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International Weekly Miscellany Vol. I. No. 3, July 15, 1850 by Various

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Of Literature, Art, and Science.

* * * * *

Vol. I. NEW YORK, JULY 15, 1850. No. 3.

* * * * *


George Sand is about to publish a book called "Memoirs of my Life,"
which is looked for with great expectations by both the admirers of
her genius and the lovers of scandalous gossip. It is certain that if
she makes a clean breast of her adventures and experiences, the world
will have reason both for admiration and disgust over the confessions:
admiration for the generosity of her character--for she never did
a mean thing, and probably never had a mean thought--disgust at the
recklessness with which she has cast off the delicacy and modesty of
woman, and undermined the morality on which the holiest institutions
of society depend. The interest with which the French public look
forward to the book may be understood from the enormous price she
has received for it between $30,000 and $40,000. The _Credit_, a most
respectable daily journal of Paris, has purchased of the publisher,
for $12,000, the right of issuing the first six volumes in its
_feuilleton_, in advance of the regular publication, and will soon
commence them.

Chateaubriand, in one of the latest chapters of his Posthumous
Memoirs, speaks at some length of George Sand. The verdict of the most
illustrious French literary man of the age which has just closed,
upon this most remarkable writer of the age now passing, is every
way interesting, and we translate it for the _International_ from the
columns of _La Presse_, as follows:

Madame Sand possesses talents of the first order. Her descriptions are
true as those of Rousseau in his Reveries, and those of Bernardin
St. Pierre in his Studies. Her free style is stained by none of the
current faults of the day. Lelia, a book painful to read, and offering
only here and there one of the delicious scenes which may be found in
Indiana and Valentine, is nevertheless a master-work of its kind. Of
the nature of a debauch, it is yet without passion, though it produces
the disturbance of passion. The soul is wanting, but still it weighs
upon the heart. Depravity of maxims, insult to rectitude of life,
could not go farther; but over the abyss descends the talent of the
author. In the valley of Gomorrah the dew falls nightly upon the Dead

The works of Madame Sand, those romances, the poetry of matter, are
born of the epoch. Notwithstanding her superiority, it is to be feared
that the author has narrowed the circle of her readers by the very
character of her writings. George Sand will never be a favorite with
persons of all ages. Of two men equal in genius, one of whom preaches
order and the other disorder, the first will attract the greater
number of hearers. The human race never give unanimous applause to
what wounds morality, on which repose the feeble and the just. We do
not willingly associate with all the recollections of our life those
books which caused us the first blush, and whose pages were not
those we learned by heart as we left the cradle: books which we have
read only in secret, which have never been our avowed and cherished
companions, and which were never mingled with either the candor of our
sentiments or the integrity of our innocence. Providence has confined
to very straight limits all success which has not its source in
goodness, and has given universal glory as an encouragement for

I am aware that I reason here like a man whose narrow view does not
embrace the vast _humanitary_ horizon, like a retrograde attached to
a ridiculous system of morality, a morality already passing to decay,
and at the best good only for minds without intelligence, in the
infancy of society. There is close at hand the birth of a new gospel,
far above the common-places of this conventional wisdom, which hinders
the progress of the human race, and the restoration to dignity and
honor of this poor body, so calumniated by the soul. When women all
resort to the street--when to perform the marriage ceremony it will
be enough to open the window and call on God as witness, priest,
and wedding-guest--then all prudery will be destroyed; there will be
espousals everywhere, and we shall rise the same as the birds to the
grandeur of nature. My criticism on books of the sort of George Sand's
has then no value except in the vulgar order of things past, and
therefore I trust she will not be offended by it. The admiration I
profess for her ought to make her excuse these remarks, which have
their origin in the infelicity of my age. Once I should have been more
carried away by the Muses. Those daughters of heaven were in times
past my lovely mistresses, now they are only my ancient friends. At
evening they kept me company by the fireside, but they soon depart;
for I go to bed early, and then they hasten to take their places
around the hearth-stone of Madame Sand.

Without doubt Madame Sand will in this path prove her intellectual
omnipotence, but yet she will please less, because she will be less
original. She will fancy she augments her power by venturing into the
depths of these reveries, beneath which we deplorable common mortals
are buried, and she will be mistaken. In fact she is much superior
to this extravagance, this vagueness, this presumptuous balderdash.
At the same time that a person endowed with a rare but too flexible
faculty, should be guarded against follies of the higher order, he
ought also to be warned that fantastic compositions, subjective or
intimate, painting (so runs the jargon) are restricted; that their
course is in youth; that its springs are drying up every instant, and
that after a number of productions the writer finishes with nothing
but weak repetitions.

Is it very likely that Madame Sand will always find the same charm
in what she now composes? Will not the merit and the enthusiasm of
twenty lose their value in her mind as the works of my first days are
depreciated in mine? There is nothing changeless except the labors of
the antique muse, and they are sustained by a nobility of manners, a
beauty of language, and a majesty of sentiments, which belong to the
entire human species. The fourth book of the Eneid remains forever
exposed to the admiration of men because it is suspended in heaven.
The ships bearing the founder of the Roman Empire,--Dido, the
foundress of Carthage, stabbing herself after having announced

Exoriare aliquis nostius exossibus ulta.--

Love causing the rivality of Rome and Carthage to leap from the flame
of his torch, lighting with his own hand the funeral pile, whose
blaze the fugitive Eneas perceives upon the waves,--is altogether
another thing than the promenade of a dreamer in the woods, or the
disappearance of a libertine who drowns himself in the sea. Madame
Sand will, I trust, yet associate her talents with subjects as durable
as her genius.

Madame Sand can only be converted by the preaching of that missionary
with bald forehead and hoary beard, called Time. A voice less
austere meanwhile enchains the captive ear of the poet. In fact, I
am persuaded that the talent of Madame Sand has some of its roots in
corruption; in becoming modest she would become commonplace. It would
have been otherwise had she always remained in that sanctuary not
frequented by men; her power of love, restrained and concealed beneath
the virginal fillet, would have drawn from her heart those decent
melodies which belong at once to the woman and the angel. However that
may be, audacity of ideas and voluptuousness of manners form a spot
not before cleared up by a daughter of Adam, and which, submitted to
a woman's culture, has yielded a harvest of unknown flowers. Let us
permit Madame Sand to produce these perilous marvels till the approach
of winter; she will sing no more _when the North wind has come_.
Meanwhile, less improvident than the grasshopper, let her make
provision of glory for the time when there will be a famine of
pleasure. The mother of Musarion was wont to repeat to her child:
"Thou wilt not always be sixteen; will Choereas always remember his
oath, his tears and his caresses?"

For the rest, women have often been seduced, and as it were carried
off, by their own youth, but toward the days of autumn, restored
to the maternal hearth, they have added to their harps the grave
or plaintive chord on which either religion or unhappiness finds
expression. Old age is a traveler in the night time; the earth is
hidden from sight and he can see nothing but the heavens shining above
his head.

I have not seen Madame Sand dressed in men's clothes or wearing the
blouse and the iron-shod staff of the mountaineer. I have not seen her
drinking from the cup of bacchanals and smoking indolently reclining
on a sofa like a sultana,--natural or affected eccentricities which
for me could add nothing to her charms or her genius.

Is she more inspired when she causes a cloud of vapor to rise from
her mouth about her hair? Did Lelia escape from the head of her mother
through a burning mist, as Sin, according to Milton, proceeded from
the head of the glorious and guilty archangel amid a whirlpool of
smoke? I know not what passes in the sacred courts; but here below
Neamede, Phila, Lais, Gnathene, the witty Phryne, the despair of the
pencil of Apelles, and the chisel of Praxiteles, Leena, beloved of
Harmodias, the two sisters named Aphyes, because they were small and
had large eyes, Dorica, the fillet of whose locks and embalmed robe
were consecrated in the temple of Venus,--all these enchantresses knew
only the perfumes of Arabia. It is true that Madame Sand has on her
side the authority of the Odalisques and the young Mexicans who dance
with cigars between their lips.

What effect has Madame Sand had upon me, after the few gifted women,
and many charming women whom I have known--after those daughters of
the earth, who like Madame Sand said with Sappho: "Come, Mother of
Love, to our delicious banquets, fill our cups with the nectar of
roses?" As I have placed myself now in fiction and now in reality, the
author of Valentine has made on me two very different impressions.

As for fiction, I do not speak of it, for I ought no longer to
understand its language; as for reality, a man of grave age,
cherishing the notions of propriety, attaching as a Christian the
highest value to the timid virtue of woman. I know not how to express
my unhappiness at such a mass of rich endowments bestowed on the
prodigal and faithless hours which are spent and vanish.

* * * * *


It is well known that our countrywoman MARIA DEL OCCIDENTE was on
terms of familiar intimacy with the poet-laureate, whose admiration
of her genius is illustrated in several allusions to her in his works,
and particularly in that passage of "The Doctor" in which she is
described as "the most impassioned and imaginative of all poetesses."
Southey superintended the publication of "Zophiel," in London, and
afterward was a frequent correspondent of Mrs. Brooks, during her
residence in New York and in Cuba. Among the souvenirs of Mrs.
Brooke's grateful recollection of his kindness, are two or three short
poems commemorating her visits to Keswick, and the following song, put
into a lyrical form by her, from the blank verse of "Madoc."


I've harnessed thee, my faithful steed--
Now, by the ocean, prove thy speed,
While, as we pass, th' advancing spray
Shall kiss thy side of glossy gray;--
Oh! fairer than the ocean foam
Is that cold maid for whom we roam!
Her cheek is like the apple flower
Or summer heavens, at evening hour,
While, in her tender bashfulness,
She starts and files my love's excess,
Tho' dim my brow, beneath its mail,
As ocean when the sun is pale.
On, on! until my longing sight,
Can fix upon that dwelling white,
Beside a verdant bank that braves
The ocean's ever-sounding waves;--
There, all alone, she loves to sing,
Watching the silver sea-mew's wing.
In crowded halls, my spirit flies
To wait upon her; and wasting sighs
Consume my nights; where'er I turn
For her I pant, for her I burn,
Who, like some timid, graceful bird,
Shrinks from my glance and fears my word.
I faint; my glow of youth is gone;
Sleepless at night and sick at morn,
My strength departs; I droop, I fade,
Yet think upon that lonely maid,
And pity her, the while I pine
That she should spurn a love like mine
_This_, Madoc took the harp to play;
Cold in the earth Prince Hoel lay;
And Llaian listened, fain to speak
But wept as if her heart would break.

In this connection, writing of Southey, soon after intelligence was
received in this country of the decay of his intelligence, from her
coffee estate in Cuba, Mrs. Brooks says:

When a child of ten years old I could admire the poem "Madoc,"
such is the simplicity of its sentiments and the beauty of
its delineations. Looking it over, here, (amidst the woods and
canes of that island where repose the bones of Columbus,) the
song of Prince Hoel attached itself to my thoughts, and has
been (involuntarily) put into rhyme. This song may be found in
the first part of the poem mentioned. The lyric metre in which
it now appears must rather injure than improve the _belle
nature_ of the original. Still I wish it to be published, as
coming from my hand; because it gives me an opportunity of
expressing, in some degree, my unqualified admiration of its
composer. Well may he be called THE POET AND HISTORIAN OF THE
NEW WORLD. To justify this appellation, one has only to look
at Madoc and the History of Brazil. I have heard, from a
friend, of a rumor that Southey is ill; and, as it is feared,

This intelligence is unexpected as it is melancholy; for who had
better reason to look forward to a protracted existence upon earth,
than he who has written more than any other man except Voltaire--than
Robert Southey, perfectly proportioned in person, just in mind,
regular in his way of living, and benevolent in all his doings?

