and remained for five minutes in profound rumination,
without so much as perceiving two customers who had entered the shop
and were waiting to be served. When aroused, he was heard to exclaim:

"What an excellent opportunity!"

Monsieur Bonelle had been Ramin's predecessor. The succession of the
latter to the shop was a mystery. No one ever knew how it was that
this young and poor assistant managed to replace his patron. Some said
that he had detected Monsieur Bonelle in frauds which he threatened
to expose unless the business were given up to him as the price of his
silence; others averred, that having drawn a prize in the lottery,
he had resolved to set up a fierce opposition over the way, and
that Monsieur Bonelle, having obtained a hint of his intentions, had
thought it most prudent to accept the trifling sum his clerk offered,
and avoid a ruinous competition. Some charitable souls--moved no doubt
by Monsieur Bonelle's misfortune--endeavored to console and pump him;
but all they could get from him was the bitter exclamation, "To think
I should have been duped by _him_!" For Ramin had the art, though
then a mere youth, to pass himself off on his master as an innocent
provincial lad. Those who sought an explanation from the new mercer
were still more unsuccessful. "My good old master," he said in his
jovial way, "felt in need of repose, and so I obligingly relieved him
of all business and botheration."

Years passed away; Ramin prospered, and neither thought nor heard
of his "good old master." The house, of which he tenanted the lower
portion, was offered for sale. He had long coveted it, and had almost
concluded an agreement with the actual owner, when Monsieur Bonelle
unexpectedly stepped in at the eleventh hour, and by offering a trifle
more secured the bargain. The rage and mortification of Monsieur Ramin
were extreme. He could not understand how Bonelle, whom he had thought
ruined, had scraped up so large a sum; his lease was out, and he
now felt himself at the mercy of the man he had so much injured. But
either Monsieur Bonelle was free from vindictive feelings, or those
feelings did not blind him to the expediency of keeping a good tenant:
for though he raised the rent until Monsieur Ramin groaned inwardly,
he did not refuse to renew the lease. They had met at that period, but
never since.

"Well, Catharine," observed Monsieur Ramin to his old servant on the
following morning, "How is that good Monsieur Bonelle getting on?"

"I dare say you feel very uneasy about him," she replied with a sneer.

Monsieur Ramin looked up and frowned.

"Catharine," said he, dryly, "you will have the goodness, in the first
place, not to make impertinent remarks: in the second place, you will
oblige me by going up stairs to inquire after the health of Monsieur
Bonelle, and say that I sent you."

Catharine grumbled, and obeyed. Her master was in the shop, when she
returned in a few minutes, and delivered with evident satisfaction the
following gracious message:

"Monsieur Bonelle desires his compliments to you, and declines to
state how he is; he will also thank you to attend to your own shop,
and not to trouble yourself about his health."

"How does he look?" asked Monsieur Ramin, with perfect composure.

"I caught a glimpse of him, and he appears to me to be rapidly
preparing for the good offices of the undertaker."

Monsieur Ramin smiled, rubbed his hands, and joked merrily with a
dark-eyed _grisette_, who was cheapening some ribbon for her cap. That
girl made an excellent bargain that day.

Toward dusk the mercer left the shop to the care of his attendant, and
softly stole up to the fourth story. In answer to his gentle ring, a
little old woman opened the door, and giving him a rapid look, said
briefly:

"Monsieur is inexorable: he won't see any doctor whatever."

She was going to shut the door in his face, when Ramin quickly
interposed, under his breath, with "I am not a doctor."

She looked at him from head to foot.

"Are you a lawyer?"

"Nothing of the sort, my good lady."

"Well then, are you a priest?"

"I may almost say, quite the reverse."

"Indeed, you must go away, Master sees no one."

Once more she would have shut the door, but Ramin prevented her.

"My good lady," said he in his most insinuating tones, "it is true
I am neither a lawyer, a doctor, nor a priest. I am an old friend,
a very old friend of your excellent master; I have come to see good
Monsieur Bonelle in his present affliction."

Marguerite did not answer, but allowed him to enter, and closed the
door behind him. He was going to pass from the narrow and gloomy
ante-chamber into an inner room--whence now proceeded a sound of loud
coughing--when the old woman laid her hand on his arm, and raising
herself on tip-toe, to reach his ear, whispered:

"For Heaven's sake, sir, since you are his friend, do talk to him:
do tell him to make his will, and hint something about a soul to be
saved, and all that sort of thing: do, sir!"

