Of course Marjory gave him an outline of her evening’s adventure “upon this hint,” and he laughed heartily at the whole thing, assuring her that _he_ had never believed for a moment in such an absurd possibility as she had fancied.
Well, what of it all? Nothing particular. Mr. Owen and John are fast friends by this time. Marjory is beginning to take an interest in natural history. Also, she has lost all faith in conviction upon circumstantial evidence. She is “o’er young to marry yet,” her aunt thinks, and so do I of course, for this is not a love-story: I wish that to be distinctly understood.
MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.
THE MYSTERY OF MASSABIELLE.
It was a mild and pleasant day in the middle of February, and the bright sunlight streamed through the windows of the poor little room where Madame Soubirons sat alone. The table, with its dishes neatly arranged for the noonday meal, stood in the middle of the room. A pot hung in the large fireplace, and a skillet sat upon the few remaining coals. There was nothing with which to replenish the fire, and Madame Soubirons sat gazing at the flickering embers with a rueful face. “A cold hearth is more chilling than the mountains,” she said; and she rose and went out of the poor little apartment, which, with all its poverty, would not have been cheerless had a bright fire glowed upon the neatly-kept hearth, and sat down upon the doorstep, where the sunlight fell warmly.
From this position was afforded a view of a picturesque and romantic landscape, presenting in the foreground a portion of the quaint village of Lourdes, with the cross of the old church brightly gleaming in the sunlight above the thickly-clustered cottage roofs. Farther away stood the great mill, and grimly from its rocky seat frowned the ancient castle, of which the people of Lourdes never wearied of telling that it had been besieged by Charlemagne centuries ago. In the distance glanced the river Gave, fighting its rock-riven way to the sea. The prospect, growing continually more grand as it receded, was finally hedged about by the majestic Pyrenees, which lifted their glimmering snows against the pale winter sky.
But Madame Soubirons was familiar with these scenes, and had no eyes for them. She sat leaning her cheek upon her hand, and as she glanced down the crooked walk she murmured, “They have had time to get back, if they hurried as I charged them.” Presently a cheery whistle rang out upon the air, and looking up she saw a man in miller’s dress approaching. It was Jean Soubirons, her husband, coming home to dinner. She waited until he arrived, and they then went into the house together.
“Can you eat a cold dinner to-day, Jean?” she asked. “I have only bread and milk to give you.”
“Yes, with thanks, Louise,” he replied; “but where are Bernadette and Marie?”
“They went with Jeanne Abadie to gather fagots, but they should have been back long since. You might then have had a warm dinner.”
“All is well if they come to no harm, but it is somewhat chilly for our Bernadette.”
“I gave her a pair of stockings to wear. She can’t go like Marie, poor child! who can hardly endure her sabots, even in winter. But I do not see what detains them.”
They sat down and ate in silence, the two vacant places seeming to fill them with a feeling of desolation.
“I am sorry,” said Jean Soubirons as he rose from the table, “that I am so poor a man that my little girls must bring the wood for the pot.”
“Perhaps we shall be richer some day, Jean,” said Louise, as if she had hope.
“Perhaps so–in heaven,” said he sadly, “where there are no poor;” and he went back to his work.
Meantime the three girls had been wandering. Of the two sisters, Marie was rosy and strong, but Bernadette pale and delicate, being afflicted with asthma. Bernadette appeared to be only ten years old, but was fourteen. Previous to this time almost all her life had been passed away from home, she having lived at Bastres with a friend of her mother, where she had been provided with a home for the small sum of five francs a month and her service in tending the sheep: she was not strong enough for more laborious work. Here Bernadette lived a calm and uneventful life, her duties causing her to be much in solitude, which she whiled away in petting her lambs. Very often the time had been set when she was to return home, but it was as often postponed. Her friends at Bastres could not bear to give her up, and year after year she had lingered with them. She had been at home only two weeks upon that day when she went with Jeanne and Marie to gather sticks.
The three girls, dressed in their black woolen frocks, white capulets and wooden shoes–Bernadette alone having stockings, in consideration of her health–trudged on, enjoying the pure air. They crossed the bridge of the Gave, passed the mill and went on through the meadow, turning their steps toward the grotto of Massabielle, which was not far distant. There are, properly speaking, several grottoes in the rocks of Massabielle, which consist of numerous excavations formed by Nature in the great crags. One of these, however, is usually referred to as “The Grotto,” and is a cavern of quite extensive dimensions, being about thirteen feet high by fifty wide. There are two other excavations in the rock above this cavern, one of which rudely resembles the broken window of a ruined church–suggesting that idea the more forcibly perhaps from the fact that it admits light into the lower cavern.
Before reaching the entrance of the grotto, however, there was a small stream to be crossed. There was no bridge, but this was only a slight hindrance to Jeanne and Marie, who took off their shoes, and, springing from stone to stone, were soon over. They were in advance of Bernadette, who stopped frequently to cough, and when she came up to the stream they were putting on their wooden shoes.
“How cold the water is!” she heard one say, and she hesitated to step into the cold stream. Jeanne saw her pausing upon the brink, and called out, “Cross as we did: give long leaps and come over.” She called to them then to throw stones in for her to step upon, but they were busily engaged piling up sticks, and paid no attention to her, so she began to pull off her shoes and stockings. When she bent down she heard a great rushing sound, as of the water and the wind. It seemed as if a great storm were breaking, but when she looked up all was calm. The leaves scarcely stirred in the breeze, and the trails of ivy that hung over the rocky windows of the grotto swayed gently to and fro. So she proceeded to pull off her stockings unalarmed. After a few seconds the noise increased, and when Bernadette again looked up she saw a beautiful vision standing in the window or upper entrance of the grotto, which was filled with the lustre of its halo. The apparition was dressed in pure white, and bore a chaplet upon its arm, and had no resemblance to Bernadette’s ideal of the Virgin. The child was filled with awe, but felt no fear, and reverently kneeling she continued to gaze at the vision, which smiled upon her and made the sign of the cross. Bernadette did likewise. The appearance then vanished, and for some time Bernadette remained spell-bound and still kneeling and gazing abstractedly into the grotto, from which the luminous quality had faded. After a short time she recovered from her transport, and looking around her found the appearance of nothing changed. The stream rushed on, the trees were the same, and in the hollow of the grotto the wild brier grew in its accustomed place, and the clinging moss and the ivy trails were unchanged.
Bernadette made her way across the stream as quickly as she could, and hastening onward soon overtook Marie and Jeanne, who looked up in surprise at her haste. When she had reached them their surprise deepened into wonder as they observed the emotion depicted in her face.
“Have you seen nothing?” inquired Bernadette, her eyes all aglow with excitement.
“No: what is it?” said Marie.
“It is something strange,” said Bernadette.
“It could not have been stranger than you look now, with your staring eyes and your flying hair,” said Jeanne.
“What have you seen, Bernadette?” asked Marie.
“Some one in white, bright and gleaming,” said Bernadette.
“What did it do? Describe it,” exclaimed Jeanne.
“I cannot describe it. If you haven’t seen it, I can’t tell you what it was like,” she said.
The two other girls were frightened. “Will it hurt us?” asked Marie.
“I am afraid of such things,” said Jeanne: “let us hurry home as fast as we can.”
Bernadette was not afraid, but, habitually passive, she hurried with them without protest. When they arrived at home she told her mother her experience, and Madame Soubirons, being incredulous, attempted to convince Bernadette that her vision was only a creature of her fancy; but with no avail. The child was silenced, but not convinced. Madame Soubirons said she would not allow her daughter to go to the grotto any more, as it filled her with such ideas; and she expected to hear no more about the matter. But the next day Bernadette talked incessantly of her “Dame,” and on the following day, when some one inquired what her vision was like, she replied that she had seen such a face at church; and on the third day, which was Sunday, she prevailed upon her mother to allow her to go to the grotto again.
Marie and Jeanne accompanied her as before. Having arrived at the grotto, Bernadette knelt before the aperture: Marie and Jeanne followed her example, and when they turned to look at her they were amazed at her appearance. She seemed to be transfigured. Her face was radiant. With her eyes fixed, her lips partly open and her hands clasped, she appeared to listen with the greatest attention. Her companions were frightened by her strange behavior, and implored her to rise and go home with them.
“Bernadette, get up! Come: we are afraid of you when you look so strange.”
She seemed to hear them no more than if she had been a statue, and for a few moments the group remained silent and motionless. There was no sound except the swirling of the stream and the rustling of the leaves, and to Marie and Jeanne the very silence seemed to be a spell of enchantment. Presently the rapturous light died out of the face of Bernadette, and she appeared as usual, much to the relief of the others.
Upon their arrival at home the same story was told by Bernadette as before, and again it was disbelieved. No restriction was placed upon her going to the grotto, however, and she continued to visit it, when her vision arose before her again and again. In course of time the singular event became much talked about, especially among the peasantry of that vicinity, who believed implicitly that the Virgin Mary appeared to the child.
People began to accompany Bernadette upon her visits to the grotto, and the number and interest of her observers daily increased. Many who were entirely skeptical went for the purpose of gratifying their curiosity. Among this class were Madame Millet and Mademoiselle Antoinette Peyret, who accompanied the little girl one day with the intention of questioning her after they had studied her conduct. On this occasion she excited their suspicions by leading them by an unaccustomed route down a steep and rocky path, where they had great difficulty in following her. They finally arrived at the grotto, and were astounded to observe the change that came over her. She seemed to be in a state of ecstatic awe.
The ladies were so solemnly impressed by her appearance that they felt deep regret for having intruded upon so reverent a scene.
“It is a profanation for us to be here,” said one.
“You must remain,” said Bernadette immediately, as if she had been directed to stop them.
“Ask who she is,” exclaimed Madame Millet, greatly excited. “Here, take this card and pencil, and beg of her that she will write down her wishes.”