During that Spring which hallowed the last revolution in France, (that
of July, 1830,) I saw this bard of the lakes surrounded by his most
amiable and certainly beautiful family; one only individual of which,
his "Dark-eyed Birtha, timid as a dove," was then absent. I must
ever believe that a common reputation for beauty depends more on
circumstances than on any particular faultlessness in the person said
generally to be handsome.

Byron, in some one of the letters or conversations, written either
by or for him, says, or is said to say: "I saw Southey (naming the
time) at Lord Holland's, and would give Newstead for his head and
shoulders." This quotation is from memory, but, I trust, right in
sentiment, though it may not be perfectly so in words; but I have
seen little else concerning the physique either of him "Who framed of
Thalaba that wild and wondrous song," or of those to whom his blood is
transmitted. Still, at the time I have mentioned, it was impossible to
look unmoved upon so much perfection of color, sound and expression as
arrested my eyes at Keswick; in the tasteful and hospitable dwelling
of him who brought to earth that "Glendoveer," "one of the fairest
race of Heaven," (the heaven of India,) who averted the designs of
Arvalan, in that glowing and magnificent poem "The Curse of Kehama."

The Herodotus of Brazil, himself, had seen, when I first saw him,
fifty-seven winters; but his once dark locks, though sprinkled with
snow, were still curling as if childhood had not passed; and looked
wild and thick as those of his own Thalaba. A "chevelure" like this,
with black eyes, aquiline features, and figure tall and slender,
without attenuation, assisted in presenting such an image as is seldom
viewed in reality; while the effect of the whole was enhanced by easy,
unpretending and affectionate manners.

The eldest daughter of this Minstrel of the Mountains was called
_Edith May_, (the name of May having been given because she was born
in the month of blossoms.) This lady (now Mrs. Warter,) was the bard
himself with a different sex and complexion. "Her features his, but
softened." Her gentle, graceful deportment was in perfect harmony with
flaxen hair tinted with gold; and the outline of her father's face
was embellished by the blue eyes and other delicate colors of her too
sensitive mother, (named, also, Edith,) who had been chosen for love
alone. The second daughter, Birtha, as I have said, was absent. The
third, Catherine, "between the woman and the child," had hazel eyes
and fine features, altogether with a delicate shape and complexion.
Cuthbert, the only son, was a boy of eleven or twelve, with an open,
expressive countenance.

I could not help remarking that in the names of each individual of
this pleasing group was heard that sound produced by the letter T
followed by its companion H, which is so difficult to the organs of
foreigners, but which, when tenderly pronounced, brings to mind
the down of a swan or the wing of a dove. Edith, Birtha, Catherine,
Cuthbert, Southey. If affection and innocence can insure felicity on
earth, the course of their lives must be smooth as waters where the
swan reposes; for certainly all their movements seemed innocent as
those of the dove.

The month of March was nearly half gone, when I reached Keswick,
by the road from Edinburgh; having passed, in my way, an old stone
building, pointed out to me as "Branksome Tower," known by the "Lay of
the Last Minstrel," who has sung the achievements of Scottish knights
and ladies. This village, at the foot of Skiddaw, though much visited
in the summer, has still all the wildness of nature. Daffodils were
in blossom when I walked there; and primroses, daisies and violets
opened, among the trees, upon every bank and grass plat, while the
mountains, clustering about Derwent Water, assumed such tints and
shades of purple and blue as are peculiar to a northern climate.

"Oh, man, thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear!"

All these pleasing images seemed to flit before me while putting into
rhyme the "Song of Prince Hoel,"--but before I could write it down,
tidings reached me of the illness, (perhaps incurable,) of him who
drew it from the oblivion of its native Welsh.

Death already has robbed me of so much, that I have become, as it
were, inured to grief, and accustomed, even in my least unhappy
moments to reflect on the incertitude of all earthly hopes and wishes.
I can now hear of losses with melancholy rather than with horror.

So much of the soul of Robert Southey has been dispersed about the
world that a translation to some other state of being, (now, before
time has given him any burthen to carry,) would be, perhaps, no
misfortune, except to those left to sorrow. Yet to know that so
benevolent a being is still existing, feeling, joying, and suffering,
on the sphere of our own mortality, awakens a feeling so nearly allied
to pleasure that all who can appreciate excellence must entreat of
Heaven the continuance upon earth of a contemporary of whom it may be


* * * * *


It has been announced for years that Miss Leslie--the very clever but
not altogether amiable magazinist--was engaged upon a memoir of JOHN
FITCH, to whom, it has always seemed to us, was due much more than
to Fulton, the credit of inventing the steamboat. While Fitch was in
London, Miss Leslie's father was one of his warmest friends, and
the papers of her family enable her to give many particulars of his
history unknown to other biographers. When several years ago. R.W.
Griswold published his Sketches of the Life and Labors of John Fitch,
the late Noah Webster sent him the following interesting letter upon
the subject:

DEAR SIR:--In your sketch of John Fitch you justly remarked
that his biography is still a desideratum. The facts related
of him by Mr. St. John to Mr. Stone, and published in the _New
York Commercial Advertiser_, are new to me; and never before
had I heard of Mr. Fitch at _Sharon_, in Connecticut; but
I know Mr. St. John very well, and cannot discredit his
testimony any more than I can Mr. Stone's memory. The
substance of the account given of Mr. Fitch by the
indefatigable J.W. Barber, in his Connecticut Historical
Collections, is as follows: John Fitch was born in East
Windsor, in Connecticut, and apprenticed to Mr. Cheney, a
watch and clock-maker, of East Hartford, now Manchester, a
new town separated from East Hartford. He married, but did not
live happily with his wife, and he left her and went to New
Brunswick, in New Jersey, where he set up the business of
clock-making, engraving, and repairing muskets, before the
revolution. When New Jersey was invaded by the British troops,
Mr. Fitch removed into the interior of Pennsylvania, where he
employed his time in repairing arms for the army.

Mr. Fitch conceived the project of steam navigation in 1785,
as appears by his advertisement. He built his boat in 1787.
In my Diary I have myself noted that I visited the boat, lying
at the wharf in the Delaware, on the ninth day of February,
1787. The Governor and Council were so much gratified with
the success of the boat that they presented Mr. Fitch with a
superb flag. About that time, the company, aiding Mr. Fitch,
sent him to France, at the request of Mr. Vail, our consul at
L'Orient, who was one of the company. But this was when France
began to be agitated by the revolution, and nothing in favor
of Mr. Fitch was accomplished; he therefore returned. Mr. Vail
afterward _presented to Mr. Fulton for examination the papers
of Mr. Fitch_, containing his scheme of steam navigation.
After Mr. Fitch returned to this country, he addressed a
letter to Mr. Rittenhouse, in which he predicted that in time
the _Atlantic would be crossed by steam power_; he complained
of his poverty, and urged Mr. Rittenhouse to buy his land in
Kentucky, for raising funds to complete his scheme. But he
obtained no efficient aid. Disappointed in his efforts to
obtain funds, he resorted to indulgence in drink; he retired
to Pittsburgh, and finally ended his life by plunging into
the Alleghany. His books and papers he bequeathed to the
Philadelphia Library, with the injunction that they were to
remain closed for thirty years. At the end of that period,
the papers were opened, and found to contain a minute account
of his perplexities and disappointments. Thus chiefly the
narration of Mr. Barber, who refers for authority to the
American edition of the Edinburgh Encyclopedia. It may be
worth while for some gentleman to attempt to find these
papers. N. WEBSTER.


The papers to which Dr. Webster alludes in the above letter, have
been examined by Miss Leslie, and the curious details they contain
of Fitch's early life, his courtship, unfortunate marriage, captivity
among the Indians, experiments, &c. will be embraced in her work,
which will undoubtedly be one of the most interesting biographies of
this country.

* * * * *

The director of the Museum of Paris has opened a very interesting
gallery of American antiquities, from Yucatan, Mexico, Peru, Bolivia,
and other countries of the New World.

* * * * *


Mr. Owen Jones, an English architect, and the author of a very
beautiful work on the Alhambra, has been enabled, by the curious
process of chromo-lithography, originally discovered by the Bavarian,
Alois Sennefelder, to popularize and multiply almost indefinitely
the delicate and highly-finished illuminations executed by the pious
monkish artists of the middle ages.

According to Felton, the manuscript illuminators "borrowed their title
from the illumination which a bright genius giveth to his work," and
they form the connecting link in the chain which unites the ancient
with the modern schools of painting. Their works, considered as a
subordinate branch of pictorial art, though frequently grotesque and
barbarous, are singularly characteristic of the epoch in which they
lived, whether we retrace the art to its Byzantine origin in the
earliest ages of Christianity, or follow it to its most complete
and harmonious development in the two centuries which preceded the
discovery of the printing press.

The primitive Christians were possessed with an unconquerable
repugnance to the introduction of images, and the first notice we have
of the use of pictures is in the censure of the Council of Illiberis,
300 years after the Christian era. Of these one of the earliest and
most curious specimens is the consecrated banner which animated the
victorious soldiers of Constantine. The Labarum was a long pike,
topped with a crown of gold, inclosing a monogram expressive of
the cross and the two initial letters of the name of Christ, and
intersected by a transverse beam, from which hung a silken vail
curiously inwrought with the images of the reigning monarch and his
children. A medal of the Emperor Constantius is said to be still
extant in which the mysterious symbol is accompanied with the
memorable words, "By this sign shalt thou conquer." The austere
simplicity of the Primitive Christians yielded at length to this
innovation of sacred splendor. Before the end of the sixth century the
use and even the worship of images, or pictorial representations of
sacred persons and subjects, was firmly established in the capital,
and those "made without hands" were propagated in the camps and cities
of the Eastern empire by monkish artists, whose flat delineations were
in the last degeneracy of taste.

In the eighth century, Leo the Isaurian ascended the throne of the
East, and for a time the public or private worship of images was
proscribed, but the edict was vigorously and successfully resisted by
the Latins of the Western church. Charlemagne, whose literary tastes
are attested by his encouragement of the learned, by the foundation of
schools, and by his patronage of the arts of music and painting, gave
a great impulse to the practice of illumination: and the Benedictines,
whose influence extended throughout Europe, assigned an eminent
rank among monastic virtues to the guardianship and reproduction of
valuable manuscripts. In each Benedictine monastery a chamber was set
apart for this sacred purpose, and Charlemagne assigned to Alcuin,
a member of their order, the important office of preparing a perfect
copy of the Scriptures.