Monsieur Ramin nodded and winked in a way that said "I will." He
proved however his prudence by not speaking aloud; for a voice from
within sharply exclaimed,

"Marguerite, you are talking to some one! Marguerite! I will see
neither doctor nor lawyer; and if any meddling priest dare--"

"It is only an old friend, sir;" interrupted Marguerite, opening the
inner door.

Her master, on looking up, perceived the red face of Monsieur Ramin
peeping over the old woman's shoulder, and irefully cried out:

"How dare you bring that fellow here? And you, sir, how dare you
come?"

"My good old friend, there are feelings," said Ramin, spreading his
fingers over the left pocket of his waistcoat--"there are feelings,"
he repeated, "that cannot be subdued. One such feeling brought me
here. The fact is, I am a good-natured easy fellow, and I never
bear malice. I never forget an old friend, but love to forget old
differences when I find one party in affliction."

He drew a chair forward as he spoke, and composedly seated himself
opposite to his late master.

Monsieur Bonelle was a thin old man, with a pale sharp face and keen
features. At first he eyed his visitor from the depths of his vast
arm-chair; but, as if not, satisfied with this distant view, he bent
forward, and laying both hands on his thin knees, he looked up into
Ramin's face with a fixed and piercing gaze. He had not, however, the
power of disconcerting his guest.

"What did you come here for?" he at length asked.

"Merely to have the extreme satisfaction of seeing how you are, my
good old friend. Nothing more."

"Well, look at me--and then go."

Nothing could be so discouraging: but this was an Excellent
Opportunity, and when Monsieur Ramin _had_ an excellent opportunity in
view, his pertinacity was invincible. Being now resolved to stay, it
was not in Monsieur Bonelle's power to banish him. At the same time
he had tact enough to render his presence agreeable. He knew that his
coarse and boisterous wit had often delighted Monsieur Bonelle of old,
and he now exerted himself so successfully as to betray the old man
two or three times into hearty laughter. "Ramin," said he at length,
laying his thin hand on the arm of his guest, and peering with his
keen glance into the mercer's purple face, "you are a funny fellow,
but I know you; you cannot make me believe you have called just to
see how I am, and to amuse me. Come, be candid for once; what do you
want?"

Ramin threw himself back in his chair, and laughed blandly, as much as
to say, "Can you suspect me?"

"I have no shop now out of which you can wheedle me," continued the
old man; "and surely you are not such a fool as to come to me for
money."

"Money!" repeated the draper, as if his host had mentioned something
he never dreamt of. "Oh, no!"

Ramin saw it would not do to broach the subject he had really come
about, too abruptly, now that suspicion seemed so wide awake--_the_
opportunity had not arrived.

"There is something up, Ramin, I know; I see it in the twinkle of your
eye; but you can't deceive me again."

"Deceive _you_?" said the jolly schemer, shaking his head
reverentially. "Deceive a man of your penetration and depth?
Impossible! The bare supposition is flattery. My dear friend," he
continued, soothingly, "I did not dream of such a thing. The fact is,
Bonelle, though they call me a jovial, careless, rattling dog, I have
a conscience; and, somehow, I have never felt quite easy about the
way in which I became your successor down-stairs. It was rather sharp
practice, I admit."

Bonelle seemed to relent.

"Now for it," said the Opportunity-hunter to himself--"By-the-bye,"
(speaking aloud,) "this house must be a great trouble to you in your
present weak state? Two of your lodgers have lately gone away without
paying--a great nuisance, especially to an invalid."

"I tell you I'm as sound as a colt."

"At all events, the whole concern must be a great bother to you. If I
were you, I would sell the house."

"And if I were _you_," returned the landlord, dryly, "I would buy
it--"

"Precisely," interrupted the tenant, eagerly.

"That is, if you could get it. Pooh! I knew you were after something.
Will you give eighty thousand francs for it?" abruptly asked Monsieur
Bonelle.

"Eighty thousand francs!" echoed Ramin. "Do you take me for Louis
Philippe or the Bank of France!"

"Then we'll say no more about it--are you not afraid of leaving your
shop so long?"

Ramin returned to the charge, heedless of the hint to depart. "The
fact is, my good old friend, ready money is not my strong point just
now. But if you wish very much to be relieved of the concern, what say
you to a life annuity? I could manage that."