Bernadette took them, and the ladies heard her repeat the request as she approached the excavation and the divine radiance lighted up her face. She paused, and for several moments remained in an apparent state of rapture: then she returned to them, and in reply to their inquiries said that her “Dame” had said that she saw no necessity to write her wishes, for she knew Bernadette would obey.
“Obey what?” asked Mademoiselle Peyret. “What did she command you to do?”
“To come to meet her at the grotto every day for fifteen days.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why.”
“But did she not say anything more?”
“Yes, madame.”
“What?”
“She promised that if I did so I should be happy in a future world.”
Madame Millet and Mademoiselle Peyret went home mystified. The story of their futile attempt to discover deception in Bernadette got abroad, “and still the wonder grew.” The interest in the visions intensified, and vast crowds, numbered not by tens, but by hundreds, assembled to watch Bernadette during the appointed fifteen days. The entire population of Lourdes appeared to be included in the crowd. The presence of this observing multitude exerted no influence whatever upon Bernadette, who passed among them as they made way for her without looking to the right or to the left, as if she had too great thoughts on her mind to give any heed to the people. Day after day she repeated her visits, kneeling in her accustomed place and giving herself up to a state of ecstasy.
About this time, so great had become the popular excitement over the child, the attention of the authorities was attracted by it. Accordingly, M. Massy, prefect of the commune, and M. Jacomet, commissaire de police, conferred together, and decided to arrest Bernadette as an impostor. It was on the 11th of February, 1858, when the girl had her first vision, and about ten days thereafter, in the presence of a great crowd, a police-officer approached her, and laying his hand upon her shoulder took her to the commissaire for examination.
Imagine this simple and artless child boldly confronting the commissaire, who must have been, in her eyes, a person of high dignity! M. Jacomet plied her with questions and cross-questions, and used all his power to implicate her in some inconsistency or contradiction; but his efforts were futile, and he was obliged to confess that he could not make out any case against the child, whom he allowed to go home. Still, his dignity required some show of authority; so he commanded Jean Soubirons that he should not permit Bernadette to go to the grotto of Massabielle, under penalty of imprisonment. Then he wrote to M. Rouland, minister of public instruction, for advice.
Soubirons kept his daughter at home for a day or two: then, observing her to grieve under the restraint, decided to risk the wrath of M. Jacomet, and allowed her to go where she wished. The people upheld Soubirons, and the crowds at the grotto assembled again. It was then proposed by some to consult Peyramale, the cure, who was known to discredit the stories of Bernadette, and it was thought might disabuse her mind of its illusions or detect her imposture, as the case might be; but Peyramale would not make any efforts in that direction. However, Bernadette, of her own accord, came to him one day, saying she wished to speak to him.
“Are you the daughter of the miller Soubirons?” asked Peyramale.
“Yes, monsieur le cure,” she said.
“What is it you wish?”
“I came to say that the Lady who appears to me in the grotto of Massabielle–”
“Hush, child!” interrupted Peyramale. “Do not repeat this foolish tale to me. You have stirred the whole country round with the story of your vision, but do not bring such tales to me. What do you mean by this? I tell you, child, the Virgin sees you now, and if you practice imposture the door of heaven will be for ever shut against you.”
Bernadette was in no wise disturbed, and resumed her narrative without faltering.
“What, then, is the name of your vision?” asked Peyramale when she had told him the story of her experience.
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“Was it the Virgin?”
“I do not say that it was the Virgin,” said Bernadette, “but I know that I see her as plainly as I see you now, and she speaks to me distinctly; and she commanded me to say to you that she wishes a church to be built on the rock of Massabielle.”
Peyramale was astonished at the strange language and the firmness of the child, and replied: “Your story, Bernadette, is beyond reason: still, your manner is honest. Do not give yourself up, I pray you, to an illusion of your mind. You have some fancy, it may be, that deceives you. The Virgin could command me as well as yourself. You say there is a brier growing in the grotto: if your vision wants me to build a church on the cliff, tell her she must first cause that brier to bring forth roses in this winter season.”
Having received this reply, Bernadette withdrew. When she next saw her vision she delivered the message of Peyramale, but it was not regarded. The apparition commanded her to go as far as she could on her hands and knees, and when Bernadette had done so, to the great wonder of her observers she was commanded to drink. She rose, and was about to go to the stream, when the vision called her back and told her to drink of the fountain, not of the stream. Now, there was no fountain, but Bernadette instinctively dug a small hole in the earth with her hands, and a very small stream of water flowed forth from the earth and filled it. She dipped some up with her hands and drank. This little stream continued to flow, and increased in size. On the following day it was many times its original size. Travelers are to this day shown the stream near the grotto of Massabielle, which, it is declared, thus sprang from a miraculous source. Three hundred people are declared to have seen this miracle, and in different regions of France many people may still be found who declare that they were present upon that occasion.
After this, still greater crowds flocked to the grotto of Massabielle, and again the authorities interfered. MM. Massy and Jacomet for a long time waged their war with the people until the emperor telegraphed, ordering that all interference should be stopped. Thus the people were left in peaceful possession of their fountain, and reports of its marvelous cures filled all the papers, and visitors came from far and near, bringing cans and bottles to fill at the wondrous stream.
It will be remembered that Peyramale had demanded that the brier should blossom before a church should be built. In spite of his decision there now stands not far from the grotto a church that has already cost two and a half millions of francs, though not completed, and numerous convents are projected to occupy sites in the vicinity. A statue of the Virgin stands in the grotto where the vision appeared, and on the rock are hung numerous crutches and staffs, which it is claimed were left there by those cripples whom the waters of the spring have healed.
Bernadette became day by day an object of still greater interest–in some cases of reverence. Many offers were made to provide for herself and her family, but they were declined, and both her parents died poor, her mother so late as December 18, 1866. Marie Soubirons and a brother, it is said, still live at Lourdes, but Bernadette became a Sister of Charity, and is now an inmate of the Hospice of Nevers, under the name of Sister Marie Bernard. At this institution she took the veil, and she occupies herself, when health admits, in tending the sick. She lives a life of great seclusion, and is almost utterly ignorant of all that occurs outside the hospice walls. From the letter of a graphic writer I quote as follows: “She is now twenty-five. She is not beautiful in feature, but in expression. Her look has a soft, melting attraction. She is a great sufferer, and is tried by cruel pains in her chest, which she bears very patiently, saying the Virgin told her she should be happy in heaven.”
Early in October, 1872, a cable despatch from Paris appeared in all the dailies, announcing that fifty thousand pilgrims were then journeying through France toward Lourdes. Their object was to assemble at the grotto of Massabielle to pray for the salvation and regeneration of France, so lately desolated by war. A large proportion of the pilgrims came from Paris, where their journey had been inaugurated by services at Notre Dame des Victoires. Indeed, it may be said that their entire journey was one long religious service, for litanies were chanted unceasingly upon the route. The grand service at the grotto took place October 6th, when five bishops conducted mass and vespers at five altars reared among the rocks; and other services were conducted at numerous chapels and shrines among the mountains for miles around by various pilgrim priests. A sermon was delivered to the great host by the bishop of Tarbes, the subject being the disasters of the nation. He closed by exhorting them to patriotism. Raising his arms to the multitude, he asked, “Will you promise to serve and love your country as I mean?”
“Yes! yes! yes!” answered the vast host in thunderous response.
“Will you cry ‘Vive la France!’ as children should who have been nurtured from the breast of a cherishing mother?”
“Vive la France!” resounded from rock and valley.
Then turning toward the statue of the Virgin, the bishop cried, “Vive the Church, the Rock of Ages!” Again the mighty voice of the crowd responded, and with the final cry of “Vive the Holy Father, Pius IX.!” the assemblage broke up.
Probably there were no scenes incidental to the pilgrimage more imposing than its processions, formed in the public square of Lourdes. One of them was a mile long, and the van had entered the meadow before the rear had left the square. It was composed of people of all classes, who sang hymns as with one mighty voice. It bore banners of violet, green, rose, blue and other colors, magnificently decorated with gilding, paintings and embroidery. These banners numbered nearly three hundred, and came from various parts of the country. Even far-off Algeria was represented. The banner of Alsace and Lorraine was in mourning, and was borne by girls in white. As it passed many persons pressed forward to kiss its hanging tassels. The banner from Nantes was so profusedly embellished with gold and other decorations that six strong men labored to support it; and those from Paris, Bordeaux, Rheims, Lille, etc. were not greatly inferior to it in elegance. The sun shone brightly, and with the grandeur of the banners and the pomp of the prelates in their rich sacerdotal robes formed a scene of indescribable splendor.
At the farther end of the meadow or valley an altar had been erected. Here the banners drew up in a vast semicircle enclosing the great audience, and vespers were sung, after which the fifty thousand worshipers knelt and received the benediction, which was pronounced by eight bishops simultaneously. The services before the altar being thus concluded, the bearers of the banners again formed in procession for the purpose of carrying them to the church upon the rock, in which they were to be placed. At this time the sun was sinking behind the blue Pyrenean peaks, and as it threw its last red gleams upon the splendid train that wound in and out along the craggy mountain-path it lighted up a picture of resplendent glory. As fast as the banners arrived at the church they were placed upon its walls, which were soon completely covered with their gorgeous hangings. Owing to the length of the procession, it was after sunset when the last banner had been placed in the church, which, with its brilliant adornments flashing in the blaze of wax tapers, was one grand glow of glittering splendor. After a brief service of thanksgiving the congregation withdrew, and descended the mountain in the light of bonfires that burned upon numerous cliffs.
A spectacle of equal brilliancy, though less pompous, was presented by the grand torchlight procession which formed one evening in the square of Lourdes, where all were provided with candles. Thirty thousand persons were in this procession. They marched to the grotto of Massabielle and to the church upon the rock, moving slowly and singing hymns. As they moved they formed a great stream of glittering light, which rolled on and on and up and up, across the meadow and up the sinuous mountain-path. This impressive display lasted until midnight, when the greater number of the lights had died out and their bearers retired. But a goodly company still remained in the crypt of the church at prayer, in some instances fighting off sleep by marching up and down in companies, chanting night-prayers.