The process of laving on and burnishing gold and silver appears
to have been familiar to oriental nations from a period of remote
antiquity, and the Greeks are supposed to have acquired from them the
art of thus ornamenting manuscripts, which they in turn communicated
to the Latins. Their most precious manuscripts were written in gold
or silver letters, on the finest semi-transparent vellum, stained of a
beautiful violet color (the imperial purple), and these were executed
only for crowned heads. One of the most ancient existing specimens of
this mode of caligraphy in the fourth century, the _Codex Argenteus_
of Ulphilas, the inventor of the Visigothic alphabet, was discovered
in the library of Wolfenbuettel, and is now at Upsal, Sweden. This
fine MS. is written in letters of gold and silver on a purple ground;
and the fragments of a Greek MS. of the Eusebian Canons of the sixth
century, preserved in the British Museum, is perhaps a unique example
of a MS. in which both sides of the leaves are illuminated upon a
golden ground. Mr. Owen Jones' illustrations commence with a page
from the celebrated Durham book, or _Gospels of St. Cuthbert_, in
the Hiberno-Saxon style of the seventh century, which was borrowed
originally from the Romans, and afterward diffused throughout Europe
by the itinerant-Saxon Benedictines. This style is formed by an
ingenious disposition of interweaving threads or ribbons of different
colors, varied by the introduction of extremely attenuated lizard-like
reptiles, birds, and other animals. The initial letters are of
gigantic size, and of extreme intricacy, and are generally surrounded
with rows of minute red dots.

The Coronation Oath Book of the Anglo-Saxon kings is a curious
specimen of the rude state of art in the ninth century. The Lombard
and the Carlovingian styles, of which latter the Psalter of Charles
the Bold, is a fine specimen, prevailed on the continent during the
eighth and ninth centuries. Toward the end of the tenth century,
the Anglo-Saxon school, under the patronage of Bishop Ethelwold,
at Winchester, assumed a new and distinct character, which was not
surpassed by any works executed at the same period. This style, with
its bars of gold, forming complete frames to the text, when enriched
with interweaving foliage of the acanthus and the ivy, became the
basis of the latter and more florid school of illumination, which
attained its highest perfection in the twelfth century, and of which
the Arnstein Bible is an example. This Bible belonged to the Monks
of St. Mary and St. Nicholas, of Arnstein, and the value which was
attached to it may be inferred from the following quaint and mild
anathema at the end of the first volume:--

"The book of St. Mary and St. Nicholas, in Arnstein, the
which, if any one shall purloin it, may he die the death--may
he be cooked upon the gridiron--may the falling sickness and
fevers attack him--and may he be broken upon the wheel and

In the thirteenth century Paris became celebrated for its
illuminators, and the productions of Franco-Bolognese, whose skill in
illuminating manuscripts was then paramount, is mentioned by Dante.
Mr. Humphreys thus graphically describes the style of the fourteenth

"It was a great artistic era--the architecture, the painting,
the goldsmith's work, the elaborate productions in enamel, and
the illuminator's art, were in beautiful harmony, being each
founded upon similar principles of design and composition;
even the art of writing lending itself to complete the chord
of artistic harmony, by adopting that, crisp and angular
feeling which the then general use of the pointed arch
introduced into all works of artistic combination."

* * * * *


MR. CHRISTMAS, in his "Twin Giants," attacked the stronghold of
popular superstition by exhibiting the foundations and growth of error
in the early and ignorant ages, and of the progressive dissipation of
these delusions as the light of history and science spread over the
world. The present work is a translation from Calmet. It deals with
spectres, vampyres, and all that tribe of visionary monsters. We have
here the learning and opinion of the enlightened portion of the world
a century ago. M. Calmet traversed all history for his facts, and
gives us a mass of monkish inventions, which prove to what an extent
the Romish church fostered superstition for its own purposes. We have
dead men called from their graves to show the danger of neglecting
to pay tithes, and to rivet on the rich the necessity of building
churches, and paying liberally for masses. At p. 286 of vol. 1 we
have a proof that the "knockings" which have made so much noise in
the United States, are no novelty:--

"Humbert Birk, a burgess of note in the town of Oppenheim,
had a country-house, called Berenbach. He died in the month
of November, 1620, a few days before the feast of St. Martin.
On the Saturday which followed his funeral they began to
hear certain noises in the house where he had lived with his
first wife; for at the time of his death he had married
again. The master of this house, suspecting that it was his
brother-in-law who haunted it, said to him: 'If you are
Humbert, my brother-in-law, strike three times against the
wall.' At the same time they heard three strokes only, for
ordinarily he struck several times. Sometimes, also, he
was heard at the fountain where they went for water, and he
frightened all the neighborhood. He did not utter articulate
sounds; but he would knock repeatedly, make a noise, or
a groan or a shrill whistle, or sounds as of a person in

This went on, at intervals, for a year, when the ghost found a voice,
and told them to tell the cure to come there; and when he came he said
he wanted three masses said for him, and alms given to the poor. The
author has the following sensible observations on the modes in which
ghost stories originate:--

"We call to our assistance the artifices of the charlatans,
who do so many things which pass for supernatural in the eyes
of the ignorant. Philosophers, by means of certain glasses,
and what are called magic lanterns; by optical secrets,
sympathetic powders: by their phosphorus, and, lately, by
means of the electric machine, show us an infinite number of
things which the simpletons take for magic, because they know
not how they are produced. Eyes that are diseased do not see
things as others see them, or else behold them differently.
A drunken man will see objects double; to one who has the
jaundice they will appear yellow: in the obscurity people
fancy they see a spectre, where there is but the trunk of a

"A mountebank will appear to eat a sword; mother will vomit
coals, or pebbles. One will drink wine, and send it out again
at his forehead; another will cut off his companion's head,
and put it on again. You will think you see a chicken dragging
a beam. The mountebank will swallow fire, and vomit it forth;
he will draw blood from fruit; he will send from his mouth
strings of iron nails; he will put a sword on his stomach, and
press it strongly, and instead of running into him, it will
bend back to the hilt. Another will run a sword through his
body without wounding himself. You will sometimes see a child
without a head, then a head without a child and all of them
alive. That appears very wonderful; nevertheless, if it were
known how all these things are done, people would only laugh,
and be surprised that they could wonder at and admire such

If we are so easily deceived in these matters, is it strange that in
peculiar states of mind or body, we are so completely imposed on in
others? At p. 353 we have the story on which Goethe has founded a
singular exploit of Mephistopheles in the cellar of Auerbach.

"John Faust Cudlington, a German, was requested, in a company
of gay people, to perform in their presence some tricks of
his trade. He promised to show them a vine loaded with grapes,
ripe and ready to gather. They thought, as it was the month
of December, he could not execute his promise. He strongly
recommended them not to stir from their places, and not to
lift up their hands to cut the grapes, unless by his express
order. The vine appeared directly, covered with leaves and
loaded with grapes, to the astonishment of all present. Every
one took up his knife, awaiting the order of Cudlington to
cut some grapes; but after having kept them some time in that
expectation, he suddenly caused the vine and the grapes to
disappear. Then every one found himself armed with his knife,
and holding his neighbor's nose with one hand; so that if
they had cut off a bunch without the order of Cudlington, they
would have cut off one another's noses."

The book is curious and interesting and calculated to do away with
much of the superstition which now appears to be gaining ground in
almost every part of Christendom.

[Footnote 1: THE PHANTOM WORLD: a Philosophy of Spirits, Apparitions,
&c. By AUGUSTINE CALMET. Edited by Rev. Henry Christmas.]

* * * * *


George Sand, as elsewhere noted, has written her "Confessions," in the
style of Rousseau, and a Paris bookseller has contracted to give her
a fortune for them. The three greatest--intellectually greatest--women
of modern times have lived in France and it is remarkable that they
have been three of the most shamelessly profligate in all history. The
worst of these, probably--Madame de Stael--left us no records of her
long-continued, disgusting, and almost incredible licentiousness, so
remarkable that Chateaubriand deemed her the most abandoned person in
France at a period when modesty was publicly derided in the Assembly
as a mere "system of refined voluptuousness." Few who have lately
resided in Paris are ignorant of the gross sensualism of the
astonishing Rachel, whose genius, though displayed in no permanent
forms, is not less than that of the Shakspeare of her sex, the
forever-to-be-famous Madame Dudevant, whose immoralities of conduct
have perhaps been overdrawn, while those of De Stael and Rachel have
rarely been spoken of save where they challenged direct observation.
We perceive that Rachel is to be in New York next autumn, with a
company of French actors.

* * * * *

Mr. G.P.R. James arrived in New York on the Fourth, and "landed amid
discharges of artillery, the huzzas of assembled thousands, and such
an imposing military display as is rarely seen in this country except
on occasions of great moment and universal interest." He is certainly
entitled to all the ceremonious honors he will receive during his
summer in America, for no man living, probably, has contributed
more to the quiet and rational pleasure of the people here than this
prolific but always intelligent and gentlemanly author. We have it
from the best authority that Mr. James does not intend in any way
whatever to meddle with the copyright question, and that he will
not write a book about us on his return to England. He visits the
United States for a season's agreeable relaxation, with his family,
comprising his wife and daughter and three sons. The London _Morning
Chronicle_, in a review of one of his recent compositions, has
the following piece of criticism, in contemplation of the present
interruption of Mr. James's labors:--

"A season without two or three novels from Mr. James would
be a marked year in the world of letters. There is not a
power-loom in all Manchester which works with more untiring,
unswerving regularity. Does Mr. James ever stop to think,
to eat, to drink, to sleep? Is he ever sick? Has he ever a
headache? Is he ever out of sorts, even as other men are, when
they turn away from the inkstand as from a bottle of physic?
We do not believe it. We sometimes doubt whether Mr. James be
a man at all. Is he mortal? Has he flesh and blood, or is he
some indefinite unheard-of machine, some anomaly of nature,
some freak of creation, whose mission is to make novels--and
who accordingly spins, spins away, and never leaves off for
a moment--never! We know how M. Dumas manages to rear his
wonderful literary offspring. With all Mr. James's fertility,
however, the Frenchman has a thousand times Mr. James's
invention. The romances of the latter are simply a series
of ever-changing, yet never novel variations upon the one
original theme furnished by Sir Walter Scott. Dumas, with his
eighty volumes a year, yet manages to be ever fresh, ever
new. Nobody knows, till he reads it, what a novel of the
Frenchman's will be. Everybody, even before he cuts open
page one, can tell you the certain features, the stereotyped
characters, which flourish in eternal youth in the
never-ending productions of James. It is only calling them
by other names, and dressing them in different
costumes--altering, in the description of a castle, the dais
from the one end of the great hall to the other, or some such
important revolution--and _presto_, Mr. James can whip the
personages and the places who flourished in one country and
in one century right slap into another generation and another
land. The thing is done in a moment, and you have a new novel
before you--just as new, at all events, as is any in his list
of a hundred."

* * * * *

Botta's "Nineveh" has at last reached completion at Paris. It consists
of five folio volumes of the largest size; only 400 copies have been
printed; 300 of them are to be distributed by the Government, and 100
for booksellers, to be sold. The price is 1800 francs a copy, or about
$600, the total expense of the edition being 296,000 fr. or not far
from $55,000. The publication of the work on so expensive a scale,
unaccompanied by an edition cheap enough for ordinary readers, is a
great blunder; at least the reputation of the author suffers from
it. The book does not reach those for whom it is written, while of
Layard's work at least 10,000 copies have been sold, exclusive of the
sale in America.

