Only imagine yourself, says a writer in the Journal of Commerce, in a little row-boat, passing around the northern coast of Ireland. In the distance, you seem to look upon an immense castle, flanked by double rows of cylindrical columns. It seems so fortress-like, this massive structure rising from the depths of the sea, that you expect to find guards and wardens, soldiery and arms; but as you approach nearer it loses that castellated appearance, and gradually lessens in magnitude until there remains only a huge stone wall, extending around the coast for miles. It is composed of gigantic pillars, cut into prisms, three-sided, five-sided, eight-sided—side fitting to side—variously jointed, joint corresponding to joint, innumerable irregularities conformed into such beautiful regularity, that you are struck with awe at so perfect a monument of skill, and ask involuntarily to what great artist your praise is due; what year marked the foundation-stone; what force formed each cylinder, and joined in uniform contact such irregular masses? The toil of many a lifetime has been spent on far meaner designs, and proud wealth has gloried in much less wonderful relics of man’s invention.

Passing onward and still onward, for this columnar structure bounds a great extent of seacoast, you come upon a vast gateway of stone work, like the rest, but formed into a wide arch, not Gothic, nor Norman, but unique, and perfect as peculiar. Its entrance is kept by huge waves, that for centuries have been rolling higher and higher, to bar the gateway that is open still, so your tiny boat rises with their swelling, and you pass through, not, as you had expected, to find the sky above you still, but into the recesses of a mighty cavern, whose vaulted roof is formed of stones, many cornered and many colored. You should be there at sunset, as we were, to see the dashing waters sparkling with gold, and the stones radiant with crimson light. You would be awed into silence; for there is something fearful in the thought of a chamber built without hands; but should your feelings find vent in words, your ears would be stunned by the deafening sound of even your sweet voice, dear Bel, so heavy is the echo there. I had been always very anxious to see the inside of this famous cave, with its ocean door, and its stony wall hung with sea-weed tapestry, but I assure you I was not less eager to see the outside of it again; I had no ambition to interfere with a solitude too desolate for aught save the cawing of rooks, and the twittering of swallows.

The average height of the basaltic columns constituting the Giant’s Causeway is thirty feet; but the whole neighborhood is strewn with detached fragments of the same species of rock, that in their picturesque confusion seem the broken pillars of some ruined temple. These columns in combination, these heptagons, hexagons, octagons and triangles all joined in perfect symmetry, as if hewn for corresponding measurements, form, when you have climbed the rocky ascent to their level summit, a tessellated pavement, where one may promenade in scorn of the fierce waves that incessantly dash against their base, as if they sought to hurl the firm rocks into oblivion. It is quite amusing to listen to the wonderful harangues of the numerous barefooted urchins that follow you all the way along the shore, offering themselves for guides, and their tongues for teachers. They were all born within sight of the “auld Giant’s” dominions, and the only history they ever learned is comprised in wild legends about the stones and crannies that the giant once ruled. From morning to evening they walk before you, behind you, and seem to rise from the stones on every side of you, offering their “spacermens” of the “Giant’s Punch Bowl,” “his honor’s walking-stick,” and various other remarkable relics, “the very last” of which has been sold and resold for twenty years back, and will be for twenty years to come, to every visitor who will “lend them the loan of a sixpence to break their fast with.”

The little ragamuffins tell you that their father is dead, and their mother is poor; and in the grief of your heart you buy, and buy, and buy, until you have no more money to pay, and no more hands to carry their useless pebbles; and finding new faces, and hearing new tales continually, the plot thickens so unmercifully, that you cease to believe any thing because you have believed so much, and in self-defense are forced to turn away from the masonic pile that owns no mason—from the old arm-chair that no cabinet-maker ever planned—from the huge bowl where none but a giant could drink—and the organ-pipes to whose identity the roaring waves lend so real an illusion. But a sight of the Giant’s Causeway, in spite of its nonsensical traditions and its fabulous legends, is a commentary too impressive ever to be forgotten, on the power and might of its great Creator. And long years hence it will stand, firm and enduring, as it ever has stood, in its solemn, awful grandeur, to annihilate the atheist’s doubt, and to silence the sceptic’s sneer.

HYMN,

FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CHURCH.

———

BY REV. S. DRYDEN PHELPS.

———

How glorious is thy dwelling,

O Lord of Hosts, on high,

Where angel anthems swelling

Fill all the boundless sky:

In more than Eden splendor

The heavenly mansions shine,

Where praise the ransomed render,

In worship all divine.

On earth, among the lowly,

Thou hast a gracious reign—

The kingdom of the holy,

The church, the born-again;

And temples, reared by mortals.

The homes of truth and love.

Are hallowed as the portals

Of Paradise above.

Make this thy habitation,

And here thy name record;

With blessing and salvation

Our prayers and toils reward;

Let dews of grace descending,

On every heart distill;

And humble throngs come bending

To know and do thy will.

The Spirit’s living beauty

To all thy servants give,

And strength for every duty,

That each to thee may live;

Till, in his chariot gleaming,

The Saviour comes to bear

The souls of his redeeming

To heavenly mansions fair.

THE ACADEMY OF NATURAL SCIENCES OF PHILADELPHIA.

It has been frequently said the building at the north-west corner of Broad and George streets looks poverty caste, that is, its external indications lead to a suspicion it is of a poor family, while if it were rough-caste it would have such a tidy, smart look, that no mere passer-by would suspect there are any poor relations connected with it. That edifice is a small arena where a few courageous men do battle for Truth. Were they to consent to rough-caste, or stucco, or plaster over the unsightly surface of their street fronts, while they are in debt, they would make a false show to the public which would be altogether inconsistent with the object of the Society to which that edifice belongs. The object of that Society is to ascertain the truth, and to point it out to the human race, beginning of course with citizens of Philadelphia. It must not be imagined, reader, gentle or fair or both, that the Society to which the rough brick walls alluded to belongs, is engaged in any fanciful or visionary or transcendental occupation. It does not spend time in listening to testimony or seeking evidence of truth of the kind asserted to exist in the doctrines of Hanneman, of Preisnitz, of Broussais, or in the published certificates of the efficacy of Perkins’ metallic tractors, or somebody’s galvanic rings, or anybody’s sarsaparilla syrup, or in Kossuth’s theory of intervention, or in the editorial predictions printed in the daily newspapers; but the members of the Society in question battle for Truth which is truth, and not for the flimsy dictum of men. They seek to ascertain the facts of the Creation, and the yet hidden causes which bind them together in relations of eternal harmony and peace. They seek in the atmosphere for signs to lead to the comprehension of the laws which regulate its movements; they study the vegetable growths of forest and field to learn how to increase the products of the soil; they inquire into the nature and habits and structure of the living inhabitants of the air, the earth, and the seas, to know the best and easiest modes of rendering them profitable to society; they dive beneath the surface of the land, and drag to light the buried remains of those animals which dwelt on earth countless years before man made any mark of his presence in the universe, indeed before he had existence: and in that building they bring together, under one view, the physical, palpable evidence of their statements, and expose all to the gaze of the inquisitive without charge. The inquiries or researches of men of the class constituting the Society to which the not very polished structure belongs, have led to the discovery of various coal-beds and mines of metallic ores, and the means of illuminating our cities with gas. They are plain, simple, unostentatious citizens, who seek the truths, the facts of the creation for the common good of all. This circumstance is in itself almost enough to satisfy any intelligent man of the world the Society must be pecuniarily poor, and therefore, at present, unable to plaster over the walls of their workshop, merely to make them agreeable to the eyes of those who do not care to view the wonders within.

The building of which we speak was founded on the 25th of May, 1839, by the “Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia,” a society which was begun on the 25th of January, 1812, and incorporated by an act of the Legislature of the State of Pennsylvania on the 24th of March, 1817.

The object of the Institution is to cultivate the Natural Sciences exclusively, and to diffuse a knowledge of them amongst the people. Of the 409,000 inhabitants of Philadelphia, about 150 only are now engaged in this laudable enterprise, which is little known and little understood by the community. Its members include representatives of almost all vocations; clergymen, physicians, lawyers, merchants and mechanics, who devote simply leisure moments to the study of natural history. For this purpose they have formed a museum and library of books on the natural sciences and on the arts. At this time, the museum contains nearly 150,000 objects of natural history, and the library almost 14,000 volumes.

The “Hall of the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia” is forty-five feet front on Broad street, and one hundred and fifteen feet on George street, with an elevation of fifty feet. The style of architecture is plain and unpretending; and, as already intimated, the exterior remains unfinished for want of funds, all the resources of the Society being required to meet the current expenses incurred for preserving the objects in the museum, binding, books, warming and lighting, etc. etc.

The visitor is admitted at a door on Broad street, and ascends a flight of stairs, on the left hand as he enters the vestibule. He finds himself in a spacious saloon, one hundred and ten feet in length and forty-two feet broad, lighted from the roof and tall windows at the east and west extremities. Three ranges of galleries, supported on light and graceful iron columns, surround the apartment. The walls are hidden by glass-cases, filled almost to overflowing with specimens of natural history. Three ranges of flat cases occupy the floor, in which are arranged fossil organic remains, illustrative of that department of natural science termed palæontology. The American specimens are in the southern, and the foreign in the middle and northern range of cases; the whole constituting a collection of more than 60,000 individual specimens. Among them are some of great rarity and interest. There are several of those gigantic fish-lizards, called ichthyosaurians, imbedded in massive limestone; teeth and bones of the mastodon, of elephants, of an extinct species of bird, found in New Zealand, called the Dinornis; impressions of coal-plants, etc. etc. On the southern side of the hall is a collection of skeletons and parts of skeletons of mammals, birds, reptiles and fishes; and the extraordinary collection of human skulls, brought together here from all parts of the world, by the late Dr. Samuel George Morton, so extensively known for his publications in various departments of the history of the human race. On the northern side is a collection of mammals, representing about 200 species of the various quadrupeds. The cases on the galleries are occupied by the extraordinary collection of birds, which is three times more extensive than that of the British Museum; it contains at this time 27,000 specimens, of which no less than 22,000 are labeled and beautifully mounted, and as well displayed as the want of space will permit. Among the mammals are a specimen of the polar bear, obtained during the voyage recently made under the command of Capt. De Haven, in search of Sir John Franklin, and a fine male specimen of the Rocky Mountain sheep, a very rare animal, this being, it is believed, the second specimen ever brought to this city; the first was obtained by Capt. Lewis, during his famous expedition with Clarke to the Rocky Mountains, more than thirty-five years ago.

Besides the collections alluded to, there are others of great interest which are not exhibited for want of space. The collection of crustaceans or crabs, and that of reptiles, are equal to any in Europe. The specimens of shells number 25,000; and of minerals more than 4000; but they are not at present accessible to the public for want of room to display them. The herbarium or hortus siccus, contains 46,000 species of plants.

The value of the library is not easily estimated by the number of its volumes. It contains many works which are not possessed by any other library in the United States; and on this account is often visited by scientific men from a distance.

The Society meets every Tuesday evening throughout the year; and publishes periodically a journal of its proceedings, which is circulated among the learned societies of all parts of the world.

Since the year 1828 the museum of the Academy has been open gratuitously two afternoons in every week; tickets of admission on Tuesday and Friday afternoons, from one o’clock P. M. till sunset, are furnished on application to any member of the Society.

The Institution is sustained by the annual contributions of the members, and by donations from those generous persons who are friends of natural science. The names of donors to the museum and library are attached always to whatever they present, and are published in the journal of proceedings.

A full history of this most valuable but little known institution has been recently printed; copies of it may be obtained, at a trifling cost, from the doorkeeper on days when the hall is open to the public.

DISTRIBUTION OF THE HUMAN RACE.

———

BY THOMAS MILNER, M. A.

———

In the scale of being man rises above mere animal life and sensation, however delicate and varied, and beyond mere instinct, whatever that mysterious faculty may be, to rational existence, which constitutes him “the minister and interpreter of nature.” The most sagacious and instinctive of the brute creation live and die without the least comprehension of the vast system of which they form a part; but man is capable of surveying the whole with thought and reflection, of understanding its economy and purpose, of tracing the Author of the work, and marking the display of his perfections, of yielding to Him adoration and homage, and sanctifying the varied scene to moral uses. Sometimes, in the spirit of lurking infidelity to the announcements of Scripture respecting the attention paid to our race by Divine Providence, philosophy has paraded before us its demonstrations concerning the plan of the universe, and called upon us to contemplate its stately forms and vast dimensions. We may obey its summons, and return from the contemplation with renewed ability to “vindicate the ways of God to man.” For what knows the sun of his own brightness, or the lightnings of their force, or the planets of their velocity, or the ten thousand stars of their mighty proportions? The universe of material things can neither think nor feel, but is perfectly unconscious of itself; whereas man can appreciate to a certain extent its design, derive enjoyment from its objects, track their course, comprehend their laws, gather from them an intellectual apprehension of the wondrous Artificer, make them subservient to morals and devotion; and thus the grandeur of nature illustrates the greatness of man.

Linnæus placed man in the order of Quadrumana, or four-handed, in fellowship with the monkey tribe, and even considered the genus Homo as consisting of two species, the ourang-outang being the second, the congener of the human being. Cuvier, with an obvious propriety, has departed from this classification, and placed man in an order by himself, that of Bimana, or two-handed, in allusion to the prehensory organs with which he is furnished. They are instruments of essential moment to their possessor, and form a characteristic mark of his nobility, for, strictly speaking, he is the only bimane. In several physical respects, man is far inferior to many of the lower animals. The elephant is his superior in bulk and power, the hawk in sight, the antelope in swiftness, the hound in scent, and the squirrel in agility. No animal, in the infancy of existence, continues for so long a period in a state of helplessness and dependence, or suffers for an equal interval infirmity in age. To every other animal nature supplies an appropriate clothing, for which they “toil not, neither do they spin”—the office of man; without which, he would live and die in the nakedness of his birth. No parallel to his case can be found in the animal kingdom, in relation to the slowness of his growth, the variety of his wants, and the numerous diseases to which he is exposed; and while animals directly adapt to their support the food that is suited to them—the lion his flesh, and the ox his grasses—the greater part of the human aliment, according to the practice of all nations, is subject to preparing processes, more or less rude or perfect, in order to be rendered agreeable and nutritious. These are apparently the hardships of the human condition; but a regard to their moral and intellectual effect will strip them of the character of disadvantages. If endowed with a high degree of physical force, if free from the necessity of culinary preparation, if naturally arrayed against the exigencies of climate, and thus constituted with a greater amount of personal independence—it may reasonably be inferred, that civilization would not have made its present advances, that mental capacity would have remained largely undeveloped, and the career of man have exhibited a succession of melancholy oscillation, between intemperate ferocity and selfish indolence. The sense of his weakness and the pressure of his wants have contributed to call forth his resources, to stir up “the gift and faculty divine,” to rouse inventive powers to action which would otherwise have continued dormant, and to excite benevolent affections, by the demand he is compelled to make for the society of his kind; and thus the very disabilities of his mere animal being tend to evoke his higher nature, and to accomplish one of the designed ends of his creation by sheer intellectual power, that of having “dominion over the fowl of the air, and over the fish of the sea, and over the cattle, and over every creeping thing that creepeth on the earth.”

The human population of the globe has been commonly rated at eight hundred millions, but this is probably an error in excess. The statements of geographers vary considerably, as appears from the following estimates of two of the most distinguished, MM. Malte Brun and Balbi. The former justly remarks, that all the calculations that have been made upon the subject are chimerical, and that it is impossible to state any which shall even approximate to the truth.

		Malte Brun.	Balbi.
Population of	Europe	170,000,000	227,700,000
	Asia	320,000,000	390,000,000
	Africa	70,000,000	60,000,000
	America	45,000,000	39,000,000
	Oceanica	20,000,000	20,300,000
		-----------	-----------
	Total	625,000,000	737,000,000
		-----------	-----------

But however uncertain the numbers of the human race, maritime and inland discovery show the wide dispersion of the species, to the extreme bounds of vegetable life; and the extraordinary facility of the human frame in accommodating itself to diverse circumstances. There are but few tracts of land which have not within their limits an indigenous human population. The antarctic continent, the Falkland Isles, and Kerguelen’s Land, with Nova Zembla and Spitzbergen in the northern zone, are the principal exceptions. St. Helena is also another; for when that island was discovered, in 1501, it was only occupied by sea-fowl, occasionally visited by seals and turtles, and covered with forest-trees and shrubs. However small the coral islands of the Pacific, and remote from continents, they have in general their families of men. The New World, though very scantily peopled, has the Esquimaux at its northern extremity, within ten degrees of the pole, and the Fuegians at its southern end, perhaps in the lowest condition in which humanity exists upon the face of the globe. In the Ancient World, we every where meet with traces of man and of his works, except in the zone of deserts; and even here he has planted his race in the oases, the verdant islets of the great ocean of sand. In situations high and low, dry and moist, cold and hot, we find members of the family to which we belong, enduring the extremes of temperature; a degree of heat which on the banks of the Senegal causes spirits of wine to boil, and of cold in the north-east of Asia which freezes brandy and mercury.

Esquimaux Hut.

This wide diffusion of the species, occupying every variety of climate, soil, and situation, necessarily involves the fact of man being omnivorous, or able to derive support from all kinds of aliment; for otherwise, if the nourishment depended exclusively upon animal or vegetable food, various regions where the race exists and multiplies would be incompatible with the easy maintenance of human life. In the cold and frozen north, beyond the range of the cereal plants, where excessive poverty marks the only vegetation that appears, the tribes of Esquimaux draw their support entirely from the land and marine animals, principally from fish and seals; and this is also the case with the miserable Petcheres, inhabiting a corresponding district in the southern hemisphere, the chill and barren shores of Tierra del Fuego. On the other hand, the condition of many interior tropical countries is not propitious to the subsistence of an extended population of the domestic animals and the common cerealia, owing to the number of the beasts of prey and the interchange of a flooded and a parching soil; and there we find large families of men chiefly sustained by a peculiar farinaceous diet, the fruits of the plantain and the palm. In the temperate zone, a plentiful supply of both animal and vegetable food is met with, which mingle in the aliment of the inhabitants. Thus, as we approach the poles, man does not live by bread at all, the Esquimaux being unacquainted with it; while approaching the equator he is mainly supported by vegetable nutriment; and intermediate between them, he is strikingly omnivorous, various kinds of grain and flesh composing the staff of life. Some naturalists have proposed a classification of mankind, according to the species of food by the use of which they are distinguished. Thus we have carnivorous, or flesh-eaters; Ichthyophagists, or fish-eaters; Frugivorous, or fruit and corn-eaters; Acridophagists, or locust-eaters; Geophagists, or earth-eaters; Anthropophagists, or man-eaters; and Omnivorous, or devourers of every thing. But we have no tribes of men that exclusively belong to any one of these classes. The only clear division that can be made of the human race, taking their food as a characteristic, is the very general one already stated, between the inhabitants of polar, temperate, and tropical regions; and growing intercommunication is constantly lessening the amount of difference even here, by transporting the aliment yielded in abundance in one district to another naturally destitute of it. The locust-eaters include some of the wandering Arabs of northern Africa and western Asia, where the crested locust, one of the largest species of the tribe, is made use of for food, both fresh and salted; in which last state it is sold in some of the markets of the Levant. Morier, in his Second Journey to Persia, observes, that locusts are sold at Bushire as food, to the lowest of the peasantry, when dried; and he adds, that “the locusts and wild honey, which St. John ate in the wilderness, are perhaps particularly mentioned to show, that he fared as the poorest of men.”

In considering the distribution of mankind, it is an obvious reflection that, to secure the general diffusion of human life, the same necessity did not exist, as in the case of plants and animals, for parent stocks to be originally planted in different regions of the globe. It has been correctly remarked, that had an individual of each tribe of plants, and a pair of each tribe of animals, been called into being in one and the same spot, the Linnæan hypothesis, large regions, separated by wide seas and lofty chains of mountains from the country containing that single spot, would forever have remained almost, if not entirely, destitute of plants and animals, unless at the same time means had been provided for their dispersion far more effectual than any which we behold in operation, and a constitution more accommodated to diverse climates had been given to them. To accomplish the dissemination of animal and vegetable life, to an extent commensurate with the capacity of the globe, separate regions were supplied with distinct stocks of plants and animals. But the case of man required no such arrangement to secure a large occupancy of the earth with his species. Endued with a constitution capable of accommodating itself to extreme diversities of climate, and with intelligence to invent methods of protection against atmospheric influences; enabled also by the same intelligence to devise means of transport over the most extensive seas, and across the most formidable ranges of mountains, it is clear, that, possessed of these capabilities, the whole habitable earth might be replenished with his race from the location of a single pair. This is the doctrine of the Mosaic history, and also of another part of the sacred record, which declares that God “hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth;” and notwithstanding numerous and important diversities, the conclusions of philosophical inquiry are clearly in harmony with it, establishing the unity of mankind.

Before touching upon the question of the common nature and origin of the human race, a necessary preliminary to the question of their diffusion, it may be requisite to state the sense of certain terms of common occurrence in natural history, as species, genus, and varieties. A race of animals, or plants, which constantly transmit from one generation to another the same peculiar organization, constitute what is technically called a species; and two races are held to be specifically distinct, where a marked difference or organization exists, which is unvaryingly transmitted. A species, therefore, includes those animals and plants which may be presumed to have sprung from the same parent stock. “We unite,” says De Candolle, “under the designation of a species, all those individuals who mutually bear to each other so close a resemblance as to allow of our supposing that they may have proceeded originally from a single being, or a single pair.” The term genus has a more comprehensive signification. It is applied to a group of animals or plants, the several tribes of which seem constructed after a common general model, each being distinguished from the rest by a peculiarity of organization, for which we cannot account but by supposing them to have proceeded from originally different individuals. Animals of the horse kind, which includes the ass and the zebra, furnish an example of genus. They display the phenomena of general resemblance, but with such marked differences, which are regularly transmitted, that we cannot suppose them the common offspring of the same individuals, but to have descended from originally different pairs. Animals of the feline race, as the cat and the tiger, and of the bovine kind, as the ox, buffalo, and bison, are similar instances of genera. A genus, therefore, embraces several species. But within the limits of a species varieties occur, or deviations from the type exhibited by the parent stock, which are due to external causes, climate, soil, food, and other agencies, which have an obvious and marked effect upon animal and vegetable forms, however little their operation is understood. Some of these varieties are transient, but others become fixed and permanent in the race, and are so optically striking, as in several cases to suggest the idea of a specific difference, where the species is identical. Now, the question to be considered in relation to man is, whether the diversities which he exhibits in different parts of the globe are compatible with his race coming under the denomination of a species, having a common ancestry; or whether it forms a genus including several tribes, having a general resemblance, but so characteristically different as to lead the philosophical investigator to the verdict, that the diverging streams of humanity have originated independent of each other, and have not proceeded from the same fountain head.

In prosecuting this inquiry, one method to be adopted is to review the principal external differences observable among mankind, as to complexion, structure, and stature; and examine, whether analogous diversities appear among the lower animals within the limits of the same species. If it is ascertained that corresponding phenomena to the human variations occur in the case of animals belonging to an identical species, the chief objection is obviated to the unity and common origin of the human kind.

1. The most obvious distinction displayed by mankind is that of color, in relation to the skin, hair, and eyes, which, with few exceptions, are well known to have a certain correspondence, intimating their dependence on a common cause. Thus light-colored hair is very generally in alliance with light blue or gray eyes; but a relation of the complexion of the skin to the hue of the hair is still more invariable. Persons of light hair have a fair and transparent skin, which assumes a ruddy tint by exposure to the light and heat of the sun, while the complexion of black-haired individuals is of a darker cast, and acquires a bronze shade in proportion to the intensity of the solar influence admitted to it. The dark-haired women of Syria and Barbary are indeed frequently very white; but this is owing to the careful avoidance of exposure to the effect of climate, which Prichard calls a being “bleached by artificial protection from light, or at least from the solar rays.” He discriminates three principal varieties of mankind, taking the color of the hair as the leading character, which he styles the melanic, the xanthous, and the leucous. The melanic or black variety, includes all individuals or races who have black or very dark hair; the xanthous or fair class embraces those who have either brown, auburn, yellow, flaxen, or red hair; and the leucous or white variety comprises those who are commonly called albinos, whose hair is either pure white or cream-colored.

The great majority of the human race belong to the melanic or black-haired variety, with a corresponding hue of the skin. This hue varies from the deepest black to a copper and olive color, and to a much lighter shade. The Senegal Negroes are jet black, and the natives of Malabar, with other nations of India, are nearly so. In some races, the black combines with red, and in others with yellow, as in the instance of the copper and olive colored tribes of America, Africa, and Asia; and the same indigenous population furnishes examples of great discrepancy as to the character of the tint. “The great difference of color,” says Bishop Heber, of the Hindoos, “between different natives struck me much. Of the crowd by whom we were surrounded, some were black as Negroes, others merely copper-colored, and others little darker than the Tunisines, whom I have seen at Liverpool. It is not merely the differences of exposure, since this variety of tint is visible in the fishermen who are naked all alike. Nor does it depend on caste, since very high caste Brahmins are sometimes black, while Pariahs are comparatively fair. It seems, therefore, to be an accidental difference, like that of light and dark complexions in Europe; though where so much of the body is exposed to sight, it becomes more striking here than in our own country. Two observations,” he elsewhere observes, “struck me forcibly; first, that the deep bronze is more naturally agreeable to the human eye than the fair skins of Europe, since we are not displeased with it even in the first instance, while it is well-known that to them a fair complexion gives the idea of ill health, and of that sort of deformity which, in our eyes, belongs to an albino.” The same class includes the swarthy Spaniards, and the inhabitants of southern Europe in general, who have dark hair, with the melanic complexion only strongly dilute, which characterizes the olive, copper-colored, and negro nations. In the xanthous or light-haired variety, who have commonly gray or azure-blue eyes, combined with a fair complexion, which acquires a ruddy instead of a bronze tinge on exposure to heat, some whole tribes in the temperately cold regions of Europe and Asia are included. Red or yellow hair and blue eyes peculiarly characterized the old Gothic races according to the testimony of Tacitus, and are prevalent among their descendants at present. But examples of the xanthous variety present themselves in every dark-haired race, and we gather from Homer, that it was not uncommon among the Greeks of his time to find a melanic family. “The Jews, like the Arabs,” says Prichard, “are generally a black-haired race; but I have seen many Jews with light hair and beards, and blue eyes; and in some parts of Germany, the Jews are remarkable for red, bushy beards. Many of the Russians are light-haired, though the mass of the Slavonian race is of the melanous variety. The Laplanders are generally of a dark complexion, but the Finns, Mordouines, and Votiaks, who are allied to them in race, are xanthous. Many of the northern Tungusians, or Mantschu Tartars, are of the xanthous variety, though the majority of this nation are black-haired.” Even among the more swarthy races of the melanic class, as the Negroes of Senegal, examples of fair-haired individuals, with the corresponding complexions, occur; and the native stock of Egypt supplies similar instances, as appears from the light brown hair of some of the mummies. The leucous or white variety includes no entire race of people; but occasionally albinos, with perfectly white hair and skin, and red or pink eyes, appear in all countries—among the xanthous tribes of Europe, the copper-colored nations of America, and the pure blacks of Africa. The phrase, white Negroes, though a literal contradiction, exactly expresses the physical fact—a white individual of a black stock. In some instances, pure white and black children have mingled in the same family, the offspring of black parents.