Thus a nation’s ardent worshipers assembled in devotion at the spot sanctified by the visions of Bernadette Soubirons. And what shall we say of her? Her professed visions cannot be set aside as impostures against the voice of thousands whose skepticism, as great as ours, has been abashed. It could not have been in the nature of this artless child, unencouraged and alone, to have been an impostor. Such would have been a role thoroughly foreign to her character. Perhaps there may have been illusion, a self-nourished fancy, evoked from the silent reveries of those solitary days at Bastres, when her mind was for long periods given up to undisturbed imaginings. Who can say?
WILLIAM D. WOOD.
BENEDICTION.
Good-bye, good-bye, my dearest!
My bravest and my fairest!
I bless thee with a blessing meet
For all thy manly worth.
Good-bye, good-bye, my treasure!
My only pride and pleasure!
I bless thee with the strength of love Before I send thee forth.
Mine own! I fear to bless thee,
I hardly dare caress thee,
Because I love thee with a love
That overgrows my life;
And as the time gets longer
Its tender throbs grow stronger:
My maiden troth but waits to be
The fondness of the wife.
Alas! alas! my dearest,
The look of pain thou wearest!
The kisses thou dost bend to give
Are parting ones to-day!
Thy sheltering arms are round me,
But the cruel pain hath found me.
What shall I do with all this love When thou art gone away?
Ah well! One poor endeavor
Shall nerve me while we sever:
I will not fret my hero’s heart
With piteous sobs and tears.
I send thee forth, my dearest,
My truest and my rarest,
And yield thee to the keep of Him
Who blessed our happier years.
Once more good-bye! and bless thee!
My faltering lips caress thee.
When shall I feel thy hand again
Go kindly o’er my hair?
Let the dear arms that fold me
One last sweet moment hold me:
In life or death our love shall be No weaker for the wear!
HOWARD GLYNDON.
A NIGHT IN BEDFORD, VIRGINIA.
“The general has been sending his ambulance”–Bless these ambulances! they are as common in Virginia as hen-nest grass or clumps of sassafras–“to the depot every morning for three or four days for you.”
“The deuce he has! Then why didn’t he let me know by letter, as I asked him to do?”
“Can’t say, really.”
This conversation took place in the main street of the extraordinary city of Lugston–a city so very peculiar that I must give it an entire article some day.
Repairing forthwith to a newspaper office, I wrote to the general how sorry I was that he had been put to so much trouble–I had not received the letter which he must have written–obliged to go home in the morning–hoped at some future time to have the pleasure, etc., etc. Then I went to my lodgings on Federal Hill, and, behold! there was the letter. “Although the ambulance”–ever blessed!–“had been so often to the depot, it would be there on Monday morning, and again on Tuesday evening. Don’t fail to,” etc. Whereupon I called for paper and wrote the general that, in spite of the necessity for my returning home the next day, I would be at Blank Station on Tuesday evening and meet that ambulance–blessed ambulance!–or die in the struggle. Go I would, and go I went–if that is grammar.
A newspaper editor–there is no end of editors in Virginia: wherever there is a tank, a tan-yard or a wood-pile, there you find one–a learned professor who had a flourishing school a few miles up the road (public instruction is playing hob with most of the private schools in Virginia), and a judge on a lecturing-tour (how is a Virginia judge to support his family without lecturing, wood-sawing or other supplementary business?) entertained me most agreeably on my way to the station.
A cadet from Annapolis was the first object that met my eye when I got out.
“‘S death! a Virginian in that hated uniform?”
I said no such thing, felt no such thing, but was inwardly pleased that Uncle Sam’s money (he gets ten millions a year out of Virginia tobacco, and then brags about what he does for our children, the sly old dog!) was educating some of our boys who otherwise might not be educated half so well, if at all. Moreover, the broad shoulders, the trim flanks, the aquiline nose, brown hair and ruddy cheeks of the young fellow recalled the best specimens of British lads whom I had seen in Canada and elsewhere. In truth, I could hardly persuade myself that he was not English.
Albion was in the air, for on the other side of the depot there was a lot of trunks and other baggage, the make of which could not be mistaken. I soon learned that one of the best estates in the neighborhood had been sold to an Englishman, who had arrived that very day.
“Furies! the sacred soil of Virginia _again_ passing into the hands of the blarsted Hinglish, from whom it was wrested a century ago by the blood and treasure of George Washington’s hatchet! A Federal cadet on one side and an Englishman on the other of Blank Depot, away off here in Bedford! What are we coming to?”
I did not say or think this either, but was delighted to find John Bull pervading the Old Dominion.
Another and a bitterer pill, had I been as disloyal as I was five years ago, and ought to be now, awaited me, as you shall hear.
But where is that ambulance? The blessed vehicle was there, and, after so long and painful a separation, we should have met face to face if it had not been backed up to the platform to receive–whom? me? No, a parcel of ladies, who filled every seat. My inflammable Southside soul would have burst into a high blaze at this if a gentleman had not immediately stepped forward with a snug jug of whisky. Whisky in any vessel I love, but whisky in a jug not too big to handle easily I adore. My viznomy relaxed, a beam of joy began to irradiate my features, when to my extreme surprise the benevolent jug-gentleman said, “Take a glass of claret punch”–he had the glass as well as the jug–“won’t you, sir?”
Amazement! claret punch in a jug at a depot in the heart, or at any rate the pericardium, of Bedford county! Where was I? who was I? what was my name? and where was I going to? In my life I was never more nonplussed.
The ambulance drove off, and I was consigned to a spring wagon with a white boy for a driver.
“How far is it to the general’s?” I ventured to ask as I stepped in.
“Eight miles.”
“Whew!”
“Never mind, sir: we shall be there in an hour and a half.”
And off we went like the wind. He drove very boldly and at the same time very cautiously, avoiding the numerous stumps, stones and ruts with admirable dexterity. I began to suspect that the boy was not a Virginia boy. When at length we reached the smooth stage-road I began to question him: “Are you the general’s son?”
“No, sir: that was my father at the station”–he of the jug.
“How do you like this country?”
My habit from childhood had been to take the life of any stranger who had the audacity to tell me that he did not like any and every part of Virginia, but of late I have contented myself with slicing off his ears.
“The longer I live here the better I like it.”
Smart boy! he had saved his auditory organs. But as yet his accent had not been sufficiently defined to enable me to tell his nationality. “You are not from England, are you?”
“No, indeed, sir–from New Hampshire.”
The appalling truth was out. First, a Yankee uniform; second, an Englishman; third, a whole raft, a “hull lot,” of New Hampshire Yankees; and yet they call this Virginia!
No wonder I was silent. Night had fallen, we had entered a dark forest, there was an unreconstructed penknife (somehow or other, I always forget my bowie-knife and Derringers now-a-days) recently sharpened in my pocket. Why did I not cut the throat of this little Oppressor and fatten the soil of my native land with the blood of the small ruthless Yankee Invader?
It was just because at this moment we caught up with the ambulance. The two vehicles halted, a young girl and a little boy left the ambulance and took seats by the side of my driver, and the greeting of the brother and sister–the latter having just returned from a visit to her native granite hills–was actually as affectionate, beautiful and sweet as if they had been born in the middle of the Mother of States and of Statesmen. And as the ambulance drove on there came floating back to us ever and anon on the night wind a still sweeter voice. It came from a young lady–a young Yankee lady at that–and it sounded sweet to me–to me myself, my own dear, unadulterated, real Old Virginia self.
Turning from the main road, we wound around among the rocky ravines in a fashion truly bewildering to a body with weak eyes, but my little Yankee driver seemed so much at home that I felt no shadow of fear. Arriving safely at the general’s capacious mansion, I bade my Northern friends good-night, and sat down to a supper without fried chickens or coffee. In lieu of the latter we had cold tea, with a slice of lemon in each goblet. After a long talk on matters of no concern to the reader, during which the general related a number of capital war-anecdotes, I contrived, as is my wont, to turn the conversation upon agricultural topics, with the view of imparting to him a modicum of that consummate farming wisdom which appertains to every thoroughly conceited scribbler.
“Fine country you have, general.”
“Yes: from Lugston to the Tennessee line, two hundred good miles, the country is as fine as the sun ever shone upon.”
“Appears to be thinly settled.”
“You may well say so. Between my house and the station there are eight or nine thousand acres, most of it excellent land, belonging to only five or six owners.”
“Indeed! What are such immense tracts good for now-a-days?”
“Good for grass.”
“But they seem to pay little attention to grass.”
“True. It is a splendid cheese country, as I have proved, but our people are not up to that as yet.”
“They _will_ grow tobacco. I saw some fine timber sacrificed for the sake of new-ground tobacco.”
“And why not? A man gets tired of paying taxes for twenty or thirty years on timber which yields him nothing.”
I smiled an invisible smile, reverting in my thoughts to an assault I had made the week before upon my kinsman in Buckingham. “William,” said I, “why will you Southside people continue to exhaust your land with tobacco?”
“Dick,” he replied, “you are the doggonedest fool out of jail. _You_, raised in Virginia, and ask a question like that! Wheat is uncertain, corn doesn’t pay, we are too far from market for vegetables, too poor to put our lands in grass, and tobacco is the only thing that will fetch money. As for exhausting land, plenty of tobacco is raised in Ohio and Connecticut, and you never hear anybody talk about exhausting land there.”
“Yes, but there they manure heavily, giving back to the land as much as they take, or more.”
“Well, old-field pine is good enough manure for a man who has plenty of land and can take his time.”
Thus in two instances my anti-tobacco wisdom turned out to be about as profitable as King James’s memorable _Counterblast_ against the beloved weed of Virginia.
“But, general,” said I, “surely your neighbors don’t want to retain such vast tracts of land.”