* * * * *

Arago announces that he will at last begin the printing of his long
prepared but not yet published works. His health is deeply shattered.
When the Provincial Government ceased to exist he was so weak that he
could scarcely walk, but since then repose has considerably recruited
his strength, but he does well to undertake the long postponed
publication of his studies. The first issued will be on Measuring
the Intensity of Light, which he is now reading to the Academy;
subsequently he will bring out the Astronomy, so long waited for.
It is true that some years since a book was printed with this title,
composed from notes of some of his lectures; this work has passed
through many editions and has been translated into other languages,
though he has often protested against it as an entirely erroneous and
perverted presentation of his ideas.

* * * * *

The Rev. H.W. Bellows has resigned the editorship of _The Christian
Enquirer_, which he has conducted with distinguished ability, we
believe from its commencement.

* * * * *

Miss Cooper, a daughter of the great novellist, has been announced in
London as the author of "Rural Hours," a volume to be published in two
or three weeks by Bentley, and by our Aldus, Mr. Putnam. We have read
and in this number of the _International_ give some extracts from
the advance sheets of "Rural Hours," and we think the work will be
regarded as one of the most pleasing and elegant contributions which
woman has in a long time made to English literature. It is in the form
of a year's diary in the country, and it illustrates on almost every
page a large and wise cultivation, and the finest capacities for the
observation of nature. We shall hereafter enter more fully into the
discussion of its merits, but meanwhile advise the reader to obtain
the book as soon as possible, in confidence that it will prove one of
the most delightful souvenirs of the summer.

* * * * *

Prof. Agassiz of Harvard College appears in the last number of
the _Christian Examiner_--an able periodical, which no degree or
affectation of "liberality" should have tempted to the admission of
such a paper--in an elaborate argument against the Unity of the Human
Race. It is ridiculous to attempt a disguise of this matter: the
proposition of Prof. Agassiz is an attack upon the Christian religion,
and he is guilty of scandalous dishonesty in endeavoring to evade
its being so considered. He has undoubtedly a right to pursue any
investigation to which he may be led by a love of science, and,
guarding himself about with humility and candor, he has a right to
accept the results which may be offered in the premises by a careful
induction. But the right to assail the commonly received opinions of
mankind, especially the right to assail a people's religion, has other
and very rigid conditions, which will not, we are persuaded, justify
this new outbreak of the restless spirit of Infidelity. Certainly, it
would have become Prof. Agassiz, before venturing upon the course he
has adopted, to dissociate himself from a University to which so many
of the youth of the country have been sent without any thought on the
part of their parents that they were to be exposed there to influences
which they would dread above all others. There is no right to offer,
except to _men_, capable of its thorough apprehension, any new or
questionable or unsettled doctrine. Prof. Agassiz should have been in
a condition to receive in his own person the consequences of a failure
to establish his theory. We have no fears as to the result of the
controversy upon which he has entered. No man worthy to be called a
Christian scholar, deprecates the subjection of the Bible to any tests
that are possible. It has withstood in the last two centuries quite
too much of sham science to be in any way affected by the logic of
Prof. Agassiz. Still, the appearance of such a paper in the _Christian
Examiner_--the chief organ of American Unitarianism--is significant of
a state of feeling and opinion to be regretted, and it should summon
to the conflict the men whose predecessors made every similar wave
of Infidelity bring support and strength to the bases of the rock of

* * * * *

Letters from Dr. Layard have been received in London, to the 10th of
April, dated from Arban, on the River Khabour. The last account from
this quarter mentioned his purpose of penetrating into the desert,
which he has explored for three weeks, meeting with numerous traces
of ancient population, though not so many antiquities as he expected.
His present site, however, is richer in archaeological remains, and is
important, as they are undoubtedly Assyrian, and prove the extent of
that empire. Two winged bulls and other fragments are described as
very remarkable, the meadows as rich in herbage, and the banks of the
Khabour as literally gemmed with flowers; and Mr. Layard was desirous
to examine this river to its mouth; but the Arabs were hostile to the
plan, though it was trusted that arrangements would be made with the
parties, wherever they interposed between Mr. Layard and his wishes.
In his letter, he says he thinks Major Rawlinson wrong in some of his
topography, and that the chronological deductions cannot as yet be
considered settled.

* * * * *

Mr. Rogers, the poet, was lately knocked down by a cab, as he was
returning from a dinner party, and so seriously injured as very much
to alarm his friends. He was not restored sufficiently to see visitors
at the last dates. Rogers, Montgomery, Moore, Hunt, Wilson, Savage
Landor, and De Quincey, are "listening to the praises of posterity."
Not any of them can last much longer.

* * * * *

Harro Harring, the Swedish republican novelist, had scarcely reached
his own country after several years exile in America, before he was
again imprisoned for some quixotic attack upon institutions which he
has neither the ability nor the character, even if let alone by the
government, to change.

* * * * *

Mr. W.E. Foster has published in London a new edition of Clarkson's
Life of Penn, in the preface to which he has entered very fully into
the points raised by Macaulay in his History in regard to the Quakers,
vindicating them, and very ably sustaining the fame of their hero.

* * * * *

Rev. Dr. Judson, the missionary, is again reported in very feeble
health, and in a decline. He is nearly sixty years of age.

* * * * *

The Poems of Frances A. and Metta V. Fuller, of Ohio, are in press,
and to be published in a beautiful volume in the autumn.

* * * * *

Mr. Prescott, the historian, is passing the summer in England.

* * * * *

LITERATURE IN PARIS.--A correspondent of the London _Literary
Gazette_, under date of June 12, says:

"I notice reprints, by Didot, of several of the standard works
of Chateaubriand; a condensation, by General O'Connor, of his
"Monopoly;" a Treatise, by the Bishop of Langres, on the grave
question of Church and State; a very interesting and curious
work on the forests of Gaul, ancient France, England, Italy,
&c.; a volume of the Unpublished Letters of Mary Adelaide
of Savoy, Duchess of Bourgogne--which throws great light on
many of the principal historical events and personages of
her time; a charming series of Sketches from Constantinople,
entitled "Nuits du Ramazan," by Gerard de Nerval, a popular
_feuilletoniste_; a big volume of the works of St. Just, the
terrible Conventionist; a continuation of the Illustrated
Edition of Defauconpret's Translation of the complete works
of Walter Scott; an admirable fac-simile collection of
Contemporary Portraits of Eminent Individuals of the Sixteenth
Century; a reprint of Boileau's Satires; an Alphabetical
and Analytical Table of all the Authors, Sacred and Profane,
discovered or published in the forty-three volumes of the
celebrated Cardinal Mai; a 'Month in Africa,' by Pierre
Napoleon Buonaparte, &c. There have also been more than the
usual average of works in the Greek, Latin, Hebrew. Italian
and Portuguese."

* * * * *

DR. GUTZLAFF, the famous missionary, is now in Germany, and he had
recently an interview with the Presidents of the Corporation of
Merchants of Stettin, to give them some information as to the sort of
goods best adapted for exportation to China. He held out very little
encouragement of a profitable trade with that country at present, as
he said he could not name a single article of German manufacture he
thought likely to secure any great demand. He commended the English
government for establishing a "Chinese Exhibition," in order to
instruct the merchants of the real nature and quality of Chinese
productions. (He must have meant the exhibition of the late Mr. Dunn,
of Philadelphia, so long open in London, and erroneously supposed
that it was a government institution.) He also described the Chinese
language itself, on account of its extreme difficulty, as the chief
obstacle in the way of the civilization of the people. He did not
believe the most learned Chinese perfectly knew his alphabet, as
after twenty years' study he could not say he was master of it, a
fact highly discouraging to the German _savans_.

* * * * *

A new Historical Society was formed at Hartford, Conn., a few weeks
ago, under the title of the Historical Society of the Protestant
Episcopal Church of the United States. A constitution was formed, and
Bishop Brownwell elected President. The objects are to collect and
preserve such materials, as may serve to illustrate the history of
the Episcopal church, and the collection and preservation of all
memorials, printed, manuscript, or traditional, which throw light on
the progress of the American branch of that church, in any period, and
of all materials relating to the social and religious history of the
times during which that church has existed.

* * * * *


* * * * *

ELLIOTT is the subject of an editorial chapter in the _Knickerbocker_,
in which justice and no more than justice, is done to him. In the
regular succession he follows Copley, Stuart, Jarvis, Newton, and
Inman, as the first portrait-painter of his time in the United States.
Elliott has recently finished a very effective head of Dr. John W.
Francis, to be placed in the permanent gallery of the Art Union, of
which Dr. Francis was the first President. He is now engaged upon
a portrait of Washington Irving, which will be engraved in the most
elaborate style by Cheney.

* * * * *

MINOR K. KELLOGG has nearly completed, for Mr. Higgs, the banker,
of Washington, an exquisite picture which he calls _The Greek
Girl_,--similar, but we think in all respects superior, to his
beautiful _Circassian Girl_, engravings of which by a Parisian artist
have some time formed one of the attractions of the print shops. Mr.
Kellogg is also painting a full-length of General Scott, for the city.

* * * * *

A PORTRAIT OF CAPTAIN SUTTER, of California, has just been engraved
in the finest style of Sartain, from a painting by S.S. Osgood, made
while that excellent artist was in the Gold Region. It is a remarkably
strong and pleasing head, and it will rank among Mr. Osgood's best

* * * * *

BALL HUGHES, the sculptor, is preparing a monument to be placed over
the remains of Josiah Sturgis, at Mount Auburn.

* * * * *


* * * * *



"Je vivrai eternellement."--_La vie de Sappho. Traduction de
Madame Dacier._

Nay--call me not thy rose--thine own sweet flower,
For oh, my soul to thy wild words is mute!
Leave me my gift of song--my glorious dower--
My hand unchanged, and free to sweep the lute.

Thus, when within the tomb thy memory slumbers,
Mine, mine will tie of those immortal names
Sung by the poet in undying numbers:
Call me not thine--I am the world's and fame's!

Were it not blissful, when from earth we sever,
To know that we shall leave, with bard and sage,
A name enrolled on fame's bright page forever--
A wonder, and a theme to after age!

Talk not of love! I know how, wasted, broken,
The trusting heart learns its sad lesson o'er--
Counting the roses Passion's lips have spoken,
Amid the thorns that pierce it to the core.

Oh, heart of mine! that when life's summer hour
For thee with love's bright blossoms hung the bough,
Too quickly found an asp beneath the flower--
And is naught left thee but ambition now?

Alas! alas! this brow its pride forsaking,
Would give the glory of its laurel crown
For one fond breast whereas to still its aching--
For one true heart that I might call mine own!