Monsieur Bonelle gave a short, dry, church-yard cough, and looked as
if his life were not worth an hour's purchase. "You think yourself
immensely clever, I dare say," he said. "They have persuaded you that
I am dying. Stuff! I shall bury you yet."

The mercer glanced at the thin fragile frame, and exclaimed to
himself, "Deluded old gentleman!" "My dear Bonelle," he continued,
aloud, "I know well the strength of your admirable constitution: but
allow me to observe that you neglect yourself too much. Now, suppose
a good sensible doctor--"

"Will you pay him?" interrogated Bonelle, sharply.

"Most willingly," replied Ramin, with an eagerness that made the old
man smile. "As to the annuity, since the subject annoys you, we will
talk of it some other time."

"After you have heard the doctor's report," sneered Bonelle.

The mercer gave him a stealthy glance, which the old man's keen look
immediately detected. Neither could repress a smile: these good souls
understood one another perfectly, and Ramin saw that this was not the
Excellent Opportunity he desired, and departed.

The next day Ramin sent a neighboring medical man, and heard it was
his opinion that if Bonelle held on for three months longer, it would
be a miracle. Delightful news!

Several days elapsed, and although very anxious, Ramin assumed a
careless air, and did not call upon his landlord, or take any notice
of him. At the end of the week old Marguerite entered the shop to make
a trifling purchase.

"And how are we getting on up-stairs?" negligently asked Monsieur
Ramin.

"Worse and worse, my good sir," she sighed. "We have rheumatic pains
which often make us use expressions the reverse of Christian-like, and
yet nothing can induce us to see either the lawyer or the priest; the
gout is getting nearer to our stomach every day, and still we go on
talking about the strength of our constitution. Oh, sir, if you have
any influence with us, do, pray do, tell us how wicked it is to die
without making one's will or confessing one's sins."

"I shall go up this very evening," ambiguously replied Monsieur Ramin.

He kept his promise, and found Monsieur Bonelle in bed, groaning with
pain, and in the worst of tempers.

"What poisoning doctor did you send?" he asked, with an ireful glance;
"I want no doctor, I am not ill; I will not follow his prescription;
he forbade me to eat; I _will_ eat."

"He is a very clever man," said the visitor. "He told me that never
in the whole course of his experience has he met with what he called
so much 'resisting power' as exists in your frame. He asked me if you
were not of a long-lived race."

"That is as people may judge," replied Monsieur Bonelle. "All I
can say is, that my grandfather died at ninety, and my father at
eighty-six."

"The doctor owned that you had a wonderfully strong constitution."

"Who said I hadn't?" exclaimed the invalid feebly.

"You may rely on it, you would preserve your health better if you had
not the trouble of these vexatious lodgers. Have you thought about the
life annuity?" said Ramin as carelessly as he could, considering how
near the matter was to his hopes and wishes.

"Why, I have scruples," returned Bonelle, coughing. "I do not wish to
take you in. My longevity would be the ruin of you."

"To meet that difficulty," quickly replied the mercer, "we can reduce
the interest."

"But I must have high interest," placidly returned Monsieur Bonelle.

Ramin, on hearing this, burst into a loud fit of laughter, called
Monsieur Bonelle a sly old fox, gave him a poke in the ribs, which
made the old man cough for five minutes, and then proposed that they
should talk it over some other day. The mercer left Monsieur Bonelle
in the act of protesting that he felt as strong as a man of forty.

Monsieur Ramin felt in no hurry to conclude the proposed agreement.
"The later one begins to pay, the better," he said, as he descended
the stairs.

Days passed on, and the negotiation made no way. It struck the
observant tradesman that all was not right. Old Marguerite several
times refused to admit him, declaring her master was asleep: there
was something mysterious and forbidding in her manner that seemed to
Monsieur Ramin very ominous. At length a sudden thought occurred to
him: the housekeeper--wishing to become her master's heir--had heard
his scheme and opposed it. On the very day that he arrived at this
conclusion, he met a lawyer, with whom he had formerly had some
transactions, coming down the staircase. The sight sent a chill
through the mercer's commercial heart, and a presentiment--one of
those presentiments that seldom deceive--told him it was too late. He
had, however, the fortitude to abstain from visiting Monsieur Bonelle
until evening came; when he went up, resolved to see him in spite
of all Marguerite might urge. The door was half-open, and the old
housekeeper stood talking on the landing to a middle-aged man in a
dark cassock.