“Certainly not. Men do not like to part with good land, and if my friends could set their farms well in grass, so that a few hands could attend to them, they would only sell at very high figures; but being unable to do this, they are willing, and many of them anxious, to sell on most reasonable terms.”
“What is the trouble, then?”
“The trouble is about houses.”
“Explain.”
“Wealthy people seldom emigrate. The men who leave home have generally but limited means, and coming here they find just the soil and climate they desire, but no place to lay their heads; and few if any of them can afford to buy land and build houses at the same time. This, I am satisfied, is the main difficulty in the way of the speedy filling up of Virginia with the best class of yeoman settlers.”
“A difficulty not easily remedied.”
“No, for our people, rich in land, are even poorer in money than the immigrants themselves.”
“How on earth, then, did you manage to sell to the New Hampshire gentleman who came with me this evening, and who, as I learn, bought a part of your farm?”
“Why, I had a roomy house, and I just opened my doors to him and his family, and kept them here free of charge till their own house was finished.”
“Well, general,” dropping my voice to the Secesh conspirator level, “how do you like him?”
The general, known by the antique name of Jones (though the Sixth Pennsylvania and other Northern cavalry were acquainted with him under another cognomen), like all the strapping sons of thunder who went actively into the field instead of staying at home and abusing Jeff. Davis, does not regard his late enemies with that intense hatred which is so gratifying to myself and some other people.
He spoke out aloud: “I like him first rate. He is an admirable neighbor–a man of sense, practical, sagacious and industrious; and his family, wife, sons and daughters, are in all respects worthy of him. I wish the county had a thousand of just such people.”
This was a crusher for me. Drawing myself up to my full height–which ought to be but is not six feet–I seized a kerosene lamp with my right hand, and looking the unfortunate man full in the eye, I said very respectfully, “General, good-night.”
Undismayed, he eyed me back, and, in a tone of what I took to be cordiality, replied, “Maybe you’d like a little whisky-and-water before going to bed?”
I thanked him “No,” mounted the lofty staircase, divested myself of sundry sartorial cerements and plunged my earthly tabernacle into the centre of a big delicious bed. There, while the thunder rolled among the mountains, the rain plashed upon the window-shutters and the wind blew like the very devil, I muttered to myself, “Here is a man bearing worthily one of the most honored names in the Commonwealth–a member, in fact, of one of the first–the first–_first_ fam–families in Vir–gin–ia, actually pr–prais–praising Yan–Yank–Yankees in–in’s own hou–” I was asleep.
On the morrow, when I returned to the station and saw how very lovely the country was, how fertile–the rounded mountains, when cleared of their royal forests, arable to their very summits, the air like Olympian nectar, the sunshine a divine balm, the whole scene a Sabbath-land of peace and of boundless plenty, awaiting only the cohorts of the North and of the white-cliffed isle–I would fain have cried, “Come, ye moderately pecunious Bulls, and you, ye hyperborean Vandals from the far Lake of Winnipiseogee and the uttermost Cape of Cod–come to this Canaan, not like carpet-bagging spies to steal our big bunch of grapes and tote it off on a stick between two of you (as per authentic pictures in Sunday-school books), but with your shekels, your deniers, your pence, pounds sterling and crisp greenbacks: come to this beauteous land, take it, own it, possess it, buy freely, and be sure you reserve enough cash to build a house with; or, better still, bring your houses ready made, in nests like buckets or painted pails (I am sure you have them in your inventive realm). Come, I say, and oust these mutton-headed Virginians, or sit down beside them, work with them, teach them to work (you are so certain you can), and make this American republic the Storehouse of the nations, the Cornucopia of all creation!”
I got to the station just three hours after the train I intended to take had left, and had to wait only two hours for the next train; which was doing pretty well for Virginia. Possessing my Southside soul in patience, I bought two not very bad cigars for ten cents, and fell to contemplating some eight or nine of the Down-Trodden who were hanging around. I must say that the Down-Trodden did not appear to have been much flattened by the heel of the Oppressor. As I gazed, a foolish parody started itself in my idle brain:
When the fair land of Bedford
Was ploughed by the hoof
Of the ruthless invader–
There the thing broke down, and–the events of the night before, the Englishman, the happy Northern family and the thoroughly reconstructed general, suggesting it in some queer cerebral way–a still more foolish negro song, which I had forgotten for years, popped up in my brain-pan:
Lit-tel gal, I give you ninepunce
Ef you will dance de Haul-back;
And I kin dance de Haul-back,
And you kin dance de Haul back,
And we kin dance de Haul-back.
The relevancy of this utterly absurd thing did not then strike me. I see it now. A certain people–whom I do love with my whole heart, not in spite of their faults, but because of them: are they not my own?–have been dancing the Haul-back for many generations, and now, under my own eye and quite perceptibly in the rural parts of Virginia, the dance is coming to an end. Slowly but surely we are lapsing into Bullo-doodledom, with a momentary preponderance of Bull. _Tempora_–do, I entreat you, allow me the use of my solitary dear delightful old bit of Latin–_mutantur_; ay! and we mutate with them. The world moves, and no amount of Haul-back will stay it.
RICHARD B. ELDER.
OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.
THE WELLESLEY-POLES.
The death was announced a few weeks ago of a lady whose name will awaken a train of recollection in the minds of all who take an interest in English family history. This was Miss Tylney-Long, sister to the ill-fated Mrs. Tylney-Long-Wellesley-Pole.
The duke of Wellington’s second brother, William, succeeded in 1778 to the large Irish estates of a kinsman, Mr. Pole, and assumed that name in addition to his own. Mr. Wellesley-Pole, who was eventually created a peer as Lord Maryborough, had a son, who became, on the death of his uncle, the marquis Wellesley, earl of Mornington. Never had the peerage a more unworthy member. Starting in life with every advantage, Mr. Wellesley-Pole seemed bent upon showing how effectually he could foil the efforts of Fortune to serve him. When he reached an age for marriage the greatest heiress of the time was Miss Tylney-Long. By a succession of failures of male heirs the vast wealth of the family of Child had devolved on this lady, and Mr. Wellesley-Pole became the successful suitor for her hand. One of her seats was Wanstead in Essex, some fifteen miles from London. Originally a royal manor, Wanstead was granted by Edward VI. to Lord Rich, who sold it to Elizabeth’s favorite, Leicester. Subsequently, on its reverting to the Crown, James I. gave it to Sir Henry Mildmay, but, he having been one of Charles I.’s judges, it became forfeited, and once more returned to the sovereign. Charles II. gave it to his brother James, who sold it to Sir Robert Brooke, and he in turn sold it to Sir Joshua Child.
The Childs were the greatest mercantile family of their time. Sir Joshua founded the banking-house of the name which still flourishes (the oldest in London), and of which the young earl of Jersey is, through his great-grandmother, also a Child heiress, the principal partner. Sir Joshua’s son was raised to a peerage as Earl Tylney, and about 1715 employed a celebrated architect of the day, Colin Campbell, to build a magnificent mansion. Wanstead was deemed on its completion in many respects the most magnificent house in England. It was of Portland stone, two hundred feet in length and seventy deep. The great hall was fifty-three by forty-five feet, the ball-room seventy-five by twenty-seven. This abode was furnished in a style of the most lavish splendor, and Mr. Wellesley-Pole’s income was more than adequate to maintain it in befitting style. But no income is adequate to meet the expenses of a gambler and spendthrift, and such was Mr. Wellesley-Pole.
Some of his wife’s property was happily settled on her and her heirs, and could not be got hold of by her rascally husband; but Wanstead, after being leased for some time to the duc de Bourbon–who here received intelligence of the death of his unfortunate son, the duc d’Enghien–came to the hammer. The sale of the effects in 1822 exceeded anything of the kind which had been known in England up to that date. The catalogue consisted of four hundred quarto pages, published in three parts, at five shillings each, and it is said that not less than twenty thousand copies were sold. It is not a little remarkable that the contents of Fonthill Abbey (the celebrated seat of the author of _Vathek_), which teemed with even greater riches, were sold almost at the same time. Nor were the contents of the mansion only disposed of. The fabric itself, which had cost three hundred and sixty thousand pounds, was sold for eight thousand pounds, it being a condition of the sale that it should be razed and the materials removed within a definite number of months.
Had Tylney-Long-Wellesley-Pole (for such was the polysyllabic name he bore after his marriage) been only a spendthrift and a gambler, his case might not have seemed remarkable. But he showed himself in every way a heartless scoundrel as regarded his wife and his children, who had to seek legal protection against him. About a year after the sale of her splendid home his wife died, and the event is thus spoken of in a leading journal of the time: “The premature death of an amiable and accomplished lady born to large possessions, and against whom the voice of calumny never so much as breathed a slander, calls, we think, for a passing comment, as illustrating and furnishing, we trust, a lasting and useful lesson to the heartlessness of too many men of the present day. With a fortune that made her a prize for princes, this amiable woman gave her hand and heart to the man of her choice, and with them all that unbounded wealth could bestow. What her fate has been all the world knows: what it ought to have been the world is equally well aware. To her, riches have been worse than poverty; and her life seems to have been scarified and her heart broken through the very means that should have cherished and maintained her in the happiness and splendor which her fortune and disposition were alike qualified to produce. Let her fate be a warning to all of her sex who, blessed with affluence, think the buzzing throng which surrounds them have hearts, when in fact they have none; and if there be such a feeling as remorse accessible in the quarter where it is most called for, let the world witness, by a future life of contrition, something like atonement for the past.”
So far, however, as the world could discover, the atonement never came. Lord Mornington, as he became, actually found another woman to marry him: he ill-used her, and having sunk into narrow circumstances, neglected to provide her with the barest necessaries, so that the applications of the countess of Mornington to the London police magistrates for assistance became of frequent occurrence. It may seem strange that the Wellesley family should not have stepped in to prevent such a scandal. Probably they thought that the woman who in the teeth of his evil reputation had chosen to marry him should take the consequences. He died in 1857. His son, whose life his father’s conduct had sadly embittered, did not long survive him, and bequeathed the remnant of his estates, including Draycot, a large mansion (which had been strictly entailed) in Wiltshire, to his cousin, Lord Cowley, then ambassador at Paris. His title passed to the duke of Wellington.