The cause of the introduction of these varieties of color among the inferior animals of the same species, which have become permanent, is involved in great obscurity; but we have good reason to suppose that differences of climate, situation, food, and habits, are some of the influential agencies in their production, chiefly perhaps the former, which appears to operate to a considerable extent in the various coloring of the human race. Both the plants and animals of hot regions display the deepest colors with which we are acquainted, while lighter shades are characteristic of those that are situated in cold countries. Within the tropics, the birds, beasts, flowers, and even fishes have the respective hues of their feathers, hairs, petals, and scales uniformly very deeply tinctured; while, as we recede from the equator, the color of the animal races progressively becomes of a lighter cast, till, approaching the poles, white is their common livery. The same remark is true very generally of the complexion of mankind. The black, dark-brown, and copper colors prevail in equatorial districts; the lighter olive is distinctive of the nations immediately north of the tropic of Cancer; and still lighter shades become more universal in the higher latitudes. The Abyssinians are much less dark than the Negro races, for though their geographical climate is the same, their physical climate is very different, the high, table-land of the country placing them in a lower temperature. Shut up within the walls of their seraglios, and secluded from the sun, the Asiatic and African women are frequently as white as the Europeans; while, in our own country, exposure to the sun is well-known to produce a deeper complexion, and artificial protection from its influence is adopted to preserve a fair and unfreckled skin. The larvæ of many insects deposited in dark situations are white, and acquire a brownish hue upon being confined under glasses that admit the influence of the solar rays. Facts of this kind indicate the powerful operation of diverse climates in the various coloring of the human skin, and are sufficient to show, that the different complexions of mankind are mere varieties of species, introduced and made permanent by the continued action of local causes.

2. The next most obvious and important of the human differences involves variety of structure, especially in the shape of the skull. Taking this as the basis of a classification, Professor Blumenbach proposed a division of mankind into five grand classes—the Caucasian, Mongolian, Ethiopic, American, and Malay, which has been very generally adopted. The principal descriptive particulars of each, as given by that distinguished naturalist, are the following:

In the Caucasian race, the head is of the most symmetrical shape, almost round; the forehead of moderate extent; the cheek-bones rather narrow, without any projection; the face straight and oval, with the features tolerably distinct; the nose narrow, and slightly arched; the mouth small, with the lips a little turned out, especially the lower one; and the chin full and rounded. This is the most elegant variety of the human form, and the most perfect examples of it are found in the regions of Western Asia, bordering on Europe, which skirt the southern foot of the vast chain of the Caucasus, from whence the class derives its name, and which is near what is supposed to be the parent spot of the human race. Here are the Circassians and Georgians, the most exquisite models of female beauty. But the Caucasian class includes nations very dissimilar apart from the form of the head. Its members are of all complexions, from the Hindoos and Arabs, some of whom are as black as the Negroes, to the Danes, Swedes, and Norsemen, who are fair, with flaxen hair and light blue eyes. The class comprises the ancient and modern inhabitants of Europe, except the Laplanders and Finns. It comprises also the ancient and modern inhabitants of Western Asia, as far as the Oby, the Belurtagh, and the Ganges—such as the Assyrians, Babylonians, Medes and Persians, Sarmatians, Scythians, Parthians, Jews, Arabs and Syrians, the Turks and Tartars proper, the tribes of Caucasus, the Armenians, Affghans, and Hindoos. It includes likewise the Africans who live on the shores of the Mediterranean, and throughout the Sahara, the Egyptians and Copts, the Abyssinians, and the Guanches, or ancient inhabitants of the Canary Islands, with those Europeans who have colonized America and other parts of the world. The color of the Caucasian class seems mainly to depend on climate, on the degree of solar heat to which there is exposure, for they are all born with light complexions, and become dark only as they grow up, and are more freely acted on by the sun. Their hue is found to deepen by a regular gradation from the farthest north, where the members of this class are very fair, through the olive-colored inhabitants of Southern Europe, and the swarthy Moors of Northern Africa, till the gradation ends with the deep black natives of the African and Arabian deserts, and of inter-tropical India. The lighter shades of color, however, prevail among the Caucasians, and hence they are correctly styled the white race, though some of them are jet black. Their hair is variously melanic and xanthous, always long, and never woolly like that of the Negroes.

In the Mongolian class, that of the brown man of Gmelin, the head, instead of being round, is almost square; the face is broad and flat, with the parts imperfectly distinguished; the arches of the eye-brows are scarcely to be perceived. The complexion is generally olive, sometimes very slight, and approaching to yellow; but none of this class are known to be fair. The eyes are small and black; the hair, dark and strong, but seldom curled, or in great abundance; and there is little or no beard. This division embraces the tribes that occupy the central, east, north, and south-east parts of Asia; the people of China and Japan, of Thibet, Bootan, and Indo-China, the Finns and Laplanders of Northern Europe, and the Esquimaux on the shores of the Arctic ocean. Climate influences the color of many of this class, those parts of the body protected from the sun being much lighter than those that are uncovered. Dr. Abeel mentions, that when he saw the Chinese boatmen throw off their clothes, for the purpose of entering the water to push along the boats, they appeared, when quite naked, as if dressed in light-colored trowsers.

In the Ethiopic division, that of the black man of Gmelin, the head is narrow and compressed at the sides: the forehead very convex and vaulted; the cheek-bones project forward; the nostrils are wide, the nose spread, and is almost confounded with the cheeks; the lips are thick, particularly the upper one; the lower part of the face projects considerably; and the skull is in general thick and heavy. The iris of the eye, which is deep-seated, and the skin of this class, are black, as well as the hair, which is generally woolly. These characteristics of the Negroes vary less than those of the two former classes, because they are chiefly confined to one climate within the tropics, whereas the Mongolians and Caucasians are spread through every variety of temperature, from the equator to the polar circle. The division comprises the native Africans to the south of the Sahara and Abyssinia, and of course those who have been transported to the West Indies and America, the natives of New Holland, and various tribes scattered through the islands of the Pacific Ocean and the Indian Archipelago. Though, for the reason stated, this class exhibits a great general uniformity, examples are not wanting of beauty of feature, and fine stature and proportions, in several races belonging to this department of mankind.

The American variety, that of the red man of Gmelin, approaches to the Mongolian, but the head is less square; the cheek-bones are prominent, yet not so angular as in the Mongol; the forehead is low, the eyes deep-seated, and the features, viewed in profile, are strongly marked. The skin is red, or of an obscure orange, rusty iron, and copper color, sometimes nearly black, according to climate and circumstances. The native American tribes and nations, excepting the Esquimaux, and the descendants of African and European colonists, belong to this class.

In the Malay class, that of the tawny man of Gmelin, the top of the head is slightly narrowed; the face is less narrow than that of the Negro; the features are generally more prominent; the hair is black, soft, curled, and abundant; the color of the skin is tawny, but sometimes approaching to that of mahogany. The division embraces the principal tribes of the Indian archipelago, and all the islanders of the Pacific excepting those which belong to the Ethiopic variety.

The preceding five great divisions of Blumenbach are reduced by some naturalists to three, who consider the Malay class to be only a sub-variety of the Caucasian, and the American a sub-variety of the Mongolian. Cuvier gives only three distinct, well-marked divisions, the white or Caucasian, the yellow or Mongolian, and the Negro or Ethiopic; at the same time stating that several tribes diverge so remarkably, that they can scarcely be referred to any one of these varieties. In reality, the more extended arrangement of Blumenbach is but a very imperfect classification of mankind, for not only individuals but whole tribes, incorporated in each particular division, have distinctive characters which separate them from the rest of the class, and some peculiarities of one division are frequently traceable in the others. The Caucasians might be readily divided into a large number of races, each having definite characteristics. This is the case also with the Ethiopic class, for there is nearly as much difference between the New Hollanders and the woolly-headed Africans, included in the same department of the human species, and between a Bosjesmen, a Caffre, and a Negro of Soudan, who are also comprised in the Ethiopic variety, as between a Caucasian, Mongolian, and Malay. It has also occurred, that from the spirit of conquest and peaceful colonization, nations belonging to the divisions of Blumenbach have become commingled, and have produced, by intermarriage, races which cannot be distinctly traced to either the one or the other of the parent classes. The Mongols, for instance, have spread out from central Asia and largely intermixed with the Caucasians, especially toward their western frontiers, while the Caucasians have intruded into every quarter of the globe, and blended themselves with the native inhabitants of the countries they have overrun. The Europeans and Negroes produce Mulattos; Europeans and Mulattos produce Tercerons; Europeans and Tercerons produce Quadroons, in whom the alleged contamination of dark blood is no longer visible, and the Negro character disappears. On the other hand, the offspring of a Mulatto and a Negro, pairing with a Negro, the decided African character appears in the children. Indians and Europeans produce Mestizos; Indians and Negroes produce Zambos; Europeans and Zambos and Indians and Zambos produce respective varieties. It is obvious, therefore, that the preceding divisions of mankind, principally derived from the supposed origin of nations, can only be regarded as extremely general.

Attending exclusively to the form of the human skull, Dr. Prichard discriminates three leading varieties:—The symmetrical or oval form, which is that of the European and western Asiatic nations; the narrow and elongated skull, of which the most strongly marked example is perhaps the cranium of the Negro of the Gold Coast; the broad and square-faced skull of the Mongols afford a fair specimen, and the Esquimaux an exaggerated one.

3. The other principal physical variations observable between different nations refer to the proportion of the limbs, to stature, to the texture of the skin, and to the character of the hair. Large hands and broad and flat feet are among the peculiarities of the Negro; and in general, the arm below the elbow is more elongated in proportion to the length of the upper arm and the height of the person, than in the case of Europeans. But among the latter, individual examples of the same constructions occur; while among the former, instances of structure after the European type may be found. As it respects stature, the variations are not remarkable in relation to the majority of mankind; but a striking discrepancy appears upon comparing a few isolated tribes. America exhibits the extremes of stature—in the Esquimaux who are generally below five feet, and in the Patagonians who are usually more than six, and frequently as much as seven; but individual specimens of both extremes are observed among the inhabitants of almost every country. Europe has often presented the human form developed in gigantic and dwarfish proportions. The contrasts are striking with reference to the texture of the skin; that of the Negroes and some of the South Sea islanders being always cooler, more soft and velvety than that of the Europeans. Connected probably with varieties of the skin in texture are the various odors which it is well-known belong to different races. “The Peruvian Indians,” says Humbolt, “who in the middle of the night distinguish the different races by their quick sense of smell, have formed three words to express the odor of the Europeans, the Indian Americans, and the Negro.” The diversities are great and obvious in the character of the hair from that of the Negro, which is short and crisp, and has acquired the name of wool, to the long, flowing, and glossy locks of the Esquimaux, between which there are many gradations.

Precisely parallel varieties are ascertained to arise in the same race of animals. Those of the domestic kind “vary from each other in size much more than individuals the most different in stature among mankind.” The small Welsh cattle compared with the large flocks of the southern counties in England; or the Shetland ponies with the tall-backed mares of Flanders; the bantam breed with the large English fowls, are well known examples. More striking instances are mentioned by naturalists. In the isles of the Celebes, a race of buffaloes is said to exist, which is of the size of a common sheep; and Pennant has described a variety of the horse in Ceylon, not more than thirty inches in height. The swine of Cuba, imported into that island from Europe, have become double the height and magnitude of the stock from which they were derived. The disproportionate arm of the Negro and leg of the Hindoo meet an exact parallel in the swine of Normandy, the hind-quarters of which are so out of keeping with the fore, that the back forms an inclined plane to the head; and as the head itself partakes of the same direction, the snout is but a little removed from the ground. Among domesticated animals, no species afford more striking specimens of modification in structure than the hog tribe. The external forms which the race has assumed surpass in monstrosity the most extraordinary diversities of the human frame. “Swine,” observes Blumenbach, “in some countries have degenerated into races which, in singularity, far exceed every thing that has been found strange in bodily variety among the human race. Swine with solid hoofs were known to the ancients, and large breeds of them are found in Hungary and Sweden. In like manner the European swine first carried by the Spaniards in 1509 to the island of Cuba—at that time celebrated for its pearl-fishery—degenerated into a monstrous race, with toes that were half a span in length.” The texture of the skin of several species of animals is different in a wild and in a domesticated condition; and the character of the hair exhibits analogous variations to that of the tribes of mankind. In the instance of a neglected flock of sheep, the fine wool is soon succeeded by a coarser kind, and the breed approximates to the argali, or wild sheep of Siberia, the original stock, which are covered with hair. The covering of the goat and dog displays the same variety. Thus, the several external distinctions from each other which the nations of men develop, must be admitted to be plainly compatible with their forming a single species, when distinctions of a parallel nature, but more numerous and singular, have arisen within the limits of a species in the inferior animal creation. It may be difficult, nay impossible, to explain the phenomena of external variation—but surely it would be a matter of surprise if it did not exist, considering the variation of external circumstances—artic cold and tropical heat—flowery savannas and arid deserts—civilization and barbarism—liberty and oppression—scantiness of food and an abundant supply—nutritious food and a feebly supporting fare—the feeling of security and the sense of danger.

If the existence of varieties of structure and complexion offers no argument against the common nature and origin of the millions of mankind in the slightest degree valid, their identity as a species is strongly supported by adverting to the general laws of their animal economy. These have reference to the manner of their birth, the period of gestation, the duration of life, and the casualties in the form of diseases to which they are subject; and, in all these respects, a general coincidence proclaims the unity of the human population of the globe. As to longevity, it is the case indeed that the barbarian tribes are shorter-lived than the cultivated races; but this is owing to the physical hardships under which they suffer, and to ignorance of the appropriate remedies to use under the assailments of sickness, freedom from the former and a knowledge of the latter being possessed by all civilized nations. Facts prove that, in circumstances favorable to extreme longevity, the Europeans, the most polished communities, have no preëminence over the tribes of Africa, among the least advanced in the social scale. Mr. Easton, of Salisbury, gives the following instances of advanced age from the Europeans and Asiatics—

	In A. D.	Aged.
Appollonius at Tyana	99	130
St. Patrick	491	122
Attila	500	124
Leywarch Hêw	500	150
St. Coemgene	618	120
Piastus, King of Poland	861	120
Thomas Parr	1635	152
Henry Jenkins	1670	169
Countess of Desmond	1612	145
Thomas Damme	1648	154
Peter Torton	1724	185
Margaret Patters	1739	137
John Rovin and Wife	1741	172 & 164
St. Mougah or Kentigern	1781	185

In juxtaposition with this list, we may place the following observation of Humbolt relating to the native Americans: “It is by no means uncommon,” he remarks, “to see at Mexico, in the temperate zone, half-way up the Cordillera, natives—and especially women—reach a hundred years of age. This old age is generally comfortable; for the Mexicans and Peruvian Indians preserve their strength to the last. While I was at Lima, the Indian, Hilario Sari, died at the village of Chiguata, four leagues distant from the town of Arequipa, at the age of one hundred and forty-three. She had been united in marriage for ninety years to an Indian of the name of Andrea Alea Zar, who attained the age of one hundred and seventeen. This old Peruvian went, at the age of one hundred and thirty, a distance of from three to four leagues daily on foot.” Dr. Prichard, from various sources, collected a variety of remarkable instances of Negro longevity, of which the two following are samples—

December 5th, 1830—Died at St. Andrews, Jamaica, the property of Sir Edward Hyde East, Robert Lynch, a negro slave in comfortable circumstances, who perfectly recollected the great earthquake in 1692, and further recollected the person and equipages of the Lieutenant-governor Sir Henry Morgan, whose third and last governorship commenced in 1680; viz.—one hundred and fifty years before. Allowing for this early recollection the age of ten years, this negro must have died at the age of one hundred and sixty.

Died, February 17th, 1823, in the bay of St. John’s, Antigua, a black woman named Statira. She was a slave, and was hired as a day-laborer during the building of the gaol, and was present at the laying of the corner-stone, which ceremony took place one hundred and sixteen years ago. She also stated that she was a young woman grown, when the President Sharp assumed the administration of the island, which was in 1706. Allowing her to be fourteen years old at that time, we must conclude her age to be upward of one hundred and thirty years.

The same authority received from a physician at St. Vincent’s as an answer to his query this statement—

“I have known a great many very old Negroes, whose exact ages could not be ascertained. At the time of the hurricane in 1831, I had a record of the mortality in the whole of my practice from the year 1813, and in every year there were deaths of Negroes computed to be sixty, seventy, or eighty years of age, and upward. My father will be eighty-four years old in May next, and the Negro woman who carried him about as a child is still living, and at the age of ninety-six enjoying good health, upright in figure, and capable of walking several miles.” It may be true that the Negroes regarded in mass exhibit a shorter term of life than the European average; but this is sufficiently explained by the privations of their lot in the colonies to which they have been transported, and by an unfavorable climatic influence and geographical site in their native country. The preceding facts show, that there is no law forbidding the Negro to attain a longevity equal to that of the European, in circumstances friendly to it; while placing the European in subjection to the same amount of toil in the West Indies, or planting him amid the swamps, the luxuriant vegetation, the inundations, and heat of Western Africa, and his term of life in general would not come up to the Negro standard. It appears from the researches of Major Tulloch, as embodied in statistical reports printed by the House of Commons, that neither the Saxon, nor Celtic, nor mixed race, composing the troops of Great Britain, can withstand—even under the most favorable circumstances—the deleterious influence of a tropical climate. It is shown, also, that this result is not to be attributed to intemperance, the besetting vice of all soldiers; for though temperance diminishes the effects of climate, and adds to the chances of the European, it is by no means a permanent security. So far as regards the vast regions of the earth, the most fertile, the richest, the question as to their permanent occupancy by the Saxon and Celt—as Britain, or France, or any other country, is now occupied by its native inhabitants—appears, from these reports, to be answered in the negative. “The Anglo-Saxon is now pushing himself toward the tropical countries; but can the Saxon maintain himself in these countries? It is to be feared not. Experience seems to indicate that neither the Saxon nor Celtic races can maintain themselves, in the strict sense of the word, within tropical countries. To enable them to do so, they require a slave population of native laborers, or of colored men at least. The instances of Cuba, Brazil, Mexico, and Columbia, where the Spanish and Portuguese seem to be able to maintain their ground, do not bear so directly on the question as many may suppose; for, in the first place, we know not precisely the extent to which these have mingled with the dark and native races; and secondly, the emigrants from Spain and Portugal partook, in all probability, more of the Moor, Pelasgic, and even Arab blood, than of the Celt or Saxon.”

A careful comparison of different tribes leads to the conclusion, that the general phenomena of human life, or those processes which are termed the natural functions, the laws of the animal economy, are remarkably uniform, making allowance for the influence of climates, of modes of living, of localities, and of the accidents which interrupt the natural course. The age of puberty announces itself by corresponding symptoms, and that of advanced life by analogous signs of decrepitude, the decrease of the humors, the loss or decay of sight, and of the other senses, and a change in the color of the hair. All communities of men appear open to the attack of all kinds of disease, though a few haunt particular districts, and of course only prey upon those who are exposed to their invasion. In some cases, it is only the old inhabitants of these neighborhoods that are attacked, as in the instance of the plica polonica, which afflicts the Sarmatic race on and near the banks of the Vistula, from which the German residents are in a great measure free. But this proves no specific difference between the two, but only shows that, to acquire a predisposition to certain local complaints is a work of time, and will probably appear in new settlers after the lapse of centuries. There is a well-marked variety in the constitution of nations, and in their liability to certain given disorders; but the difference between the torpid American and the irritable European is not greater than the common varieties of constitution which meet us within the bounds of the same family, and which render its different members peculiarly subject to different complaints. The conclusion to which these considerations point—that of the identity of mankind as a species—is strongly supported by the fecundity of the offspring of parents of different races. Hunter and other naturalists have advanced it as a law, that if the offspring of two individual animals belonging to different breeds is found to be capable of procreation, the parent animals—though differing from each other in some particulars—are of the same species; and if the offspring so engendered is sterile, then the races from which it descended are originally distinct. This is a position to which there are many exceptions; but it is undoubtedly true, that the energy of propagation is very defective in the product of a union of different species. Tried by this test, the inference is in favor of a common nature belonging to all mankind; for the mixture of originally far-separated human races has repeatedly resulted in a numerous population, physically equal, and in many instances superior, to either branch of the ancestral stock.

A variety of evidence—psychical and moral, physical and philological—rebukes the ancient boast of Attica, that the Greeks descended from no other stock of men; the first occupants of the country springing out of the soil—an opinion held by the populace, but not the creed of the philosophers. One of the most distinguished anatomists of the day, who cannot be suspected of any prejudice upon the question—Mr. Lawrence—draws this induction from an extensive series of facts and reasonings—“that the human species—like that of the cow, sheep, horse, and pig, and others—is single; and that all the differences which it exhibits are to be regarded merely as varieties.” In what particular spot the location of the primal pair was situated, and what race now makes the nearest approximation to the original type, are points of some interest, but of no importance, and are now involved in an obscurity which it is impossible to remove. That the primitive man occupied some part of the country traversed by the Tigris and Euphrates appears to be the best supported opinion, as it is the most general; and from thence there is no difficulty in conceiving the diffusion of the race to the remotest habitable districts, in the course of ages. In the infancy of society, an increasing population would speedily outstrip the means of subsistence to be found in a limited district, inducing the necessity of emigration to an unoccupied territory—a proceeding which the natural love of adventure, with the spirit of curiosity and acquisition, so influential in later ages, could not fail to facilitate. Considering the connection of Asia, Africa, and Europe, the approximation of the northern parts of the two great continents, with the contiguity of the islands of Asia to it, we cannot marvel that the races spreading out to these points, should devise means to cross rivers, scale mountains, penetrate into deserts, and navigate the sea. The spur of necessity, the excitement of enterprise, the stimulus of ambition, the occurrence of accident, and sometimes the influence of fear, created by the commission of crime, have all contributed to this result; but perhaps man has more frequently than otherwise become the involuntary occupant of isolated and distant isles. Three inhabitants of Tahiti had their canoe drifted to the island Wateoo, a distance of five hundred and fifty miles; and Malte Brun relates that, in 1696, two canoes, containing thirty persons, were thrown by storms and contrary winds upon one of the Philippines, eight hundred miles from their own islands. Kotzebue also states that, in one of the Caroline isles he became acquainted with Kadu, a native of Ulea. Kadu, with three of his countrymen, left Ulea in a sailing-boat for a day’s excursion, when a violent storm arose, and drove them out of their course. For eight months they drifted about in the open sea, according to their reckoning by the moon, making a knot on a cord at every new moon. Being expert fishermen, they were able to maintain themselves by the produce of the sea; and caught the falling rain in some vessels that were on board. Kadu—being a diver—frequently went down to the bottom, where it is well known that the water is not so salt, taking a cocoanut shell with only a small opening to receive a supply. When these castaways at last drew near to land, every hope and almost every feeling had died within them; but, by the care of the islanders of Aur, they were soon restored to perfect health. Their distance from home, in a direct line, was one thousand five hundred miles.

EXCERPTS

FROM AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

———

BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.

———

Good Friend—dear heart—companion of my youth,

Whose soul was honor, and whose words were truth;

Methinks I see your smile of quick surprise,

As o’er these rhymes you glance your curious eyes.

But is it strange, if in an idle hour,

I cull these blossoms from the Muses’ bower?

Frail though they be, and blown but for a day,

The heart’s best language they may best convey;

In climes more genial, more adorned than ours,

The poet and the lover talk with flowers;

Then, though some richer gift were mine, to send,

This should be thine, my old familiar friend.

If for a while it cheat thee of a care,

With fond remembrance of the things that were—

Renew a thought, a hope that once was dear,

Or hint an adage for a future year,

I scarce shall think these lines were vainly writ,

Nor quite disown my Muse’s random wit.

Time, that has made us boys, and makes as men,

Will never, never bring the past again;

But wingéd memory half the wish supplies,

Which he who bears the scythe and glass denies:

He—the grim sexton of our dying years—

She—“Old Mortality” of sepulchres—

Both lay their fingers where our lives have flown,

And touch, in turn, each monumental stone.

Recall, my friend, the days when sent to school,

We framed our first idea of tyrant rule.

Long ere we turned the world’s dark pages o’er,

Glued with the vassal’s tears, the martyr’s gore—

Knew that a Cæsar passed a Rubicon,

Or wrongful Britain laid a Stamp-act on,

We drudged in study at another’s will,

While the free light fell warm on wood and hill—

Wrought with the service of an eye askance,

Beneath a master’s rogue-detecting glance:

Possessed with fear, lest trick or task might draw

The rod that fell without the forms of law;

Possessed with wrath to see our wealth expire—

Tops, apples, penknives in the penal fire.

How oft the slate, whose sable field should show

Platoons of figures ranked in studied row—

Squadrons of sums arrayed in careful lines—

Victualled with grocer’s bills of fruits and wines,

Betrayed a scene that crowned a day’s disgrace,

Before that sternly, sadly smiling face—

Trees, houses, elephants, and dogs and men,

Where half the Arabian’s science should have been;

And only this much learned, of figured lore,

That time subtracted—always left a score.

But when those long-loved hours were come, that took

From those reveréd hands the rod and book,

Our, like all vassal hearts, set quickly free,

Sought at a bound the largest liberty.

Self-exiled then, to meadow stream and wood,

We dropped half-read the tale of Robin Hood;

Though guiltless of his suits of Lincoln green,

Dear, as to him, was every sylvan scene.

Shade of old Crusoe, with thy dog and gun,

And thy lone isle beneath a southern sun!

Shades of the lords that made such rare disport

Beneath the oaks of Arden’s rural court!

As o’er my little day I cast my view,

Contrasting what I know, with what I knew,

Your lot no hardship seems: to you were given

The world of nature and the lights of heaven,

What time the sun came flaming from the deep,

Bursting the curtained clouds of morning sleep,

Or night, majestic, paced the solemn skies,

Wrapped in a woof of starry mysteries—

All times, all seasons, as they came and went,

Soothed with sweet thought the ills of banishment.

No rude, unbidden guest invaded there,

Nor the harsh din of congregated care;

The heart, all ruffled in the haunts of men,

Like to a quiet sea became again—

Like to the deep reflection of the skies,

Its faith-born hopes, and sage moralities.

This much, at least, my devious muse would say:

Our golden age, my friend, has passed away—

Passed, with the careless dress, and elfin looks,

That showed our books were trees and running brooks.

But something more I would awhile recall,

Then let, with lingering hand, the curtain fall.

Dear to this heart—O now how passing dear,

With the sad change of each dispatchful year!—

Seems every waif of hours when life was new,

Though home’s small scene contained its little view.

Home that, however mean or grand, supplies

A gay kaleidoscope to youthful eyes.

Say not, gray Wisdom, that its wonders pass,

The mere deceit of beads and broken glass.

Here, to thy rugged front, and locks of snow,

Thy solemn eye, and beard’s descending flow,

I dare avouch, of life’s most pleasing way,

The best is gilded with the morning ray.

See all our life the coinage of our eye;

(O shut thy book—let go philosophy!)

In Youth the pennies pass, ’tis no less strange

That Age and Manhood clink the silver change.

Through all estates our joys alike are vain;

Then chide not one who turns to youth again.

One rainbow vision of youth’s earnest eyes

Is worth a stack of staid philosophies.

Fields, waters, forests where we roamed of yore,

What thronging memories haunt ye evermore:

In yonder glen the brook is gliding still,

Whose turf-dammed waters turned the mimic mill.

Yon wood still woos us to its deep embrace,

Whose shadows wrought a summer’s resting place,

When from our brows the caps were careless thrown,

The hunter’s tackle and the game laid down,

As the long daylight, wearing towards a close,

Breathed the soft airs of languor and repose.