* * * * *




With something of the grateful feeling which prompted the memorable
exclamation of Sancho Panza, "Blessings on the man who first invented
sleep!" we have laid down these pleasant volumes. Blessings on the man
who invented books of travel for the benefit of home idlers! the Marco
Polos, the Sir John Mandevilles, and the Ibn Batutas of old time, and
their modern disciples and imitators! Nothing in the shape of travel
and gossip, by the way, comes amiss to us, from Cook's voyages round
the earth to Count De Maistre's journey round his chamber. When the
cark and care of daily life and homely duties, and the weary routine
of sight and sound, oppress us, what a comfort and refreshing is it to
open the charmed pages of the traveler! Our narrow, monotonous horizon
breaks away all about us; five minutes suffice to take us quite out of
the commonplace and familiar regions of our experience: we are in the
Court of the Great Khan, we are pitching tents under the shadows of
the ruined temples of Tadmor, we are sitting on a fallen block of the
Pyramids, or a fragment of the broken nose of the Sphynx, dickering
with Arab Shieks, opposing Yankee shrewdness to Ishmaelitish greed
and cunning: we are shooting crocodiles on the white Nile, unearthing
the winged lions of Ezekiel's vision on the Tigris--watching the
night-dance of the Devil-worshipers on their mountains, negotiating
with the shrewd penny-turning patriarch of Armenia for a sample from
his holy-oil manufactory at Erivan, drinking coffee at Damascus, and
sherbet at Constantinople, lunching in the vale of Chaumorng, taking
part in a holy _fete_ at Rome, and a merry Christmas at Berlin. We
look into the happiness of traveling through the eyes of others, and,
for the miseries of it, we enjoy _them_ exceedingly. Very cool and
comfortable are we while reading the poor author's account of his
mishaps, hair-breadth escapes, hunger, cold, and nakedness. We take
a deal of satisfaction in his moscheto persecutions and night-long
battles with sanguinary fleas. The discomforts and grievances of his
palate under the ordeal of foreign cooking were a real relish for us.
On a hot morning in the tropics, we see him pulling on his stocking
with a scorpion in it, and dancing in involuntary joy under the
effects of the sting. Let him dance; it is all for our amusement. Let
him meet with what he will--robbers, cannibals, jungle-tigers, and
rattlesnakes, the more the better--since we know that he will get
off alive, and come to regard them so many god-sends in the way of

The volumes now before us are not only seasonable as respects the
world-wide curiosity in regard to California--the new-risen empire on
the Pacific--abounding, as they do, in valuable facts and statistics,
but they have in a high degree that charm of personal adventure and
experience to which we have referred. Bayard Taylor is a born tourist.
He has eyes to see, skill to make the most of whatever opens before
him under the ever-shifting horizon of the traveler. He takes us along
with him, and lets us into the secret of his own hearty enjoyment.
Much of what he describes has already become familiar to us from the
notes of a thousand gold-seekers, who have sent home such records as
they could of their experiences in a strange land. Yet even the well
known particulars of the overland route across the Isthmus become
novel and full of interest in the narrative of our young tourist.
The tropical scenery by day and night on the river, the fandango at
Gorgona, and the ride to Panama through the dense dark forest, with
death, in the shape of a cholera-stricken emigrant, following at their
heels, are in the raciest spirit of story-telling. The steamer from
Panama touched at the ancient city of Acapulco, and took in a company
of gamblers, who immediately set up their business on deck. At San
Deigo, the first overland emigrants by the route of the Gila river,
who had reached that place a few days before, came on board, lank and
brown as the ribbed sea-sand, their clothes in tatters, their boots
replaced with moccasins, small deerskin wallets containing all that
was left of the abundant stores with which they started--their
hair and beards matted and unshorn, with faces from which the rigid
expression of suffering was scarcely relaxed. The tales of their
adventures and sufferings the author speaks of as more marvelous than
anything he had ever heard or read since his boyish acquaintance with
Robinson Crusoe and Ledyard. Some had come by the way of Santa Fe,
along the savage Gila hills--some had crossed the Great Desert, and
taken the road from El Paso to Sonora--some had passed through Mexico,
and, after beating about for months in the Pacific, had run into San
Deigo and abandoned their vessel--some had landed weary with a seven
months' voyage round Cape Horn--while others had wandered on foot
from Cape St. Lucas to San Deigo, over frightful deserts and rugged
mountains, a distance of nearly fifteen hundred miles, as they were
obliged to travel.

The Gila emigrants spoke with horror of the Great Desert west of the
Colorado--a land of drought and desolation--vast salt plains and hills
of drifting sand; the trails which they followed sown white with bones
of man and beast. Unburied corpses of emigrants and carcasses of mules
who had preceded them, making the hot air foul and loathsome. Wo to
the weak and faltering in such a journey! They were left alone to die
on the burning sands.

On the Sonora route, one of the party fell sick, and rode on behind
his companions, unable to keep pace with them for several days, yet
always arriving in camp a few hours later. At last he was missing.
Four days after, a negro, alone and on foot, came into camp and told
them that many miles back a man lying by the road had begged a little
water of him, and urged him to hurry on and bring assistance. The next
morning a company of Mexicans came up, and brought word that the man
was dying. But his old companions hesitated to go to his relief. The
negro thereupon retraced his steps over the desert, and reached the
sufferer just as he expired. He lifted him in his arms; the poor
fellow strove to speak to his benefactor, and died in the effort.
His mule, tied to a cactus, was already dead of hunger at his side.
A picture commemorating such a scene, and the heroic humanity of
the negro, would better adorn a panel of the Capitol, than any
battle-piece which was ever painted.

There is a graphic account of the author's first impressions of San
Francisco. "A furious wind was blowing down through a gap in the
hills, filling the streets with dust. On every side stood buildings
of all kinds, began or half-finished, with canvas sheds open in front
and covered with all kinds of signs, in all languages. Great piles of
merchandise were in the open air, for lack of storehouses. The streets
were full of people of as diverse and bizarre a character as their
dwellings: Yankees of every possible variety, native Californians
in serapes and sombreros, Chilians, Sonorians, Kanakas from Hawaii,
Chinese with long tails, Malays armed with everlasting creeses, and
others, in their bearded and embrowned visages, it was impossible to
recognize any especial nationality." "San Francisco by day and night"
is the title of one of the best chapters in the book.

Our author made a foot journey to Monterey during the sitting of the
Convention which formed the State Constitution. He gives a pleasing
account of the refined and polite society of this ancient Californian
town; and makes particular mention of Dona Augusta Ximeno, a sister
of one of the Californian delegates to the Convention, Don Pablo de
la Guerra, as a woman whose nobility of character, native vigor and
activity of intellect, and instinctive refinement and winning grace
of manner, would have given her a complete supremacy in society, had
her lot been cast in Europe or the United States. Her house was the
favorite resort of the leading members of the Convention, American
and Californian. She was thoroughly versed in Spanish literature, and
her remarks on the various authors were just and elegant. She was,
besides, a fine rider, and could throw the lariat with skill, and
possesses all those bold and daring qualities which are so fascinating
when softened and made graceful by true feminine delicacy.

He describes the native Californians as physically and morally
superior to the Mexicans of other States. They are, as a class,
finely built, with fresh, clear complexions. The educated class very
generally are and appear well satisfied with the change of affairs,
but the majority still look with jealousy on the new comers, and are
not pleased with the new customs and new laws. The Californians in the
Convention seemed every way worthy of their position. General Vallejo
is a man of middle years, tall, and of commanding presence--with the
grave and dignified expression of the old Castilian race. With him
were Cavarrubias, the old Secretary of the Government, Pico, Carvillo,
Pedrorena, La Guerra, and a half-blood Indian member, Dominguez,
who, together with many of the most respectable and wealthy citizens
of California, is now excluded from voting by a clause of the
Constitution, which denies that privilege to Indians and negroes. This
unjust exception--a blot on an otherwise admirable Constitution--was
adopted after a warm debate, and against fierce opposition. The
attempt to prohibit free people of color from inhabiting the State
failed by a large majority. _The clause prohibiting slavery passed by
the vote of every member._

The account of the close of the Convention is sufficiently amusing.
The members met and adjourned, after a brief session, and their hall
was immediately cleared of forum, seats, and tables, and decorated
with pine boughs and oak garlands. At eight in the evening, it
was thrown open for a ball. Sixty or seventy ladies, and as many
gentlemen, were present. Dark-eyed daughters of Monterey and Los
Angelos and Santa Barbara, with Indian and Spanish complexions,
contrasted with the fairer bloom of belles from the Atlantic side of
the Nevada. There was as great a variety of costume as of complexion.
Several American officers were there in their uniform. In one group
might be seen Captain Sutter's soldierly moustache and clear blue eye;
in another, the erect figure and quiet, dignified bearing of Vallejo.
Don Pablo de la Guerra, with his handsome aristocratic features, was
the floor manager, and gallantly discharged his office. Conspicuous
among the native members, were Don Miguel Pedrorena and Jacinto
Rodriguez, both polished and popular gentlemen. Dominguez. the Indian,
took no part in the dance, but evidently enjoyed the scene as much
as any one present. The most interesting figure was that of the Padre
Ramirez, who, in his clerical cassock, looked until a late hour. "If
the strongest advocate of priestly decorum had been present," says our
author, "he could not have found it in his heart to grudge the good
old padre the pleasure which beamed in his honest countenance."

The next day the Convention met for the last time. The parchment
sheet, with the engrossed Constitution, was laid upon the table, and
the members commenced affixing their names. Then the American colors
were run up the flagstaff in front of the Hall, and the guns of the
fort responded to the signal. The great work was done. California, so
far as it depended on herself, was a State of the great Confederacy.
All were excited. Captain Sutter leaped up from his seat, and swung
his arm over his head. "Gentlemen!" he cried, "this is the happiest
hour of my life. It makes me glad to hear the cannon. This is a great
day for California!" Recollecting himself, he sat down, the tears
streaming from his eyes. His brother members cheered. As the signing
went on, gun followed gun from the fort. At last the _thirty-first_
was echoed back from the hills. "That's for California!" shouted a
member, and three times three cheers were given by the members. An
English vessel caught the enthusiasm, and sent to the breeze the
American flag from her mast-head. The day was beautiful; all faces
looked bright and happy under the glorious sunset, "Were I a believer
in omens," writes our tourist on the spot, "I would augur from the
tranquil beauty of the evening--from the clear sky and sunset hues of
the bay--more than all, from the joyous expression of every face--a
glorious and happy career for the 'STATE OF CALIFORNIA!'"

Our author visited several of the most important "diggings," and his
account of their location, productiveness, &c., does not materially
differ from the descriptions which have become familiar to all our
readers. It is evident from his statements, that with good health
and perseverance, any reasonable expectation of wealth on the part of
the miners may be realized, in a few months or years, according to
the richness of the "diggings," or the ease with which they may be
worked. What, however, has interested us more than the gold-product
of California, is the confirmation which our traveler gives to the
statements of Fremont and King, relative to the richness of its soil,
and its great agricultural capacities. The valleys of the Sacramento
and San Joaquim alone are capable of supporting a population of
two millions, if carefully cultivated. The deep, black, porous soil
produces the important cereal grains, although on the seaboard the air
is too cool for the ripening of Indian corn. Enormous crops of wheat
may be obtained by irrigation, such as was successfully practiced
by the great Jesuit missions; and, without it, from forty to fifty
bushels to the bushel of seed have been raised. Oats of the kind grown
on the Atlantic grow luxuriantly and wild, self-sown on all the hills
of the coast, furnishing abundant supplies for horses. Irish potatoes
grow to a great size, and all edible roots cultivated in the States
are produced in perfection, without irrigation.

The climate of San Francisco is unquestionably disagreeable; the
cold, fierce winds which sweep over the bay, and they alternating with
extreme heats, are prejudicial to health and comfort. Inland, however,
in the beautiful valleys of San Jose and Los Angelos, the climate is
all that can be desired. The heat during the summer months is indeed
great, but its dryness renders it more endurable than the damp
sultriness of an Atlantic August. At Los Angelos, latitude 34 deg. 7',
long. W. 118 deg., and forty miles from the ocean, the mean monthly
temperature of ten months was as follows: June 73 deg., July 74,
August 75, September 75, October 69, November 59, December 60.