THE FATE OF DANGAN CASTLE.
Lord Cowley, on being created an earl, selected for his second title that of Viscount Dangan, thus perpetuating the memory of the old seat of the Wellesleys in Ireland. It is a somewhat remarkable circumstance that although no family in the United Kingdom has within the last century acquired such fame and honors as the Wellesleys, they have long since ceased to own a rood of ground in the country whence they derived the affluence and rank which were to the famous sons of Garrett, earl of Mornington, the first stepping-stones to fame.
The Wellesleys are only Wellesleys–or Wesleys, as the name was formerly spelt–in the female line. Richard Colley, son of Henry Colley, of Castle Carbery, county Cork, succeeded on the 23d of September, 1728, to the estates of his cousin, Garrett Wesley, Esq., of Dangan, county Meath, assumed the name and arms of “Wesley,” and was created baron of Mornington July 9, 1746. He married, December 23, 1819, Elizabeth, eldest daughter of Doctor John Sale, M.P. for Carysfort, and died January 31, 1758, when he was succeeded by his only son, Garrett, father of the duke of Wellington, who was created in 1760 Viscount Wellesley and earl of Mornington.
In October, 1748, Mrs. Delany writes: “Last Monday we set out for Dangan, Lord Mornington’s. He is the same good-humored, agreeable man he was seventeen years ago. My godson, Master Wesley [Wellington’s father] is a most extraordinary boy: he was thirteen last month, is a very good scholar, and whatever study he undertakes masters it most surprisingly. He began with the riddle last year, and now plays everything at sight.” [In after years Lord Mornington acquired considerable distinction as a composer.]
“This place, Dangan Castle, is really magnificent: the old house that was burnt down is rebuilding. They live at present in the offices: the garden (or rather improvements and parks, for it is too extensive to be called a garden) consists of six hundred Irish acres, between eight and nine hundred English. There is a gravel-walk fifty-two feet broad and six hundred yards long from the house to the great lake. The lake contains twenty-six acres, is of an irregular shape, with a fort built in all its forms. My godson is governor of the fort. He hoisted all his colors, and was not a little mortified that I declined the compliment of being saluted from the fort and ship. The ground, so far as you can see every way, is waving in hills and dales.”
Dangan stands about seven miles from Trim and twenty from Dublin. The Marquis Wellesley (husband of Miss Caton of Maryland), who succeeded his father as second earl of Mornington, sold it to a Mr. Burroughs, who, after greatly improving it, let it to Mr. Roger O’Connor, a near relative of the Chartist agitator of the name. Whilst in his possession the house and demesne were stripped of everything that could be turned into money; the timber, which was remarkable both for quantity and quality, was cut down; and the gardens were permitted to run to waste. At length the house–being heavily insured–was found to be on fire, and was burnt before assistance could be obtained. One part of the building, of which the walls were extraordinarily thick, is now inhabited by a farmer who superintends the property.
The present duke of Wellington (whose wife, formerly well known as Lady Douro, is a daughter of Lord Tweeddale, and sister of the wife of Sir Robert Peel) is childless. His only brother, Lord Charles Wellesley, left two sons, but if these should die issueless the dukedom will be extinct, and the Irish earldom of Mornington will pass to Lord Cowley.
INTERVIEWING CAPTAIN KIDD.
Mr. Editor: The following, which I cut from the New York _Herald_ of July 17, 1699 (accidentally in my possession), may interest some of your readers. I was not before aware that the _Herald’s_ files went back so far, but it was a greater surprise to discover that interviewing flourished at so early a date.
Yours, SARSFIELD YOUNG.
CAPTAIN KIDD!
THE PIRATE CHIEF IN A BOSTON JAIL!
BOUQUETS AND BAKED BEANS _vs._ PURITAN THEOLOGY!
CALUMNIATIONS OF THE PRESS!
DON’T CALL ME PET NAMES–WILLIAM _vs._ ROBERT!
ALL A MISTAKE ABOUT THAT CHISEL!
SARAH’S MUGS AND PORRINGERS!
“HOW IS MY FRIEND, COL. LIVINGSTONE?”
EAST INDIA RING _vs._ INNOCENCE!
CAN ADAMS AND CHOATE CLEAR HIM? etc. etc.
[From _Herald_ Special Correspondent.]
BOSTON, 16th July, 1699.
Your correspondent arrived here last evening, and found (as already telegraphed) that the arrest and imprisonment of Captain Kidd, the champion pirate of the world, continues to form the all-absorbing topic of conversation. Little Boston has got a sensation at last, and is determined to keep it. Merchants and brokers talk Kidd on ‘Change. Groups at the hotels discuss the nautical hero. Badly-executed pictures of him stare at you from the shop-windows. Cotton Mather, the great gun of the clergy here, blazes away at this “child of iniquity” from the pulpit; and it is understood that a prominent publishing-house has already arranged to bring out _The Autobiography of a Buccaneer_. _On dit_, that certain parties are negotiating to have him appear next season as a lecturer in case he isn’t wanted on another platform.
The first paroxysm of excitement, which looked to nothing short of hanging him from the steeple of the Old South Church, has given place to a conviction that the law had better be suffered to take its course, inasmuch as the unfortunate captain will surely drift among the breakers when he is tossed about on the sea of criminal jurisprudence.
By the politeness of the colonial authorities, your correspondent obtained a permit to visit the noted son of Neptune at the Stone Prison. Sending in his card, he was at once invited into the small but comfortable apartment where the “scourge of the seas” is confined.
Captain Kidd graciously extended his hand and bade your correspondent welcome. He is a short, broad-shouldered, powerfully-built man, of perhaps forty-five or forty-seven years of age. His hair, which is of dark chestnut and inclined to curl, was combed back from a medium forehead, and his face was sun-burnt into a rich mahogany hue. His cold gray eyes were deep set under thick brows that arched and met. His manner was courteous and dignified. He was dressed in light gray trowsers of perfect cut, patent-leather boots and a red-and-black spotted shirt, which displayed in its front a set of superb diamond studs. From under a Byron collar, _parfaitement_ starched, peeped the ends of a pale lilac scarf. A magnificent seal-ring decorated the third finger of his left hand.
The day being excessively warm, his coat and vest had been laid aside. The room was plainly furnished. The table was littered with charts and papers, while on a stand were flowers sent to the prisoner by ladies of Boston.
With the instinct of a true gentleman, he proceeded to put on his coat and vest, when the following conversation ensued:
_Rep_. “Pray, captain, keep your coat off.”
_Capt. K._ “Thank you, if the same to you?”
_Rep_. “Quite the same, I assure you. My visit is informal.” (Handing him a cigar.)
_Capt. K._ “Thanks: I take things coolly–waive ceremony. You know that’s a habit I acquired at sea. You are a reporter?”
_Rep_. “Yes, for the New York _Herald_. I call to ascertain your views of the situation. The public are anxious to hear your defence; and, if proper, I would like to ask you a few questions.”
_Capt. K._ “Certainly” (lighting his cigar). “You newspaper men haven’t given me a fair show. There’s a heap of lying going on about me. They are hounding me–that’s a fact. I’ve got the evidence to prove that I’m an injured man. I have a clear conscience, that’s one comfort.”
_Rep_. “A great comfort, no doubt. May I ask, captain, what particular falsehood has gained currency?”
_Capt. K._ “Yes, sir. I will name one that is an unmitigated slander. They say that when I came across Moore and corrected him with a bucket for his impertinence, he was grinding a chisel. Now, sir, that is as false as —-!”
_Rep_. “Indeed?”
_Capt. K._ “Yes, sir, ’twas a screwdriver.”
_Rep_. “That shall be corrected, captain. Anything else?”
_Capt. K._ “Yes, sir–a bigger lie still. There is a scurrilous broadside circulating all over the country. Here it is.” (He handed me a copy of verses printed in the _Herald_ of last Tuesday.) “Read that, if you please, sir: ‘My name is Robert Kidd, as I sailed, as I sailed.’ Now, sir, that is a villainous falsehood.”
_Rep_. “You didn’t sail under that name, then, captain?”
_Capt. K._ “Never. Why, bless your innocent heart, my baptismal name is _William_. It is of a piece with all their malignant lying, this persisting in calling me _Robert_.”
_Rep_. “It _is_ hard.” (Pause.) “Pray, captain, permit me to ask if the story is true that Mrs. Kidd’s trunk was seized by the authorities, and kept with its contents of gold-dust and diamonds?”
_Capt. K._ “In part true, sir. A perfect outrage, sir. Mrs. Kidd came on from New York post-haste when she heard that the Antonio had arrived, and no sooner had she set foot in Boston than the authorities gobbled up her trunk, leaving her in a strange community with nothing but a band-box. The public have exaggerated the contents. They were silver mugs, porringers and plate generally for family use, that we had been years accumulating. They locked it up in the castle, and–Poor Sarah! poor Sarah!” (Here the stout man buried his head in his hands and appeared deeply affected. Your correspondent improved the opportunity to perfect his notes.)
_Rep_. (after a few minutes). “I am glad to assure you, Captain Kidd, that it will probably be returned to her to-morrow.”
_Capt. K._ (brightening up). “To-morrow? Well, that’s good. It wellnigh broke Sarah’s heart. By the way, you are lately from New York, I suppose. How is my old friend, Colonel Livingstone? Well, I hope?”
_Rep_. “I haven’t the honor of his acquaintance, but I have no doubt he is well. New York men usually are. He is a staunch friend of yours, captain?”
_Capt. K._ “Ay, that he is. He has always stood by me, ever since he got me that appointment to command the ‘Adventure galley.'”
_Rep_. “You have no doubt, captain, of your ability to substantiate your entire innocence of these charges brought against you?”