"It is all over! The old witch has got the priests at him," thought
Ramin, inwardly groaning at his own folly in allowing himself to be
forestalled.

"You cannot see Monsieur to-night," sharply said Marguerite, as he
attempted to pass.

"Alas! is my excellent friend so very ill?" asked Ramin, in a mournful
tone.

"Sir," eagerly said the clergyman, catching him by the button of his
coat, "if you are indeed the friend of that unhappy man, do seek to
bring him into a more suitable frame of mind. I have seen many dying
men, but never so much obstinacy, never such infatuated belief in the
duration of life."

"Then you think he really _is_ dying," asked Ramin; and, in spite of
the melancholy accent he endeavored to assume, there was something so
peculiar in his tone, that the priest looked at him very fixedly as he
slowly replied,

"Yes, air, I think he is."

"Ah!" was all Monsieur Ramin said; and as the clergyman had now
relaxed his hold of the button, Ramin passed in spite of the
remonstrances of Marguerite, who rushed after the priest. He found
Monsieur Bonelle in bed and in a towering rage.

"Oh! Ramin, my friend," he groaned, "never take a housekeeper,
and never let her know you have any property. They are harpies,
Ramin,--harpies! such a day as I have had; first, the lawyer, who
comes to write down 'my last testamentary dispositions,' as he calls
them; then the priest, who gently hints that I am a dying man. Oh,
what a day!"

"And _did_ you make your will, my excellent friend?" softly asked
Monsieur Ramin, with a keen look.

"Make my will?" indignantly exclaimed the old man; "make my will? what
do you mean, sir? do you mean to say I am dying?"

"Heaven forbid!" piously ejaculated Ramin.

"Then why do you ask me if I had been making my will?" angrily resumed
the old man. He then began to be extremely abusive.

When money was in the way, Monsieur Ramin, though otherwise of a
violent temper, had the meekness of a lamb. He bore the treatment
of his host with the meekest patience, and having first locked the
door so as to make sure that Marguerite would not interrupt them, he
watched Monsieur Bonelle attentively, and satisfied himself that the
Excellent Opportunity he had been ardently longing for had arrived:
"He is going fast," he thought; "and unless I settle the agreement
to-night, and get it drawn up and signed to-morrow, it will be too
late."

"My dear friend," he at length said aloud, on perceiving that the old
gentleman had fairly exhausted himself and was lying panting on his
back, "you are indeed a lamentable instance of the lengths to which
the greedy lust of lucre will carry our poor human nature. It is
really distressing to see Marguerite, a faithful, attached servant,
suddenly converted into a tormenting harpy by the prospect of a
legacy! Lawyers and priests flock around you like birds of prey,
drawn hither by the scent of gold! Oh, the miseries of having delicate
health combined with a sound constitution and large property!"

"Ramin," groaned the old man, looking inquiringly into his visitor's
face, "you are again going to talk to me about that annuity--I know
you are!"

"My excellent friend, it is merely to deliver you from a painful
position."

"I am sure, Ramin, you think in your soul I am dying," whimpered
Monsieur Bonelle.

"Absurd, my dear sir. Dying? I will prove to you that you have never
been in better health. In the first place you feel no pain."

"Excepting from rheumatism," groaned Monsieur Bonelle.

"Rheumatism! who ever died of rheumatism? and if that be all--"

"No, it is not all," interrupted the old man with great irritability;
"what would you say to the gout getting higher and higher up every
day?"

"The gout is rather disagreeable, but if there is nothing else--"

"Yes, there is something else," sharply said Monsieur Bonelle. "There
is an asthma that will scarcely let me breathe, and a racking pain in
my head that does not allow me a moment's ease. But if you think I am
dying, Ramin, you are quite mistaken."

"No doubt, my dear friend, no doubt; but in the meanwhile suppose we
talk of this annuity. Shall we say one thousand francs a year."

"What!" asked Bonelle, looking at him very fixedly.

"My dear friend, I mistook; I meant two thousand francs per annum,"
hurriedly rejoined Ramin.

Monsieur Bonelle closed his eyes, and appeared to fall into a gentle
slumber. The mercer coughed; the sick man never moved.

"Monsieur Bonelle."

No reply.