There, stretched at length, we mused, with half shut eye,

To the leaf-kissing wind’s light lullaby,

That, ever and anon, with murmur deep,

Did through the pine’s Æolian organ creep.

Tired with the varied travel of the day,

The sound of game unheeded passed away—

The bursting thunder of a partridge wing—

The frolick blue-jay’s nasal caroling—

The tawny thrush, that peeped with curious look,

A rustic starer, from his leafy nook—

The crow, hoarse cawing as we met his eye—

The squirrels, bickering on the oaks hard by;

Red-liveried elves, who taught their brains to say—

“Whene’er the cat doth sleep the mice may play.”

No more they feared the gun’s successless skill,

Banged with clear malice, and intent to kill,

But shelled their nuts with self-complacent air,

And chid as, plainly, for invading there.

Through loopholes of the intertwisted green

Came the far glimpse of many a sylvan scene—

Parts of a smiling vale, a glorious sphere,

Warm with the vigorous manhood of the year;

Deep-bosomed haunts, where honest-handed toil

Renewed the strength that dressed his native soil,

While the gray spire, towards the drooping west,

With heavenward finger, showed a world of rest.

OH, WOULD I WERE A CHILD!

———

BY MARIE DELAMAIE.

———

Oh, would I were a child again!

A child with spirit free,

Singing glad songs of merriment

Beneath the hawthorn tree,

Watching the many-colored clouds

Pursue their course on high,

Trying to count the silver stars

That gem the evening sky,

Weaving, beside bright sparkling streams,

A wreath of sunny flowers,

Or reading wondrous fairy tales,

In green, sequestered bowers.

The lights, the sounds of Nature then

My happy hours beguiled;

Would I could feel their power again—

Oh, would I were a child!

I chose my sprightly playmates then

For simplicity and mirth,

I cared not for the lofty

Or the great ones of the earth;

Rich in the love of cherished friends,

I asked no monied store,

Save to relieve the beggar’s wants,

That wandered to my door.

I wrote my artless verses then

Without effort, toil, or aim,

And read them to a list’ning group,

Without a hope of fame;

By worldly views, ambitious dreams,

My thoughts were undefiled;

Would I were now as free from care—

Oh, would I were a child!

Yet soon my youthful heart began

To spurn a life like this,

I deemed the far-off glittering world

A fairy land of bliss;

I left my playmates to their sports

And castles built in air;

I dreamed of scenes through which I moved

A lady, proud and fair,

And, while my short and simple tasks

With careless haste I conned,

I longed to study learned lore

My feeble powers beyond—

Like Rassalas around me

The Happy Valley smiled,

Yet I longed to leave its limits

And cease to be a child.

The magic circle of the world

I now have stood within,

Yet I turn from its frivolity,

I tremble at its sin.

And Knowledge! my long cherished hope,

The object of my love,

She still eludes my eager quest,

Still soars my grasp above;

I add from her bright treasury

New jewels to my store,

Yet miserable, I murmur

That I cannot grasp in more,

Before me seem exhaustless heaps

Of mental riches piled,

Yet still, in learning’s brightest gifts,

I feel myself a child.

Oh foolish, oh repining heart,

Thus willfully to cast

Vain wishes to the Future,

Fond longings to the Past!

Panting to overleap the bounds

Of childhood’s simple track,

Anxious to ’scape from woman’s cares

And trace the journey back;

Should I not rather be content

To pass from youth to age

Striving to do my appointed work

In life’s short pilgrimage?

Then let me school my rebel heart,

And calm my fancies wild,

And be in meek, submissive love

Indeed a little child.

A NIGHT IN THE DISSECTING-ROOM.

———

BY MRS. LOUISE PIATT.

———

Fatherly, motherly,

Sisterly, brotherly

Feelings had changed:

Love by harsh evidence

Thrown from its eminence,

Even God’s providence

Seeming estranged. Bridge of Sighs.

Medical students are merry fellows. This is one of the settled convictions of the world. Any one who dare assert that medical students are not lively, reckless youths, would be considered very ignorant, or devoid of truth. And the world in a received opinion is right for once. The majority of them, bred at home, the sons of wealthy parents, are sent to large cities, to pass in crowds the season of lecture; and, being suddenly removed beyond restraint, and countenanced by each other, it is little wonder they break into youthful extravagance, that too often ends in habits of sin and misery. The short passage between the hospital and dissecting-room rings with laughter, and the wild exuberance of youth blooms like a flower, rich and rank among graves. The hotel in which I have passed the winter, is in the neighborhood of a medical college, and my two little rooms look down upon the street along which troups of students pass laughing and chatting—in their queer dresses, made up of sacks, blouses, and caps. From time to time, as my health would permit, I have, reminded by these youths, given the history of a medical student, who came from the same sunny plains upon which I passed three of my happiest years. I give it here much curtailed, and only regret that facts cannot be made more entertaining.

The scenery of the U-na-ka plains is exceedingly beautiful and peculiar. Yet one traveling from early morn till even, over roads level as a railway, may at last become wearied with a sameness of quiet beauty that seems to be without end. But to see the specimens preserved in Frankenstein’s sketches, is to have a life-pension in pictured loveliness. The green sward, cropped close by huge droves of cattle, stretches out for miles and miles, dotted by groves of bur-oak, interlacing their gnarled boughs, upon which the bright green foliage hangs denser than that of any other species of American tree, or threaded by silvery rivulets that glide slowly along between flowery banks, as if they seemed loath to leave the paradise they adorn, or broken by little wood-covered mounds that swell up like islands in a flowery sea; or one sees a little lake calmly mirroring the quiet heavens above, like a beautiful nun in a cloistered convent. No rocks, no distant mountains melting in the hazy noon—no wide seas or sweeping rivers—no swelling uplands, yet in their own, quiet way the U-na-ka plains are as beautiful as they.

As the Frankensteins selected knots of still beauty to immortalize on canvas, so the Hon. William Fletcher selected a scene of exceeding beauty in the midst of which to place his home, and gratify his taste for retirement, where he could look the fairest nature in the face. A dreamy, indolent man of fine intellect, he had struggled for years at the bar with various success, when, through the influence of some friends, he was elevated to the bench, and shortly after, a near relative dying, left him an immense fortune. The judge gave up his judgeship, presented his fine library to a nephew, and, with wife and only child, retired to his U-na-ka farm, to settle down over books and dreams for the remainder of his useless life. He would have certainly accomplished this sleepy purpose, but for the only child—a boy—who acted upon the Hon. Mr. Fletcher like a corn, with the difference that love, not hate, made the young development of himself exceedingly troublesome.

The younger Fletcher, humored by the indolent father and fond mother, had every whim gratified, every wish anticipated. When the educated selfishness proposed breaking his neck by riding a colt that seemed unmanageable, the proposition was acceded to by the foolish parents amid earnest protestations, prayers, and loud lamentations. From the time he fell from the table, in a fit of indigestion, having gorged himself with plum-cake, to his nineteenth year, when he discharged a load of small shot from his double-barrel Manton into the back of John, the coachman, and cost his father a large sum to keep his heir out of jail, Dudley Fletcher had his own way—and a bad way it was. Yet Dudley was popular. He had plenty of money, and no care for it. His selfishness was ignorant thoughtlessness, for he did many generous acts—if they cost him little trouble. His hand went to and from his well-filled purse quite easily—and he flung his father’s money from him like a lord.

When in his nineteenth year, one pair of sparkling black eyes at least saw Dudley dash by upon his blood mare without dislike. These eyes belonged to a little girl, the daughter of one of the Hon. Fletcher’s tenants; and however beautiful the orbs were, the setting was in keeping. A prettier specimen of Heaven’s choicest handiwork never peeped out in hill and woodland. Upon the most exclusive carpets she would have been a distinguished feature, so delicate, graceful and beautiful was she; but in the U-na-ka wilds, she looked like a water-lily turning up its pure, pale face from a marshy pool. Dudley, just at the age when youths, like creepers, stretch out their arms to cling to something, saw and loved the little cottager—the tenant’s daughter. Dudley had ever been gratified with all he sighed for, and, of course, saw no obstacle in the path to obtain what he so earnestly admired. He waded in to pluck the lily, never seeing the slime and earth that might cling to him in the act. To do the youth justice, however, he was as sincere and honest in his hopes, as thoughtless, selfish youths ever are. He paled apace—his appetite came like country cousins, unexpectedly; he read much poetry, and wandered about at unseasonable hours. His fond, good mother, said the private tutor kept Dudley too close at his books. The Hon. Fletcher said the boy had the dyspepsia—the tutor hinted the truth, but no one listened.

How the youth prospered in his wooing, the tutor himself soon had striking proof. This private pedagogue was a large, dirty man, who wore his hair standing on end, and kept his nails in mourning. Somewhat indignant at not being heard when he suggested the real cause of Dudley’s trouble, this mortal made himself a committee of one, to investigate and report. By close watching he discovered that his pupil was in the habit of stealing out at a late hour of the night to stroll past the cottage, whistling as he went a popular melody. By closer observations he discovered that soon after this performance, a white little fairy flitted by and disappeared in the willow grove, that fringed the brook. Ah! ha! thought the tutor, we will have occular proof. He gave himself up to a few days’ hard thinking, which resulted in a plot. One dark night, shortly after he had the Hon. Fletcher and his hopeful closeted in deep discourse, while the mother sat with her knitting close by, throwing in a few maternal remarks upon Dudley’s ill-health and close application, the redoubtable tutor wrapped himself comfortably in the idea of a successful trick, and stalked past the cottage and whistled, well as he was able, the popular melody. Then he stole into the willow grove. The night, as I have said, was dark and stormy. The heavens, veiled by heavy clouds, gave no light, and the willows swung to and fro in the fitful winds that swept through them. The tutor listened—he heard a quick, light step, and turned. Alas! no loving arms were clasped around his neck, no gentle words were whispered in his ears, but, in their place, a cudgel fell upon his nose, breaking down that important feature. The blow knocked the tutor down, but recovering, with a wild cry of murder, he fled—his speed greatly increased by a shower of thumps that for awhile rained upon his back. He reached the house, and, with a face like Banquo’s, rushed through the library, frightening the Hon. Fletcher, wife, and son terribly.

The next morning the elder Mr. Fletcher was wondering what confounded scrape that fool tutor had been in. Thomas Wickley, the father of the pretty Mary, entered his apartment. He came in, as justly indignant fathers always do upon the stage, and told his story very much as Reynolds or Coleman would have had him.

“You say my son has been paying improper attention to your daughter?”

“I do.”

“And that you beat him for it?”

“Yes—and I guess he carries the marks this morning, for I made them last night.”

The Hon. Fletcher opened wide his blue eyes, and then burst into a roar of laughter. Wickley looked at the unseasonable merriment sullen and indignant. The Hon. Fletcher smoothed his wrinkled front immediately.

“Excuse me, sir; my merriment is out of place. I feel deeply for you—but I can soon convince you of a slight mistake.”

“No you can’t,” was the rude response.

“Yes, I think I can; and let me assure you, I give no countenance to such things. If you wish, they shall be married, or this fellow must quit my house. Wait one moment, I have sent for my son.”

“Judge Fletcher, you are an honest man, if you are rich,” began Wickley, when he was interrupted by the entrance of Dudley. The young man started when he saw the visitor; but his face was as smooth as youth and soap could make.

“You say you beat my son last night—he did not leave the house: You say you beat him—he certainly does not look in that plight.”

The man stared, evidently puzzled; but fumbling at his pocket, he pulled out a bundle of letters, and spread them before his honor.

“I don’t know who I did beat last night. I did beat some one, that’s a fact. But maybe you’d tell me who writ them?”

The judge took the first papers. It was Dudley’s writing, and, at arm’s length, looked frightfully like poetry. He examined it closely, and found a lyric of seventeen verses, of an amorous, mystic character. The reader must not think me romancing if I give as specimens a few lines of the best. Men in love will spin out just such gossamer threads, that, floating in the merry sunlight of youth, look very beautiful. A steady member of the bar, who, I doubt not, is at this moment in his dull, grim office, pouring over musty law books, looking as if the jingle of a rhyme would be as annoying as a poor client, did, once upon a time, address volumes of verse to me, until he found that I was in a fair mood to label all as “rejected addresses,” when he suddenly took to special pleading with eminent success. To poor Dudley’s poetry.

’Tis sad, sweet May, to part with thee,

More sad than words may tell;

To give thy form to Memory,

To breathe a last farewell;

How long thy every thought and tone

Of mine have been a part;

And now to tread life’s path alone,

Oh! well may break my heart.

As dew is to the drooping flower,

As night-stars to the sea,

As sunlight to the summer hour,

Is thy sweet voice to me.

Oh! gentle May—soul of my heart—

Oh! wild-bird of the wood;

Thy holier nature grows my part

Of all that’s pure and good.

“Did you write this stuff?” asked the father, after he had, with cruel deliberation, read the seventeen verses, while Dudley stood by, his face covered with blushes.

“I did, sir.”

“And what do you mean by it—am I to understand that you have been secretly addressing this man’s daughter?”

“Yes, sir. I love Mary Wickley, and intend to marry her.”

This little speech had been carefully prepared in anticipation of just such a scene; and Dudley intended to speak it boldly and well, as the preface to an eloquent effort in behalf of virtuous love and a cottage ornée. But, alas! between the resolution and the act lay a wide difference. He faltered out the first sentence, and the last words died, suffocated in his throat; and he stood before the cold, calm face of the judge, more like a criminal than an advocate. Mr. Wickley was quite astonished and puzzled at Judge Fletcher’s not following up his bold, virtuous sentence of marriage or expulsion. Mary’s father was dismissed with vague promises of justice, and Dudley locked in his room. After which, Judge Fletcher, wife, and tutor, went into solemn deliberation with closed doors. The result of that consultation was a determination to send Dudley into honorable exile. “He is old enough to enter upon the study of a profession,” said the judge, “and we will place him in Doctor Calomel’s office, and let him live with his aunt, Mrs. Col. Hays. He will see something of the world, and be cured of absurdities in behalf of love and poverty.”

The dim twilight of the next early dawn saw Dudley seated by the driver upon the stage, and, as he felt the huge affair swing under him, the horses trotting briskly along, the cool fresh breeze fanning his cheeks, and birds making vocal the road-side, the sensation was not that of the utter desolation that fell upon the heart of the little girl who saw the blushing morn and merry birds through tears. The one had change of scene, and elegant solitude, leisure and quiet to minister to his miseries—the other choked down her grief before a harsh unfeeling parent, and turned to weary drudgery, lightened by no kind words, no looks of gentle sympathy. Save us from our friends should read—Lord, save us from our natural guardians.

Dudley, in the midst of the vast city, opened his books under the guidance of Doctor Calomel, and entered society under the guardianship of Mrs. Col. Hays. Dr. Calomel taught him the grand mystery of dosing—Mrs. Col. Hays gave him lessons in the sublime mystery of being dosed. This lady, elegant, beautiful, and rich, had great sway in what is considered “the world.” Her house was thronged with fashionable nonentities—her will undisputed, and her wishes carefully considered by a dozen other families, who held in common with her iron sway over society. She was cold, correct, graceful—in fact, a thoroughbred woman of the world. No stain had ever fallen upon her snowy character; she turned with freezing dignity upon the slightest departure from rectitude, and yet was the most perfect teacher of vice Satan ever commissioned. Dudley was dazzled and delighted; and when he compared the splendor of his aunt’s drawing-room, satined, slippered, powdered and perfumed, the contrast between Mary—poor little Mary—and those fashionables in his mind, was great; and when Mrs. Col. Hays made a casual allusion to that “little love-scrape” in the country, shame entered and took side with love. He did not love her less, but he pitied her more; and the brave thought of an humble home and happy fireside took flight, never, never to return.

Mrs. Col. Hays—lady of Col. Cabell Hays—had some unseen spirit whispered harshly in your ear, while you were sitting in your cushioned pew, listening to that divine man, the Rev. Theodore Smoothe, preach from a marble pulpit, upon the righteousness of right and the sinfulness of sin, that you had opened a rosewood door and shown the downward path carpeted and beautiful to a poor, innocent boy, that, under your care, was hastening on to misery and death—what an awful chill would have fallen upon your soul. Yet this is what you have to answer for; and no beautifully sculptured stone, telling of a virtuous wife and Christian neighbor, will save you!

Dudley continued to love the little May, he could not help that; but it was not with the pure love that once made life so beautiful. He wrote long, burning letters frequently to her, and received long, truthful letters in return. With what a beating heart she stole in the crowd that thronged the village post-office upon the day the great coach came in, and sitting timidly upon a coil of rope, heard her name called out by the greasy postmaster, as he sorted over the letters. With what a trembling hand she gave the pay and hastened away with the dear unopened letter. How she hid herself in retired places, in the woods, in the cellar or garret, and read and read, through tears of joy, the delicious poison. What Dudley received in his gay life he transmitted in letter to the poor girl. How the heart sickens at the miserable lies that line a way like this.

A year rolled by, and Dudley returned to pass a summer’s vacation at his father’s house. How changed they found him. No longer a willful, bashful boy, he now came out in all the colors of an accomplished, impudent, empty-headed scamp. I will not pause to tell of his meetings with Mary—of the many hours passed together without the knowledge of parents or friends. Six weeks fled by, and Dudley returned to his books, to society, to vices he now followed up with an eagerness that can only be accounted for by a restless desire to drown all remembrance of the past. He received letters frequently from Mary, long, sad, wretched letters, blotted with tears. He answered them with hasty scrawls, one note to a dozen letters, and at last ceased to answer them at all. He ceased to study, his nights were passed in brawls, drunken orgies, his days in sleeping off the effect of bad wine and exhausting revelry.

I have not the heart to detail the sufferings of poor little Mary. How she toiled on from day to day, between sleepless nights of agony and shame, until her cheeks seemed washed away by tears. Her parents, suspecting the truth, treated her harshly. Summer had faded into autumn, and autumn into winter. Weeks and weeks had gone by without a word from Dudley. When filled with despair, one night, after a harsh lecture from her misguided father, she promised on the morrow to tell him all. With this promise she was permitted to retire, but not to rest. Soon as the door of her little room was closed, she sat down and wrote for her parents the bitter truth. Then gathering her cloak about her shoulders, she fled into the dark, wintry night. She would go, she would seek Dudley, for what purpose she could not say—but at home there was no hope, no life.

Through the long dismal night the poor girl walked along the rough frozen road that led to the city. Over wide dreary fields that seemed to stretch out in the gloom of night, miles and miles away: through groaning woods, that shrieked in the winds as they rubbed their giant arms together: past farm houses—with windows, from which twinkled little lights, and where the deep-mouthed watch-dog bayed fierce and honestly: through sleeping villages—where the winds swept, making the signs creak dismally, the once timid and delicate girl pushed on. She had no fear, for she had no thought for the present. In the present, there lay a dull, aching pain about her heart; all the rest of her fevered being was far off, in the huge, great city with Dudley. The little, timid, commonplace girl was now a heroine. In her father’s cottage her mother walked quietly about her pleasant duties, singing a low, sad melody that her children might sleep—the fire was sparkling brightly upon the hearth, lighting up the walls and rafters of that holy place, while she, the dearest, loveliest of all, was fleeing alone, in the stormy night, far, far away.

That night wore slowly on, and toward morning the rear-guard of the northern storm came hurrying by. In scattered groups of hosts, as if flying from a foe, the great clouds rolled down over the distant horizon, and left the bright stars sparkling coldly in the clear atmosphere of the winter’s night. Then came morning, and the winds ceased. The earth seemed waiting in breathless silence for the glorious morn. Little Mary—sick, tired Mary—saw nothing of this. She staggered on, sometimes falling; but again getting up and hurrying on. About noon the stage came by, and the driver, seeing a frail creature—almost a child—walking weariedly, invited her to ride. She mechanically accepted. Inside the vehicle—all closed in with carpet lining, that seemed to flap the cold air about, and smelled of old leather—she found two passengers. One, a countryman, shivering in a woolsey over-coat; the other, so lost in the folds of a buffalo robe, he could not be made out. Mary seated herself upon the middle seat, but a lurch of the stage threw her forward upon the buffalo robe, which unrolled, and an old gentleman peered savagely out, displaying a wrinkled front, in which age had more to do than anger. He was about uttering an ugly exclamation, when the sight of Mary’s sad, pale, young face checked him; and, moving over, he not only gave her a seat, but insisted upon folding a part of the warm robe about her.

In a few moments, the poor girl fell wearied upon the shoulder of her companion into sleep. The old man looked kindly down on the pale, thin face, over which he saw traces of tears, and beneath the cross exterior, a heart throbbed kindly for the suffering girl. Wondering what could bring grief to one so young, he saw the lips quiver, and tears well out from the veiled eyes—then sobs that came up like bubbles from drowning hope; and these passed away, and a gentle smile settled upon the fair face, as a mellow sunset upon a wintry scene. She was dreaming—the voice of her mother broke upon her ear, kind, gentle, forgiving; and he was there—the past all forgotten, the future all brightness. Sleep on, poor wretch: let the rough vehicle rock gently, and the strong horses trot evenly along, for she who now, in happy forgetfulness, moves swiftly on to death. Could the impenetrable curtain of the future be lifted from before each of us as we take our last ride, not only the criminal seated in his rude cart would shudder. What gay equipages, flashing along, would be turned to funeral marches, with at least one sincere mourner for the doomed and lost. What humble family groups, with hope in their midst, wending their way to church or home, would see earth darken down in gloom and tears. But, thank kind Heaven! the dread Unknown comes silently on, with all shadows behind; and we laugh or cry, as joys or cares possess us, up to the very second when his iron hand is at our heart, and eternity opens before us.

Through long hours she slumbered—still dreaming—sometimes smiling, oftener in tears; but still sleep sealed up her aching sense. The stage stopped, and driver and horses were changed; and still on rattled the rough stage, now over a wide MacAdamized road, thronged with vehicles of all sorts, going, and coming. The passengers were called to sup in a town possessed of one brick street, two or three frame streets, and then, on every side, thinly populated suburbs, consisting of stables, smoke-houses, and shanties. The old gentleman led his little charge into the dirty-white barn-like hotel, at the door of which a negro began ringing a discordant bell, whereupon a number of slippered gentlemen, who were tilted back on chairs, chewing and smoking, suddenly disposed of their tobacco, and rushed into the dining-room, as if the tough beef-steak, heavy hot bread, and muddy coffee, were positively the last eatables left upon earth. Mary sat down, but could eat nothing; her old friend insisted upon her swallowing a cup of the hot coffee, and they returned to the stage.

Evening found them still upon the road. The stage lamps were lit, and they were whirled past carriages and wagons, through towns, and by glaring forges, where the sparks flew in showers around sinewy arms, to the music of heavy hammers and ringing anvils. This changed as the night stole on, and, in the dark stage, they seemed moving through a slumbering world—all shadows, and so still. Between feverish sleep and long fits of crying, the hours passed slowly away with Mary. About one o’clock the stage stopped, and the old gentleman, who had volunteered his guardianship, said he was at home.

“Won't you stop, and stay all night with us?” he asked kindly.

“O, no,” she responded hastily; “I must go.”

“Remain, and go on to-morrow. You will suffer, I fear.”

“No, no—I must go on. Is it far, now?”

“Yes, ’tis some distance yet. But, see, I must take this robe,” he added, hesitatingly.

“Oh yes, never mind me. I am much obliged, I thank you.”

She could say no more. The old man hesitated—walked a few paces, stopped—then entered the gate, and the stage was driven away. She did suffer, no longer protected by the robe, her little cloak afforded small shelter from the bitter cold night that blew into the stage, and was whirled about; and nestled she ever so close into a corner, still the cold would penetrate, and she shivered, suffering terribly. How long—Oh, how long the painful hours were! Between that midnight and the morn seemed an age. At last it came, and found the stage jolting over the pavements of the city of ——. She looked out in wonder and dread at the tall houses, towering up on either side, and the men and women hurrying to and fro in such strange haste.

The stage stopped in front of a large hotel, and a crowd of servants rushed out and surrounded the frozen vehicle—some mounting to the top like apes, others struggling at straps, pulling out trunks and carpet sacks, putting all in a pile upon the pavement, amidst screams, curses, and cries, perfectly stunning.

“Your baggage, Miss?” asked a clerk, with his pen behind his ears, and a good deal of impudent pomposity before.

“Is there any thing to pay?” answered the poor girl, perfectly bewildered.

“John, the way-bill?” shouted the clerk.

“No—nothing, Miss: marked paid—all right—walk in?”

Mary sat before the glowing grate in the handsome parlor, trying to determine in her own mind what next was to be done. More and more the painful reality of helplessness among strangers in a strange place impressed itself upon her mind. Her head ached dreadfully, her limbs pained her, and while the face was burning as with fever, it seemed impossible to get warm. She at last asked a servant timidly for the office of Dr. Calomel.

“Just round the corner, Miss. Here, I’ll show you,” he answered politely, and running to the corner, pointed out the old tarnished sign of the eminent practitioner.

Mary sought the place designated, entered a wide hall, and knowing nothing about bells, walked in and knocked gently at the first door. The knock was responded to by a thin old man, of very sombre appearance; who, with broom and brush in hand, seemed fresh from cleaning the rooms.

“Come in quick, young female, you’re too early for consultin’, but the doctor will be about directly. Come straight along, you’re lettin’ in considerable atmosphere.”

Thus strangely addressed, Mary was ushered into a large room, well-furnished and adorned with hideous pictures of various diseased heads, arms, legs, etc., that made one shudder. Cases of books, bones and preparations stood against the walls, while upon a rosewood table, in the centre of the room, were piled books and prints, all treating of the same disagreeable topics. Through an open door she saw another room, got up in the same style, and beyond this yet another, and in all three, the polished grates roared with bright coal fires.

Mary sat and waited nearly two hours, while the stately servant went on silently dusting and sweeping, answering the bell every few minutes, but never saying a word to the little visitor. At the end of that time, others came in and sat by her. Pale, wretched, distressed-looking women—some with babes afflicted with sad diseases; while men limped in, almost groaning with pain. Young gentlemen, handsomely dressed, sauntered in, and throwing off cloaks and coats, sat down to books in the adjoining room. They carried on conversation in a low tone, broken by occasional laughs that contrasted strangely with the half-suppressed complainings of the group around her. The doctor at last came hurriedly in. He was a small, spare man, with a gray head, and wrinkled, cross face, that, guarded by a pair of cold blue eyes, looked as unfeeling as the man really was. He passed from patient to patient—scolding this one, abusing that, and treating all as if they were dogs. Having run through his catalogue of poverty-stricken specimens of humanity, he turned abruptly to Mary, and asked—

“What do you want?”

“I wish to see Dudley Fletcher, sir,” was the frightened reply.

The doctor eyed the little visitor with a cold, half-suppressed sneer for a second; and then, making no reply, looked at his watch, and left the house—having thus humanely disposed of his charity patients. As his buggy rattled away, the grim janitor told Mary that Dudley Fletcher was seldom about the office now-a-days—he might be in before dinner, but it was very doubtful. If she would leave a note, he would see that Mr. Fletcher received it. Mary was disposed to wait; but her presence had attracted the attention of the students in the adjoining room, and she noticed they whispered together and stared at her—so writing hastily a note, telling Dudley of her arrival and where she could be found, she sealed and directed it, then with a heavy heart returned to the hotel.