_Capt. K._ “Not the slightest, not the slightest, sir. There was Captain Wright of the Quedah–you remember him, I dare say: had command of that nigger crew–what did he say when I went aboard his ship? Said he, ‘Kidd, you remind me of the new-born babe.’ I suppose I can’t prove that, for Wright, poor fellow! has been dropped into the sea, with a twenty-four-pound shot at his heels.
“But what if the jury does convict me? Can’t I have a bill of exceptions? Can’t I sue out an injunction to stay proceedings? What did they let me walk the streets of Boston a whole week for, if I was such a criminal as some of ’em pretend? I tell you what it is–this thing is a put-up job. That ring of East India speculators is at the bottom of it. They just run Bellamont. They know I stand in their way; but I’ll be even with them yet. Mark my word, Mr. Reporter: William Kidd is going to march down these streets head up, colors flying and the band playing ‘Carry the news to Hiram.'”
_Rep_. “I hope so, captain. One word more. If not too bold, may I inquire about these stories of your burying treasure on Gardner’s Island?”
_Capt. K._ “True as gospel preaching! I buried doubloons all over that island–used to work moonlight nights at it. You can’t show me a square yard of soil there that isn’t stuck full of shiners. You see, it grew to be a perfect passion with me. I stopped on my way up Boston harbor here, and planted about three millions of pounds sterling. I forget now which island it was. However, I shall publish a complete guide to all these points, with diagrams and directions for getting up stock companies, in the book I’m preparing.” (Just then a card was brought in. Captain K. nodded affirmatively to the attendant, and your correspondent rose to withdraw.) “I am sorry not to talk with you longer, but a delegation of the ministry are just outside the door. They propose to sit down and discuss with me the exceeding sinfulness of a greed of worldly gain, especially when it runs into piracy.–My best compliments to you, sir. Good-morning.”
_Rep_. “Good-morning, captain.”
Your correspondent encountered six white-chokered gentlemen on their way to interview the great nautical backslider. He is certainly the lion of the hour.
From what your correspondent has been able to gather it is probable that a few friends of the captain will succeed in their efforts to secure Samuel Adams and a promising young lawyer named Choate to conduct his defence. In this event his chances of a discharge from custody will prove favorable. It may be that Bellamont and the council will conclude to send him over for trial in the King’s Bench.
Your correspondent inclines to the view that the distinguished marine plunderer can hardly be held for piracy, but may be convicted of the murder of the gunner Moore. The story is here that Kidd, with an iron-hooped bucket, not only finished up things for William Moore, but left that unhappy man in his gore. As regards jurisdiction, the government will allege that the awful deed was committed not many leagues from shore.
A DINNER EXCUSE.
Apologies for poor dinners are generally out of place. But when a lady has a forgetful husband, who, without warning, brings home a dozen guests to sit down to a plain family dinner for three or four, it is not in human nature to keep absolute silence. What to say, and how to say it, form the problem. Mrs. Tucker, the wife of Judge Tucker of Williamsburg, solved this problem most happily many years ago. She was the daughter or niece (I am uncertain which) of Sir Peyton Skipwith, and celebrated for her beauty, wit, ease and grace of manner. Her temper and tact were put to the proof one court-day, when the judge brought with him the accustomed half score or more of lawyers, for whom not the slightest preparation had been made, the judge having quite forgotten to remind his wife that it was court-day, and she herself, strange to tell, having overlooked the fact.
The dinner was served with elegance, and Mrs. T. made herself very charming. Upon rising to leave the guests to their wine she said: “Gentlemen, you have dined to-day with Judge Tucker: promise me now that you will all dine to-morrow with _me_”
This was all her apology, whereupon the gentlemen swore that such a wife was beyond price. The judge then explained the situation, and the next day there was a noble banquet.
_Moral_: Never worry a guest with apologies.
NOTES.
A Turkish paper gives an account of a curious forced emigration which has recently produced great excitement on classic ground. On the European banks of the Hellespont stands the city of Gallipoli, interesting as the first possession of the Turks in Europe in 1357; and nearly opposite to it is Lamsaki, a village long renowned for the vineyards in its neighborhood, and situated near the site of the celebrated Lampsacus of classic times. During the autumn the authorities of Gallipoli came to the conclusion that there were in that town–as where are there not?–too many owner-less dogs about; and instead of issuing death-warrants against these vagrants, they took the extraordinary course of exporting them to their opposite neighbors across the Hellespont, who were already plentifully provided with canine treasures. On the arrival of these two thousand immigrants, who were very unruly on the passage, they started, in quest of food it may be supposed, to the mountains, but not finding anything to suit their palates, returned to the town. Here the tug of war commenced. The Lamsakian canines, on recognizing the situation, turned out to a dog, and a frightful conflict, with terrible howlings and barkings, ensued for four hours. At the end of that time the foreign foe was worsted, and, beating a retreat, endeavored to allay the pangs of hunger by eating the grapes, and thus doing really serious damage. The people then had to turn out: two hundred dogs were killed, and the rest retreated, but of course only to return. The _Djeridei Havadis_ concludes the account by mildly saying that the Lamsakians are much disgusted by the eccentric conduct of the Gallipoli magistrates, who ought of course to have sent their canine emigrants to a desert island. But how thankful would Philadelphians be if somebody, imitating the Gallipoli magistrates, would but deport two thousand of the cats which make night-life hideous–to the New Jersey shore, say!
* * * * *
The pie is almost an “institution” in America. A single New York bakery claims that it produces nine hundred pies an hour from one of its ten capacious ovens, and a total of fifty thousand pies daily, the year round, forcing the supply occasionally up to sixty-five thousand–probably on Fourths of July or other festal occasions. Let the reader busy himself with imagining the total production of pies by this and all other bakeries of the country during a twelve-month! Nevertheless, these facilities would be inadequate to popular demand were the majority of our countrymen of a stomach as unbounded as that of the Dundee laborer whom a Scotch journal commemorates. This extraordinary person, having not long since eaten nine large twopenny pies at a Dundee pie-shop within fourteen and a half minutes, announced his purpose to eat on the following Monday twelve pies within twenty-five minutes; and in fact, when the delicacies were put before him in the shape of a six-pound pile, fourteen inches high, he consumed half a dozen in five minutes, the next three at the end of eleven minutes, and the last three in six minutes more, having ended his repast eight minutes sooner than he had designed–possibly owing to the pangs of hunger, since he expressed a willingness to occupy the spare moments with devouring another half dozen pies.
With this item of news in fresh remembrance we chanced to read in a very old English newspaper the supper eaten, many years ago, by Mr. Oakley of Stanton, Derbyshire–a repast which makes the Scotchman’s, just recorded, rather frugal by comparison. His first dish, says the report, was two quarts of milk, thirty eggs, half a pound of butter, half a pound of sugar, three penny loaves, a quantity of ginger and nutmeg and an ounce of mustard, all boiled together; his second course was “apiece of cheese and a pound of bread to it;” the third was half a pound of bacon, a penny loaf and a quart of ale, followed by three halfpennies’ worth of ginger-bread and a pint of ale; his fourth dish was a custard of two pounds, an ounce of mustard, some black pepper, a pint of milk and three pints of ale to it. This banquet he finished in an hour, and then ungratefully complained of not having had enough; so, after running three hundred yards by way of appetizer, he sat down with the rest of the company, who had witnessed his prowess, and drank pretty freely. Yet even this exploit is hardly equal to the marvel in digestion reported in the same ancient newspaper of a Truro porter, who, for a bet of five shillings, ate two pairs of worsted stockings fried in train oil, and half a pound of yellow soap into the bargain. The losers of this wager might have been more cautious had they known that the same atrocious glutton once undertook to eat as much tripe as would make himself a jacket with sleeves, and was accordingly measured by a tailor, who regularly cut out the materials, when, to general surprise, the voracious fellow ate up the whole in twenty minutes. Compared with these performances some of the current prodigies of gormandism which the papers so often report are surely as trifling in amount as they are tame and uninventive in the character of their details.
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The strange accident of Albertacce brought to general notice an obscure Corsican custom which singularly contrasts with the ordinary funeral ceremonies of Christendom. The _vocero_, as this rite is styled, is palpably an inheritance from the classical conquerors of the island, now preserved only in some of the interior villages. When the head of a family dies, the body, after being robed in its handsomest garments, is laid in state on a table in the largest room, surrounded with lights. Then, five or six hours before the burial, all the women of the village and the district, clothed in black and with bare heads, assemble around the corpse, the mother and sisters of the dead at the feet, the nearest relations next, and so on. When this assemblage is formed the most renowned poetesses or singers of their number, with hair disheveled and bleeding faces, and a white handkerchief waving in the hand, chant in verse the history, virtues and destiny of the dead. The mournful cadence, the profuse weeping and the dramatic gestures of the ceremony are striking. The chief mourner amid her wailing sometimes raises the head or the arm of the corpse, and plucks out her own hair or freshly tears at her face till the blood pours again from the wounded skin, while the half-stifled sobbing of the whole company adds to the effect. When at length the priest arrives, all is hushed, but the women follow the corpse in procession to the church, where the ceremony sometimes lasts several hours. Such, at least, is the account of the _vocero_ given by a correspondent of the _XIX’e Siecle_, who visited the scene of the Albertacce accident, where a roomful of celebrants were suddenly precipitated into the cellar by the giving way of the floor. The mere mention of the accident came by telegraph, but it appears that twenty dead and fourteen mangled women were taken from the wreck of the house where they had been singing their mournful _vocero_.