"My excellent friend."

Utter silence.

"Are you asleep?"

A long pause.

"Well, then, what do you say to three thousand?"

Monsieur Bonelle opened his eyes.

"Ramin," said he, sententiously, "you are a fool; the house brings me
in four thousand as it is."

This was quite false, and the mercer knew it; but he had his own
reasons for wishing to seem to believe it true.

"Good Heavens!" said he, with an air of great innocence, "who could
have thought it, and the lodgers constantly running away. Four
thousand? Well, then, you shall have four thousand."

Monsieur Bonelle shut his eyes once more, and murmured "The mere
rental--nonsense!" He then folded his hands on his breast, and
appeared to compose himself to sleep.

"Oh, what a sharp man of business he is!" Ramin said, admiringly:
but for once omnipotent flattery failed in its effect: "So acute!"
continued he, with a stealthy glance at the old man, who remained
perfectly unmoved.

"I see you will insist upon making it the other five hundred francs."

Monsieur Ramin said this as if five thousand five hundred francs had
already been mentioned, and was the very summit of Monsieur Bonelle's
ambition. But the ruse failed in its effect; the sick man never so
much as stirred.

"But, my dear friend," urged Monsieur Ramin in a tone of feeling
remonstrance, "there is such a thing as being too sharp, too acute.
How can you expect that I shall give you more when your constitution
is so good, and you are to be such a long liver?"

"Yes, but I may be carried off one of these days," quietly observed
the old man, evidently wishing to turn the chance of his own death to
account.

"Indeed, and I hope so," muttered the mercer, who was getting very
ill-tempered.

"You see," soothingly continued Bonelle, "you are so good a man of
business, Ramin, that you will double the actual value of the house
in no time. I am a quiet, easy person, indifferent to money; otherwise
this house would now bring me in eight thousand at the very least."

"Eight thousand!" indignantly exclaimed the mercer. "Monsieur Bonelle,
you have no conscience. Come now, my dear friend, do be reasonable.
Six thousand francs a year (I don't mind saying six) is really a very
handsome income for a man of your quiet habits. Come, be reasonable."
But Monsieur Bonelle turned a deaf ear to reason, and closed his eyes
once more. What between opening and shutting them for the next quarter
of an hour, he at length induced Monsieur Ramin to offer him seven
thousand francs.

"Very well, Ramin, agreed," he quietly said; "you have made an
unconscionable bargain." To this succeeded a violent fit of coughing.

As Ramin unlocked the door to leave, he found old Marguerite, who had
been listening all the time, ready to assail him with a torrent of
whispered abuse for duping her "poor dear innocent old master into
such a bargain." The mercer bore it all very patiently: he could make
all allowances for her excited feelings, and only rubbed his hands and
bade her a jovial good evening.

The agreement was signed on the following day, to the indignation of
old Marguerite, and the mutual satisfaction of the parties concerned.

Every one admired the luck and shrewdness of Ramin, for the old man
every day was reported worse; and it was clear to all that the first
quarter of the annuity would never be paid. Marguerite, in her wrath,
told the story as a grievance to every one; people listened, shook
their heads, and pronounced Monsieur Ramin to be a deuced clever
fellow.

A month elapsed. As Ramin was coming down one morning from the attics,
where he had been giving notice to a poor widow who had failed in
paying her rent, he heard a light step on the stairs. Presently a
sprightly gentleman, in buoyant health and spirits, wearing the form
of Monsieur Bonelle, appeared. Ramin stood aghast.

"Well, Ramin," gaily said the old man, "how are you getting on? Have
you been tormenting the poor widow up stairs? Why, man, we must live
and let live!"

"Monsieur Bonelle," said the mercer, in a hollow tone; "may I ask
where are your rheumatics?"

"Gone, my dear friend,--gone."

"And the gout that was creeping higher and higher every day,"
exclaimed Monsieur Ramin, in a voice of anguish.

"It went lower and lower, till it disappeared altogether," composedly
replied Bonelle.

"And your asthma--"

"The asthma remains, but asthmatic people are proverbially long-lived.
It is, I have been told, the only complaint that Methusalah was
troubled with." With this Bonelle opened his door, shut it, and
disappeared.

Ramin was transfixed on the stairs; petrified with intense
disappointment, and a powerful sense of having been duped. When he
was discovered, he stared vacantly, and raved about an Excellent
Opportunity of taking his revenge.