It is difficult to say what the deserted and heart-sickened girl proposed doing when Dudley did see her. She had no definite idea, no realization of aught save fevered suffering; but, if she could only see him once more, hear his voice, feel his arm about her aching form, it seemed as if all would be well again. But time stole slowly on, and no Dudley came: she started at the approach of strangers, expecting the familiar face of her betrayer. She escaped the impertinent stare of servants by going to the window, and looking down the thronged streets until her eyes were dim with tears. The noise of life around fell without a meaning upon her ear—it seemed a continual roar like a senseless rush of waters. She still stood by the window as evening came, and the shades of night fell upon the street, and saw the crowd thin, and the lights twinkle from post and store—still no Dudley came. The servants treated her so rudely, that, at last, she was forced to go; and fearing he might come yet and not find her, for more than an hour she lingered upon the street, in front of the wide flight of steps that led to the hotel.

It was now quite dark, and Mary still hung about the steps, when a man handsomely dressed came down them—passed, looking at her as the lamp-light fell upon her pale face, then turned and asked in a low tone if she wished to see any one. Thinking the questioner might be from Dudley, she answered quickly—

“Yes—I want to see Dudley Fletcher.”

“Ah! yes, yes, you will scarcely find him here.”

“Where can I find him, sir?”

“That is easier asked than answered, my little maiden, unless you know something before hand.”

“I don’t know—I came into town to-day. I wish to see him. Can’t you tell me where to go?”

“I will go with you, little one,” answered the man, looking uneasily at the lights around. “Come, I will take you where you can send for him—come with me.” He walked hastily on, and Mary followed: for some time he continued a few paces before her, but turning down a narrow street in which there were no gas-lamps, he put her arm in his, and said—

“Now, my little girl, tell me all about it. Where did you come from, and what is it about Dudley Fletcher?”

“I came from Un-a-ka, sir—and I wish to see him.”

“A little love-affair now—eh! You’re his little sweetheart?”

To this Mary making no reply, her companion withdrew her arm, and placed his own around her. Frightened at this, she shrunk away, and, as he persisted, she suddenly sunk to the ground, and burst into tears. Had there been sufficient light, a very puzzled expression might have been seen upon the face of the gentleman as he lifted her from the pavement.

“Come,” he said, “don’t cry. I’ll not offend you again—where shall I take you?”

“To Dudley Fletcher,” she sobbed out. “Only show me his house, and then leave me.”

“Why, yes—he lives with his Aunt, Mrs. Hays; but I’ll take you there, so do not cry.”

They moved on in silence, and in a few minutes were in front of the marble mansion, blazing with light.

“Here,” said her companion, “is the house. Mrs. Col. Hays gives a party to-night. Go up those steps, ring the bell, and ask for Mr. Fletcher. I cannot accompany you farther.”

Scarcely stopping to thank her conductor, Mary staggered up the marble steps, while he turned hastily away, as if shunning a denouement. She paused at the door, weak, frightened and doubting, when a carriage stopped, and from it a party ran up the steps. Mary shrank from sight behind a pillar as they came. A gentleman rang the bell, and had scarcely touched the silver knob before the door swung noiselessly open and the party entered. Not daring to follow their example she still hesitated. From the door by which she stood ran a narrow porch of ornamented iron-work, and along this she stole to where the high window came to the floor and looked in. For a second she was dazzled. The magnificent rooms blazed with light from cut-glass chandeliers, the soft light fell upon delicate furniture of the most costly kind—upon pictures rare and beautiful—upon soft carpets over which fairy forms moved so exquisitely, while strains of delicious music came up from some distant room, that to the unexperienced eye of Mary all seemed a fairy scene—a creation of the imagination.

As the poor girl stood shivering in the cold, the snow began to fall, and shrinking closer to the warmth she could not feel, the whole scene presented a realization of Barry Cornwall’s exquisite poem of “Without and Within.” With only that diamond-pane between—a world wide contrast had existence. Upon one side was a piece of God’s exquisite workmanship, shivering, suffering, half-crazed, trampled upon and outcast—while upon the other, wanton luxury rolled in sin. Ah! who comes here, pacing so proudly, while bright eyes turn admiringly—what exceeding loveliness is led by the arm. The blood rushes to the pale face, the little heart throbs aloud, she presses closer to the pane, for it is him—it is Dudley. She of the bright complexion, large, soft eyes and mass of ringlets, is seated near that fated window, and he bends over her. She hears him speak—no, his low voice cannot come through the heavy pane, but she knows too well—ah! too well—the persuasive words that are falling from his lips, for she has learned to read his looks—the lessons have been burned into her heart.

The lights shine on. To strains of witching music forms pass to and fro in the mazes of the dance—jest and song, laughter and wine, flash and ring out for unheeded hours and hours—but she is gone. The pale wretch that pressed shivering against the window pane is gone. Down the dark thoroughfare, with the cold snow beating in her face, maddened, sobbing, sick to death, she flies. Oh! where? What demon leads her on? Why down that silent, deserted street? On, on, past quiet homes where the night-lamp yet gleams on peace and happiness—past shops where low drunkenness revels in late hours—on she unheeded flies. And now she stumbles over loose stones, and the air blows keener. Down the steep bank she reels—poor little Mary—she pauses for a moment. A mighty river, shrouded in darkness, sweeps on before her. Boats, tied to the bank, rub against each other, making a moaning noise, while the waves flap under their bows—this is all she hears, for the great stream sweeps on in silence. From the opposite shore a furnace glares, that glittering out red, sends a long line over the waves and lights her way to death. She steps along the plank to the deck of a boat—over that to the very edge—and then disappears. Disappears in the dark flood silently as the snow-flakes. The mighty river moves on like fate to eternity. Into its deep bosom it took what God had made and man cast out. For many hours after the music still sounded in the marble palace, and dancers gracefully answered the strains, for the silent street had no tale—the great river no revelation for the heartless throng.

A party of medical students were lounging round a billiard-table in a celebrated restaurant, the evening after the event just narrated. They were smoking, drinking, laughing, and at intervals knocking idly the ivory balls over the table. Their light sacks, or black velvet coats, with fancy caps, variously fashioned and tasseled, showed them to be youths whose fathers could pay for something beside the improvement of their brains.

“Will you be at class to-night, Tom?” asked one, of his comrade, as he rattled down his empty glass.

“To be sure, I don’t intend to miss a muscle of Crosstree. We had too much trouble in getting the infernal rascal.”

“We had that, and Cross. is a beauty, besides having been hung.”

“I want to see him carefully dissected,” said a handsome, light-haired youth, joining the group.

“Why, Ned, do you expect ever to undergo the innocent operation of being hung?”

“Can’t say. No telling what a fellow may come to in such a crowd as this. If Strong ever sings another sentimental song in my presence I’ll murder him—now mind.”

“Crosstree is a magnificent subject. I was looking at him to-day—old S. says he never saw a finer.”

“Class B has a finer, they say—a girl. They gave two hundred for her.”

“They wont be outdone. But I believe in the rope yet. Come, fellows—it’s getting late—let’s be off.”

“Where’s Dudley?”

“Drunk as usual.”

“Come, old boy,” said the first speaker, approaching our hero, who, stretched upon a sofa, was looking in the fire with a drunken stare. “Come, we’ll be too late.”

Dudley mechanically started to his feet, drank a quantity of brandy, and rushing forward, was caught by two of his brother students, and the whole party left the house together, laughing, chatting, whistling and singing, they wended their way toward the medical college. Dudley Fletcher, as his comrades afterward remarked, was unusually silent and even morose. Arriving at the college, the party mounted long fights of dark stairs ending in a door, that one of them unlocked and threw open, and all entered the dissecting-room. The janitor had left a bright coal-fire sputtering in the stove, and save this no other light fell upon the ghastly gloom. The large, square windows were open, as gusts of wind making the fire roar indicated, but in spite of this a dreadful, sickening odor of decay filled the room. Several lamps were lighted, and then the frightful reality became apparent.

Upon either side of a large room were placed narrow tables, on each of which lay a specimen of the desecrated dead; over the floor were scattered limbs strangely mutilated, bones with particles of flesh yet hanging to them, snow-white skeletons and grinning skulls. Upon the table nearer the fire was the body of a man lately hung. The frame was heavy and muscular, but the head presented the most awful sight the heart of man ever shuddered over. It was one swollen mass of purple blood, while around the neck lay a red line where the cruel cord had sunk in and disappeared from the force of the struggling weight. He had been found guilty of a fiendish murder, yet no heart could look on this and not shudder at the punishment. Why do the students leave this table and crowd around the next? Why hold up their lights and gaze in breathless awe? Do youth and innocence carry admiration and respect with them to the charnel-house? They whisper as they gaze upon the gentle form, so beautiful and still, that with wild hair disheveled seems to sleep upon the rude couch of death. Where is Dudley—why does he not gaze and whisper too? Upon entering the room he threw himself upon a low seat behind the stove, and falling from that to the floor, sleeps soundly in his drunkenness.

Star-eyed Science walks unmoved among the dead. The students are busy about the table of the murderer. Nothing is heard save the voice of the instructor, or noise of his instruments as he lays bare the hidden mysteries of life. Dudley sleeps on.

The fire burns down—the candles, flickering in the wind, are dim—the lesson is over. Putting out their lights, the students gather their coats and cloaks about them and leave. The last one is gone. The janitor, casting a hasty look at the fire, goes with them. The great bolt is shot into its place—the door is locked, and Dudley, forgotten and alone, sleeps on!

Hour after hour steals by. The fire, dimmer and dimmer, at length goes out, and darkness fills the room. The storm, with its sky of heavy clouds, sweeps away, and now the full moon comes up in silvery brightness. Cold, clear and cheerless the flood of light poured in at the open windows, lighting up like the ghost of day that chamber of death. Chilled through and through, Dudley awakes.

For a moment he gazed in startled wonder at the strange scene around him. Then a dim recollection of the night stole over his now sobered brain, and seizing his cap he strode toward the door—to find it locked! In vain he pulled and knocked, the echoes that rung through the silent room were his only answers. The stout door resisted all attempts to break it open. Foiled and disheartened he returned to the stove. Dudley shook with the cold that had numbed his limbs while sleeping, and now seemed to be penetrating to his very heart. Stooping, he raked among the ashes and found one live coal. Taking this gently up he made many efforts to kindle it to a blaze, but this last spark died out in the midst of his exertions. Nothing daunted, he looked to find some covering to shield him—nothing could be seen save the sheets thrown carelessly over the dead. These he proceeded to gather. Pulling the frail covering from form after form, leaving exposed the emaciated remnants of consumption, the half-destroyed remains of quick disease, without a shudder—why starts he at this over which the moonlight falls so brightly—why gasp for breath and stare so wildly?

This cannot be—this is a hideous dream. He strikes his forehead, wrings his hands, staggers forward. No, no, he cannot look again. A chill horror curdles about his heart and he reels toward the door. He had one look—but one—yet that is frozen into his very soul. How long in dreadful agony he stood gazing down the hall, peopled with the dead. He dared not turn to where she lay—the poor little timid girl—she who so confidingly had trusted him, and now rested among thieves, murderers, and cast-out poverty—claimed by Decay alone. He dared not look again—over her innocent form stood fearful Retribution—silent as the grave—terrible as Death. His eyes wandered from table to table, one by one, slower and slower, until they rested upon that long, grinning monument of consumption, upon which the moonlight fell, silvering the hard and bony points, that seemed like a skeleton covered with yellow parchment.

Oh! how he longed for liberty and life—for some power to lift the awful punishment from his soul. A confused thought of escape crept in—of the dark well running the length of the house down to vaults where the refuse flesh was cast. How deep and dark to his mind it seemed—deeper and deeper, miles and miles into the earth. The hall seems to lengthen out—how huge it is? Again he turns to the body that consumption owns—he tries to look from that to her—in vain. His eyes are fixed, they see no farther. Did that hand move?—it seemed to move. It did—the body turns—it raises and points its long, skinny arm at her—and shakes its horribly mutilated head. Another and another—and all raise slowly up and point at her. And now they speak—what confused blasphemy—what groans and cries! Hark! that well-known, once-loved voice, hear it—hear its gentle tones and die—

“Oh! Dudley, come to me.”

He sees no more, he hears no more—gasping he falls, striking heavily against the oak door.

Early next morning the janitor found him lying senseless where he had fallen. He was carried to his room, and all that medical science could do was done. Slowly he returned to sense, but not health. The cold had perfected its work—his limbs were without life, and after many days he was carried back to his father’s house helpless as a child. So he yet remains, humble, sad and repentant.

In the little church-yard, not far from his home, is a green mound, where the soft falling snow of winter and the wild birds of spring see no name—no marble tomb, but where the long grass whispers in the summer winds, Dudley Fletcher may be frequently seen reading or musing silently, having been carried there, his only haunt from home.

THE DEAD AT THERMOPYLÆ.

FROM THE GREEK OF SIMONIDES.

———

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.

———

Bright was their fortune and sublime their doom,

Who perished at Thermopylæ—their tomb

An altar of their sons—their dirge, renown.

Their epitaph not rust shall e’er efface,

Nor Time, who changes all things else, debase,

Nor later ages insolent disown.

Their tomb contains, enshrined beside the dead,

A mightier inmate, her for whom they bled,

Glory—their country’s unforgotten fame.

Witness the royal Spartan, who in death

Did win high Valor’s, more than Pythian, wreath,

A crown immortal, an unfading name.

THE OPIUM EATER’S DREAM:

OR THE MODERN FORTUNATUS.

———

FROM THE GERMAN OF GEORGE DÖRING.

———

I passed some time, a few months ago, in the seven-hilled city of the Bosphorus—in beautiful, but muddy Constantinople. I had seen and admired every thing that was to be seen and admired, as far as the Turks allow to a Christian dog. Often had I stood at the portal of the mosque of St. Sophia, and gazed with longing sighs upon the imperial seraglio just opposite, in the vain hope that some veiled beauty would appear at one of the balconies, observe me, and then raise her veil, that I might at home, in my native place—Gelnhaus—describe a Turkish Sultana; for my susceptible heart had been trained in every way, by repeated journeys to large towns and capitals. One evening, however, I remarked that several black slaves eyed me attentively and suspiciously: I imagined also something threatening and dangerous in their gestures; and as, at the same time, several shots were heard from the interior of the seraglio—which seemed to intimate that capital punishment was being inflicted upon criminals, whose crimes were, perhaps, nothing worse than a few longing sighs, wafted to the imprisoned fair ones—a panic seized me, which drove me from the spot in tempestuous haste, whilst I inwardly swore a solemn oath never again to venture within a hundred yards of the sultan’s palace.

Be it known to the world that I am the traveling agent for the house of Messrs. Steinlein & Son, wine-merchants of Frankfort on the Main. I myself am called Gabriel Mostert, born in the town which, on account of the old legend, I call the Barbarossa town; and which deserves quite as wide a reputation as the town of Pisa, in Italy, for it contains just such a leaning tower. My countenance is round and ruddy, my eyes are lively and intellectual, my form powerful and muscular—five-feet-three. I am possessed by a spirit of speculation. I am determined to establish a famous house—not what they call famous in Frankfort, Leipzig, or Hamburg—no, I will establish the firm only for my Barbarossa town, and my little Kate, whose father gives her to me only upon condition that I settle down respectably in Gelnhaus, as a dealer in dry goods, in Drap de Zephire, in Crêpe de Chine, and in veritable eau de Cologne. On this account, I persuaded my honored principals to a Constantinople speculation, which offered a fair profit. I had, in fact, read in the best papers of the day, that the present sultan was busy in placing every thing upon a European footing. There can be no European footing without a European head; and what is a European head without the inspiration of Champagne, Burgundy, and Johannisburg? My principals agreed to every thing: I sailed from Trieste with casks and bottles, anchored in the Bosphorus, and the next day was employed in preparations to attract the worshipers of Islam to my European inspiration.

The thing succeeded; my wines disappeared with charming celerity. Even the Mufti honored me with a visit, and assured me—while he tried my costly Johannisburg, of 1822, with the smack of a connoisseur—that his friend, the Abbot of Fulda, had done well to exalt this wine to his closet—it did indeed deserve to be drank in solitude, when not a breath, not a word could disturb the full enjoyment of the liquid gold. He tried a couple of bottles, and the European inspiration began then to beam so brilliantly from his eyes, that I verily believe, had any cunning missionary been at hand, he would have embraced Christianity.

My affairs then were prosperous, and yet not so; for although the wines had found purchasers, the money for them was not forthcoming. From time to time I paid a visit to my Turkish debtors. I was kindly received with pipes and coffee, but of my money—not a word. I look care never rudely to remind them of it, having been assured by some Armenian friends that the Moslems could bear no dunning, and that unpleasant hints were often rewarded with a most unpleasant bastinado. I was sure of my money in the end, for I had already heard that it was the custom of all distinguished Turks to pay off all their debts on a certain day of the year, just before the Ramazan. The Ramazan was not very distant, and until then I had to wait with patience. It is a dreadful thing for a fiery young merchant, whose fancy revels in interest and commission, to have to parade up and down the streets of Constantinople in useless, idle patience.

Thus, one beautiful afternoon, I sauntered toward Bujukdìre, the summer residence of the European ambassadors. Here their many beautiful daughters dwelt, but now my heart was filled with thoughts of Kate, and the future establishment for the sale of fancy articles and eau de Cologne. Nevertheless, I trembled with excitement; for my eye rested upon the dome of St. Sophia, and involuntarily the oft-recalled wish stirred in my soul—“Wert thou only, O dearly loved Gabriel Mostert, as prosperous a house as this venerable church, which receives, according to well-accredited testimony, an income of ten thousand guilders daily.”

Ten thousand guilders! What a sublime thought! Shakspeare, Schiller, and Goethe had had great thoughts, and Bethman and Rothschild have carried the poesy of trade to a wonderful extent—but this mosque of St. Sophia—I must control myself—I must clip the wings of my speculative fancy, or it will carry me too far—to Golconda or Potosi. Return to thy home, to the old town, where bloomed for Barbarossa the fair Gela, and where blooms now the burgomaster’s daughter, thy violet, and beside her, a shop stocked with all fancy articles, and with the delicious perfume of Karl Maria Farina of Cöln.

With such reflections I was obliged to moderate my lively imagination while I approached Bujukdìre, when I was awakened from my dreams of home, and brought back to reality upon the Bosphorus by a hearty slap upon my shoulder.

“Salam, aleìkum!” I cried; and warding off the Turkish greeting, I sprang aside. I was too well acquainted with the proofs of esteem with which the Turks honor us poor Christians, when they find us in their way, not to immediately suppose that the slave of some noble Turk had chosen this means of informing me of his master’s presence. A loud laugh in my ears corrected this false idea. As I turned round, I saw my two worthy friends, Mynheer Jan von Delpt—the Dutch Ambassador’s cook, and Monsieur Fleury—the French Ambassador’s butler. We were right good friends, and had passed many a jovial evening together. They came now just at the right time; they would serve to divert me, and we could enjoy a social hour, for this evening they were, as they assured me, free; their masters had accepted an invitation from the Reis-Effendi.

“Come,” I said, as I seized both by the arm, and stopped them, “we’ll contrive quite a charming supper together. In wine you shall have free choice. You, Van Delpt, like something heavy—Port wine, or genuine Madeira. It shall not be wanting, and we will drink to the health of your Margery von Minderhout, in Amsterdam. You, M. Fleury, shall have Champagne from Sillery, and vive Demoiselle Manon Larochière, rue Montmartre. I stand by the true German. O, ye honored grapes of Rudesheim, with what shall I compare you, if not with little Kate of Castle street, Barbarossa town; your sweet flower, with the flower of her beauty—your animating fire, with the fire that gleams in her eyes. Come, friends, let us bring down the high ideal to actual life. The trio of our loves shall sound in Madeira, Champagne, and Rudesheim; and inspired fancy shall present to our raptured gaze the gracious forms of our beloved ones.”

I had, I thought, outshone myself in the poetry of this invitation. I wished to touch and win them—but my friends seemed neither touched by my resemblance of their loved ones, nor won by the picture of the costly wines that awaited them at my lodgings. They looked thoughtfully at each other, shook their heads, and withstood all my attempts to lead them back to the city. Then Van Delpt shook himself loose from me, and taking me by the shoulders, turned me round as the wind would a weathercock, and said, pointing to a little wooden house, upon the top of which floated a red silk flag—

“Do you see that booth, and do you know what you can obtain there for a mere nothing?”

I answered in the negative.

“Then I will take the cover off the dish for you,” continued the cook; “you shall learn how we can enjoy Mahomet’s seventh heaven here on earth. Yes, Mynheer, there, in that unpretending booth the bliss of earth and heaven can be enjoyed for a few paras.”

I was perplexed. Van Delpt was usually a quiet matter-of-fact person. He did not seem to have taken more than his usual allowance of Genivee, the old Dutch phlegm had not vanished in the least from his features, only there was to be seen there an inspired expression, not before observable, which beamed forth very brilliantly as he looked at the little red house.

“Yes, monsieur,” chimed in the Frenchman, “you will not take it ill of us if we refuse your invitation. With you we should only intoxicate ourselves, there we shall be entranced! It is a delight which we have enjoyed once a year since we arrived in Stamboul. To-day, the Reis-Effendi has procured us this opportunity—who knows when it will come again? Come with us, M. Mostert, and inhale rapture, bliss, enchantment. Yes, M. Mostert, no champagne can procure for us that bliss to which I now invite you. I am a butler, and you know how much what I say must mean. I surely know all the joys which the grapes of Constantinople, Canary, or Vesuvius can yield. But what are they to the rapture that awaits us? Does empire please you—a kingdom is yours the instant you think of it. Would you be Grand Vizier, Kapudin Pacha, or minister plenipotentiary—in a flash it is as you wish. Come with us, and you will thank your friends, the fat cook and the lean butler, for procuring for you an unknown, but incomparable delight. I have determined to-day to be Henry the Fourth, but only until the moment when the rascal Ravaillac murders the excellent monarch; then I change myself into the Count St. Germain, who, it is well known, was three hundred years old when he visited the royal court of Versailles, and probably is still living somewhere, under a feigned name, in the fullness of youth and strength. Vive, Henri Quatre,” cried M. Fleury, while my brain whirled, and I allowed myself to be drawn toward the house with the red flag.

I knew Fleury, and could rely upon what he said. I might be a king, a sultan, or a Rothschild. There I paused—it was a grand idea—a poetical excitement made my heart beat faster in my breast. But prosaically enough came the change of faith between me and my wishes.

“No,” I said, “I must always remain a good Christian, according to the Augsburg confession; a different happiness awaits me in the little red house—money, plenty of money, and little Kate, in Gelnhaus.”

“You are, and always will be an enthusiast, Fleury,” replied Van Delpt to the Frenchman’s invitation. “You are, in spite of your employment for so many years in the diplomatic line, a true Frenchman, devoted to the fair. For my part I hold a middle course. I must have something solid. I will to-day be no happier than my renowned countryman, William Benkels, after he had discovered the salting of the herring. I aspire to the delight only of one moment, but that moment shall last—the great moment in which William Benkels stood before the first cask of successfully-salted herrings. It was in the year 1416. Imagine the man to yourselves, when he stood at last before the completed work, over which his mind had brooded for so many years, and which brought such a blessing upon his Fatherland. He foresaw in this moment, a thousand inventions to which this one must give birth; soused fish, pickles, sardines—every thing which can gain immortality through salt. He saw, by means of his invention, tons of gold pouring into the coffers of his Fatherland, and he heard his name lauded by posterity. Yes, thou immortal William Benkels, to-day I will be thou, and enjoy the rapture of that moment, when, standing before that cask, thine own greatness and the happy future thou hadst prepared for thy country was revealed to thee.”

These representations were not without their effect. My curiosity was excited. We now stood before the little house with the red flag. I saw some Turks staggering out, pale, hollow-eyed, and trembling in every limb. “Are those the devotees of your temple of bliss?” said, I to my companions. “They seem to me far more like the inmates of a hospital than men who have just succeeded in a speculation in rapture.”

Van Delpt pushed me in, and Fleury pressed forward eagerly. “Those are stupid Turks,” he said, “who wish to be always happy, and when one bliss ends they desire always another, which is contrary to the whole order of nature. But forward, Gabriel Mostert! you shall learn every thing within; light shall spring up for you there like the conflagration of Moscow. Vive Henri Quatre,” he shouted, and pushed me on.

“William Benkels forever!” cried the cook, who passed his arm around me and swung me into the little house. I stood, giddy from the sudden movement, in a large, darkened room. Although without it was perfectly light, here all illumination proceeded from a dimly burning lamp, hung in the middle of the apartment. Windows I could see none, and a strange, bewildering perfume filled the room. My friends bore me on, and before I could observe distinctly the objects which surrounded me, I felt myself seated upon a cushion, and Van Delpt and Fleury took their places beside me. I could not collect my ideas, I only saw a grinning Turk, dressed in red, who stepped forth from the darkness and approached with a silver plate, upon which were a number of little, reddish-brown balls, while a crystal goblet of water stood in the middle of it. My friends seized the balls and swallowed several of them.

“Now eat, Gabriel,” cried Van Delpt, while his left arm encircled me powerfully. “Feast upon delight. It is opium—the manna of immortality.”

His eyes started from his head—I seemed to gaze upon a madman. I tried to extricate myself from him but in vain. He endeavored, in the meanwhile, with his right hand to slip some opium balls into my mouth, but I set my teeth firmly, and shook my head.

“Bon appetit, Monsieur,” said the Frenchman, who seized me upon the other side. Two hands with the horrible little balls, hovered before my eyes ready to force me to partake. “You must eat like us, you must be blessed as we shall be. Vive Henri Quatre!”

“I will not,” I cried with horror. “If you don’t release me I’ll complain of you to your masters, and foreswear your friendship forever. What would my little Kate say were she to learn that I had taken opium—had dreamed like a Musselman, and been happy in such an unchristian way. Away with the balls of Satan. The Evil One with horns and hoofs has prepared them.”

“He must eat them,” cried the Dutchman and Frenchman in chorus, and the Turk grinned more frightfully. In the struggle, for a moment, my senses left me. A shout of triumph from my tormentors called me back to life.

“He has swallowed them!” cried they, and released me. In the same moment I saw them sink back upon their cushions, their eyes were fixed, a happy smile expanded their features; they were enjoying the happiness of the theriake, or opium-eater.

“He has not swallowed them!” cried I raging, and sprang up. “I closed my mouth and your cursed pills fell into the cushion beside me.” I ran out like one possessed. The Turk laughed scornfully after me, and I heard the Frenchman murmur in his sleep—“Vive Henri Quatre!” and the Dutchman groan out his “William Benkels forever!”

In the air without I recovered myself. I seemed open to all blissful influences—I was again happy and light-hearted. With what an exquisite display of colors did the sun mirror itself in the Bosphorus! how the domes of the mosques sparkled, as if composed of diamonds and rubies! How brilliant were the streets through which I walked—no, through which I floated. And at this moment I felt myself richer than the richest houses of which I had ever heard. Thus I arrived at a shady forest of dates. Here I sat me down in the overhanging shade of a palm, and gazed toward the west where the sun was setting, and where was the Barbarossa town, with its leaning tower and my charming Kate.

——

CHAPTER II.

I carried always with me a costly Turkish pipe, with a long stem of rose-wood. The head I carried in my pocket, carefully wrapped in soft silk; the stem was so contrived that I used it for a cane.

Without knowing what I did, whilst my gaze was riveted upon the glorious landscape, and my thoughts were busy with my home, I pushed my cane in among the dry leaves and roots of the palm. Suddenly it was caught by something which attracted my notice, and I tried to draw it out quickly. The costly stem broke, and I looked, half-vexed and half-curious, to know what had caused the mischief.