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Unless the Paris postmen are more patient than those of Madrid (who were on strike a few weeks since), their temper must be ruffled by the transformations now going on in the names of streets. In France, and especially in Paris, each overthrow of a dynasty produces a corresponding revolution in the city directory, for all unpopular names must be effaced, and the streets which bore them must be rebaptized in accordance with the political favorites of the hour. Decrees have already turned the Avenue de l’Empereur into the Avenue des Lacs; the Avenue Napoleon into the Avenue de l’Opera; the Place Napoleon into the Place de l’Opera; the Avenue de l’Imperatrice into the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne; the Boulevard Voltaire into the Boulevard de Belfort; the Rue Magnan into the Rue d’Angouleme-Saint-Honore (its old name); the Rue Billault into the Rue de l’Oratoire-du-Roule, also its old appellation; while there has been a general effacing of those names which the Communists set up upon the streets and avenues during their brief lease of power. Scores of other old names of streets are already changed or are in train of alteration; but the preceding will suffice for examples. Now, when one reflects that at the overthrow of Charles X., and again at the overthrow of Louis Philippe, and again at the overthrow of the Second Republic, and again at the overthrow of the Second Empire, and again at the overthrow of the Commune, these alterations wept on, it is seen that the puzzle offered to Paris people in general, and to Paris postmen in particular, must be anything but amusing. Should the Third Republic perish to-morrow, a new christening of streets would have to be made; but the event only would determine whether the new names should celebrate Imperialism, or Communism, or Bourbonism, or Orleanism, or each in its turn. It is rather strange that, with such an experience, Paris should not take refuge in that tame but enduring system of street nomenclature which is based on the letters of the alphabet and the ordinal numbers.
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An English magazine not long since described some of the curious theories and superstitions which prevail among devotees of the lottery and the gaming-table, regarding “lucky numbers.” There are traditionally fortunate and unfortunate combinations, and there are also newer favorites, based very often on figures connected with the chronology of famous men. The career of Napoleon III. would seem to be considered by gamblers a specially successful one, for since his death they have been betting furiously on all numbers supposed to bear a relation to sundry pivotal events of his life. In Vienna, in Milan, in Rome, the newspapers notice this universal rage among regular patrons of the lottery for staking their fortunes on Napoleonic numbers; and, what is also curious, these numbers have in several instances turned out lucky. Thus, in a late Vienna paper we read that “the death of the Man of Sedan has brought good luck to the old women of this city who give themselves up with unquenchable passion to the lottery.” At the last drawing, as the paper goes on to say, the numbers most eagerly seized upon were 3, for Napoleon III.; 65, for his age; 20, for his birthday, it falling on the twentieth of the month; 90, as the highest number in the lottery, hence interpreted to signify “emperor;” and finally 52, the year of his accession to the throne. To the joy of all the old lottery-gossips, the luck fell on these numbers, 3, 20, and 90. At Rome the death of Napoleon. III. has furnished new combinations for all the devotees of the lottery. At Milan the same infatuated class have “pointed a moral” of their own from the event–a moral quite different from the one extracted by sermonizers. They have been playing heavily on number 20 (a gold Napoleon being worth twenty francs), and on number 13, which latter, as the proverbially unlucky one, is interpreted to mean the ex-emperor’s death. On the first drawing after his death these two numbers proved to be the lucky ones of the lottery, and it was then found that there had been a great number of winners.
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Is this present year, 1873, to be, like some famous ones in history, specially fatal to crowned heads, and to heads that have once been crowned? During the whole twelve months of 1872 the only European sovereign who died was Charles XV. of Sweden, while none suffered irremediable misfortune; and in European royal families the only two losses by death were Archduke Albrecht and the duke of Guise. But within the first six weeks of 1873 no less than three persons died who had at some time worn imperial crowns, and one monarch resigned his sceptre. First died Napoleon III., on the 9th of January. Then, on the 25th, at Lisbon, died the dowager-empress Amelia, daughter of Prince Eugene, wife of Pedro I. of Brazil, and stepmother of the present emperor, Pedro II. On February 8 the empress Caroline Augusta, widow of Francis I. of Austria, and grandmother of the reigning emperor, died at Vienna. In Spain the abdication of Amadeo is an incident to be mentioned in a year opening so ominously to crowned and discrowned heads.
LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
Santo Domingo, Past and Present; with a Glance at Hayti. By Samuel Hazard. New York: Harper & Brothers.
Mr. Hazard, who has already obliged us with one of the best accounts of Cuba extant in modern literature, now does a similar service for Santo Domingo, which he declares to be much more highly favored by Nature, and which he examined with the United States commission of 1871. This book has the advantage of being prepared within reach of the British Museum, whose stores of Americo-Spanish authorities have enabled him to write up with much fullness the historical sketch which occupies a third of his space. This is a fair, faithful and skillful condensation, and the most readable narrative we have seen of poor Dominica’s tale of revolutions and wrongs. The personal portion begins with the author’s arrival at the Salt Keys and Puerto Plata, and follows the steps of the commissioners, with a great many anecdotes and a sprinkling of artistic sketches, to Samana and Santo Domingo City; thence overland to the great inland tobacco-mart of Santiago; and so back to Puerto Plata and Monte Christo, where the commission ceased its labors, being discouraged by the Haytians from an exploration within their domain; while Mr. Hazard, resuming his capacity of private citizen, took his life in his hand and ventured into the proud Mumbo-Jumbo republic. It is here that the really lively part of the story commences, and the author becomes the hero of quite a tragedy of errors. At the first Haytian port, Dauphin Bay, he meets the port-captain who cannot read his passport, the port-general who bows and sends him to the chef de police, the chef who asks for half a dollar without countersigning the document, and lets the pilgrim go on in quest of the American consul. The only hotel is closed and “busted:” the consul indicates a billiard-room, whose proprietor feeds the stranger, informing him at the same time that the authorities take him for a United States commissioner, and have doubled the guards. The next visit is to a banker, who plays him a curious practical joke. Demanding Haytian bank-notes for a few hundred dollars on a letter of credit, the tourist, after a time of waiting, sees the street on which the banker lives completely blocked with donkey-carts, drays, mules, horses with panniers and carts drawn by bullocks. A negro drayman informs him that “the American commissioner, having come over-night from Monte Christo, is drawing a draft in Haytian specie, and that the carts are to load up with it.” The banker, being consulted, offers to store the currency cheap in a warehouse, but advises as a friend that the draft be reduced, the bullocks sent away, and that the traveler take a beer. “I took the beer,” says Mr. Hazard. A dollar in gold means just four hundred dollars in Haytian paper: a cocktail cost the traveler “thirty dollars,” and other things in proportion. These beginnings of make-believe pomposity are followed up by the strangest revelations wherever the adventurer sets his foot. Going from Cape Haytien to the citadel and “Sans-Souci” palace of Christophe, the traveler is charged “two thousand dollars” by the drunken negro guide, and “a dollar” by the sable sentry of whom he happens to ask a question. The town of Cape Haytien he finds surrounded by the rotting bodies of dead animals; the ruins of fine old country-seats are occupied by filthy black squatters; the new houses going up are built by the process of throwing single bricks one after the other from the ground to the bricklayer. Squalor and braggadocio he finds everywhere. The general who has given him a permit to inspect Christophe’s stronghold sends a messenger secretly in advance with instructions reversing his order: the commandant refuses lodgings to “the American who has come to take the fort.” Some friends of the consul who had received a general invitation to accompany the excursion had previously backed out, because the stranger was an American, a reputed commissioner, and very unsafe company. Mr. Hazard could only obtain permission to swing his hammock in the house of a negress; a citizen who pointed him out to the others made the signs of throat-cutting; and he left behind him the filibustering reputation of the American who came to take the citadel. Naturally disgusted by this time, the author renounced his intention of further land-traveling, and passed in a steamer around the western end of the island to Port-au-Prince. Here he was delighted with the entertainment of our present minister to Hayti, Mr. Bassett, a Philadelphia quadroon of uncommon qualities and collegiate education. “Some of my most delightful hours,” says the writer, “were spent enjoying the kind hospitalities of Mr. Bassett and his lady.” He represents the minister as living in a palace built for the emperor Soulouque, and playing a part in the revolutionary conflicts of the island similar to that of Minister Washburne in revolutionary Paris. The brave conduct of Mr. Bassett during the brief presidency of the unhappy Salnave deserves mention. About three thousand humble blacks, frightened by the rebellion of the “aristocracy,” fled to the protection of our flag, and the minister, though shot at in the streets and without the support of a single man-of-war, saved and fed them all. It seems to be not much to its credit that our nation, though very tender of Hayti when the question of Dominican annexation is raised, has never reimbursed its ambassador for this drain on his private purse for the succor of Haytian lives. With Port-au-Prince, where the writer awaited his steamer’s departure for the United States, the journey terminates. The traveler’s evident disgust with almost every manifestation of Haytian attempts at self-government is balanced by his rapture with the natural features of the other end of the island. He writes as an ardent annexationist–not so much from the humanitarian view of President White and Dr. Howe, as from the belief that Santo Domingo, if once made our territory, would soon enrich our treasury from its commerce and its uncommon adaptability as a watering-place. We have spoken of this book as very thorough. It is so in every respect–historical, pictorial and narrative. The list of books pertaining to the subject occupies alone eight pages of small print: as the author, however, evidently wishes this list to be approximately complete, and as he seems to be aware of but few books except those in the British Museum, we will oblige him, as possibly useful for a future edition, with the titles of some which he does not give: one of these especially, Dr. Brown’s _History and Present Condition of St. Domingo_, we are surprised he does not include, as it is one of the most popular and useful books on the topic, and a manual of which we imagined every commissioner to have got a chapter by heart daily when on the way to Samana:
Las Casas, “Destruccion de las Indias,” Sevilla, 1552; Desportes, “Histoire des Maladies de Saint Domingue,” Paris, 1770, 3 vols.; Petit, “Droit Publique des Colonies Francaises” (containing the “Black Code”), Paris, 1777; Nicolson, “Histoire Naturelle de Saint Domingue,” Paris, 1776; Valverde, “Idea del Valor de la Isla Espanola,” Madrid, 1785; Puysegur, “Navigation aux Cotes de St. Domingue,” Paris, 1787; D’Auberteuil, “Considerations sur la Colonie, etc.,” 1776; Coulon, “Troubles en Saint Domingue,” 1798; Malouet, fourth volume of his “Colonial History,” 1802; Dubroca, “Toussaint l’Ouverture,” 1802; Tonnerre, “Memoires, Histoire d’Haiti,” Port-au-Prince, 1804; Laujon and Montpenay, “Precis,” 1805, 1811, 1814 and 1819; Bercy, “De St. Domingue,” Paris, 1814; Herard Dumesle, “Voyage,” Port-au-Prince, 1824; Clausson, “Revolution de Saint Domingue,” 1819; Malo, “Histoire d’Haiti,” Paris, 1825; Wallez, “Biography of General Boyer,” 1826; Macaulay, “Abolition d’Esclavage,” 1835; J. Brown, M.D., “History and Present Condition of Saint Domingo,” 1837; Chaucheprat, “Le Routier des Antilles,” 1843; Schoelcher, “Resultats de l’emancipation anglaise,” 1843; Emile Nau, “Histoire des Caciques d’Haiti,” 1855; Saint-Amand, “Histoire des Revolutions d’Haiti,” Paris, 1860; Pradine (ex-minister to England), “Digest of Laws of Hayti,” Paris, 1860.