The wonderful cure was the talk of the neighborhood, whenever Monsieur
Bonelle appeared in the streets, jauntily flourishing his cane. In the
first frenzy of his despair, Ramin refused to pay; he accused every
one of having been in a plot to deceive him; he turned off Catharine
and expelled his porter: he publicly accused the lawyer and priest of
conspiracy; brought an action against the doctor and lost it. He had
another brought against him for violently assaulting Marguerite, in
which he was cast in heavy damages. Monsieur Bonelle did not trouble
himself with useless remonstrances, but when his annuity was refused,
employed such good legal arguments, as the exasperated mercer could
not possibly resist.

Ten years have elapsed, and MM. Ramin and Bonelle still live on. For a
house which would have been dear at fifty thousand francs, the draper
has already handed over seventy thousand.

The once red-faced, jovial Ramin is now a pale haggard man, of sour
temper and aspect. To add to his anguish he sees the old man thrive on
that money which it breaks his heart to give. Old Marguerite takes a
malicious pleasure in giving him an exact account of their good cheer,
and in asking him if he does not think Monsieur looks better and
better every day. Of one part of this torment Ramin might get rid, by
giving his old master notice to quit, and no longer having him in his
house. But this he cannot do; he has a secret fear that Bonelle would
take some Excellent Opportunity of dying without his knowledge, and
giving some other person an Excellent Opportunity of persecuting him,
and receiving the money in his stead.

The last accounts of the victim of Excellent Opportunities represent
him as being gradually worn down with disappointment. There seems
every probability of his being the first to leave the world; for
Bonelle is heartier than ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

[FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.]

THE OLD CHURCHWARD TREE.

A PROSE POEM.

There is an old yew tree which stands by the wall in a dark quiet
corner of the churchyard.

And a child was at play beneath its wide-spreading branches, one fine
day in the early spring. He had his lap full of flowers, which the
fields and lanes had supplied him with, and he was humming a tune to
himself as he wove them into garlands.

And a little girl at play among the tombstones crept near to listen;
but the boy was so intent upon his garland, that he did not hear the
gentle footsteps, as they trod softly over the fresh green grass. When
his work was finished, and all the flowers that were in his lap were
woven together in one long wreath, he started up to measure its length
upon the ground, and then he saw the little girl, as she stood with
her eyes fixed upon him. He did not move or speak, but thought to
himself that she looked very beautiful as she stood there with her
flaxen ringlets hanging down upon her neck. The little girl was so
startled by his sudden movement, that she let fall all the flowers she
had collected in her apron, and ran away as fast as she could. But the
boy was older and taller than she, and soon caught her, and coaxed her
to come back and play with him, and help him to make more garlands;
and from that time they saw each other nearly every day, and became
great friends.

Twenty years passed away. Again, he was seated beneath the old yew
tree in the churchyard.

It was summer now; bright, beautiful summer, with the birds singing,
and the flowers covering the ground, and scenting the air with their
perfume.

But he was not alone now, nor did the little girl steal near on
tiptoe, fearful of being heard. She was seated by his side, and his
arm was round her, and she looked up into his face, and smiled as she
whispered: "The first evening of our lives we were ever together was
passed here; we will spend the first evening of our wedded life in the
same quiet, happy place." And he drew her closer to him as she spoke.

The summer is gone; and the autumn; and twenty more summers and
autumns have passed away since that evening, in the old churchyard.

A young man, on a bright moonlight night, comes reeling through the
little white gate, and stumbling over the graves. He shouts and he
sings, and is presently followed by others like unto himself, or
worse. So, they all laugh at the dark solemn head of the yew tree, and
throw stones up at the place where the moon had silvered the boughs.

Those same boughs are again silvered by the moon, and they droop
over his mother's grave. There is a little stone which bears this
inscription:--

"HER HEART BRAKE IN SILENCE."

But the silence of the churchyard is now broken by a voice--not of the
youth--nor a voice of laughter and ribaldry.

"My son!--dost thou see this grave? and dost thou read the record in
anguish, whereof may come repentance?"

"Of what should I repent?" answers the son; "and why should my young
ambition for fame relax in its strength because my mother was old and
weak?"

"Is this indeed our son?" says the father, bending in agony over the
grave of his beloved.