Our author describes with a poet's enthusiasm the atmospheric effects
of the Californian sunsets. Fresh from his travels in Italy, and with
the dust of that Pincian hill still on his sandals from whence Claude
sketched his sunsets, he declares that his memory of that classic
atmosphere seems cold and pale, when he thinks of the splendor of
evening on the bay and mountains of San Francisco.

The chapter on "Society in California" may prove of much practical
utility, and should be read by all who are smitten with the
gold fever. California is no place for the sick, the weak, the
self-indulgent, the indolent, the desponding. There must be a
willingness to work at anything and everything, and stout muscles to
execute the will. Our author estimates that nearly one-third of the
emigrants are unfitted for their vocation, "miserable, melancholy
men, ready to yield up their last breath at any moment, who left home
prematurely, and now humbly acknowledge their error." His own happy
constitution and buoyant health led him to look on the best side of
things, and to take the sunniest possible view of the condition of the
new country he was exploring, but occasionally he reveals incidentally
the reverse of the picture. Here is a sketch of a sick miner at
Sacramento City, which is enough to make even California "gold become
dim, and the fine gold changed."

"He was sitting alone on a stone beside the water, with his
bare feet purple with cold on the cold, wet sand. He was
wrapped from head to foot in a coarse blanket, which shook
with the violence of his chill, as if his limbs were about to
drop in pieces. He seemed unconscious of all that was passing;
his long, matted hair hung over his wasted face; his eyes
glared steadily forward with an expression so utterly hopeless
and wild, that I shuddered at seeing it. This was but one of a
number of cases, equally sad and distressing."

The hardy and healthy portion of the emigrants, under the stimulating
excitements of the novel circumstances of their situation, seemed to
revel in the exuberance of animal spirits. Each seemed to have adopted
the rule of the wise man: "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, that do
with all thy might." They speculated, dug, or gambled, with an almost
reckless energy. All old forms of courtesy had given place to hearty,
blunt good fellowship in their social intercourse. They reminded our
traveler of the Jarls and Norse sea-kings, and in the noisy and almost
fierce revelry of these bearded gold-hunters around their mountain
tires, he seemed to see the brave and jovial Berseckers of the middle

We cannot forbear quoting a paragraph in relation to the great
question of our time, "The Organization of Labor."

"In California, no model phalanxes or national workshops
have been necessary. Labor has organized itself, in the best
possible way. The dream of attractive industry is realized;
all are laborers, and equally respectable; the idler and the
gentleman of leisure, to use a phrase of the country, 'can't
shine in these diggings.' Rich merchandise lies in the open
street; and untold wealth in gold dust is protected only
by ragged canvas walls, but thefts and robbery are seldom
heard of. The rich returns of honest labor render harmless
temptations which would prove an overmatch for the average
virtue of New England. The cut-purse and pickpocket in
California find their occupation useless, and become
chevaliers of industry, in a better sense than the term has
ever before admitted of. It will appear natural," says our
author, "that California should be the most democratic country
in the world. The practical equality of all the members of
the community, whatever might be the wealth, intelligence,
or profession of each, was never before so thoroughly
demonstrated. Dress was no gauge of respectability and no
honest occupation, however menial in its character, affected
a man's standing. Lawyers, physicians, and ex-professors,
dug cellars, drove ox-teams, sawed wood, and carried baggage,
while men who had been army privates, sailors, cooks, or day
laborers, were at the head of profitable establishments, and
not unfrequently assisted in some of the minor details of
government. A man who would consider his fellow beneath
him, on account of his appearance or occupation, would have
had some difficulty in living peaceably in California. The
security of the country is owing in no small degree to this
plain, practical development of what the French reverence as
an abstraction, under the name of _Fraternite_. To sum up
all in three words, _Labor is respectable_. May it never
be otherwise while a grain of gold is left to glitter in
Californian soil!"

Our author returned by way of Mazatlan and the city of Mexico, meeting
with a pleasant variety of adventures, robbery included, on his
route. In taking leave of his volumes, we cannot forbear venturing
a suggestion to the author, that he may find a field of travel, less
known, and quite as interesting at the present time, in the vast
Territory of New Mexico--the valley of the Del Norte, with its old
Castilian and Aztec monuments and associations; the Great Salt Lake,
and the unexplored regions of the great valley of the Colorado,
between the mountain ranges of the Sierra Madre and the Sierra Nevada.
We know of no one better fitted for such an enterprise, or for whom,
judging from the spirit of his California narrative, it would present
more attractions.

[Footnote 2: Eldorado: Adventures in the Path of Empire. By Bayard
Taylor. New York. Putnam. 1850. Two volumes.]

* * * * *

MEYERBEER AND WEBER.--The Berlin papers are reviving the rumor that
Meyerbeer is to complete an opera which Weber left unfinished. This
time his share is defined to be, a new third act, three numbers in the
second, one number in the first, and an overture.

* * * * *


* * * * *



Within twenty years from the foundation of the village, the deer had
already become rare, and in a brief period later they had fled from
the country. One of the last of these beautiful creatures seen in the
waters of our lake occasioned a chase of much interest, though under
very different circumstances from those of a regular hunt. A pretty
little fawn had been brought in very young from the woods, and nursed
and petted by a lady in the village until it had become as tame as
possible. It was graceful, as these little creatures always are, and
so gentle and playful that it became a great favorite, following the
different members of the family about, caressed by the neighbors, and
welcome everywhere. One morning, after gamboling about as usual until
weary, it threw itself down in the sunshine, at the feet of one of its
friends, upon the steps of a store. There came along a countryman, who
for several years had been a hunter by pursuit, and who kept several
dogs: one of his hounds came to the village with him on this occasion.
The dog, as it approached the spot where the fawn lay, suddenly
stopped; the little animal saw him, and started to its feet. It had
lived more than half its life among the village, and had apparently
lost all fear of them; but it seemed now to know instinctly that
an enemy was at hand. In an instant a change came over it, and the
gentleman who related the incident, and who was standing by at the
moment, observed that he had never in his life seen a finer sight
than the sudden arousing of instinct in that beautiful creature. In a
second its whole character and appearance seemed changed, all its past
habits were forgotten, every wild impulse was awake; its head erect,
its nostrils dilated, its eye flashing. In another instant, before the
spectators had thought of the danger, before its friends could secure
it, the fawn was leaping wildly through the street, and the hound in
full pursuit. The bystanders were eager to save it; several persons
instantly followed its track, the friends who had long fed and fondled
it, calling the name it had hitherto known, but in vain. The hunter
endeavored to whistle back his dog, but with no better success. In
half a minute the fawn had turned the first corner, dashed onward
toward the lake, and thrown itself into the water. But, if for a
moment the startled creature believed itself safe in the cool bosom
of the lake, it was soon undeceived; the hound followed in hot and
eager chase, while a dozen of the village dogs joined blindly in
the pursuit. Quite a crowd collected on the bank, men, women, and
children, anxious for the fate of the little animal known to them all:
some threw themselves into boats, hoping to intercept the hound before
he reached his prey; but the plashing of the oars, the eager voices
of the men and boys, and the barking of the dogs, must have filled
the beating heart of the poor fawn with terror and anguish, as though
every creature on the spot where it had once been caressed and fondled
had suddenly turned into a deadly foe. It was soon seen that the
little animal was directing its course across a bay toward the nearest
borders of the forest, and immediately the owner of the hound crossed
the bridge, running at full speed in the same direction, hoping to
stop his dog as he landed. On the fawn swam, as it never swam before,
its delicate head scarcely seen above the water, but leaving a
disturbed track, which betrayed its course alike to anxious friends
and fierce enemies. As it approached the land, the exciting interest
became intense. The hunter was already on the same line of shore,
calling loudly and angrily to his dog, but the animal seemed to have
quite forgotten his master's voice in the pitiless pursuit. The fawn
touched the land--in one leap it had crossed the narrow line of beach,
and in another instant it would reach the cover of the woods. The
hound followed, true to the scent, aiming at the same spot on the
shore; his master, anxious to meet him, had run at full speed, and was
now coming up at the most critical moment; would the dog hearken to
his voice, or could the hunter reach him in time to seize and control
him? A shout from the village bank proclaimed that the fawn had passed
out of sight into the forest; at the same instant, the hound, as he
touched the land, felt the hunter's strong arm clutching his neck.
The worst was believed to be over; the fawn was leaping up the
mountain-side, and its enemy under restraint. The other dogs, seeing
their leader cowed, were easily managed. A number of persons, men and
boys, dispersed themselves through the woods in search of the little
creature, but without success; they all returned to the village,
reporting that the animal had not been seen by them. Some persons
thought that after its fright had passed over it would return of
its own accord. It had worn a pretty collar, with its owner's name
engraved upon it, so that it could easily be known from any other fawn
that might be straying about the woods. Before many hours had passed a
hunter presented himself to the lady whose pet the little creature had
been, and showing a collar with her name on it said that he had been
out in the woods, and saw a fawn in the distance: the little animal
instead of bounding away as he expected, moved toward him; he took
aim, fired, and shot it to the heart. When he found the collar about
its neck he was very sorry he had killed it. And so the poor little
thing died; one would have thought that terrible chase would have
made it afraid of man: but no, it forgot the evil and remembered the
kindness only, and came to meet as a friend the hunter who shot it. It
was long mourned by its best friend.

* * * * *


CIRCUMNAVIGATING A POPE.--Cardinal Maury did not allow you to advance
far. He was fond of telling anecdotes, but he loved to select his
subject and to choose his terms. Memory well managed can furnish a
tolerable share of the wit and spirit of conversation, and he was, in
this respect, the most capital manoeuvrer I ever met with. As he had
been absent from Paris for fourteen years he had a great deal to tell.
Every one, therefore, listened to his stories with pleasure--himself
among the first. Even at the dinner-table he permitted himself the
indulgence of a vast quantity of Spanish snuff, which he generally
shared with his neighbors, distributing a large portion on their
plates, which rather spoiled the pleasure of those who had the good
fortune to be seated next to him, as it once happened to me at Madame
du Roure's. While singing the praises of his beautiful villa at
Monte-Fiascone, he frequently drew from his pocket an enormous
snuff-box, the contents of which were most liberally showered down
upon the company placed near him, and, between two pinches, he
informed us that he had formerly the pretension of taking the very
best snuff in France. He prepared it with his own hands, and spared
no pains in the important proceeding. When he emigrated to Rome he
carried with him two jars of the precious mixture. The future destiny
of the Abbe Maury was dependent on the pope, and he was a great
snuff-taker! "I presented myself several times (I quote his own
expressions) before his holiness, and took great care never to omit
displaying my snuff-box, which I opened and shut several times during
the interview, making as loud a noise as possible. This was all I
dared do,--respect forbade me making any advances toward his holiness
by offering directly a taste of the mixture of which I was so justly
proud. At length my perseverance met with its reward. One day I
managed skillfully to push the snuff-box beneath his hand, and, in the
heat of argument, he opened it mechanically, and took a pinch of snuff
therefrom. It was an awful moment, as you may imagine. I observed him
with the greatest attention, and immediately remarked the expression
of satisfaction and surprise which overspread his features as he
stretched forth his fingers to take another pinch. "_Donde vi viene
questo maraviglioso tobacco?_" I told him that I alone possessed the
mixture, and that I had only two jars left, or rather that I had no
more, as, of course, they now belonged to his holiness. I am inclined
to believe that this present was agreeable to him, as it was useful to
me." After the story the cardinal boasted to us of the extraordinary
frankness of his character. He had shown more of this than he had
intended in the tale he had been telling.