With difficulty I extricated from the roots of the palm an old leathern purse, the strings of which were tied round another old leathern article. A wondrously joyful sensation stirred in my soul at the sight of these objects. What they were I knew not, and yet they filled me with delight. But when I had cleansed them from the dirt and mud, when I held an old, richly-embroidered purse in my hand, and in the other article recognized a little, pointed cap, then arose from the glowing memories of my childhood the wonderful story of the inexhaustible purse of Fortunatus and his wishing cap. Then all creation beamed around me, and a chorus of voices from the sky seemed to say to me, “Thou art the new Fortunatus. Fortune has favored thee with her most valuable gifts, which have remained so long in the lap of earth, hidden from all mortal eyes.”

I laughed aloud like a child. I was firmly convinced that it was all true, and I danced round the palm, with the purse and cap in my hands, like a madman. “What are lotteries, stocks, and Rothschild’s speculations in comparison,” cried I; “do I wish for a million—I have to use my purse for a day, and my cap serves me better than the swiftest courier.”

My reason at last returned, and the madman became again the prudent, calculating merchant.

“Make a calculation, and produce an exact facit,” said the merchant. I seated myself again, with tolerable composure, at the foot of the palm. I wished calmly to prove the power of the purse, but my hand trembled as I put it into it. My fingers twitched convulsively, the fascination of the noblest of metals penetrated every nerve, and there, in my hand, before my wondering, blissful gaze, lay a hundred franc piece, with the new stamp, “Louis Philippe, Roi des Français.” “O, Heaven! life is still fair,” I cried with Schiller’s Marquis Posa, and proved the power of my purse again and again, until the lap of my Turkish dress was covered with, hundred-franc-pieces.

My eyes feasted upon the treasure, my soul reveled in rapture.

“Prudence, prudence,” said the merchant within me. “May not the gold be false, or coined in the devil’s mint, and if you attempt to use it destroy your honor and reputation?” I tried it upon the leather of my sandals, and upon a little stone that I carried about with me for the purpose. It was pure Parisian coin. I put up my gold and filled my pockets with it. How blessed was I that I had withstood Van Delpt’s and Fleury’s entreaties. What was their happiness now—their manna of immortality? Dreams and froth! But I possessed the most desirable, glorious reality—my pockets full of gold, the inexhaustible purse, and the wonderful cap. Ay—the cap—its power must also be proved; I must know if by its art I could be this moment in the date forest on the Bosphorus, and the next in the cherry grove in Frankfort on the Main. In a flash I placed the little thing upon my head and thought of the Barbarossa town, and of the little balcony which looked into Kate’s room. What is a royal dispatch in comparison with the cap of Fortunatus? Without inconvenience from the elbows of neighbors, without the least change in my worthy person, I stood before the window through whose curtains I could look into Kate’s little room. I looked round me; the leaning tower, with its straight brother, were at my back; I was in my native town, the breeze of home stirred around me. Just then Kate stepped into the room. She carried a candle, was negligently dressed, and was humming an air from “Der Freischütz.” Was the girl altered, or had my too lively fancy deceived me, and presented to me at a distance as charming, what in reality seemed to me extremely vulgar? Where was the variety of charms that had so excited my love in Constantinople? Where was the airy grace that had surrounded the image of the absent one, as the air of Paradise encircles a Mohammedan houri? Kate was, in truth, no disagreeable-looking girl, but excessively commonplace; she had cheeks as fresh and round as an apple, pretty hair, a la giraffe, eyes whose color was rather undecided, and a form which, although it certainly was not wanting in roundness, did not move with exactly the grace of a dancing-master. I felt my heart grow cold at the sight of her. Heaven knows, my taste must have become wonderfully refined since I had been separated from her; knowledge of mankind and of the world must have sharpened my judgment. I never could love this creature—that was ineffaceably written in my soul. The purse and cap had given me the right to other claims than to be the son-in-law of the burgomaster of an obscure German village, and to demean myself by selling crêpe de Chine and eau de Cologne.

“Away, away from here, to the fairest of the fair!” I cried, inspired. “Who will dispute with me the possession of the most beautiful woman upon the earth?”

In an instant I stood in a high vestibule, upon a marble floor; from the frescoed walls shone the light of a hundred tapers; the fragrance-laden air of the tropics was around me, and silver fountains were playing without in the moonlight. A great mirror opposite reflected my image. I was clad in black, in my finest European suit. I wore the breast-pin with the turquoise and brilliants, which I had bought two years before in Frankfort, and I knew that I was in the palace of the Duke of Silvio Cremonio, in Rio Janeiro, to whose beautiful daughter I was about to be introduced. All this the wonderful cap had arranged and declared to me.

Fifty lackeys, in rich livery, flew to my assistance. Two ushers opened the folding-doors, and at their announcement, “The Marquis della Mostarda!” I stepped into a brilliant saloon.

I was in a maze—the dresses of the ladies, which blazed with diamonds and other precious stones, dazzled me. What was the home-made splendor of my former employers, Steinlein & Son, which I had so often admired in my yearly visit to them, compared with this.

What was the finery of the richest merchant’s daughter compared with the splendor of the ladies of Rio Janeiro. I noticed that my entrance created a sensation. The ladies remained standing, looked at me and whispered among themselves. A little stout gentleman pushed forward from the crowd toward me. It was the duke. He wore a richly embroidered dress, with ribbon and star.

He spoke to me, bidding we welcome, and although he spoke Spanish, and I had never learned the language, I understood it perfectly and conversed in it as easily as in my mother tongue.

“You are a welcome guest, dear friend,” said the duke, and graciously pressed my band. “You have been introduced to me as an excellent and wealthy lord. Wealth is always well received; wealth is the key to every thing; wealth captivates all hearts; permit me to present you to my wife and daughter.”

Oh, what joy and rapture! The moment had arrived in which I should behold the fairest of the fair—the most beautiful woman now dwelling upon the earth! I saw her! Words cannot describe her, thought cannot picture her, only the imagination may venture to conceive of her.

Her voice was song—her glance a revelation of heaven.

The young rose had touched her cheeks with its soft tint; the enamel of the lily was upon her brow; her charming lips vied with crimson coral; her soft, blond hair waved in natural curls around her lovely face, and a Persian poet would have compared her graceful form to the gazelle. Beside the heavenly Angelica sat her mother, who would still have been called handsome, although there was about her an air of pride and haughtiness, which was wholly wanting in the daughter. I felt that, by the possession of the purse and wishing cap, I had become an entirely different man. How often I had trembled and been agitated as I stood in the antechamber of some great man, waiting to present my catalogue of wines for the firm of Steinlein & Son. What trouble I had taken to learn by heart the conditions of sale, that I might not stutter and stammer when they were asked for. And now I stood like a cool, self-possessed man of the world before a Brazilian duchess and her beautiful daughter, while the duke, her father, held my hand, which did not tremble in the least, and said, laying a significant stress upon his words, “The Marquis della Mostarda, the stranger whom the imperial secretary has so kindly introduced to us. He is just from Europe, and can tell you of the latest fashions. He is a man of great merit, and, as I well know, all means will be tried to induce him to take up his residence here in the capital.”

The stout nobleman moved on to make room for me by the ladies. The duchess beckoned me toward her, and her proud bearing gave way to a gracious condescension. She cast upon me a smiling glance, the tender expression of which I recognised at once from the descriptions in the best romances of the day. Then, pointing to her daughter, she observed, “The child there will listen only too willingly to stories of strange lands. She is wonderfully interested in geography. Talk with her—tell her where the most costly shawls are made, of Brabant laces, and Parisian bijouterie; tell her of your Italian home, of fire-breathing Vesuvius, of the Colosseum at Rome and the Lagune in Venice.”

The duchess turned from me to a pale young man, simply dressed, whose eyes had been fixed upon me whilst I stood by the lady with a singular, I might almost say sinister expression. His features were finely cut, but it could not escape me, with my knowledge of mankind, that there played about the corners of the mouth a contemptuous, scornful expression; just such as Hoffman always gives to his diabolical characters. It seemed to me that, looking through me, he saw the wishing-cap in my bosom, and the purse in my vest pocket. With an uncomfortable sensation I turned from him to the angel-face of the Princess Angelica. Her musical tones broke upon the ear like the singing in Schelble’s Cecilia-chorus. A whole opera by Rossini seemed to fill my senses as I listened to her; trills and roulades, crescendo and decrescendo, adagio and allegro. Now it sounded mournfully as in the cavatina from “Tancredi,” now, it exulted like the song of victory in the “Siege of Corinth.” O thou heavenly Angelica, thou wast at once the music and the director, and if I looked at thee, I seemed to see the Venus de Medici, dressed in tulle, embroidered with gold, sleeves à la Gigot, brilliants in her ears and upon her fingers, and rubies around her neck. Her remarks were acute and witty, while, at the same time, she raised her forget-me-not eyes so beseechingly to my face, that I imagined I read in them Goethe’s “Sorrows of Werther” and the loves of Herrman and Dorothea. She was curious about literature and the stage. Then I was in my element. I told her of Madame Sontag and Paganini; how the former, before her marriage, had sung variations for the violin, and the latter had played the charming song “cara mamena.” I told her of the public favorites, and hummed several airs for her from “Der Weiner in Berlin.” All this with an ease and grace which stamped the Marquis della Mostarda as a most accomplished cavalier. Then I spoke of the great lights in modern poetry—of Heine and Count Plateu Hallermande—how the former lavished the flowers of his fancy in lamentations over an unhappy love, and the latter poured himself forth in metrical praise of Friendship. She listened attentively; then suddenly she sighed deeply, so deeply that I was alarmed, and asked her in my confusion whether, in speaking of these renowned poets, I had said any thing unpleasant to her?

“No, no!” said she, mournfully. “I have had a German governante; I understand German, and read the German poets. Both poets of whom you speak are dear to me, particularly the touching Heine. But there are other glorious things in Germany beside art and poetry. Do you not love Nüremburg gingerbread, my lord marquis? As you have lived so long in Germany, you cannot be a stranger to this delicious production.”

“Alas! it is now two years since my father received a little package of it, and since that time all the delicacies of this country have lost their charm for me. In vain do I breathe this delightful atmosphere, its fragrance is nothing to that of this rich manufacture from Germany.”

The princess was silent; she appeared to sink into a profound melancholy. The duchess leaned over to us, and said, in a confidential, motherly tone, “What is the matter, children? You seem troubled, my lord marquis; and, Angelica, your eyes are swimming with tears.”

“We were speaking of Nüremburg gingerbread,” answered the princess, softly.

The duchess also seemed troubled, looked up to heaven, and said, “Yes, there is something truly divine in that Nüremburg gingerbread.”

“To-morrow I shall have the honor of bringing you some,” replied I, hastily, as I bethought me of the wishing-cap. At this moment I heard a scornful chuckling near me; I looked up, and the pale stranger stood at my side. He looked contemptuously down upon me, then turned his head, and seemed to whisper something to the air. This behavior I considered assumed to mock me; but I determined not to heed the man, for how could he harm me, the possessor of the cap and purse of Fortunatus.

Suddenly a stir arose in the assembly. Exclamations of astonishment were heard from all sides, and a lackey, richly dressed, pressed forward to where the ladies were, with a large silver plate of fresh Nüremburg gingerbread in his hands. I stood amazed; the stranger smiled contemptuously. A stranger, the lackey said, had brought him the salver in the anteroom, with the express command to carry it directly to the Duchess of Silvio Cremonio. As they were about to question him, he unaccountably disappeared. A quiet joy lighted up Angelica’s charming countenance, her mother glanced inquiringly at the stranger, who answered her by a bow of acknowledgment.

“Doctor Joannes, of Ingolstadt,” said the princess, introducing the stranger to me. “Doubtless we must thank him for the beautiful present, which has so enriched our fête to-night. He knows how to prize the treasures of his fatherland, and has foreseen, with his usual tact, that here also he would find friends who would value the productions of his country.”

The doctor bowed smilingly to both ladies. The impertinent fellow hardly looked at me as the princess introduced him. And he was only a doctor and I a marquis. “There is, fortunately, a to-morrow,” thought I; “and although your gingerbread may gratify the taste of the moment, their eyes will be dazzled, and their souls enraptured with the exquisite jewelry, that I intend purchasing for them to-morrow at Rundell & Bridges, in London.” There was witchcraft in the appearance of the gingerbread—that was beyond a doubt. I now observed the man more closely as he conversed with the ladies. His manner toward them was humble and modest, but the diabolical expression about the mouth was not to be concealed.

“Let us make up a party for a game of marriage,” said the glorious Angelica, in her most dulcet tones, as she took my arm. “There is the card saloon. The rest are busy with roulette and faro, but I love marriage beyond every thing.”

“It is also my favorite game,” I replied, full of love for this beautiful creature. “For its sake have I come hither from Constantinople upon the Bosphorus.”

The princess gave me a significant look, and secretly pressed my hand. As I looked up, I saw Joannes gazing upon me with a threatening expression of hate. He then leaned over Angelica, and smilingly whispered something in her ear. Impertinence! He imagined himself all-engrossing with his gingerbread. I gingled the one hundred-franc pieces in my pocket—and the sound made a favorable impression upon the duke’s daughter.

“Yes, we will play marriage,” said she, looking tenderly at me. “Come, marquis every moment of delay is lost.”

The doctor impatiently stamped his foot, but composed himself immediately, and said in his gentlest tone, “Only two seconds, your grace, I hear the horses now—they are here.”

In fact, at this moment a vehicle drove furiously into the court-yard. The snorting of fiery horses, and the voices of servants were heard. Several of the company hastened to the window, and Angelica moved toward it also.

“It is only my new Viennese chariot and Andalusian ponies,” said the doctor, humbly, but so loud, that every one could hear him. “Will you come and see my establishment? I am rather proud of my choice.”

“See,” growled an old gentleman, in a brilliant uniform, “who could see any thing in this Egyptian darkness.”

“I beg pardon,” said Joannes, gently; “I had forgotten that you are not accustomed to see in the dark. That is easily remedied.”

He snapped his fingers, and in a moment the whole court-yard was as light as day from the blaze of many hundred torches secured to the palace walls, and the equipage stood revealed in their brilliant glare. A unanimous and admiring exclamation burst from all present. But I cried scornfully, “That is nothing new, I have often seen it done by Professor Dohler—an electric machine and dry weather are all that is required.” No one listened to me. Every one broke out in praises of the magnificent equipage. Harnessed to it were four horses of wondrous beauty, of the true Andalusian breed. I was forced to confess that I had never seen any thing like them, and to hide my annoyance in admiration. And then the coach—an easier, more gorgeous or graceful thing of the kind could not well be imagined. It rested upon the springs like the shell of Venus upon the waves. It was worthy to contain the fairest of the fair. This seemed to strike the fair Angelica herself. She relinquished my arm for the doctor’s, and said, with a heavenly smile, “You are a happy man, doctor; I cannot imagine a more exquisite sensation, than the possession of such an equipage would create.”

“It is yours, adored one!” whispered Joannes tenderly, yet so loudly that he evidently intended I should hear. “The world has no treasure too great for the queen of all hearts.”

“O heavens! what generosity!” cried Angelica. She hastened from the doctor to her mother, to tell the joyful news.

I looked angrily out of the window, and saw how the doctor’s coachman performed the most wonderful manœuvres, in the confined court-yard, with his fiery steeds. “Witchcraft! a real devil’s trick!” said I to myself, as I stepped back into the saloon, and walked hastily up and down.

I was jealous, furiously jealous—and what wonder? Did not Italian blood course through my veins—was I not the Marquis della Mostarda, from Naples? Thoughts of daggers and aqua toffana coursed through my brain when I looked at Joannes. Two persons in serious conversation passed me, a stately gentleman and an elderly lady. “They may say what they choose, but all is not right with the German doctor. He practices the Black Art, and ought to be thankful that the Holy Inquisition no longer exists. He gives presents here which an emperor could hardly afford, while he inhabits a miserable room in the suburbs, attended by no one but a dirty black poodle, who brings him his meals every day from the restaurateur’s.”

“And how every thing has altered here in this house since he arrived and paid his court to the beautiful Angelica,” continued the lady. “Before we saw poverty everywhere—the servants had no livery, and there had been no parties given since Olini’s time. Now the servants shine in rich embroidery, and at these rare entertainments, delicacies appear upon the table that one has hardly ever dreamed of, such as the gingerbread to-night, after Angelica had expressed her wonderful desire for it. We shall soon see the daughter of the Duke of Silvio Cremonio wife of Doctor Joannes.”

“No, no!” said the gentleman, thoughtfully shaking his head, “I thought so until to-night; but now I see that her parents have other views with regard to her.”

His glance rested upon me, and appearing to observe, for the first time, that I was near, he walked away. But I, knowing now that others regarded my rival as I did, prepared myself to contend with him for the incomparable Angelica.

——

CHAPTER III.

“Shall we not then play marriage?” sounded the nightingale tones at my side, and I felt her delicate hand rest upon my arm.

“To my latest hour,” I cried, enraptured; and every thing was forgotten but the exquisite creature before me. We went to the saloon, and took our places in a quiet niche. In the centre of the apartment they were playing faro. There stood the doctor losing huge sums, and looking as if he were cursing his unlucky stars.

Oh heavens! how beautiful she was with her graceful head bent over the table, her heavenly eyes resting upon the cards, and her features composed to an expression of thoughtfulness. How could I think of the miserable game while she was sitting opposite to me? I thought of only one marriage, and that was with the fair one herself.

She played eagerly, but in her eagerness displayed the most child-like, guileless soul. When she won—and I always let her win—when my one hundred-franc pieces slipped over the green cloth toward her, and she looked at the heap of gold beside her, she clapped her hands like a child beaming with innocence and simplicity. I was blest; I looked at her, and lost with the greatest delight—for was not my purse inexhaustible?

“That is enough for to-night,” said she at last, smiling graciously as she entrusted the heap of gold to an old servant. “One must not go too far, even in their favorite enjoyments. To-morrow I hope to give you your revenge, dear marquis.”

She tripped away to her mother at the faro-table. I was intoxicated with delight—I was beside myself. She had called me dear marquis, and in a tone of voice which rung through my soul. In this blissful state I looked toward the faro-table, but Joannes was no longer there. “He must have lost all,” I said to myself, “and will trouble me no more with his Viennese chariots and Andalusian ponies.” I longed for solitude, and retired to a little room, lighted only by the tapers of the great saloon. Throwing myself upon an ottoman, I thought upon my love and my happiness. I compared my present with my former prospects. Poor Gabriel Mostert! How often hast thou been compelled to wait before great men’s doors, waiting for the permission, which was necessary, before I could venture to intrude. And now, when the Marquis della Mostarda appears, all doors are thrown open, and cringing lackeys attend everywhere to wait on him—all the treasures of the earth are spread out before him for his choice. To be sure just now the finger upon which Kate had put the forget-me-not ring pinched me a little. But why need the marquis keep a promise which the tradesman had made? The thing was not to be thought of. Spite of this reasoning, my conscience would not let me think of the burgomaster’s daughter without a twinge. But I called Angelica’s image to my aid, and little Kate vanished. “She is an angel from heaven, this duke’s daughter,” cried I aloud. Just at this moment a loud, distinct voice in an adjoining dark room enchained my attention.

“Dog, hateful monster!” I heard Doctor Joannes say, “bring me more money, or the compact which binds me to thee is null and void. Of what use is it to me if I must stand now, like a naked beggar, by the side of this Italian, who appears to possess the gold mines of Golconda, and who loses thousands to the beautiful, avaricious Angelica—and smiles all the while, as if he were playing for beans. Money! money! or I will torment thee! I will turn Christian and take thee with me to church.” Then I heard a suppressed whining. It was evident that Doctor Joannes was conversing with the dog, of whom I had already heard something in the saloon. He appeared to understand the poodle tongue, for he answered, when the dog ceased whining, in increasing rage. “Do you say I should have bargained with Moloch, if I wished for gold and jewels? That I cannot compete with the Italian in expense, for he is under some mighty influence, which has at its command all the treasures of the world? That you fear he will marry Angelica, and so destroy all my plans? Dog! cursed monster! Angelica must be mine! Do you dare to fear where I hope? Wo be to you if my forbearance comes to an end.” Then the poodle growled more angrily, and whined no more. It seemed as if the growling in his throat deepened into thunder. But again he was silent, and the doctor replied scornfully, “Your threats I despise, for you are my slave. You must serve me until the old fellow in Wiemar has completed me; it will be a long time before that happens. I shall enjoy life for many years, and you must fill up my cup of pleasure. I say again, Angelica must be mine. And money, money I must have, and that to-night. My old friend may never complete me, or I may turn Christian; and in either case you are balked of my poor soul!”

The dog replied by a tolerably distinct growling.

“Steal, steal—always steal,” replied the doctor, peevishly. “There is something so vulgar in it. Why do you not steal for me, and have it ready for me when I want it. You think stealing is something so purely human that hell itself can have no part in it. But I care not, and will be off with you again for booty. But not from the merchant’s safe or the miser’s chest shall the money come to-night; take me to the treasury of the Emperor of China; there, perhaps, I may find something worth the stealing.”

An icy shudder ran through me. It was beyond a doubt I was in the vicinity of a horrible magician and his famulus. There was a strange rustling in the room; something flew out of the open door, the windows clattered, and a violent wind blew suddenly without. Something impelled me to go into the room. The air was hot and sulphurous, the high folding-doors were open, and on the distant horizon I saw a meteor which vanished in an instant. Half-senseless, I staggered out again. Strange thoughts rushed through my mind. I seemed to have known this doctor and his dog before, and to recollect walking and rioting with them in Frankfort on the Main. But such ridiculous fancies I banished quickly from my mind. “I shall have to deal with him,” said I to myself; “but he can do me no harm, for if the worst comes to the worst, my cap can easily rescue me.”

Satisfied with this reflection, I entered the eating saloon. The trumpets had already announced that supper waited, and the duchess led the fairest of the fair to me, that I might conduct her to the table. How can I describe those moments of bliss! What were the English oysters and Steinberg wine to me? I valued them not at all; I said nothing, but gazed upon her, while in silver tones she revealed to me her whole child-like soul. The dear child was, as is the case with all innocent children—all wishes. She wished for several dresses of the finest and broadest Brabant lace, for a set of Oriental pearls, and for diamonds of larger size and purer water than those she was then wearing. Then followed a multitude of fashionable trifles, and sweetmeats, which last appeared particularly attractive to the lovely girl. I noted down every thing in my memory, and resolved that all should be presented to her at dinner the next day.

Doctor Joannes did not appear at table. It seemed to disturb the duchess, who made many inquiries concerning him, but could learn nothing satisfactory.

I thought it best to guard with diligent secrecy the fact that he had gone to China upon a light-fingered errand. In his absence I was relieved and happy. I might have been the star of the evening, and should have made many excellent observations upon men and manners, had I not infinitely preferred to listen to my gracious princess, who appeared well pleased at not being interrupted in her prattle.

Thus the moments flew by, and the hour for departure arrived. I was in no little embarrassment; richly dressed servants began to announce to the various guests the arrival of their equipages. How could I sustain the dignity of the Marquis della Mostarda? What could I do but retire to some obscure corner, and wish myself in my gloomy lodgings on the Bosphorus. But it was not so to be. A stately Moor, more brilliantly appareled than the rest, approached me, and, as my servant, announced that my vehicle was waiting. I took leave with the utmost dignity of my princely entertainers, who declared that they should certainty expect me the next day at noon, to accompany them on a drive to San Solario—the duke’s château. These, their last words, were accompanied by a heavenly smile from the princess.

In a state of perfect bliss I descended the marble steps, and saw by the torchlight a magnificent chariot and two footmen in waiting. The Moor assisted me to enter, and the horses, which might well vie with the doctor’s Andalusian ponies, flew through the streets of Rio Janeiro. We stopped before a stately mansion, my hotel, as an inward voice assured me. Footmen stood ready to receive me, and chamberlains to attend me to my sleeping apartment. In short, I should have fallen from one state of bewilderment into another, had I not been perfectly conscious of my position as fortune’s favorite. I slept under a silken coverlet, upon eider down. But my dreams were excessively stupid, not of the charming Angelica, as I had hoped, but of Van Delpt and Fleury, with their nonsensical William Benkels and Henri Quatre, and of little Kate, with her vulgar burgomaster papa.

——

CHAPTER IV.

In the morning, however, in spite of my restless night, I was early astir. I visited all the jewelers in Rio Janeiro, and bought all their most costly jewelry. The tradespeople were astonished, and the Marquis della Mostarda was the object of universal admiration. For the pearls which the lovely child had expressed such a desire for, I was obliged to take a little trip to Calcutta. I came back by the way of London, Mechlin, and Paris. Every thing lay before me in my room; exquisite stones from the Brazilian mines, bijouterie of all kinds from Paris, and a superb golden dressing case from Rundell & Bridges. These should secure for me the favor of the mother and daughter, while I endeavored to conciliate the father, by requesting him, in a most polite note, to accept a deposit of 20,000 double pistoles. Every thing was packed up and sent off. The consequences were a note of transporting sweetness from the daughter, upon silk paper, stamped with forget-me-nots, and a business-like letter from the father, assuring me that my money had not been thrown away. O, Angelica, thy beaming smile was with me at all times; for thy sake I could even have forgotten all the obligations of honor and honesty, and have stolen from the Emperor of China. But as yet I had paid for every thing, and the receipts were in my portefeuille. While my servants imagined that I was taking my siesta, I was dining sumptuously in the Rocher de Cancale, in Paris. A little excited by the champagne, I came back to Rio Janeiro, and at the appointed time my chariot stopped before the ducal palace. Need I say that both mother and daughter received me most kindly, and that Angelica, dressed in Mechlin lace over pink silk, with the bandeau of pearls, looked like a goddess.

“Loveliest one,” cried I, “there is no jewel upon earth which would not be ten times more brilliant upon your fair brow. Command me, I beg. Every thing that you desire shall be yours in a quarter of an hour—the mammoth diamond from the turban of the great Mogul.”

“Another time,” said the innocent creature, smiling. “Enough for to-day; now we will drive to San Solario.”

I offered the use of my carriage, but Angelica was bent upon trying her Andalusian horses for the first time. Indeed, it hardly seemed safe to trust ourselves with the suspicious animals, and there was something unpleasantly strange in the idea of being driven by a poodle-dog; but Angelica desired it, her mother coincided in her wishes, and I, as cavalier-servante, must obey. However, I quietly calculated the chances of the venture, and seized an opportunity, when Angelica and her mother were looking another way, to put my little cap upon my head, under my hat, and then felt prepared for any emergency. Should the horses run away, I had only to seize upon the princess and wish myself, with her, upon the parade ground in Berlin, or any other place I might choose—and we should be at once safe and concealed. In the meanwhile, I observed the coachman narrowly. Our glances met, and he regarded me with a fierce, penetrating expression. He wore a beard of enormous growth, and his moustaches were large in proportion. His fiery eyes, his flat nose, and his broad mouth, which was always showing his glistening teeth, gave one the vivid idea of a snarling, rascally poodle.

“You can do me no harm,” I said to myself, as I entered the coach, “for I can remove myself from your rascally neighborhood at any moment that I think best.”