Thorvaldsen: his Life and Works. From the French of Eugene Plon, by I.M. Luyster. Boston: Roberts Brothers.
Thorwaldsen’s life lasted from 1770 to 1844, and was very industrious. He was the son of a Copenhagen ship-carver, and received all his bent from the study of the antique in Italy. The works he left are almost innumerable, and some of them will have lasting reputation. The finest perhaps is his medallion of Night, “launched with infinite lightness into space, carrying in her arms her two children, Sleep and Death.” This masterpiece is said to have been conceived during a sleepless night in 1815, and modeled in one day. His Lion at Lucerne, made to commemorate the Swiss guards at Paris who fell in defending the Tuileries, August 10, 1792, is known to every tourist: it is altogether conventional, but it is not commonplace. “Never having seen a live lion,” says his biographer, “he went to antique statues for inspiration:” he thus, at two or three removes from Nature, secured a grand, monumental conception, fully charged with human intelligence. The colossi of Christ and his Twelve, now to be seen with the artist’s other works at Copenhagen, and formerly exhibited at the World’s Fair in New York, are imposing and classical, while they perhaps show the absence of the Christian idea noted in his other clerical subjects. Thorvaldsen, born a Lutheran, was a spectator in Rome of bigotry and skepticism, and took refuge in artistic impartiality. A friend once observing that his want of religious faith must make it difficult to express Christian ideas in his works, “If I were altogether an unbeliever,” he replied, “why should that give me any trouble? Have I not represented pagan divinities?–still, I don’t believe in them.” The life of this artist was one of consummate worldly success; the kings of Bavaria and Denmark were the personal friends of the unlettered son of the ship-carver, as were Horace Vernet, Walter Scott, Andersen, and Mendelssohn; his casket of decorations was the amusement of his lady visitors; and his invitations were so constant that he could not always remember the name of his host: he was at once parsimonious and charitable, cheerful and melancholy. His artistic influence was very strong, exhibiting itself in the style of Tenerani, Galli, Rauch, Drake and Bissen. The life of him by Plon is methodical and complete, and the American version is illustrated by thirty-five careful engravings printed in Paris and gummed upon the sheets.
Expiation. By Mrs. Julia C.R. Dorr, author of “Sibyl Huntington,” etc. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.
_Expiation_ is an interesting American story, with a background of lonely woods that protect the rustic privacy of Altona, and a list of characters that combine city culture and country eccentricity. Patsy, the grim and self-sacrificing “help,” who observes drily of a statue representing Eve with the apple that “some things is decent and some things ain’t,” is the best delineation in it, but the style is always lively, always feminine and pure, and the conception of the high-bred, aristocratic family, come to bury their mistakes and miseries in a forest seclusion, would have been thought worthy of being worked up by Emily Bronte. The catastrophe, where a dumb nun turns out to be a lost wife given over to the undertakers in a state of catalepsy, is perhaps not quite new, but it is striking and vigorously told, and her union at last with her husband’s sons and the girlish bride of one of them is very touching. The novel is full of local American color, and entices the attention from the reader’s first plunge to the end.
Wanderings in Spain. By Augustus J.C. Hare, author of “Memorials of a Quiet Life,” “Walks in Rome,” etc. London: Strahan & Co.; New York: Dodd & Mead.
This companionable book tells you how to travel over the Spanish Peninsula by means of a slight knowledge of the Castilian tongue, a bold infidelity to Murray’s _Guide_, a cake of soap and some Liebig’s broth, and a habit of universal politeness. “Pardon me, my sister,” said the author to a beggar-woman at Barcelona: “does not your worship see that I am drawing?” “Ah, Dios!” she answered, “blind that I was! worm that I am! So your worship draws? And I–I too am a lover of the arts.” On the other hand, a stiff-necked Englishman traveling from Seville to Xeres sent his driver to dine in the kitchen of an inn on the road. The driver, who in his heart thought that he would have been doing great honor to a heretic by sitting at the same table with him, concealed his indignation at the time, but in the middle of the road, three or four leagues from Xeres, in a horrible desert full of bogs and brambles, pushed the Englishman out of the carriage, and cried out as he whipped on his horse, “My lord, you did not find me worthy to sit at your table; and I, Don Jose Balbino Bustamente y Orozco, find you too bad company to occupy a seat in my carriage. Good-night!” Another story, of time-honored repetition, is here restored to what may possibly have been its true parentage. A gypsy, on his knees to his priest, is tempted by the father’s snuffbox and steals it. “Father,” he says immediately, “I have one more confession: I accuse myself of stealing a snuffbox.” “Then, my son, you must certainly restore it.” “Will you have it yourself, my father?” “I? certainly not,” answered the confessor. “The fact is,” proceeded the gypsy, “that I have offered it to the owner, and he has refused it.” “Then you can keep it with a good conscience,” answered the father. Such are the glimpses of Spanish character. We could easily bear to have more of them; but the author, accompanied with ladies, and an antiquarian by habit and nature, gives more sketches of ruins, and of landscapes which are usually found “hideous,” than of the infinite whims of national manners. His contempt for Spanish landscape appears to us to amount to a disease: he scorns honest Murray for describing Valencia’s mud huts as “pearls set in emeralds,” and says that O’Shea’s eulogy of her as “the sultana of Mediterranean cities” is a glowing picture of what is dismal enough in reality. In fact, we are afraid that Mr. Hare has not exactly the artist’s eye, and cannot easily admire a scene in which he is not physically comfortable. But he has rich and heart-warm descriptions of the Alhambra, the Escorial, and the ruins of Poblet near Tarragona, where an order of patrician monks lived in incredible luxury until a time within present memory, when they were scattered by a tumult and their sculptured home crushed into dry and haggard ruin. This book cannot compare with his _Walks in Rome_, which was the careful record of a familiar and a resident; but it is the result of a very lively curiosity and the record of a mind evidently stored with history and romance. Excepting Colonel Hay’s inimitable _Castilian Days_, it is the best recent book about the country which it skims over.
Marie Derville: A Story of a French Boarding-school. From the French of Madame Guizot de Witt, by Mary G. Wells. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.
French fiction when playing off innocence or when intended for uncontaminated ears attains a blank intensity of virtue that our own literature cannot hope to rival. The French “juvenile” still guards that beauteous ignorance of slang or of other small vice which the American schoolboy regards as poverty of resource or incapacity, and which he has put off with his frocks and his _Parent’s Assistant_ and his _Sanford and Merton_. But _Marie Derville_, when its accent of Berquin is allowed for, is a varied and interesting tale, affording many a glimpse into that country guarded about with such jealous walls–middle-class childhood in France. Marie is the child of a sea-captain who goes to China, disappears for many years, and comes back at last, after a narrow escape from massacre, saying, “How strange it was to find myself on the eve of becoming a martyr–to die for the Christian religion when one is so poor a Christian as I!” His wife and two or three of Marie’s grandparents meantime unite to conduct a boarding-school on the sea-shore, the history of which enterprise forms the bulk of the tale. Here the American reader learns with surprise that the French little girl, who is never actually seen otherwise than perfect and doll-like, is really subject in private to a few of the faults common to Miss Edgeworth’s heroines, such as selfishness, gluttony and laziness. But the story of the school is on the whole sunshiny and prosperous, and _Marie Derville’s_ young readers will follow with delight the career of these prim little beings, so much more governed than themselves, as they go picnicking on the sea-beach for mussels, make flannels for the cholera-patients of a fishing village, or learn to recite the fable of “The Country Rat” without making it all one word in their hurry. The story is very healthy and happy, and the translation excellent.
_BOOKS RECEIVED._
The Teacher’s Companion to the American Drawing-slates and Cards. With Cards. By Walter Smith, Art Master, South Kensington, London, State Director of Art Education in Massachusetts. Boston: Noyes, Holmes & Co.
Keel and Saddle: A Retrospect of Forty Years of Military and Naval Service. By Joseph W. Revere. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co.
Helps over Hard Places. For Boys. Second series. By Lynde Palmer. Illustrated. Troy, N.Y.: H.B. Nims & Co.
Cyclopedia of the Best Thoughts of Charles Dickens. By F.C. DeFontaine. Nos. 2-5. New York: E.J. Hale & Son.
Liza: A Russian Novel. By Ivan S. Turgenieff. Translated by W.R.S. Ralston. New York: Holt & Williams.
The Witch of Nemi, and other Poems. By Edward Brennan. London: Longmans, Green & Co.
The First Differential Coefficient. By John Newton Lyle, A.M. St. Louis: Review Steam Press.
A Lonely Life. By J.A. St. John Blythe. Philadelphia: T.B. Peterson & Brothers.
Life of Major-General Meade. Philadelphia: T.B. Peterson & Brothers.
Sunshine and Shadows in Kattern’s Life. Boston: Henry Hoyt.