--Souvenirs de France et d'Italie dans les Annees 1830, 1831 et 1832.

* * * * *

The _Deutsche Reform_ publishes as a curiosity a selection, though an
imperfect one, from the catalogue of the flying leaves and small cheap
journals, political and satirical, that sprung into existence after
the revolution, mostly in Berlin and Vienna; not more than three or
four of them now exist. The insect world was a favorite source of
names for the satirist, the sting of whose production was frequently
only in the title: every week produced the _Hornet_, the _Wasp_, the
_Gadfly_, and their plurals, the _Wasps_ and the _Gadflies_; there
was also an _Imperial Gadfly_, and one _Wasp's Nest_. The necessity
of enlightenment exhausted the means of doing it through the _Torch_,
the _Taper_, the _Jet of Gas_, the _Lamp_, the _Everburning Lamp_ (the
last flickers still at uncertain intervals, the extinguisher of the
Berlin police coming down on it whenever it appears), the _Lantern_
and the _White Lamp_, the _Snuffers_ followed the list of lights, and
the whole category concluded in an _Egyptian Darkness_, to which most
of them have descended. The other titles are not so well classified:
there was a _Democratic Reasoner_, a _Shrieker_ (or _Shouter_), and
the _Berlin Widemouth_, the _Barricade Journal_, the _Street Journal_,
the _Cat's Music_, the _Red Cap_, the _Sansculottes_ (_Ohne-Hosen_),
the _Tower of Fools_, are miscellaneous: there was a variety of
devils--the _Travelling Devil_, the _Devil Untied_, the _Church
Devil_, the _Revolutionary Devil_. Some of the titles were cant words,
quite untranslatable, as _Kladderadatsch_ (the Berlin _Punch_, still
existing), the _Klitsch-Klatsch_, and the _Pumpernickel_ (a kind of
black bread); the three last were--_The Prussians Have Come_, the
_General Wash_, and the _Political Ass_. In the provincial towns
all the flying leaves were something for the people--_Volks-boten,
Volks-freunde, Volks-zeitung_--in a list that would be too long to

* * * * *

TRUE PROGRESS.--The civilization of antiquity was the advancement
of the few and the slavery of the many--in Greece 30,000 freemen and
300,000 slaves--and it passed away. True civilization must be measured
by the progress, not of a class or nation, but of all men. God admits
none to advance alone. Individuals in advance become martyrs--nations
in advance the prey of the barbarian. Only as one family of man can
we progress. But man must exist as an animal before he can exist as a
man: his physical requirements must be satisfied before those of mind;
and hitherto it has taken the whole time and energies of the many to
provide for their physical wants. Such wants have spread mankind over
the whole globe--the brute and the savage have disappeared before the
superior race--the black blood of the torrid zone has been mixed with
the white of the temperate, and a superior race, capable of living
and laboring under a zenith sun, has been formed, and we seem to be
preparing for a united movement onward. The elements have been pressed
into our service, the powers of steam and electricity would appear
boundless, and science has given man an almost unlimited control over
nature. The trammels which despotisms have hitherto imposed on body
and mind have been thrown off, and constitutional liberty has rapidly
and widely spread. The steamship and railway, and mutual interests in
trade and commerce, have united nation to nation, and the press has
given one mind and simultaneous thoughts to the whole community. Power
there is in plenty for the emancipation of the whole race; since the
steam engine and machinery may be to the working-classes what they
have hitherto been to those classes above them. All that is wanted
is to know how to use these forces for the general good. The powers
of production are inexhaustible; we have but to _organize them_, and
justly to distribute the produce.--_Charles Bray_.

* * * * *

COFFEE AND THE SAVANS.--In a letter from Paris it is said: "Some of
our eminent scientific men are again squabbling on the vexed question
as to whether coffee does or does not afford nourishment. One of them
has laid down what seems a paradox, viz., that coffee contains fewer
nutritive properties than the ordinary food of man, and yet that the
man who makes it his principal food is stronger than one who feeds
on meat and wine. In support of this paradox, our _savant_ calls the
example of the miners of the coal-pits of Charleroi, who never eat
meat except a very small quantity on Sundays, and whose daily meals
consist exclusively of bread and butter and coffee. These men, he
says, are strong, muscular, and able to do, and actually perform, more
hard work than the miners of the coal-pits of Onzin, in France, who
feed largely on the more nutritive articles, meat and vegetables, and
drink wine or beer. Another _savant_, taking nearly the same views,
insists that the Arabs are able to live moderately, and to make long
abstinences, as they do, entirely on account of their extensive use
of coffee. But this last assertion is demolished, by the declaration
of M. d'Abbadie, who has just returned from Abyssinia, that certain
tribes of Arabs and Abyssinians who do _not_ use coffee can
support greater fatigue than those who do. In presence of such very
contradictory facts, who shall say which of the learned doctors is in
the right?"

* * * * *

A CURIOUS TRIO.--Mr. Dallas, when Secretary of the Treasury, says
Mr. Paulding, told me the following story, which he had from Mr.
Breck:--When the Duc de Liancourt was in Philadelphia, sometime after
the execution of Louis the Sixteenth, Mr. Breck called to see him
at his lodgings, in Strawberry-alley. Knocking at the door of a mean
looking house, a little ragged girl came out, who, on being asked for
the Duke, pointed to a door, which Mr. B. entered. At a little deal
table he found Cobbett, teaching the Duke and Monsieur Talleyrand

* * * * *

BAD COOKERY A CAUSE OF DRUNKENKESS.--To what are we to ascribe the
prevalence of this detestable vice amongst us! Many causes might be
plausibly assigned for it, and one of them is our execrable cookery.
The demon of drunkenness inhabits the stomach. From that "vasty deep"
it calls for its appropriate offerings. But the demon may be appeased
by other agents than alcohol. A well-cooked, warmed, nutritious meal
allays the craving quite as effectually as a dram; but cold, crude,
indigestible viands, not only do not afford the required _solatium_ to
the rebellious organ, but they aggravate the evil, and add intensity
to the morbid avidity for stimulants. It is remarked that certain
classes are particularly obnoxious to drunkenness, such as sailors,
carriers, coachmen, and other wandering tribes whose ventral
insurrections are not periodically quelled by regular and comfortable
meals. Country doctors, for the same reason, not unfrequently manifest
a stronger predilection for their employers' bottles than their
patients do for theirs. In the absence of innocuous and benign
appliances, the deleterious are had recourse to exorcise the fiend
that is raging within them. These views are explicable by the laws
of physiology, but this is not the place for such disquisitions. One
reason why the temperance movement has been arrested in this country
is, that while one sensual gratification was withdrawn, another was
not provided. The intellectual excitements which were offered as a
substitute have not been found to answer the desired purpose. Our
temperance coffee-houses are singularly deficient in gastronomical
attractions; and the copious decoctions of coffee and chicory which
are there served up, with that nauseous accompaniment, buttered toast,
are more calculated to create a craving for stimulants than allay
it. The lower classes of Scotland are as deficient in knowledge of
cookery as the natives of the Sandwich Islands; and if our apostles of
temperance would employ a few clever cooks to go through the country
and teach the wives and daughters of the workingmen to dress meat
and vegetables, and make soups, and cheap and palatable farinaceous
messes, they would do more in one year to advance their cause, than
in twenty by means of long winded moral orations, graced with all
the flowers of oratory.--_Wilson on the Social Condition of France as
compared with that of England_.

* * * * *

THE MONKEY AND THE WATCH.--A distinguished lord, going from home, left
his watch hanging beside his bed. A tame monkey, who was in the habit
of imitating the actions of his master, took the watch, and with the
aid of a band, fastened it to his side. A moment afterward he drew
it forth and wound it. Then he looked at it, and said, "This goes too
fast." He opened it, put back the hand, and again adjusted it to his
side. A few moments passed, and he took it in his hand once more.
"Oh!" said the imitator, "now it goes too slow. What a trouble it is!
How can it be remedied?" He winds it again with the regulator; then
closes it, and applies it gracefully to the ear. "This movement is
wrong, still;" and he wound it with the key in another way. Then
bent to listen to it. "It does not go well, yet." He opened the case;
looked and examined every part; touched this wheel, stopped that,
moved another; in short, injured it so much by altering and shaking
it in his hand, that it at length ceased all motion. Guard us, O
propitious Heaven! from quacks that perform amongst men, as did the
monkey with the unfortunate watch.--_From the Italian_.

* * * * *

A SYRIAN CHRISTIAN AND PHILOSOPHER.--When supper was brought in Amu
Lyas, or Uncle Lyas, as Iskender always respectfully called him,
said a grace of twenty minutes before he sat down, and one of equal
duration after he got up. He was perpetually counting his beads and
uttering devout sayings--which partly accounted for his influence with
the priests. He and I agreed very well at the beginning, although in
our very first conversation he forced on a religious discussion, and
plainly told me to what place all heretics were irrevocably doomed.
On this and other occasions he strictly maintained that the earth is
stationary, that it is surrounded by the sea, that the moon rises and
sets, and that the stars are no bigger than they seem; and turned pale
with indignation at any contrary statements, which he asserted to be
direct attacks on the foundation of the Christian religion. Further
experience taught me that he was a very fair representative of
public opinion among a large class of Syrian Christians. He was an
ardent desirer of French domination, and entertained the most stupid
prejudices against the English. I generally found that the Levantines
preferred the French, whilst we are great favorites with the
Arabs.--_Two Years in a Levantine Family_.

* * * * *

THE BRITISH HIERARCHY.--The Eternal Anarch, with his old waggling
addle-head full of mere windy rumor, and his old insatiable paunch
full of mere hunger and indigestion tragically blended, and the
hissing discord of all the Four Elements persuasively pleading to
him;--he, set to choose, would be very apt to vote for such a set of
demigods to you.--_Carlyle's Latter-Day Pamphlets_.

* * * * *


Whither, oh, whither, now all things are over?
We to our journey and he to his home;
Eyes cannot pierce through the vail that must cover
Him whom we laid in the still silent tomb.
He hath but ended his journey before us,
We for a season are sojourning still
On the same earth with the same heaven o'er us,--
Turn we, oh, turn we, our tasks to fulfill!
Whither, oh, whither, now all things are ended?
We to our labor and he to his rest;
Let not the heart by its woe be offended,
Man seeks the pleasant, but God gives the best.

* * * * *



Antoine de Chaulieu was the son of a poor gentleman of Normandy,
with a long genealogy, a short rent-roll, and a large family. Jacques
Rollet was the son of a brewer, who did not know who his grandfather
was; but he had a long purse and only two children. As these youths
flourished in the early days of liberty, equality, and fraternity,
and were near neighbors, they naturally hated each other. Their enmity
commenced at school, where the delicate and refined De Chaulieu being
the only gentilhomme amongst the scholars, was the favorite of the
master (who was a bit of an aristocrat in his heart), although he was
about the worst dressed boy in the establishment, and never had a sou
to spend; whilst Jacques Rollet, sturdy and rough, with smart clothes
and plenty of money, got flogged six days in the week, ostensibly
for being stupid and not learning his lessons--which, indeed, he did
not, but, in reality, for constantly quarreling with and insulting De
Chaulieu, who had not strength to cope with him. When they left the
academy, the feud continued in all its vigor, and was fostered by a
thousand little circumstances arising out of the state of the times,
till a separation ensued in consequence of an aunt of Antoine de
Chaulieu's undertaking the expense of sending him to Paris to study
the law, and of maintaining him there during the necessary period.