The ponies flew through the streets. Ladies and gentlemen crowded to the balconies and windows to see us pass. The devil certainly drove magnificently, never deviating a hair’s breadth from the right line, and avoiding obstructions in the most skillful manner, though so narrowly, that it was enough to make my flesh creep with horror. The gates of the city now lay behind us. The duchess commanded him to drive more slowly, that we might enjoy the beauty of a charming South American landscape. And now, through my forgetfulness, and all absorbing love for the beautiful Angelica, an accident occurred, which well-nigh destroyed my credit with the duchess and her lovely daughter. We were speaking of all imaginable things—of the Carnival of Venice, of St. Peter’s, in Rome, and of Mahomet’s tomb, at Medina. I was describing the wonderful manner in which the Prophet’s coffin hung suspended between heaven and earth, and expressed my astonishment at the incredible circumstance.

“Indeed, that must be very wonderful!” said Angelica, with child-like sympathy; “I should so like to be there.”

“So should I,” I replied, mechanically, without reflecting that the cap which instantly fulfilled all such wishes was upon my head. Scarcely had the three syllables passed my lips, when I found myself in an immense vaulted apartment, whose high ceiling was undiscernible to the eye. Pillars of marble, porphyry, and jaspar, reared themselves from the floor, which was covered with the most costly carpets. I saw before me the silver doors of a smaller apartment standing open. In the midst hovered, without losing its balance, an object which resembled a coffin. “Allah! Allah!” resounded around me, and everywhere I saw prostrate the pious worshipers of Islam. I tried to collect myself. “A Giaour!” cried many voices, suddenly. “Seize the Christian dog, who defiles the tomb of the Holy Prophet—stone him.” They had recognized me, and were thronging toward me with cries of “Death!” The danger was imminent—but relief was close at hand. In the next moment I was sitting quietly in the carriage of the Duchess of Silvio Cremonio, opposite to the fairest of the fair.

A pallor overspread the features of both ladies, and they trembled excessively. The mother regarded me with terror and astonishment, the daughter more with curiosity.

“By all the saints!” began the mother, in a trembling voice, “I have never met with so remarkable an adventure in a drive before; suddenly, in the midst of an intensely interesting conversation, my lord marquis, you vanish, as if blown away like a mote tossed about by the wind. And now, just as wonderfully, and, as if created from nothing, you appear again in your seat. What does this mean, dear Mostarda? You certainly owe us an explanation.”

“’Tis nothing! A mere trifle,” I replied, confused. “It is a disease that I inherit, but the attacks are very rare, nor do they, as you have seen, last long. It is a very peculiar kind of cramp. One is drawn entirely into himself, into the merest speck, into the plexus solaris of the soul. There is no danger in the case—before one can turn round, it is over. I shall be extremely sorry if such a trifle has alarmed you, ladies.”

I thought I had invented an extremely plausible lie; but the old duchess shook her head, and after a few moments, said, her anxious glance resting, meanwhile, upon her daughter, “But this cramp is a terrible thing; you should consult our physician. It is of very little consequence as long as you are single; but if, when you are a husband and father, you should be seized with your plexus solaris, or whatever you call the thing, and should not be able to recover from it—think what a dreadful thing it would be for your poor family. And what respect could any children have for a father who, perhaps, in the middle of some edifying reproof, was to vanish from their eyes, and then, just as suddenly, shoot up before them again, like a mushroom. You must take something, marquis; you must confine yourself to a solid, strengthening diet, that your body may gain such force as to be able to resist this plexus solaris of the soul. I will send you some chocolate, and some of the wonderful plant, Anakatscha; and I hope to see you well in a few weeks.”

In the anguish of my soul I promised every thing; I would drink the chocolate, avoid all hasty movements, and take a three hours siesta every day. Angelica’s innocent spirit had already found something else to busy itself with, which absorbed all her attention. While the duchess was talking, I had taken out a little bonbonniere of gold, which I had bought for my own use in the morning. The bonbonniere was musical, that is, it played the bridal chorus from “Der Freischütz,” and the Barcarolle from “La Muette de Portici.” I offered bonbons to the ladies, and made the box play these little airs. The charming princess was delighted; she touched the pretty toy, gazed wonderingly at it, and then held it to her ear, exclaiming, “Ah, how delightful to possess such a darling; how charming to have it in one’s boudoir, always ready to beguile the weary hours with music.” Of course, the bonbonniere was instantly declared to be her own. She blushed, cast down her eyes, and assured me that nothing but her great esteem for me would permit her to receive this gift, after all the costly presents of the morning; but I was thankful that the chapter of the plexus solaris was over, and that the villa of San Solario was at hand.

——

CHAPTER V.

At the grated gate of the park Doctor Joannes received us. He was dressed with much more care than on the preceding evening, for, although he still wore the same common black dress, and his hair hung in simple curls on either side of his pale face; in his lace jabot sparkled a diamond of the first water; his fingers were loaded with costly rings, and upon his light cane of bamboo shone in all its native splendor, a ruby as large as a billiard-ball. He did not appear to notice me, but bowed humbly to the ladies, and begged their forgiveness for intruding himself without an invitation; being driven to San Solario, as he said, by the desire to know whether they were satisfied with the Viennese chariot and Andalusian ponies. His whole manner expressed that tender sensibility which is in such favor with the ladies of the present day. They appeared delighted to see him. The lovely princess, sweet innocence, began, in her winning way, to admire the ornaments with which the doctor was adorned. She admired the diamonds and the rings; but when she saw the ruby, she broke out in most musical laughter, and declared that it must have belonged to Gulliver’s Ghlumdalclitch, for none but the queen of the giants could wear such a stone.

“O, gracious princess,” said I, casting a scornful glance upon Doctor Joannes, “these stones are never worn by ladies. They are marks of distinction among the Chinese mandarins; and I do not think such a one is to be found anywhere but in the imperial treasury at Peking.”

The doctor colored slightly, and his glance threatened me with revenge and ruin. But he soon turned quietly to the ladies, smiled himself at the great size of the stone, and confessed that it was this very peculiarity which had induced him to purchase it of a mandarin, who had left Rio Janeiro this very afternoon.

I was obliged to acknowledge that he had extricated himself from the difficulty well, and to leave him in peace for the present.

It was a magnificent afternoon, and the villa San Solario was a place of perfect enchantment. All the public gardens and squares in Gelnhaus and Heidelberg, were as common linen to cashmere, compared with San Solario. In Gelnhaus, if I chanced to hear a nightingale chirp, or a cricket sing, I fell immediately into a poetical ecstasy; and here there was a whole orchestra of woodland musicians performing overtures and symphonies on the boughs of the cedars and palms, while gorgeous birds were flitting about like animated flowers.

That rascal Joannes took his place by Angelica’s side, and, while the ladies were occupied with some sentimental love story, I gave myself up to my strange, wild, poetical dreaming. But I was wakened from my profound reverie by the sharp tones of the duchess. “Have you another attack, my lord, marquis?” said she; “you indulge in strange reveries. Why do you not listen to the exquisite story which the doctor is relating to us—it would melt a heart of stone. But you are so buried in thought, that you hear not a word of it; and if we did not pardon much to the weakness of your nerves, we should really be offended.” The doctor looked at me with the most impudent malice, and the princess Angelica smiled strangely, as if she suspected that I was not all right in my mind, or that I was an unrefined sort of person, who had yet to learn how to conduct himself toward people of rank; but I collected myself, and said, “These affecting stories have an injurious effect upon my nerves, it is true, and the physicians have forbidden me to listen to them. Even in early childhood my nurse’s tales always affected me strangely, and the story of a doctor who journeyed through the air upon a fiery dog, to visit the Emperor of China, or rather his treasury, made such an impression upon me, that it always seems to me as if it had really occurred only yesterday.”

Now, it was my time to stare maliciously at the doctor. Astonishment, rage, and curiosity were painted in his countenance. He had a hard struggle to prevent a self-betrayal; the veins in his forehead swelled fearfully, his cheeks glowed, and his eyes would have killed me if they could. But he recovered his composure again before the ladies noticed his confusion, and became just as interestingly pale as before—gentle and retiring as a young maiden, who is just entering the gay world; he coincided with them in their observations upon the beautiful country, and especially praised the situation of the villa, and the plan upon which the grounds were laid out.

This pleased the duchess—for the plans were her own.

We had now reached a spot where the whole beauty of the park and the surrounding country was spread out before us; but so oppressive were the rays of the evening sun, that it was almost impossible to remain for a moment in contemplation of the glorious landscape. The duchess declared that she would erect a public pavilion here, which should enable people to enjoy the charming scene without, undisturbed by the burning heat.

“In the meanwhile, I can assist you for the moment, with a little piece of chemical art,” said Joannes, very gently, as he detained the ladies. “It were a pity not to remain here until evening, and enjoy all the beauties of the sunset.” With these words he opened a box, which he took from his pocket. I regarded it curiously, but could discover nothing but common snuff. With a solemn air he scattered a few grains of the brown dust in a semi-circle on the ground; and, lo!—in a moment—roses and jessamines, vines and fig-trees, peach-trees and dwarf-palms sprouted up from the earth. They soon grew to a convenient height, and then arched themselves overhead in a roof, the green of which was charmingly relieved by many gay-colored flowers. But the doctor performed even more than he promised. With the arbor, there appeared also luxuriant ottomans, and an elegant table, upon which were crystal dishes, filled with the most delicious confitures, and glasses of lemonade and almond milk. The ladies appeared entirely satisfied with every thing; were not much surprised, and were very glad that the knowledge of natural magic had been carried so far, because it permitted one so easily to serve a friend in time of need.

I was vexed, and another cutting remark was upon my tongue, when an unexpected sight filled me with sweet memories of my home upon the Rhine, and excited my appetite. The arbor had borne fruits. Juicy figs and magnificent peaches were seen among the dark green leaves; but, better than all, there was the genuine fruit of Rhineland—the delicious grape. My heart leaped up within me, and I could scarcely refrain from singing—

“The Rhine, the Rhine, ’tis there our vines are blooming.”

“Does it please you, most honored friend?” asked the doctor, with extreme politeness, as he pointed to the rich, full bunches. “Pluck them yourself, while I wait upon the ladies. You will find them of the finest species, and just in the right state for eating.”

I could not withstand him. I plucked and ate—and the more I ate the greater became my hunger for them. Oh! how my spirits warmed, as I tasted the well-known Rutland grape, the Orleans, Riesling, Traminer, and the delicious, cooling Muscatel. The world around me vanished, and this fruit of the Rhine was—for the moment—life and love. A loud laugh from the ladies and the doctor awoke me from my dream of delight. Amazed, I looked up and around. Angelica pointed maliciously to the stripped vines, and I saw, to my horror, that I had eaten all the fruit, and that I was just stretching out my hand for the last grape upon the arbor. I was deeply mortified, but in the next moment my mortification was changed into dismay. What had I done? How could I have so forgotten myself as to enjoy the fruits of the witchcraft of my rival: I was—if not poisoned—at least bewitched. He gazed at me maliciously; and as he laughed contemptuously, the wicked fire that he had stolen from hell darted from his eyes.

“What is the matter, my lord?” began the duchess, who must have noticed the change in my manner and countenance. “Are you bewitched? Are you going to have another attack?”

“How bewitched? What attack?” cried I, almost beside myself. “We—all three—your gracious highness, the heavenly Angelica, and I—I, the Marquis Della Mostarda, are bewitched by the devil’s arts and a cursed dog. Doctor Joannes will lure on our poor souls into the power of his poodle, with Nüremburg gingerbread, delicious confectionary, and magic fruit. But his power reaches not to me—I am under mightier protection.”

I rushed away, and directed my steps toward the shadiest part of the garden. “What a pity that the poor man suffers from such attacks,” I heard the duchess say behind me. “What a pity,” echoed the princess, sweetly. But the doctor was well content that I had left the field clear for him.

——

CHAPTER VI.

In the shady palm-forest, I walked wildly up and down. What was the use, to me, of my wondrous gifts, if this doctor, with his witchcraft, always contrived to humble me, and to obliterate from the minds of the ladies all that I might effect by my gold and rich presents. I could no longer spare him. The duke and duchess were worthy, God-fearing people; and Angelica went every day to mass, and every week to confession. They should know who they were entertaining as a friend—who was luring their lovely daughter on to her destruction. But what could I adduce against him? That he had journeyed to China upon a poodle-dog, and there stolen money and precious stones from the emperor’s treasury? Good Heavens! If I had advanced such a statement Angelica would have looked suspiciously at me, and the duchess would have felt my pulse, and anxiously asked—“Are your nerves again excited? Is this a fresh attack, my lord?” No, no; nothing was to be done in this way. Only some mighty blow at his credit could free me from my rival. How was it, that from the depths of my soul I seemed to hear a distinct voice, saying—“You know well both him and his poodle; bethink yourself where you have seen them before; he is a person of distinction, well known throughout Europe.” But I thought until my head ached, and could remember nothing. Suddenly, a plan occurred to me, which would put an end to all my embarrassment. Was not the doctor occupied at this moment in creating arbors for the ladies—and was not his poodle sitting upon the coach-box, whistling Caspar’s song from Der Freischütz? Could I not instantly repair to the doctor’s studio, and procure proofs of his dealings with the evil one?

No sooner thought than done. I set my cap more firmly upon my head, and in the next moment I was sitting in the doctor’s studio, surrounded by the most ordinary articles of furniture and dress. The papers upon the table were of no consequence, but the handwriting appeared to me remarkable. The ancient form of the letters, and the various flourishes with which they were adorned, belonged to the Middle Ages. I stepped up to another table, upon which lay several books and a map.

“He loves reading,” thought I: “from the reading in which a man delights, one can easily discover the bent of his mind; and perhaps he has made marginal notes which will betray him, and afford sure proofs of his guilt.” The first book that I opened was the earliest edition of Faust—it was the merest fragment; and nowhere through the book could I find a scrap of writing except at the end, where, in red ink, in the doctor’s easily-recognized handwriting, was the single word, “good.” Did this word refer only to the masterly genius of Goethe, or did it characterize the escape of Faust from his well-merited punishment; an escape which probably filled the doctor with hope that he also might continue unharmed in his league with the Evil One. I opened another book: it was another edition of the same work, with the same blood-red “good” at the end. It was the same with every book that I could find—nothing but Faust, with the same comment at the end. In the latest edition, however, where Faust and Mephistophiles leave Margaret in prison, in the last scene, there was a distinctly-written “very good” at the end.

This “very good” made the strangest impression upon me. At last I lighted upon a handsomely bound book, which proved to be an edition of the admirable drawings with which Ramberg has illustrated Goethe’s great work. As I held this book in my hand I had the distinct impression that the riddle was about to be solved—and so it proved. Was I dreaming?—No. In the first picture upon which I cast my eyes, I recognised in Faust and his Demon Doctor Joannes—my rival, the wooer of the heavenly Angelica—and his hateful poodle, who was now figuring as coachman to the Duke of Silvio Cremonio. My glimmering recollection became a living picture; and I understood well, why the doctor had defied the demon dog—“because the old fellow in Weimar had not completed him.” And because he was as yet only a fragment—because M. von Goethe had delayed his conclusion he was permitted to live in the world, and make me and my Angelica miserable. I would write to Weimar, to M. von Goethe, instantly, and represent to him the dreadful consequences of his delay. No—it were much better, by virtue of my cap, to present myself before him, and plead my own cause in proprid persona.

But now the most tormenting fears took possession of me. I seemed to hear in the distance Angelica’s cry for help, and the shrill tones of her mother entreating my aid. O, Goethe, Faust, and Mephistophiles! I feared the worst. In a flash I was at San Solario. The coach was no longer there; and the old gardener informed me that, at the approach of evening, the ladies had returned to town, accompanied by Doctor Joannes. I still seemed to hear Angelica’s cry for help, and the entreaties of her mother. A moment more, and I stood in the door-way of the palace of Silvio Cremonio; and, looking into the court, saw the direst confusion reigning everywhere. Footmen were running hither and thither with burning torches, and I heard Angelica’s name pronounced in tones of pity, and the doctor’s accompanied with curses. I pressed through the bewildered crowd, rushed up the marble steps, and into the drawing-room. There stood the stout old duke, who came toward me with outstretched arms, but unable to articulate a word. The duchess came also; and with the rage of a lioness robbed of her young in her face and manner seized my hand, and said—

“O, welcome, marquis; more welcome now than ever. Angelica has been torn from us by that demon doctor. You warned us, but I was foolishly deaf to your warnings! O, help us; for you, too, possess the most wonderful natural gifts—else, where could you have procured the beautiful jewels and rich lace!”

“Torn from you by the doctor?” cried I, almost frantic. “Is it possible that this miserable villain, who only exists in print and copperplates, has dared to carry off a Brazilian princess?”

“Dared it before my very eyes!” replied the duchess. “He was this afternoon, as you saw, extremely polite, and more charmingly pale than ever. He assisted me into the coach; but when Angelica was about to enter he flung to the door, seized her, and seating himself with her upon the box, drove through the streets in the wildest manner. Just the other side of the city gates the horses reared, snorted fire, and something like a fiery chariot bore away the doctor, Angelica, and the coachman to the east, where they vanished in that thunder-cloud that you see there.”

“There I recognize Faust!” I cried. “This driving off in flames is an old trick of his; but he shall not long rejoice over his beautiful prey. In a few moments, I will restore Angelica to your arms; you will again be a happy mother, and the princess—”

“Shall be your reward,” said the lady, interrupting me. “I have seen your passion, and am convinced that your love for her is the cause of the weakness of your nerves. Bring the dear child back to us, and you shall receive the blessing of a happy mother.”

“And of a happy father,” added the old duke.

“Away then to the strife with the doctor and his dog!” cried I, entranced. “What is the laurel of fame, in comparison with the price for which I strive?”

The duchess commanded the chaplain to attend in the chapel, and I put on my cap. With a wish only I was hovering in the air in the fiery car, and lightnings were quivering around, while the thunder rolled beneath me. Beside me lay fainting and motionless the dear innocent child, the graceful Angelica. She knew nothing of what was passing around her, and lay there like a careless, sleeping child.

Faust and Mephistophiles were talking together.

“On the peak of Teneriffe we will rest,” said the former.

“And the marriage shall take place at Gretna Green,” said the latter.

“The bride is mine,” cried I, boldly; and in an instant I laid her at the feet of her parents, who were expecting us at the chapel door. As if awakening from a dream, the beautiful being lifted her head, and stroking back her curls, cast an inquiring glance around. But this was no time for explanation. The storm had broken fearfully over the palace, and the duchess foreboded danger.

“You will be happy in marriage, dear children,” said she. “You, Angelica, because you will want for nothing; and you, my lord, because you will gratify every wish of hers. How much pin-money shall you allow her—a hundred thousand pistoles a year?”

“A million!” cried I, “if she is only mine.” My head burned, my heart beat as though it would leap from my breast. The storm grew more fearful, the high Gothic window of the chapel was illuminated by the lightning, and the doctor’s face was plainly seen, grinning frightfully in, and by his side that accursed poodle.

“Hey, hey, Gabriel Mostert!” the doctor seemed scornfully to say. “You are a sad rogue, and the devil will have you, too.”

“I’ll have you, too,” howled the dog, in echo.

I could not fling off the horror that seized me. The priest had now reached the place where my audible assent was necessary; I grew dizzy, and my hand clutched at the altar—a thunder-clap of indescribable violence at this moment burst from the sky—the light of the tapers threatened to be extinguished. All grew dim before my eyes. Then, like shadows, the forms of Van Delpt and Fleury rose up as marriage-witnesses near the altar; the priest, the ducal parents, the princely bride, and the whole retinue dwindled away into infinite littleness, and then into nothing. The marble pillars of the chapel sunk into the earth—the lofty dome bowed down, and became a common ceiling, and out of the dimness gradually appeared, before my uncertain sight, the red interior of the—opium-booth, in Bujukdìre, and a row of slumbering Turks against the walls. My two friends, Van Delpt and Fleury, were standing before me, shaking me roughly by the arms and shoulders, in order to bring me entirely to myself.

“Every thing has its time,” said the cook, with melancholy phlegm, “and you must now abdicate. Your sleep was rather restless at the last, and so we awaked you. I was very happy, I assure you, as William Benkels, but all earthly happiness is a dream, and the dream vanishes like a vapor.”

“What do you mean?” cried I, without understanding him. “Where is my charming Angelica? Where’s my purse? Where’s my wishing-cap? I’m not here, I’m in Brazil—in Rio Janeiro.”

“Nothing but a dream,” cried M. Fleury. “You swallowed opium as well as we, mon cher, and so you’ve had heavenly dreams. But that is all over; be quiet now, my good fellow, and we’ll have some strong coffee; that will prevent disagreeable consequences.”

Pale, and trembling in all my limbs, with the assistance of my friends I reached Van Delpt’s room, where we spent the night in drinking strong coffee, and relating the glories of which we had dreamed.

While I pen these lines to while away the time, I am in quarantine at Trieste—an excellent provision against the plague, but very disagreeable is it to be detained as a suspicious person. But my time will soon be over. I shall hasten on the wings of love to little Kate, the burgomaster’s daughter.

As to my business in Constantinople, it all ended happily. The Mufti, Reis-Effendi, and all the other dignitaries of the Sublime Porte, settled their accounts before the Ramazan; and Messrs. Steinlein & Son were as well satisfied with the balance, as I was with the commission that fell to my share; by means of which I shall set up a shop, with a good stock of Crêpe de Chine and other fashionable articles, as well as veritable Eau de Cologne. My arms are stretched out toward my home, and my heart laughs to greet it; and in the new ledger of my life stand entered in golden letters—“Little Katy for ever.”

THE TUTOR’S DAUGHTER.

———

BY MRS. M. A. FORD.

———

On a calm, but very clouded summer evening, I entered a beautiful valley, bordering on the Juniata river, from which I had been absent nearly three years. Many of my happiest days had been spent amidst its rural shades and warm-hearted people. One, whom all the neighborhood held in veneration, had been my tutor during several years of my youth, and in the family circle under his roof, my heart had found much to contribute to its enjoyments. His two sons filled the places of brothers to one who had none, and their young sister, lovely and modest as the violet of the valley, had won a yet dearer title to my affection. Nearly three years seemed a long time to pass far from these associations, but I had spent it in acquiring a profession on which would depend my future advancement in life, and was now hastening to revisit the valley, and receive from her venerable father the hand of my gentle Linda.

How often during the bright and beautiful days which had hitherto favored my journey, the joyful anticipation of the warm welcome which would greet my return, came with gushing fullness over my heart.

After leaving the stage on the public road, I had hired a horse, and entered a lane leading, through embowering woods, to that portion of the valley which contained the endeared home of other days. In the lightness of my heart I sang catches of songs as my horse gayly bore me along the well-remembered road. But night came on while I was yet in the thick forest, with a mantle darker than usual. Heavy clouds veiled the scene around, and as the gloom increased, my meditations assumed a more serious nature. I might lose the way, and my horse was a stranger to it. The few stars visible gave so little light through the foliage of the woods, that the track soon became undefined. The silence of this darkness was not broken by the night-wind which seemed to have died on its winged way. Thus circumstanced, it was more prudent to proceed slowly.

Was that a footstep? Did not the underwood rustle as if parted by something passing through it? I looked around, but saw nothing amidst the deep gloom, when suddenly the reins were snatched from my hand, and an attempt made by some one to drag me from the horse. I had just time to draw and fire a pistol, a groan followed the discharge, and the strong arm that had grasped me loosed its hold, while a person fell heavily to the ground. Giving my horse the spur, I was soon borne out of the wood.

On reaching the open country and looking back, I saw no one, but hastily resumed my journey.

It was the hour of retiring to rest, when the welcome light from the window of the Grange, the home of my friend, Mr. Milton, met my view. How eagerly I dismounted and hurried across the lawn in front of the mansion. My hand was on the latch of the door, the next moment it was opened, and I felt myself pressed to the heart of my kind old tutor, to whom a letter had announced my coming. As we entered the parlor another form approached, a little hand was clasped in mine, and Linda, covered with blushes and looking more lovely than ever, faltered my welcome. Late as was the hour, they had yet waited supper for me, and we sat down with hearts too full of joyful emotions to do justice to the bountiful supply of the table.

Although my cup of happiness was so full, the strange and unpleasant adventure in the forest shared my thoughts, and the uncertainty of the fate of my assailant pressed rather heavily on one whose habits had always been peaceful. The scene of the encounter was not more than four miles from the Grange.

And yet I delayed informing those so interested in my welfare of the occurrence, partly because their earnest inquiries related to the period of my absence, and I would not interrupt the first gushings of joy and tenderness by any thing unpleasant.

“And where are my friends James and Ernest?” I asked, for their vacant chairs were placed at the table.

Some one entering the door behind me, covered my eyes playfully with his hands; I caught those hands, and turned to embrace my early fellow student and warm-hearted friend James, who had waited until my meeting with his sister was over, and now poured out the frank greeting of his kind and generous nature.

“But where is Ernest to share our happiness?” he inquired. “What can detain him to this late hour? He rode out this evening to meet you, Charles, and I expected to see him with you.”

“I regret I did not meet him. There is another road to meet the stage route, perhaps he took that.”

“Oh no, he went by the same which you traveled. It is strange you did not see him.”

As James spoke, he directed a look of anxious inquiry toward his father, who sighed, and turning to me, said “Ernest has caused me much pain lately. He is sadly altered.”

I looked surprised, but he did not explain, and the silence of the next few minutes left me to ponder on his words.

Ernest altered!—the studious, mild, spiritual Ernest? How altered?—in what way? It could not be favorably, for he had already been my standard of excellence, and in my enthusiastic admiration he could rise no higher. Was it for the worse? Heaven forbid! Yet some years had passed since we parted, and, alas! for changeful man, even Ernest might have fallen into error.

In his continued absence the time seemed slowly and anxiously to pass away. Linda rose to retire, and as I pressed her hand in saying “good-night,” I observed a look of sadness, and a starting tear had changed the expression of her sweet face. As had always been her custom from childhood, she knelt for her father’s blessing, and when his venerable hand, pressed on the rich clusters of her dark brown hair, and “God bless you, my child,” came from his lips, she earnestly added, “And may he protect my brother from all danger.”

I could not help sharing the general anxiety, and felt more unwilling to impart to them the late encounter in the wood, lest it should increase their fears for the safety of Ernest. Yet what enemy had he? and the road leading to his home would be plain to him on the darkest night. But I might with the same reason ask, What enemy had I? And who was my assailant? If a highwayman, he would have demanded my purse.

As I turned on my pillow after retiring to the chamber alloted to me, I vainly sought repose. The journey of the day had been a long and weary one, although supported by the joyous anticipations of a buoyant spirit: tired I felt, but not sleepy, for a strange feeling of uncertainty and anxiety was now upon me, which was not relieved by the murmur of voices in the next apartment. My chamber, which was the same I had occupied in boyhood, was only separated from the next by a wooden partition, so common in country houses, and what was spoken there, even in a low voice, could be heard with a little attention by me. Shall I confess this attention was not wanting on my part? For the first time in my life I listened willingly to the communications of others not intended for my ear. My conscientious scruples were quieted by the reflection that long-existing ties bound me to the interests of the family, and besides, was I not about to unite myself to its dearest member, and had I not something like a brother’s right to learn what were the sorrows or troubles of Ernest, whose name was more than once spoken in the subdued but agitated voice of my venerated old friend, his father, whose chamber I knew adjoined mine. My name was also mentioned, and regret expressed by James that he had not confided in me and entered into an explanation. This certainly exonerated me from all blame in eaves-dropping, and I listened without dreading the admonitions of my inward monitor.

“I will share your pillow to-night, my dear father,” said James, “for I fear you cannot sleep.”

“As you please, my dear son,” he replied, “and surely we have cause for alarm. Oh! Ernest, Ernest, you whom I thought by intellectual culture and literary acquirements to place above the trials and troubles of this world, that after all you should act so rashly.”