"I can well believe I am not;" exclaimeth the youth. "It is well
that you have brought me here to say so. Our natures are unlike; our
courses must be opposite. Your way lieth here--mine yonder!"

So the son left the father kneeling by the grave.

Again a few years are passed. It is winter, with a roaring wind and a
thick gray fog. The graves in the Church-yard are covered with snow,
and there are great icicles in the Church-yard. The wind now carries
a swathe of snow along the tops of the graves as though the "sheeted
dead" were at some melancholy play; and hark! the icicles fall with
a crash and jingle, like a solemn mockery of the echo of the unseemly
mirth of one who is now coming to his final rest.

There are two graves near the old yew tree; and the grass has
overgrown them. A third is close by; and the dark earth at each side
has just been thrown up. The bearers come; with a heavy pace they
move along; the coffin heaveth up and down, as they step over the
intervening graves.

Grief and old age had seized upon the father, and worn out his life;
and premature decay soon seized upon the son, and gnawed away his vain
ambition, and his useless strength, till he prayed to be borne, not
the way yonder that was most opposite to his father and his mother,
but even the same way they had gone--the way which leads to the Old
Churchyard Tree.

       *       *       *       *       *

In dreamy hours the dormant imagination looks out and sees vague
significances in things which it feels can at an after time be vividly
conceived and expressed; the most familiar objects have a strange
double meaning in their aspects; the very chair seems to be
patiently awaiting there the expounder of its silent, symbolical
language.--_Boston Morning Post_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[FROM BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.]

GREECE AND TURKEY.[2]

Whatever Mr. AUBREY DE VERE sees, he picturesquely describes; and
so far as words can do so, he makes pictures of all the subjects he
writes upon; and had he painted as he has written, or used his pencil
equally well with his pen, two more delightful volumes, to any lover
of Greece, it would be difficult to name. With an evidently refined
taste, and a perfect acquaintance with the ancient history of the
country he traveled through, and the ever famous characters that
made its history what it is, his descriptions combine most pleasingly
together, the past with the present. He peoples the scenery with the
men whose deeds give to that scenery all its interest; and whether on
the plain of Marathon, or the site of Delphi or the Acropolis, he has
a store of things to say of their past glories, and links together,
with great artistic skill, that which is gone with that which remains.

[Footnote 2: Picturesque Sketches of Greece and Turkey. By Aubrey De
Vere, 2 vols. [Philadelphia: A. Hart.]]

By the scholar and the man of taste the volumes will be read with no
little delight, as they abound much more with reflections and sensible
observations, than with the commonplace incidents of travel. Indeed,
the author has left but small space for his accidents at sea and his
hardships on shore, since all the chapters but four are devoted to
Athens, Delphi, and Constantinople. The classical reader will prefer
the chapters on the two first-named places; the general reader will
find perhaps more interesting his sketches of the city of the Sultan,
and an anecdote which he gives of the present Sultan, and which
declares him to possess more of decision, and firmness of character,
and good sense, than the world gives him credit for. His description
of the Bosphorus will create in many a desire to see what he has seen,
and to look upon some, at least, of the fifty-seven palaces which the
sultans have raised upon its banks; and upon the hundreds of others,
which, while the Commander of the Faithful permits it, are the
property of his subjects.

It argued far more of a wild spirit of adventure than of a sober
understanding in Aubrey de Vere, to go with that clever Frenchman to
the Turk's house, and to play off all those tricks in the presence of
its master and his ten unvailed wives. Rarely indeed, if ever before,
has an Englishman passed an hour so comfortably with the whole of
a rich man's harem, and seen them as de Vere saw them in all their
artlessness and beauty. We live, indeed, in strange times, when the
once scorned and loathed Giaours contrive to possess themselves
of such extraordinary privileges, and to escape unharmed from such
hitherto unheard-of enjoyments.

Where one thought was given to Constantinople a hundred years since
from the west of the Dalmatian coast, ten thousand eyes are now
constantly directed to it, and with continually increasing anxiety.
The importance of that city is now understood by all the European
powers, and its future fate has become a subject of deep interest to
all the western states, in consequence of the determined set made upon
it by its powerful northern neighbor. With the Cossacks at Istamboul
instead of Turks, we should be very ill satisfied, and the whole charm
of this city on its seven hills would have departed: already is it on
the wane. Sultan Mahmoud's hostility to beards and to flowing robes,
to the turban and the jherid, has deprived his capital city of much
of its picturesqueness and peculiarity; but still enough remains of
eastern manners and costumes to make it one of the most interesting
cities in the world to visit and roam over. Such as, like ourselves,
may not hope to sport a caique on the Bosphorus, will do well to
acquaint themselves with the information Aubrey de Vere can give them,
and to suffer their imagination to transport them to scenes among
the fairest and the loveliest on the earth's surface, and which are
presented to them in these volumes as graphically as words can paint
them.