With the progress of events came some degree of reaction in favor
of birth and nobility, and then Antoine, who had passed for the bar,
began to hold up his head and endeavored to push his fortunes; but
fate seemed against him. He felt certain that if he possessed any gift
in the world it was that of eloquence, but he could get no cause to
plead; and his aunt dying inopportunely, first his resources failed,
and then his health. He had no sooner returned to his home, than,
to complicate his difficulties completely, he fell in love with
Mademoiselle Natalie de Bellefonds, who had just returned from Paris,
where she had been completing her education. To expatiate on the
perfections of Mademoiselle Natalie, would be a waste of ink and
paper: it is sufficient to say that she really was a very charming
girl, with a fortune which, though not large, would have been a most
desirable acquisition to de Chaulieu, who had nothing. Neither was
the fair Natalie indisposed to listen to his addresses, but her father
could not be expected to countenance the suit of a gentleman, however
well-born, who had not a ten-sous piece in the world, and whose
prospects were a blank.

Whilst the ambitious and love-sick young barrister was thus pining in
unwelcome obscurity, his old acquaintance, Jacques Rollet, had been
acquiring an undesirable notoriety. There was nothing really bad
in Jacques' disposition, but having been bred up a democrat, with
a hatred of the nobility, he could not easily accommodate his rough
humor to treat them with civility when it was no longer safe to insult
them. The liberties he allowed himself whenever circumstances brought
him into contact with the higher classes of society, had led him into
many scrapes, out of which his father's money had one way or another
released him; but that source of safety had now failed. Old Rollet
having been too busy with the affairs of the nation to attend to his
business, had died insolvent, leaving his son with nothing but his
own wits to help him out of future difficulties, and it was not long
before their exercise was called for. Claudine Rollet, his sister, who
was a very pretty girl, had attracted the attention of Mademoiselle de
Bellefonds' brother, Alphonso; and as he paid her more attention than
from such a quarter was agreeable to Jacques, the young men had had
more than one quarrel on the subject, on which occasions they had
each, characteristically, given vent to their enmity, the one in
contemptuous monosyllables, and the other in a volley of insulting
words. But Claudine had another lover more nearly of her own condition
of life; this was Claperon, the deputy governor of Rouen jail, with
whom she had made acquaintance during one or two compulsory visits
paid by her brother to that functionary; but Claudine, who was a bit
of a coquette, though she did not altogether reject his suit, gave him
little encouragement, so that betwixt hopes, and fears, and doubts,
and jealousies, pour Claperon led a very uneasy kind of life.

Affairs had been for some time in this position, when, one fine
morning, Alphonse de Bellefonds was not to be found in his chamber
when his servant went to call him; neither had his bed been slept in.
He had been observed to go out rather late on the preceding evening,
but whether or not he had returned, nobody could tell. He had not
appeared at supper, but that was too ordinary an event to awaken
suspicion; and little alarm was excited till several hours had
elapsed, when inquiries were instituted and a search commenced, which
terminated in the discovery of his body, a good deal mangled, lying
at the bottom of a pond which had belonged to the old brewery. Before
any investigations had been made, every person had jumped to the
conclusion that the young man had been murdered, and that Jacques
Rollet was the assassin. There was a strong presumption in favor of
that opinion, which further perquisitions tended to confirm. Only the
day before, Jacques had been heard to threaten Mons. de Bellefonds
with speedy vengeance. On the fatal evening, Alphonse and Claudine had
been seen together in the neighborhood of the now dismantled brewery;
and as Jacques, betwixt poverty and democracy, was in bad odor with
the prudent and respectable part of society, it was not easy for him
to bring witnesses to character, or prove an unexceptionable alibi. As
for the Bellefonds and De Chaulieus, and the aristocracy in general,
they entertained no doubt of his guilt; and finally, the magistrates
coming to the same opinion, Jacques Rollet was committed for trial,
and as a testimony of good will, Antoine de Chaulieu was selected by
the injured family to conduct the prosecution.

Here, at last, was the opportunity he had sighed for! So interesting
a case, too, furnishing such ample occasion for passion, pathos,
indignation! And how eminently fortunate that the speech which he set
himself with ardor to prepare, would be delivered in the presence
of the father and brother of his mistress, and perhaps of the lady
herself! The evidence against Jacques, it is true, was altogether
presumptive; there was no proof whatever that he had committed the
crime; and for his own part he stoutly denied it. But Antoine de
Chaulieu entertained no doubt of his guilt, and his speech was
certainly well calculated to carry that conviction into the bosom of
others. It was of the highest importance to his own reputation that he
should procure a verdict, and he confidently assured the afflicted and
enraged family of the victim that their vengeance should be satisfied.
Under these circumstances could anything be more unwelcome than a
piece of intelligence that was privately conveyed to him late on the
evening before the trial was to come on, which tended strongly to
exculpate the prisoner, without indicating any other person as the
criminal. Here was an opportunity lost. The first step of the ladder
on which he was to rise to fame, fortune, and a wife, was slipping
from under his feet!

Of course, so interesting a trial was anticipated with great eagerness
by the public, and the court was crowded with all the beauty and
fashion of Rouen. Though Jacques Rollet persisted in asserting his
innocence, founding his defense chiefly on circumstances which were
strongly corroborated by the information that had reached De Chaulieu
the preceding evening,--he was convicted.

In spite of the very strong doubts he privately entertained respecting
the justice of the verdict, even De Chaulieu himself, in the first
flush of success, amidst a crowd of congratulating friends, and the
approving smiles of his mistress, felt gratified and happy; his speech
had, for the time being, not only convinced others, but himself;
warmed with his own eloquence, he believed what he said. But when
the glow was over, and he found himself alone, he did not feel so
comfortable. A latent doubt of Rollet's guilt now burnt strongly in
his mind, and he felt that the blood of the innocent would be on his
head. It is true there was yet time to save the life of the prisoner,
but to admit Jacques innocent, was to take the glory out of his own
speech, and turn the sting of his argument against himself. Besides,
if he produced the witness who had secretly given him the information,
he should be self-condemned, for he could not conceal that he had been
aware of the circumstance before the trial.

Matters having gone so far, therefore, it was necessary that Jacques
Rollet should die; so the affair took its course; and early one
morning the guillotine was erected in the court-yard of the jail,
three criminals ascended the scaffold, and three heads fell into the
basket, which were presently afterward, with the trunks that had been
attached to them, buried in a corner of the cemetery.

Antoine de Chaulieu was now fairly started in his career, and his
success was as rapid as the first step toward it had been tardy. He
took a pretty apartment in the Hotel Marboeuf, Rue Grange-Bateliere,
and in a short time was looked upon as one of the most rising young
advocates in Paris. His success in one line brought him success in
another; he was soon a favorite in society, and an object of interest
to speculating mothers; but his affections still adhered to his old
love Natalie de Bellefonds, whose family now gave their assent to the
match--at least, prospectively--a circumstance which furnished such
an additional incentive to his exertions, that in about two years
from the date of his first brilliant speech, he was in a sufficiently
flourishing condition to offer the young lady a suitable home. In
anticipation of the happy event, he engaged and furnished a suite
of apartments in the Rue du Helder; and as it was necessary that the
bride should come to Paris to provide her trousseau, it was agreed
that the wedding should take place there, instead of at Bellefonds,
as had been first projected; an arrangement the more desirable, that
a press of business rendered Mons. de Chaulieu's absence from Paris

Brides and bridegrooms in France, except of the very high classes,
are not much in the habit of making those honeymoon excursions so
universal in this country. A day spent in visiting Versailles or St.
Cloud, or even the public places of the city, is generally all that
precedes the settling down into the habits of daily life. In the
present instance St. Denis was selected, from the circumstance of
Natalie's having a younger sister at school there; and also because
she had a particular desire to see the Abbey.

The wedding was to take place on a Thursday; and on the Wednesday
evening, having spent some hours most agreeably with Natalie,
Antoine de Chaulieu returned to spend his last night in his bachelor
apartments. His wardrobe and other small possessions, had already been
packed up and sent to his future home; and there was nothing left
in his room now, but his new wedding suit, which he inspected with
considerable satisfaction before he undressed and lay down to sleep.
Sleep, however, was somewhat slow to visit him; and the clock had
struck one, before he closed his eyes. When he opened them again,
it was broad daylight; and his first thought was, had he overslept
himself! He sat up in bed to look at the clock which was exactly
opposite, and as he did so, in the large mirror over the fireplace,
he perceived a figure standing behind him. As the dilated eyes met his
own, he saw it was the face of Jacques Rollet. Overcome with horror he
sunk back on his pillow, and it was some minutes before he ventured
to look again in that direction; when he did so, the figure had

The sudden revulsion of feeling such a vision was calculated to
occasion in a man elate with joy, may be conceived! For some time
after the death of his former foe, he had been visited by not
unfrequent twinges of conscience; but of late, borne along by success,
and the hurry of Parisian life, these unpleasant remembrances had
grown rarer, till at length they had faded away altogether. Nothing
had been further from his thoughts than Jacques Rollet, when he closed
his eyes on the preceding night, nor when he opened them to that sun
which was to shine on what he expected to be the happiest day of his
life! Where were the high-strung nerves now! The elastic frame! The
bounding heart!

Heavily and slowly he arose from his bed, for it was time to do so;
and with a trembling hand and quivering knees, he went through
the processes of the toilet, gashing his cheek with the razor, and
spilling the water over his well polished boots. When he was dressed,
scarcely venturing to cast a glance in the mirror as he passed it,
he quitted the room and descended the stairs, taking the key of the
door with him for the purpose of leaving it with the porter; the man,
however, being absent, he laid it on the table in his lodge, and with
a relaxed and languid step proceeded on his way to the church, where
presently arrived the fair Natalie and her friends. How difficult it
was now to look happy, with that pallid face and extinguished eye!

"How pale you are! Has anything happened? You are surely ill?" were
the exclamations that met him on all sides. He tried to carry it off
as well as he could, but felt that the movements he would have wished
to appear alert were only convulsive; and that the smiles with which
he attempted to relax his features, were but distorted grimaces.
However, the church was not the place for further inquiries; and while
Natalie gently pressed his hand in token of sympathy, they advanced
to the altar, and the ceremony was performed; after which they stepped
into the carriages waiting at the door, and drove to the apartments of
Madme. de Bellefonds, where an elegant _dejeuner_ was prepared.

"What ails you, my dear husband?" inquired Natalie, as soon as they
were alone.

"Nothing, love," he replied; "nothing. I assure you, but a restless
night and a little overwork, in order that I might have to-day free to
enjoy my happiness!"

"Are you quite sure? Is there nothing else?"

"Nothing, indeed; and pray don't take notice of it, it only makes me

Natalie was not deceived, but she saw that what he said was true;
notice made him worse; so she contented herself with observing him
quietly, and saying nothing; but, as he _felt_ she was observing him,
she might almost better have spoken; words are often less embarrassing
things than too curious eyes.

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