“Nay, my dear father, I trust nothing wrong has happened. My brother received a note just before his departure; but I do not know that it was from Bertha. It is true his love for her is most fervent, and another insult from Durell would arouse him almost to frenzy.”

Here they spoke so low I could not connect the words, but “encounter—revenge—insult—Bertha—attack—ride—chastise”—and others as strange met my ear.

And who was Bertha? I now recollected a lovely girl of some fourteen summers, that bore that name, and at the time I left the valley, resided with her widowed mother in a neat cottage about three miles from the Grange. The name was an unusual one, unlike the simple appellations of her neighbors, and it is one of the pleasing effects of the settlement of our country by colonists from so many different nations, that some of the wildly beautiful names brought from other lands may still be heard in the deep shadows of our valleys, on the rugged brow of the mountain, by the gush of the waterfall, or in the flower-studded prairies of the West. To this also, may be attributed the varied style of beauty in our land which travelers have remarked.

There is no true standard of American loveliness; the blonde, the brunette; the eye soft as the gazelle or bright as the glancing meteor: features so differently moulded, some full of commanding dignity, others replete with [missing content]

Forms rounded into the freshness of a Hebe, or delicate and graceful as the tendrils of the vine. Figures, tall and majestic in their proportions, or small and fairy-like in their beauty. Each have their peculiar charm: but I have digressed too far, and must return to the scenes of that distressing night.

Bertha was now no longer a child, but a beautiful woman, and had taken possession of the heart of my friend Ernest, in defiance of the nine Muses, and all the brilliant array of classic dames and ancient heroines with which study had stored his memory. How relieved I felt to know that this was the change which had come over him; how unjust it was to his merits to suspect for a moment that he could act unworthily. But he had a rival and might be in danger, and again I listened; when what was my dismay and horror to hear the father and brother express their fears that he had attacked his insolent rival, and been injured in the contest. My heart beat as if it would have burst from my breast. What if my friend had in the darkness mistaken me for this Durell. What if my unknown assailant was Ernest, and alas? what if—but I could think and listen no longer, and sank back on my pillow, with an intense feeling of agony it is impossible to describe.

Recovering myself by a strong effort, I sprang from the bed and hastily threw on my clothes. I believe my intention was to rush out of the house, and seek in the forest the relief or confirmation of my fears.

The noise I made drew the attention of James, who soon entered the chamber. He was not undressed, yet seemed surprised to find me up.

“Why are you rising, Charles? It is yet two hours before day.”

I could not answer for some moments. At last I faltered out,

“I have overheard your conversation with your father, and like yourselves, must feel unhappy.”

“My dear friend,” he cried, “I wish we had explained all to you before. My anxiety about Ernest will not allow me to sleep. I will arouse the gardener to go with me in search of him, and would have done so before, but knowing my brother’s sensitive and delicate feelings, I feared if he was safe he might be displeased.”

“I will accompany you,” I replied, “do not awaken Richard.”

“No, no, you are not well, Charles. How you shake. Why, you are as pale as ashes. Richard can go, for my father will not let me venture alone.”

Still I persisted in following him down stairs, and with cautious footsteps we passed Linda’s door; but our care was useless, it was ajar, and a light burning on the table. Her brother looked in, Linda was not there, but on re-entering the passage we caught a glimpse of her form leaning from a window at the extreme end, and gazing out on the road.

She started as we approached, and an exclamation rather of distress than alarm broke from her—“My brother! my Ernest!”

“Be calm, dear sister,” said James; “I am going to seek him. He may have gone to the next town, and the night being dark, his friends have detained him until morning.”

“Alas! I cannot hope this,” said Linda; “for Ernest would not willingly give pain and anxiety to our father. I fear some evil has befallen him.” And she burst into tears.

I could not approach to soothe her anguish, for her words were torture to my heart, as I accused myself of being the cause of all this distress.

“Are you going, too, Charles?” she inquired, raising her tearful eyes to mine. Before I could answer, the voice of Mr. Milton called me, and I hastened to his chamber. He was sitting up in bed, and the painful anxiety of the last few hours had visibly affected his usually healthy appearance. His had been a green old age, so beautiful in its gradual decline, but now his features appeared sharp, and his face very pale.

“Charles,” said he, “I can scarcely tell you how wretched I feel. You cannot comprehend the reality of our alarm, as you know so little of the circumstances that cause it. In a few words, then, I will inform you. Ernest loves and is beloved. A stranger, without character, came lately into the neighborhood, and struck with the beauty of Bertha (whose sweet childhood you must remember) has rudely pressed his attendance on her when walking, and intruded frequently into her mother’s dwelling. Finding his suit rejected, and hearing of Bertha’s engagement to my son, he has spoken of him in the most insulting manner, and Ernest, learning his inexcusable conduct, has forbidden him ever to enter the cottage again. To this he has only returned insolent language, and perseveres in his annoyance when my son is absent. Ernest, naturally so mild, is now quite changed, and has threatened him with chastisement. The note received by my son I fear conveyed the knowledge of some fresh intrusion on our sweet Bertha, and we dread his meeting this insolent stranger again. In riding through the forest he may have crossed his path, and been provoked to chastise him, and in the struggle may have received some fatal injury from one so devoid of principle and honor. And now, do you not think we have great cause for alarm, at the continued absence of Ernest?”

I was too agitated to answer, and he continued:

“My kind Charles, I knew how deeply you would sympathise in our feelings. Ernest ought to have met you at the stage, and returned with you. This would have prevented any collision with his foe. Oh! why did he not do so? My dear, my unhappy son!” and tears coursed his venerable cheeks.

Linda and James had followed me to the chamber, and now hastened to soothe and console him with hopes that cheered not their own hearts. Suddenly he addressed me again with startling energy:

“Why do you not speak, Charles? Can you suggest nothing to comfort me? Was all silent in the forest as you passed through, or did you hear a noise? I adjure you by your hopes of heaven to answer me! Do not fear my weakness. The great Being who sustains my age will not forsake me now.”

I had advanced to the bedside, and sinking down, buried my face in the covering. The truth was on my lips, struggling for utterance—but could I thus destroy all their hopes, brand myself as the murderer of Ernest, and be separated from Linda forever? I sprang, in the energy of despair, to my feet.

“’Tis madness to remain longer,” I exclaimed, clasping my hands in agony, “we are losing time; come, come. Oh, wretched me!”

“He is beside himself,” cried Linda, in a voice of terror; “speak to him, James.”

I was rushing from the room, when he intercepted me.

“Stay one moment, dear Charles, I will go immediately. Linda, support our father. Alas! I fear my friend has heard or seen something in that forest that makes his alarm even greater than ours. Heaven grant we may be in time to save my brother.”

I broke from him and ran along the passage, he followed, and swift as lightning we descended the staircase. By this time the housemaid and gardener were aroused, and running from opposite directions, increased the confusion. James gave the necessary orders, and assisted Richard to saddle the horses, when we hastily mounted, and attended by him, galloped toward the woods I had so lately entered with such different feelings.

As we moved silently and swiftly along, the gray dawn began to appear in the east, but the increasing light cheered not my oppressed heart, for I dreaded its revealings.

How often in my happy youth, before I left the valley, had I watched with delight the gradual unfolding of the landscape, as the magic glances of the dawn lighted the rock, the hill, the wood, or when it mounted higher, heralding the glorious sun, and reflecting its rosy hues on the waters of the Juniata. Young life, with its dewy freshness, joyed in that which was congenial to its feelings, but how little suited to the darkness within me now; I almost shrank from the playful breeze that fanned my cheek.

As we entered the deeply shadowed wood I dreaded to look forward. Would I see the pale form of Ernest, fallen by my rashness, for worse than rashness it now appeared to me? Why did I fire so suddenly? If I had grappled with the person who attempted to drag me from the horse, I might have overcome without fatally injuring him. Had I spoken one word, the sound of my voice would have convinced Ernest of his mistake. But to reason thus was now useless, and only added to my anguish.

“Charles,” said James, in a low agitated voice, “what is that beneath yonder oak?”

One plunge of my horse brought me to the object; a white handkerchief, stained with blood, lay on the spot which I thought must be that of last night’s assault.

I raised it quickly, exclaiming—“Thank God! he is not here!”

James could not understand my feelings, and replied—“True, but whose is that blood? Oh! if it is my brother’s he may have been dragged away!”

Alas! I knew too well I had left him there, but hope dawned in my breast. The wound had not been immediately fatal—he might be alive—might yet live long to bless his family, and to forgive me. Hope made me strong again. We searched every thicket around, and then hastened toward the main road. A lane on the right led to the little village, near which Bertha resided. We turned into it, and in a short time the cottage was in view; its lowly roof almost hid by overhanging branches from the trees around it.

The distressed James hurried me on, in the hope of hearing something to relieve our anxiety. We soon reached the gate, and springing from our horses, entered the little flower-garden in front. Although the sun had not yet risen, the sound of footsteps passing rapidly through the house was distinctly heard. Presently two persons, who appeared to be neighbors, came hastily out of the door to meet us.

“Is the doctor with you?” inquired one of them.

“What doctor? Who is injured?” exclaimed James, rushing past them into the house.

I followed him, trembling in every limb. Several persons were in the room we entered, but I saw but one—and what a sight was that?

Stretched on a bed, lay a tall form motionless. The face was turned toward the wall, but the pale hands were white as the counterpane. With a cry of agony and grief, James threw himself on his knees by its side. I saw no more, for nature gave way, and I sunk on the door in a state of insensibility.

When restored to perfect consciousness, I found myself lying on a sofa in a small parlor. The window shutters were half closed to exclude the light.

“Where am I?” I exclaimed, attempting to rise, but a gentle hand prevented me, and turning I saw a lady, advanced in life, but with a most benignant countenance, who had been watching by my couch. It was the mother of Bertha, the widow of an American officer.

“Be composed, sir,” she said, “we have all suffered much anxiety on your account, and your friend Ernest would not leave the house until assured you were in no danger.”

“Ernest!” I exclaimed, “is he alive? Oh, Heaven be praised!”

“He is alive and well,” she replied, with some surprise; “but now I recollect that you and his brother were both shocked by supposing the wounded person was Ernest. It was the stranger who has so constantly annoyed us, and yet we regret he is hurt. He had only fainted from loss of blood when you entered the room, but has been shot in the leg, and probably will be lame through life.”

It is impossible to describe the sudden and joyful change in my feelings. I thought not of the stranger, but of Ernest my friend, the brother of my Linda, restored to us safe and well. How the happiness of my overcharged heart struggled for utterance at my lips, but I could not speak it, and having listened almost breathlessly to the recital of the lady, now rose once more from the sofa. But again she stayed my steps.

“Listen to me a moment longer,” she said. “Your friend Ernest after leaving the Grange last evening to meet you stopped here, and this delay prevented him from arriving at the stage-road until too late to see you, but he learned that you had proceeded on horseback toward his father’s residence, more than an hour before. Thick clouds shadowed the sky, and it was dark and late when he returned through the forest, when his attention was arrested by the groans of some person. Hastily alighting, and following the sounds, he discovered this man wounded, and having raised him with some difficulty, he placed him on the horse, and brought him here as the nearest house. But Ernest has since been arrested on suspicion of wounding him, although we all know he is innocent. His brother has gone with him and the officers of the law to the next town.”

“Do not detain me a moment,” I exclaimed, “Ernest is innocent! It was I who, in self-defense, shot at Durell, who attacked me in the forest last night, no doubt mistaking me in the darkness for my friend.”

The party with Ernest had been gone but a short time, and were soon overtaken by one of the neighbors, when they immediately returned to the cottage, and I, certainly the happiest of the group, with a face too full of truth to be doubted, told my story, which entirely exonerated Ernest, and myself too. The officers then departed, and a surgeon having examined and bandaged the limb of Durell, who had only received a flesh wound, he appeared so mortified and chagrined at his mistake and exposure, and so anxious to leave the cottage, that it was thought best to remove him on a litter to the village inn. He soon recovered, and one morning made an early departure, leaving his bill to be paid by me. Subsequently we learned he was a gambler, and had probably sought the seclusion of the valley to evade the pursuit of the law. But enough of him.

What a joyous party returned to the Grange, to which Richard had been dispatched at an early hour, to relieve the anxiety of Linda and her father. Bertha, whose beauty had wrought all our past trouble, accompanied us, but I scarcely looked at her, as she rode by the side of Ernest, for I could for some time think only of him, and surprised my friend very often by the tight pressure I gave his hand whenever I could reach it.

On our arrival at the Grange, I explained the cause of the distress and anxiety I had shown there on the night before, and oh! how sincerely my heart joined in the pious and simply beautiful thanks to God, from the lips of my old tutor, as we surrounded his hospitable board. How truly I felt that a benign and overruling Providence alone could bring joy out of sorrow.

Years have passed since then, years of happiness with Linda, but the memory of that night and morning can never be effaced from my mind. Yet it has taught me a grateful dependence on the Giver of all good, and one of the earliest lessons learned by the little happy group who call us parents, was to look on the bright side of life, and never imagine sorrows which may have no reality.

AMBITION.

———

BY RUFUS WAPLES.

———

Aurora smiles! the sun is on the sea!

Angels are painting pictures in the sky;

Eolian breezes warble wild and free,

Singing the infant giant’s lullaby.

He comes to bless; he smiles to beautify:

But lately laving in a sea of glory,

New-born, new-crowned, he reigns a prince on high,

With brightness god-like and with mission holy,

The brilliant hero of a day’s brief story.

Sun of the Morn! in gilded car ascend;

Give gold to dew-drops; silver to the spring;

Thy light and heat harmoniously blend,

The earth to gladden in thy journeying.

Eagle of heaven! outspread thy glorious wing—

Onward—and upward! higher yet—and higher!

Ambition’s hero, day’s unrivaled king—

Millions of mortals see thee to admire,

The prince of planets wrapped in robe of fire!

Enthroned, exalted, beautifully grand!

Clothed in a mantle of effulgent light;

Crowned by the eternal King of kings, whose hand

Arrays in majesty such satellite—

Courtiers that dance around thee with delight;

A band of guardians ever watching o’er thee,

Beaming with thy own beauty through the night,

Veiling their faces when they come before thee,

Like Gheber worshipers when they adore thee.

Sun of the Noon! thy highest good is won!

The zenith of the heavens is thy throne!

In all his pride the “Man of Macedon”

Ne’er ruled an empire mighty as thine own,

Stretching from shore to shore, from zone to zone!

Thy frown can wither and thy smile create—

Thou goest forth companionless—alone!

Thou sittest like a god in royal state:—

Was ever seen so great a potentate?

Behold, great monarch, thy declining reign!

Ambition bade thee over all to tower:

Full was thy fame! Alas! ’twas doomed to wane—

To fade like meteor glare or summer flower!

’Twas thus great Cæsar gloried in his power,

Till Rome was startled by his funeral knell:

Thus Cromwell shone, the starlet of an hour:

And thus Napoleon rose—and thus he fell!

List, Phœbus! hearest thou the vesper bell?

Sun of the Eve! thy sceptre is departed!

Clouds come as kinsmen round thy dying bed:

But whilst they gaze as mourners broken-hearted,

They wrap them in thy royal robe of red;

They steal thy golden crown from off thy head—

Ay, pluck thy locks and soil thy silver sheen!

The heavens with bonfires the glad tidings spread,

“Sol is no more, and Cynthia is queen!”

Earth shouts “Glad tidings!” happy at the scene.

Glad tidings? Yes, the sun was merciless—

He withered flowers—he parched the prairie plain!

With Galileo many now confess

His character was not without a stain.

Of spots upon his visage they complain

Who late extolled his brightness to the skies;

And thousands censure his declining reign

Who sang “Excelsior!” when they saw him rise.

Thus lives Ambition’s hero—thus he dies!

SONG.

Tears for the weary,

Smiles for the gay:

Hearts that are dreary

Dream far away.

Vows have been broken—

Tears have been shed—

Love’s gentle token

Lies withered and dead.

Dead and forsaken!

O leave me alone!

I would not awaken

The memories gone.

Then utter no whisper—

Breathe not a sigh—

Like evening’s last vesper

Affection must die.

O. J. V.

GANGA.

———

BY D. WILLIAMS.

———

Still flows the Ganges the mightiest of Eastern waters! As erst it flowed when rocking the cradle of our common humanity with its green waves—laving the shores whence issued all our race—as like the Heraclean boy it fought and conquered in its tossing cot rolling on the Ganges’ breakers, all hydras which would smother its birth and growth, so do its descendants turn with affection to their natal stream, like the returning Heraclidæ to Greece of old. How rich in scenes of human joy and wo—how replete with the misty veddahs—how full of the corpses of India’s children, sacrificed to its beatific current, rolls the ancient river, its banks green with the growth of ages, with tropic vegetation stretching its umbrageous arms like huge antennæ over the waters of many colors, as they borrow their dolphin-hues from the thousand suns dipped in its waves, from the multifold reflections of the hoary Himmalayeh. And still its fertile flow marks no flight of time or change in the religion of its children. Still wanders the Brahmin, continent and secluded, on its banks, and offers his all to the three-fold Divinity. The air whispering its light susurrus amid the purple and scarlet flowers that form the home of the humming-birds, whirring in their sweet-laden journey like the home-coming bees of Hybla—the ripple of the foaming tide as the lily-tops bow to its inspired influence—the song of the mourning mother as she strips her child for the sacrifice, commune with the mighty Bramah, and repeat the tales of Seeva. And the darkness comprehends it. . . . . .

“O Ganges,” rose the wail of the mother, “ever beneficent as when thou sprangest gushing in maiden purity from the front of Sivah, as kind as when thou visitedest this our chosen land, scattering blessings on every hand, receive now in thy divine bosom—the last, greatest offering of a mother’s heart, and bear it gently on to happiness.” She ceased; no sound but the swaying of the forest-boughs met the ear. Hush! there is a plash, a feeble cry, a dark object floating slowly down the stream! It is the sacrifice. Will it, must it perish, that fair, fragile image of its Maker? Is there no hand to save it? Naught human—naught but the spirit ever-watching. Look! it does not sink, it rests on the broad-leaved lotus, and passes slowly out of the shade of the banks and down the whitening current. Fragrant lilies, with sustaining leaves and petals uphold it from the yawning waters, even as the reedy Nile with conscious wave upheld the destined prophet. As Moses on the sacred stream was saved for future good, so was the infant on the rolling Ganges. Gently floating on its flowery bark, the child went down the eddying current, its soft Indian features upturned to the silver moonbeams, and the stars in the shadowy distance, now rocking fearfully over some little rapid of the stream, now circling round some green-clad point, where the pendent branches swept its cheek, the unconscious mariner floated on; and ever the kindly lotus, strengthened by the will of Bramah, extended its pressed leaves, gemmed with a thousand forms of insect life, still wider for its protection. The sweet echoes rang through the lily-cups to the vibrations of its fragrant petals. Soft melody of innocent life mingled with the voice of the waters. The good spirits sent by Bramah soothed the child now sleeping, and fanned its cheek with their breath, like the smoke of the welcome incense to the divine one. No eye saw the frail burden save Bramah’s, and the holy Ganges, on whose faithful bosom it reposed. And thus they passed down the stream, undisturbed, in the gray of the morning.

The old hermit, Nikaiyah, who, in the early twilight, pursued his devotions on the banks of the river, was making his orisons to the Ganges when the reddening water and glowing east gave tokens of the dawn. As he stooped to perform his ablutions, an object, dark upon the water, caught his eye. It was the lotus-cradle and its burden. The old man’s heart was moved, and, despite the voice of religion, which forbade to rob the Ganges, he listened to the voice of nature, and with many deprecations of the divine wrath, he took up the child and carried it to his humble dwelling. There was no name for the child, and, partly as a peace-offering to the wronged divinity, he called it Ganga! He brought up the infant until its sixteenth year, though troubled by many misgivings as to the propriety of the responsibility of which he had relieved the Ganges. Here, then, the child’s youth was passed in the wilderness. And she grew to be as fair as the hues of her cradle, with eyes glittering like the lotus-leaves when sparkling with the foam-fretting waves of the Ganges, as the first sunbeams strike upon the buds, and the grateful heat unfolds the flowers to the pleasant air of the morning, and the glory of floral existence. Swift passed the days of her childhood; and as gayly as the gaudy butterflies that flitted all day round her dwelling, she passed from day to day, and from object to object, in the bloom of youthful happiness. Bright as the glow-worm, when wooing his mate, was the time of her childish experience. To follow the gayly-painted parrots through the odorous groves of spices, and watch the busy dragon-flies as they chase each other among the blossoms; to bathe in the limpid stream which had kindly borne her thither, and recline on its ever-green banks, watching the flow of the waters; these were her daily occupations, and these she pursued alone, for the old man was absorbed in devotion, and always rapt in pious contemplation. But anxious for her future welfare, he would sometimes, after they had finished their simple meal of vegetables, take her by the hand and unfold the ancient veddahs, or sacred records, and tell her of the Metempsychosis; tell her of the holy Trine, that threefold-unity—the Creator, the Preserver, the Destroyer; the all comprehended in Bramah, the parts in Seeva and Vishnu. How by inferior eyes it is interpreted, the earth, the generator; water, the fructifier; fire, the annihilator. How was born the Ganges, the adored one, by the beneficence of Bramah, described its primal course, and how at last,

——“To India’s favored land

It rolled o’er fields of nard and spicy meads,

And won its heaven-directed way.”

That the divine, the incomprehensible, heed not the rage of the evil, undisturbed by foes in sacred peace. That he who would join their presence must, for his earthly sins, in others’ bodies do expiation; and after the lapse of purging ages, can alone be admitted to taste the heavenly fruit and enjoy the society of the godlike. Then, to please her maiden heart, would he narrate the tales and the sufferings of the unmarried dying, their miseries here and hereafter. And when the virgin Ganga, used to the forms of wilder nature, and remembering only her old protector, would wish to cling to her rude life in the wilderness, then, with a sigh at his own reverses, the old man would recount the ceremonies of the nuptial-feast, and gazing fondly on the Ganges-offering, pray that she might atone for all past offenses by a holy youth and a happy union. Sweet visions of the future, when he might behold his adopted at the solemn ceremony, modest, in the home of the bridegroom, kindly receiving the votive offering—the corn-crowned feast—the joyous revel, the sacred mysteries. Then recurring to the old mythology and the sacred rites, he describes the festival of the Vasanti, the genial goddess of the spring; when, like the bursting out of nature, the people throw away the fetters of caste and custom, and mingle in indiscriminate revelry; the rites of Sitala, the goddess of children, which the mothers celebrate on the hill-top, assembling, crowned with chaplets of roses, jessamine, and oleander, for the purposes of mirth; and the “nine days festival of flowers,” sacred to Ganri, the wife of Siva, the goddess of the harvest, whence comes her golden name. That this takes place at the vernal equinox, when the matronly Ganri casts her golden mantle over the ripened beauties of the verdant Vasanti. Then nature is in perfection—the air is impregnated with aroma, and the crimson poppy contrasts with the spikes of golden grain to form a wreath for the beneficent Ganri. She bears the lotus in her corn-stained hands, and often the implements of death, denoting that the goddess, whose gifts sustain life, is sometimes accessory to the loss of it—thus resembling the Isis and Cybelle of the Egyptians. The corn is sown, and when it germinates, they invoke the blessing of Ganri, and bear her image in solemn procession. Then on the glassy lake the effigy is borne in boats as primitive as those which bore the Argonauts to Colchis. The rising borders of the lake swarm with devout and joyous multitudes. The fair Hindostaneé, fragrant with garlands, wave their scarlet tokens, reflected from the transparent water, and chant their festal hymns. The procession winds slowly down the steep descent with the image of the benefactress, the propitious Ganri, in the centre, blazing with gold and gems, glittering in the tropic sun; the solemn music reëchoes among the narrow passes, announcing the approach of the divine one. The hoary sages bear with reverence the sacred burden. All is joy and innocent happiness. They reach the shore, passing beneath the long, black tresses of the attendant maidens, and embark with sober state to voyage around the lake. This rite performed, the sun ever shines more brightly on the harvest, and the dews descend gently on the young promise of the meadows. Ganri propitious smiles upon the undertakings of her favorite race. Ganga, then, would spring up in delight, and with sparkling eyes wish to remove from their quiet retreat and visit these brilliant festivals. Gently the old man reproaches her, and warns her of ambitious wishes. His kindly words fall as quiet and soothing on the soul of Ganga as the shades of evening on the silent leaves of the forest. But hark! from the distant jungle resounds the howl of the panther, and the muttering of the king of the beasts! The child shrinks fearful and awe-struck into the arms of her protector, as the timid leaves bow before the blast of the tempest. Faltering rose her voice as the quivering notes of the songster, when the thunder rolls in the ether, when fleeing its dread approach, she seeks her sheltered nest, her callow and expectant young, seizing the opportunity when great emotions bare the inner soul, and adapt it to softer impressions. Nikaiyah would speak of the love, the providence always waking; tell her of her perilous voyage on the Ganges, describe her preservation, and ask if she feared the wild beasts, who obeyed their master’s orders. Then the old doctrine of the transmigration would glimmer on her young mind, when explained with persuasive eloquence, like the faint first twinklings of Hesperus, and with as mild and benignant an influence. She would hang upon his words with large, attentive eyes, as he told her that even the ferial nature of the wildest monster was filled by a penance-doing spirit that once had felt as she did—alas! the expiation! Therefore the pious Brahmin forbore to destroy a living thing, fearful of injuring a brother—for then would the unfortunate begin his weary pilgrimage anew. Beware, mortal, of defeating the purposes of Bramah! That to avoid or shorten this term of suffering the good man lived secluded from the world, devoting himself to the study of his own breast, and seeking to know his Creator, or subjected himself to privation, to torture, and to death, to gain the reward of martyrdom unspotted by earthly taint, unwearied by earthly transmigration. Thus did the priests for themselves and others atoning, as did of old in Christian infancy Simon Stylites. For this had Nikaiyah shut himself up in the forest, in voluntary retirement, for a term of years which was even now expiring. Then to the mind of Ganga would come the thought of a previous life, when she might have roamed under some different form through the forest, returned by an accident to her human probation. Vague thoughts like these would steal upon her spirit, like the waves of a distant ocean, an indefinite sea of former existence, surging, rising on the memory, breaking on the shifting sands of the present; and she the storm-tost mariner struggling on the crest of the waves, ever mistaking the foaming phosphorescence of the surf for a light of friendly assistance; or if she turned to the future, that mist-shadowed nothing, she would alternately fancy herself floating smoothly on an unbroken sea, and gazing into its purple depths, sinister yet tempting; or pushing for some unknown shore, prone for great discovery. Thus is life to us all; we stand on the golden sand of an ever-changing present, listening to the echoes of the past receding with the ebbing tide among the hoarse-mouthed caverns; more often, unheeding, gaze upon the calm, open sea of the future, and, regardless of the billows that break tumultuous around us, think only of those serene hopes to come, those halcyon days of peace shining undimmed in times of deceptive distance.