By the possessor of Wordsworth's Greece, where every spot almost, of
the slightest historical interest, is given in a picture on its
pages, these "Picturesque Sketches" will be read with the highest
gratification that scenes and descriptions together can supply.
There is so much of mind in them; so much of sound philosophy in
the observations; such beautiful thoughts; so well, so elegantly
expressed; so many allusions to the past, that are continually placing
before us Pericles, Themistocles, or Demosthenes, that we are improved
while amused, and feel at every page that we are reading a work far
above the general works on such subjects; a work of lasting interest,
that may be read and re-read, and still with delight and advantage.

       *       *       *       *       *

DEATH AND SLEEP.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER.

In brotherly embrace walked the Angel of Sleep and the Angel of Death
upon the earth.

It was evening. They laid themselves down upon a hill not far from the
dwelling of men. A melancholy silence prevailed around, and the chimes
of the evening-bell in the distant hamlet ceased.

Still and silent, as was their custom, sat these two beneficent Genii
of the human race, their arms entwined with cordial familiarity, and
soon the shades of night gathered around them.

Then arose the Angel of Sleep from his moss-grown couch, and strewed
with a gentle hand the invisible grains of slumber. The evening breeze
wafted them to the quiet dwelling of the tired husbandman, infolding
in sweet sleep the inmates of the rural cottage--from the old man upon
the staff, down to the infant in the cradle. The sick forgot their
pain: the mourners their grief; the poor their care. All eyes closed.

His task accomplished, the benevolent Angel of Sleep laid himself
again by the side of his grave brother. "When Aurora awakes,"
exclaimed he, with innocent joy, "men praise me as their friend and
benefactor. Oh! what happiness, unseen and secretly to confer such
benefits! How blessed are we to be the invisible messengers of the
Good Spirit! How beautiful is our silent calling!"

So spake the friendly Angel of Slumber.

The Angel of Death sat with still deeper melancholy on his brow, and
a tear, such as mortals shed, appeared in his large dark eyes. "Alas!"
said he, "I may not, like thee, rejoice in the cheerful thanks of
mankind; they call me upon the earth their enemy, and joy-killer."

"Oh! my brother," replied the gentle Angel of Slumber, "and will
not the good man, at his awakening, recognize in thee his friend and
benefactor, and gratefully bless thee in his joy? Are we not brothers,
and ministers of one Father?"

As he spake, the eyes of the Death-Angel beamed with pleasure, and
again did the two friendly Genii cordially embrace each other.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MODERN SCHOOLS OF ATHENS.--I visited, with equal surprise and
satisfaction, an Athenian school, which contained seven hundred
pupils, taken from every class of society. The poorer classes were
gratuitously instructed in reading, writing, and arithmetic, and the
girls in needlework likewise. The progress which the children had made
was very remarkable; but what particularly pleased me was that air of
bright alertness and good-humored energy which belonged to them, and
which made every task appear a pleasure, not a toil. The greatest
punishment which can be inflicted on an Athenian child is exclusion
from school, though but for a day. About seventy of the children
belonged to the higher classes, and were instructed in music, drawing,
the modern languages, the ancient Greek, and geography. Most of them
were at the moment reading Herodotus and Homer. I have never seen
children approaching them in beauty; and was much struck by their
Oriental cast of countenance, their dark complexions, their flashing
eyes, and that expression, at once apprehensive and meditative, which
is so much more remarkable in children than in those of a more mature
age.--_De Vere_.

       *       *       *       *       *

At Berlin, the Academy of Sciences has been holding a sitting,
according to its statutes, in honor of the memory of Leibnitz. In the
course of the oration delivered on the occasion, it was stated that
the 4th of August being the fiftieth anniversary of the admission
of Alexander Von Humboldt as a member of the Academy, it had been
resolved, in celebration of the event, to place a marble bust of the
"Nestor of Science" in the lecture room of the society.








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