The old man ceased. Night had fallen, and the unwholesome exhalations warned to retire from the unwholesome air—Ganga, soon wrapt in the sweet sleep of youth, lay dreaming over in ever new and magnified forms those doctrines of the Metempsychosis which Nikaiyah had explained to her. She was doomed, it seemed to her, to pass through the stages of an infinite change, and like the banyan tree, as fast as having reached a certain height she seemed to have attained perfection, and must needs bend down to take fresh root in earth. Unconscious that all this was but enlarging her soul and her sphere of good, as the banyan with fresh trunks enlarges its cool and refreshing circumference, and gives wider shelter to the weary and the oppressed. First, she was an ant, busy and careful as the proverb, toiling to increase the glory of the realm and queen; but a hostile invasion of robber tribes relieved her from that insignificant though useful existence—instantly she was rolling, a vast, glittering length, through the crackling under-brush, a gigantic boa; the angry lion, defiant to the last, retreated from those shining meshes, which slow curling in golden folds, could have hugged to death a generation of laocoons. Undisturbed monarch of the wood the monster coiled his serpentine length, glaring—O, horror! that such expression should come from Ganga’s eyes—angrily at the retreating beasts. But with a pang that was finished—she had been struck unawares. Where was she now—how cold! how bleak!—and the feathers! A vulture on the Himmalyah peaks, looking over to the southern sea’s blue on the horizon’s verge—nothing but snow—where were her beautiful valleys—she could fly down, at any rate. What a sensation—to be floating in mid-air unconscious of motion, for want of a standard to measure by; passing through the variously-tinted clouds, seeing naught—the dull flapping of noiseless wings. But now the primeval forest grows green upon the vision—now she swoops at a parrot, all green and yellow, chattering on a dead bough; unconscious she is struck by the arrow of a wandering boy. Now she is happy—a nightingale, singing melodiously in harmonious concert with a thousand sisters amid the sacred grove—fair girls, with jet-black eyes and locks darker than the night, come to hear the song of the nightingales—how sweetly the evening breeze, cool from the water, soughs through the whispering branches! There is something in yonder aisle of trees!—a youth and a maiden walking under the shadows, their arms encircling each other’s waist—soft hours of confidence, of fond anticipation never destined to be realized. They are just passing under the low, vine-covered sandal-tree, when the nightingale sees the leopard crouching among the branches that variegate with green his spotted sides—see the lovers, with heads mutually inclined, engaged in sweet converse—see the fierce beast, bending on the enormous machinery of his huge muscles, preparing for the spring! She will warn them—she flies rapidly to attract their attention—they are just exchanging farewells. O, Heavens! are they not eternal ones! The monster is in the act of rising on his spring—the lovers embrace—the nightingale flies with utmost, but as it seems, fruitless speed—when——

Ganga awoke to the sweet reality of a peaceful security and her quiet home upon the sacred stream. The morning sun was shining brightly. Where was her old friend? Why had he not called her at dawn to perform her matin devotions? Alas! he was sitting dejected by the door, thinking of the trusting charge he was to commit to the tender mercies of the world; for the term of his vow had expired, and he must rejoin his brethren, the Brahmins, in the ministerings and services of the temple.

Sadly they collect their little property—weary prepare for their pilgrimage. Mournfully Ganga bids farewell to her tame favorites, who, conscious as it were of the sanctity in which they held life, had congregated fearlessly around their dwelling, fed daily by the hands of the maiden. Sadly, they turn their backs upon their happy home and journey on to worldly experience. The sun’s rays have scarce reached their noontide severity when they pass up the banks of the river, casting many a glance behind to the forest so long familiar; accompanied by their feathered favorites, who soon must miss the fostering care of Ganga. The river, like the course of life, ever rushing on and onward, awakens new reflections, and they heed not the voice of the birds nor the waving arbutus beckoning them homeward.

Years after the Ganges rolls by a ruined hut scarcely distinguishable from the rest of the forest, overgrown with green, and hung like funeral weeds with the vine and the trailing arbutus. Still cluster the lilies by the nurtured shore which had been trained by the hands of childhood—no longer do they raise their expectant heads to receive the caress of the maiden—no longer do their corymbi deck the jetty locks of Ganga. In the brightness and joy of the morning; she had come thither directed by the hand of the goddess. From that natal morn of infancy she had dwelt in innocence by the sacred stream—full of life and the glory of beauty, she had arrived at full-blown maturity. At the noon, when the sun, like her life, had reached its culmination, in the ripened noon, she departed. Anon comes the silence and darkness of evening overtaking the pair in the forest—the drama of life is advancing, and sorrows must obscure her path like the shadows from the mountains descending—like the clouds which hide the evening red and fleck the glorious sunset.

Spirit of innate devotion! alike thou directest the rude and the cultivated, the peasant and the prince to avert at times their gaze from lower things and turn them to the Infinite Author—yet oftenest by adversity thou drawest the spirit heavenward, and by sundering the golden links of earthly affection preparest the soul with stronger wing to follow the fleeting yet much loved object—alike in every clime, in every age thy influence is acknowledged. Whether to the Roman thou breathest on the trembling leaves of the sybil; to the Greek neechæst in thunder tones from the Delphic; to the Zenton floatest in the mists that shroud the northern hills, or the shore-coming waves of the Baltic—to the Dane resounds in the mighty Valhalla with the ponderous strokes of Odin; to the Copt glitters in the morning beams that gilds the sands and deserts, or to the Druid whisperest amid the foliage of the sacred oak—within the burning tropic thy power is recognised in the bountiful forms of exuberant Nature, in the wayside shrines that glisten in the forest and the vast temples that penetrate the bosom of the fruitful earth our mother.

Thus do the tropic luxuriance and the polar cold alike furnish ever new symbols for the Infinite, and by change contrast with the Eternal. The yellow glories of the fertile harvest but bear new witness to thy bounty, the pale beams of the Boreal light represent alone thy purity.

How many have fallen victims at thy shrine! victims of a mistaken zeal! Yet in India hast thou been most misrepresented. There have perished the human hecatomb yearly in thy service—there thou hast assumed those distorted forms borrowed from the visible effects in tropic nature—there have thy attributes been measured by the violent passions of thy dusky worshipers—yet, while thou hast thus sacrificed India’s race, thou hast left for later eyes those striking monuments of thy power, thy temples and shrines—those stupendous fanes which though sometimes grotesque are often sublime. In India’s lotus has arisen the leafy capitals of Grecian pillars. Thus is thy task not all in vain—thy bounty not all misplaced—for as the Goths have borrowed their arching aisles and groined roofs from the similitude of their sombre forests, so have the more graceful forms of Egyptian simplicity and Corinthian elegance had their origin among the lilies of the Ganges. The stupendous subterranean temples at Elephantum are destined to receive the returning priest Nikaiyah and his gentle charge; and within those awful precincts many a stout soul would have shrank with as timid horror as did Ganga.

Many days and nights had they passed in the wilderness, when, wearied with their long journey, the pious pair at length emerged from the forest. How pleasant the return of the sweet sunlight, the birds and the fragrant meadows. By day they had wandered on through the devious maze, pathless mid the thickset jungle, often forcing their way through the tangled vines and creepers which had with parasite embrace overcome some stately trunk which, withered now, lay lifeless in their tortuous folds. Gayly the old monarch of the forest had stood decked in his gorgeous livery, adorned with borrowed foliage—soon had they surpassed his towering height and wound him in as fatal a shroud as to Hercules was Creusa’s bridal garment. Thus ever shines most beautiful the destined one at the moment of ruin’s approach. By night they would retire to some sheltered nook, and there, lighted by the fireflies and lulled by the monotonous cicada, pass the hours of darkness—the tiger prowled round them and respected their sacred mission—the serpent averted his basilisk gaze when he met the full eye of the maiden. Now were all these perils past—they had come to the holy place guarded by the care of the Brahmins—and now Ganga, curious, surveys the open, fertile country—sees other maids as fair as she, and other men more manly than Nikaiyah—but the untaught child of nature was free from the vices of civilization and clung steadfastly to her old and well-tried protector. Anon they pass by the groups of penitents, whose distorted limbs and painful postures denote their self-imposed penance—these linger round the outer limits of the holy of holies like the thieves round a wonted prison, or as it seemed to them, like the wicked at the gates of Paradise. These all are left behind, and now the solemn silence betokens some revered and oft-honored shrine. They are at the bottom of the valley in which lies the cave-temple of Elephantum. Hills all around—receding, impending, bowing their leafy summits clothed in rich tropic verdure, gorgeous in the season of bloom—silence unbroken, save the dove as she laments her absent mate with wo as meek and patient as the injured Philomela. Silence, solemn silence—no sound but their echoing footsteps repeated on the hill sides. The air dull and motionless, pregnant with the aroma of the thousand-hued flowers which wind round the murmuring tree tops—no signs of human desecration to mar the temple of Nature. A heat of noon, like the scorching glow of a furnace. The hills rise with loftier summits and more precipitous sides as they advance—nearly excluding the sunlight. Mossy was now the way to their tread—soft were their silent footsteps—and from the rocky walls and moist underwood the deepening gorge exuded the silvery dew, which trickled noiseless and refreshing down. The humid exhalations softened the fierce heat of noon-day and quieted the burning thirst of the travelers. A holier influence seemed, soft as zephyrs, to breathe within these sacred glades and to refresh whomsoever it fell on. Thus with reverent step they journey noiseless on, when from some great distance the sweet sound of vocal harmony stole softly on their ears—rising, quivering, pausing, dying away among the whispering leaves—now rising loud and triumphant like the joyous clamor of victory; now lingering sadly sweet, with scarce audible vibration, like the sigh of the parting spirit. And ever as they advanced, bowing in silence to its solemn influence, it seemed to grow fainter and louder, but still to be ever removing, like the verge of the retreating horizon. They pass the bend of the valley and the whole scene of worship bursts upon their astonished eyes in all its sombre grandeur. The long troop of priests are winding in ever changing measure among the pillars of a vast subterranean hall, under-reaching the opposite hill side. Like pigmies they march beneath the colossal arches of the temple.

The gigantic shafts—of singular and fantastic shape, adorned with stony faces, glaring with jeweled eyes in the flickering torch-light—uphold a lofty roof, which seems yet near the base of the mountain—so towering rises the impending fortalice of nature over the works of man. Gigantic figures, in bas-relief, shine dimly portentous in the farther gloom. The solemn chant reverberates among the lofty arches, and the pale light of the sacrificial fires sickens the wan visage and circling fillets of the priestess. Four rows of massive columns divide the vast hall into as many avenues, retreating, narrowing in the distance, penetrating the heart of the mountain. From the inmost depths of the temple arises, faintly remote, the wail of the victim, lost in—and yet distinguishable amid the din of the clamorous musicians, and the clanging echoes of trumpets. The shuddering resonance of the trembling gong shivers the rocky arches—yet, wild above all is heard the occasional shriek of the sacrifice. Typical of the horrid rites, on the walls are carved the statues of a male leading a female to the glowing pyre, modest, and timidly reluctant; while in the blue gloom of the interior, from floor to roof, rises the Cerberus-headed statue of the Trinity, of Brahmah, Vishnu, and Sheva, with three-fold face—on all sides ever watching. Reverent the old man bows his head, and passes ’neath the sacred portal. Once more worthy, since his penance has expired, he mingles with his brethren. The awe-struck Ganga is delivered into the care of the attendant maidens.

The Hindoostanee, if unmarried, are obliged to enter into the service of the priests of the temples, of whom they become the virtual wives, although polygamy is allowed and practiced. These unfortunate creatures perform all the menial offices of worship, and have the care of the sacred things in and about the temple. Among this wretched sisterhood of infamy was Ganga thrown. Many of them were fair, though lacking the virgin innocence of the Ganges maid. Her simple story gained credence—her character won respect, and her beauty inflamed the susceptible hearts of all the holy brethren—yet more than all contributed the presence and influence of Nikaiyah to preserve her pure; for the old hermit had gained great fame for sanctity, well earned in his long exile. His voice was ever among the first in the holy council. Will the silent deference which honor the living continue to respect the dead?

The days passed quiet and undeeded by at Elephantum. Six moons had waxed and waned their crescents monthly, silvering the pillars of the temple; Nikaiyah, growing gray and hoary like the fading year, was bending under the burdens of life. As he neared the boundary of existence, he was ever more eagerly gazing into the future—more than over wrapt in devotion. Yet he would often seek to amuse his charge; and, by his authority, she had free scope to roam about the island. This she constantly did, when tired of the monotonous life in the temple, the silent reveries of the priests, the servile obedience of their menials, the never-varying round of duties, and the din and confusion of some high festival. With nature for her nurse, she had naturally become an ardent admirer of her beauties. Why was it she so often met the young Demetros in her rambles? Why was she constantly detecting him dogging her footsteps? Had he any commission to her?—if not, why did he follow her?—if so, why avoid her open presence?

Demetros was formerly one of the most zealous priests in the temple. His golden locks, however, owned some milder sun than that of Hindoostan. His clear and handsome brow and classic profile contrasted strongly with the swarthy and stern expression of the elder, and the lewd leer of the younger priests. Yet he was treated by all as a brother. All save one old Brahmin seemed ignorant of his origin, and he was silent.

One bright day, Ganga had wandered far from the precincts of the temple, and stood on a crag overhanging the sea, which she had once crossed with Nikaiyah. The waves played up at the very base of the rock; and, as she stood and gazed at the mimic breakers rippling against the shore, she almost fancied herself once more in her happy valley, watching the flow of the Ganges. Absorbed in the glorious prospect, she inadvertently approaches too near the edge of the rock. Look how the white foam chases the advancing wave. A crack—the rock crumbles: a plash—and Ganga is once more at the mercy of the treacherous element. Years have, however, added strength to her limbs, habit has rendered her fearless. Boldly she breasts the tide, and seeks for some shelving spot along the banks whereon to land. A sandy beach glistens in the sun a few rods before her; she makes for it. A seething, foaming rush in the water causes her to turn her head, and, oh! Heavens! the blue fins and greedy jaws of a shark are close behind her! Tearing through the water, which whitens in the spray of his wake, the monster gains upon her. She grows fainter, the waves beat in her ears with a dull, hollow sound; her efforts are feebler. The dazzling light of the glistening water blinds her as to the proper direction. She hears the shark; almost feels the ripple which precedes his coming. There is a cry somewhere, a loud rushing of water, and she knows no more until she opens her eyes upon the shore, to see Demetros, wet and bloody, bending anxiously over her.

Silence—the silence of a heart too troubled with conflicting emotions to trust itself to uttered thanks—could alone express the gratitude of Ganga.

Flushed with his exertions, the Apollo-like youth stood the picture of manly beauty, save where the trickling blood betrayed his recent battle with the monster. He kindly offered to escort her to the temple; and as they proceeded with increasing confidence, and guessing the meaning of her curious looks, he confessed to her that he was not her countryman: that years since, when he could scarce lisp his native tongue, he remembered a vast and glittering city, dedicated to Athena, in a country far to the North-West, which looked out on the sparkling Ægean. He then—a Greek—had wandered or been taken captive, he scarce remembered how, and had come to Elephantum. All these things were as a daydream to him: a dream of the morning of life, which the rising sun of manhood had well nigh dispelled like the gray haze of dawn. He had heard them talk of King Philip, and he thought of the war of the allies. He tells her how well he remembered his mother, for there was memory, like affection, strongest, that she must now sit bereaved and weep the absence of her fair-haired boy. To him, there was no hope of return, indeed he would not wish to now: and the tender glance awoke a sympathetic flutter in the heart of Ganga, when they entered the vale of the temple. What was that sound afar, and the confusion as they draw nearer the temple? They run to and fro, and chant the dirge for the departed. Why did the echoes howling through the vault repeat the name of Nikaiyah?

The old man was dead.

Little time was left for reflection. As if to assuage the poignancy of her grief, the Gods had sent a new and imminent danger to divert her attention. Scarce is she allowed to take a farewell look at her old friend, or shed a tear over his corpse, when the increasing clamor in the court of the temple rouses new fears and most horrible suggestions. Why were they making this indecent tumult, while their eldest and most revered fellow had just breathed his last? Alas! the loud tones of the controversy showed, but too plainly, how little his past influence was regarded, while it made her painfully aware of the dangers that surrounded her.

“Ganga to the pyre!”

“Ganga shall be mine!” reiterated alternately the older and the younger priests. What! then those whose passions were cooled with age would sacrifice her as a burnt-offering to the manes of the departed; the others would cast her into that pit of infamy which the priestesses shared in the temple. Dreadful alternative! Yet could Ganga hesitate? Ah! but would they leave it to her choice? It was but too evident that the stronger party would rule, and thus her fate would be decided. In agony, the young girl invoked the assistance of the Gods—above all, of the Ganges goddess, Sivah; the Ganges, in whose purifying stream she had at infancy been cleansed from sin—could she now but seek an innocent death in its waves!

But hush! there is a sudden silence. They have decided, and the rapid footsteps come to announce her fate. Shuddering, the poor child is dragged before the assembled multitude. It needs but one glance to see that both parties are baffled; and that, after all, the choice will be left with herself. She looks round on the eager crowd, thirsting for her life or for her honor, and her heart grows faint within her.

“Ganga,” rose the solemn voice of the oldest priest. “Ganga, choose between serving the Gods here, and joining them above.”

Proudly the glorious eye of the virgin beat down the lecherous looks of the priests, as she calmly replied—

“I choose the pyre.”

“To-morrow then prepare the sacrifice.”

“Ay, to-morrow,” thought the victim, “my body will smoulder into ashes.” She raised her tearful eyes, and met the anguished look of Demetros. She saw no more, until—she awoke bound and in darkness.

Where she was, in what part of the temple confined, the gloom prevented her from distinguishing. Her fetters she could feel. She had awakened from a dream of childhood, a dream of innocent happiness, to the bitter reality of her situation. It was not then the voice of birds hailing the returning day which had aroused her, but the clanking of chains. How cold they felt upon her numbed limbs. How their icy pressure gnawed at her heart, and sapped, by slow degrees, her failing courage—her resolution of a few hours since. Thus was she bound for fiery atonement like that Iphigena at Aulis, of whom Demetros had told her. And should she, the fiery daughter of Hindoostan, give place in courage or in resignation to the Grecian maid. And yet she was so young to die, so unprepared to leave those pleasant scenes, in which she had roamed for a few short years, so unprepared for any purer state. How faint with hunger! how worn with anxiety, that refuses to dissolve into tears. And then—but what is that noise like a piling of faggots, the heavy fall of trees! Oh Gods! they are preparing the funeral pyre, she must be then near the front of the building. Yes, in that dark cell she never had, when free, looked at without shuddering. Ay, had not one of the priestesses pointed to it as the prison of the condemned? Hear the careless laugh of the laborers, as they mingle with their work congratulations on the morrow’s festival! The harsh voice of the presiding priest. And where were now her countrywomen? How were they passing the last night of her life? She seems to see the lights shining from their huts, as they arrange their gayest dresses for the procession, and wait the dawn to pluck fresh flowers to adorn the victim.

On the morrow, they could see her last sunrise without emotion, save as it announced a holyday and a joyous relief from labor. Fair girls would come to see a sister’s agony, and leaning caressingly on the arms of their betrothed, would exchange love-tokens by her death-bed. She would be tossing helpless on her fiery rack of torture, with the flames licking up greedily her dark hair, once bound with roses. Lovers, sitting under the broad shade, would converse of her happy release, as they plaited each other’s shining locks with jessamine for the dance. And then she should see the rigid features of her loved protector blackening under the flames, as they hissing rose to receive her in their fiery arms—curling like a serpent to enfold her. Her parching thirst would be heightened by the volumes of smoke rising from the burning, smouldering limbs of Nikaiyah. But the mothers would recline under the boughs of the opposite forest, and feed their children with soft, cooling fruits of the orange-tree. Why was not Demetros—known but too late—why was he not there to console her? Alas! were these not the ravings of madness? Yes, mad—mad! Why is not her lover too a god to preserve her: and senseless she repeats the old song of the Bayadere. She was saved, though a mere dancing-girl; why not an innocent virgin? Thus the poor girl sings the song of the God and the Bayadere, lost in the wild charm of the harmony and the picture, too flattering, of preservation.

“So the choir, without compassion,

But increase at heart her grief;

And with eager hands extended,

She leaps into the fiery death.

But the God-youth now arises,

From the circling flames removed,

Clasping in his arms protecting,

Soars upward with his well-beloved.

The Gods are pleased with sinners repenting;

And raise their once-lost children, immortal,

With fiery arms to heaven above.”

“Ganga!” mingles with the dying echoes. What is it? That voice!

“Ganga! Ganga!” repeats a low well-known tone near her, and she is raised by the hand of Demetros. Noiseless he releases her from her fetters, and throwing the robe of a Brahmin over her shoulders, bears her away in the darkness. Swift and silent they pass into the open air—cool to the hot brow and fevered lips of Ganga. Half-leading and half-supporting her, her preserver conducts her down the rocky path to the sea-shore. Hurried was their conversation—it was but a whispered caution on his side; on hers, a murmur of gratitude. Demetros hastens to unmoor the boat, which, hid under the banks, awaited the needs of the priests. They embark on the quiet waters, and Ganga begins to breathe more freely and to express her thanks to her deliverer. With quick motion he signs to her to be silent, and bending his powerful frame with strong but quiet stroke, urges the boat—reeling under the shock—through the rippling tide. Soon they reach the main shore, and pass under the leafy protection of the banks, just as the torches and cries on the island give token of the aroused and baffled Brahmins. Saved, they pass on like shadows under the arching boughs of the forest.

Verdant in summer are the shores of the foaming Hydaspes. The broad, yet impetuous stream roars on its rocky, seaward course. Itself in breadth resembling the vast expanse of ocean: yet not with the slow, mighty surging of the great deep, does it lave its confining banks; but rolling with struggling wave it rebounds from the repulsing strand, like a ball from the head of the buffalo. Yet it is no shallow stream, that, with puny murmur, frets impatient on its rough bed; but the yawning waters disclose abysses which could swallow the mighty elephant. On its banks reposes the lion, when tired with hunting the antelope. On the crags sits the rapacious eagle, watching his finny victims. One mightier than the lion, one more cruel than the eagle, now waited for his human prey, wary and shrewd in watching, on the Indian side of the river.

Why do the youth and the maiden start and pause on the skirt of the forest? They gaze with impatient, hollow eyes on the long-sought banks of the Hydaspes. Their emaciated forms and tangled hair, their sun-scorched features and cautious mien betray their long wandering, their contest with a thousand perils. Why do they not hasten to pass the goal of their journey, and escape from the fury of the pursuing priests into neighboring, friendly Indo-Scythia? Is it not the hope of this result with which the young fugitive has cheered the heart of his weary though courageous companion? And will they, who have long months been traversing the dangerous wilds of the forest, hesitate to plunge into the fierce stream and swim to the region of safety? Farewell to all fond hopes, they recognize all around them the swarthy race who bow to the rule of the Brahmins. If but a scattered few were tilling the soil, they might still escape their attention. Alas! there is a mighty host encamped on the stream, with arms and warlike engines, with holy priests, with banners and vigilant sentinels.

The quiet camp was disturbed by the neighing of horses, the shouting of their drivers, and the shrill blast of the war-elephant. A long row of these cumbrous but terrible animals was placed in front of the waiting army, and nearest the bank of the river. The murmur of a vast multitude, that confused sound of many voices, was mixed with the echoing hoofs of thousands of horses, while the occasional beat of the drum united with the swelling chant of the war-song. Glittering with bright armor, the warriors moved around the camp, eager for the deadly conflict.

The terrified wanderers were seized and conducted into the presence of the king—Porus, the ruler of the country. Porus, the gigantic in stature, the Indian Hercules, and in cunning the Indian Nestor, there awaited the coming of Alexander, the attack of the great Macedonian, whose fame had preceded his approach. The world’s conqueror had turned his ambitious arms to the fair land of India. Her “barbaric pearl and gold” had tempted his soldiery—her vast domain the ambition of the general. He had even then crossed the Indus, and advancing to the outer bank of the Hydaspes, was now preparing to pass this bounding stream and assault the power of Porus.

Here, then, the cunning Indian had placed his army, burning to protect their native soil, where the steep banks of the river afforded a natural fortification. Here, most unfortunately, had the fugitives from Elephantum first emerged from the friendly shade of the forest into the open, fatal light of day. Thus again captives, they are led before the monarch. There, fearful of betraying their fatal secret, their confused answers arouse the suspicions of Porus, and by him they are committed to the care of the guards, to await through the long and anxious night the announcement of their fate on the morrow. Conscious that their pursuers must now overtake them, Ganga, now wholly despairing, refutes the empty consolation of Demetros. Wearied nature, however, asserts its sway—the worn-out fugitives pass the night in dull, dreamless sleep, in the camp of their enemies.

How goes the night? The clouds in the angry south-western sky announce the approach of the thunder. What picture do the winds behold as they cross to the farther shore of the Hydaspes? Is it a sleeping camp? It is the busy note of preparation—the bustle of a moving multitude—the tramp of soldiers moving toward the stream with steady step, unheeding the war of the elements and the clashing of steel upon steel, as they pass. It is the march of the Greeks. The great phalanx, now divided for secrecy, advances with quiet firmness to cross the stormy Hydaspes. Their skillful leader, taught by many campaigns, has chosen this tempestuous night, when the tumult of nature may drown the noise of the army. Perceiving the advantages of his adversary, he has thus determined to outwit him, and by crossing the dangerous river in secrecy and silence, to meet the enemy upon the level plains on the farther side of the stream. Occasional flashes of lightning are the only guides to their path. The rain patters upon the metal helmets of the infantry, and the war-mail of the horses. Snorting with terror, the animals are forced along by the governing will of their masters. The heavy peals of thunder roll through the sky like the rumbling of a thousand chariot-wheels, as they fly over the field of battle. The great host reaches the banks of the stream, which, roused by the storm, rages doubly threatening, chafing with white foam like the steed impatient of his rider. The affrighted horses start back from the leap into the boiling current, seething and hissing like the swift-winged flight of the loosened arrow. With hardly less of terror the soldiers recoil from the roaring waters, rolling sullen now in silence with vast depth, now rushing swiftly over some protruding rock vainly opposing their progress. Shame on the warriors who heedless of death when animated by the despair of defeat, or roused by the clamor of victory, now yield to the power of water! And will the great Polemarch, for whom Macedonia was too small, who sighed for other worlds to subdue, be tamed by the rage of a brooklet when he has crossed the mighty Indus? On! on, good horse! Hasten foot-soldiers, and overcome the pride of the Indian! Will you rather cross this stream in light of day, when every wave will be tinged with your arrow-spent blood? Will you rather climb yon craggy banks, when crowned by the glittering columns of the enemy, and overhung with the trunks of the destroying elephant? On! and trust to your well-tried strength, the kindness of the gods, and the response of the auspicious omen! There is for a moment a gleaming in the air—the flashing steel of the youthful hero—then a loud plunge in the water, and all save one shining crest has vanished. It passes on and on, away from the gaze of the hesitating army; then instantly a mighty rush, and the river is alive with horses, curling under the strokes of the swimmers. The resounding plates of the armor sound faint and hollow beneath the water. The howling blast sweeps ever new waves over the heads of the struggling soldiers. The flashing in the heavens illumes for a moment the stormy scene—shows men and horses mingling in wild confusion, tossing, rising above the black waves—shows some far down the stream, mounted on panting steeds, struggling to regain their foothold, plunging in the yielding water—shows the brief expression of dying agony ere it sinks down in the darkness—the glad look of triumph, as some one more fortunate gains the opposite strand and climbs the beetling precipice—shows all silent and unmoving the shore where Porus is waiting—shows the great war-horse and his rider clear against the dull sky, as they watch the progress of the swimming army—and then the black pall shuts down over all, and envelops in one common gloom; and naught more is seen until sunrise, naught more heard but the surging of the angry Hydaspes.

Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 3, September 1852

Our Way Across The Sea.

THE GIANT’S CAUSEWAY.