THE KNICKERBOCKER.

[MIND OR INSTINCT.]

AN INQUIRY CONCERNING THE MANIFESTATION OF MIND BY THE LOWER ORDERS OF ANIMALS.

'In some are found
Such teachable and apprehensive parts,
That man's attainments in his own concerns,
Matched with the expertness of the brutes in their's,
Are ofttimes vanquished and thrown far behind.'
Cowper.

OF THE REASON OR JUDGMENT OF THE PRINCIPLE CALLED INSTINCT.

A surgeon of Leeds, (Eng.,) says Buffon, found a little spaniel who had been lamed. He carried the poor animal home, bandaged up his leg, and, after two or three days, turned him out. The dog returned to the surgeon's house every morning, till the leg was perfectly well. At the end of several months, the spaniel again presented himself, in company with another dog, who had also been lamed; and he intimated, as well as piteous and intelligent looks could intimate, that he desired the same kind assistance to be rendered to his friend as had been bestowed upon himself. A similar circumstance is stated to have occurred to Morant, a celebrated French surgeon.

A fox, adds the same writer, having entered a hen-house through a small aperture, which was the only opening, succeeded without disturbing the family in destroying all the fowls, and in satiating his appetite with part of them; but his voracity so enlarged his dimensions as to prevent his egress. In the morning the farmer discovered the havoc of the night, and the perpetrator himself sprawled out on the floor of the coop, apparently dead from surfeit. He entered, and taking the creature by the heels, carried him out and cast him beside the house. This was no sooner done than the fox sprang up and bounded away with the speed of a racer. This was communicated by the person.

A spaniel, Obsend informs us, having discovered a mouse in a shock of corn, jumped with his fore feet against it to frighten him out; and then running quickly to the back side, succeeded in taking the mouse as he attempted to escape.

Buffon says: 'A number of beavers are employed together at the foot of the tree in gnawing it down; and when this part of the labor is accomplished, it becomes the business of others to sever the branches, while a third party are engaged along the borders of the river in cutting other trees, which though smaller than the first tree, are yet as thick as the leg, if not the thigh, of a common-sized man. These they carry with them by land to the brink of the river, and then by water to the place allotted for their building; where sharpening them at one end, and forming them into stakes, they fix them in the ground, at a small distance from each other, and fill up the vacant spaces with pliant branches. While some are thus employed in fixing the stakes, others go in quest of clay, which they prepare for their purpose with their tails and their feet. At the top of their dyke, or mole, they form two or three openings. These they occasionally enlarge or contract, as the river rises or falls. Note.—Should the current be very gentle, the dam is carried nearly straight across; but when the stream is swiftly flowing, it is uniformly made with a considerable curve, having the convex part opposed to the current.

'Ac veluti ingentem formicæ farris acervum
Cum populant, hyemis memores, tectoque reponunt:
It nigrum campis agmen, prædamque per herbas
Convectant calle augusto: pars grandia trudunt
Obnixæ frumenta humeris: pars agmina cogunt,
Castigant que moras: opere omnis semita fervet.'
Æneid, IV., 402.

'In formicâ non modo sensus sed etiam mens, ratio, memoria.'—Cic.

'Si quis comparet onera corporibus earum (formicarum) fateatur nullis portione. Vires esse majores. Gerunt ea morsu; majora aversæ postremio pedibus moliuntur, humeris obnoxæ. Est iis Reip ratio memoria cura. Semima arrosa condunt vie rursus in fruges exeant e terra. Majora ad introitum (cavernæ) dividunt Madefacta imbre proferunt atque siccant.'—Pliny: lib. XI., cap. 30.

Many birds and other animals, Buffon informs us, station a watch, while they are feeding in the fields. Whenever marmots venture abroad, one is placed as a sentinel, sitting on an elevated rock, while the others amuse themselves in the fields below, or are engaged in cutting grass and making it into hay for their future convenience; and no sooner does their trusty sentinel perceive a man, an eagle, a dog, or any other enemy approaching, than he gives notice to the rest by a kind of whistle, and is himself the last that takes refuge in the cell. It is asserted that when their hay is made, one of them lies upon its back, permits the hay to be heaped between its paws, keeping them upright to make greater room, and in this manner remaining still upon its back, is dragged by the tail, hay and all, to their common retreat.

These instances could be multiplied indefinitely; but more than sufficient have been cited. They prove in the first place, without need of argument, that animals have a language by which they apprehend each other. Concert of action and division of labor would be impossible without it. They also exhibit the exercise of memory and abstraction; and it now remains to ascertain whether their conduct was the result of reason.

If a person should take a friend whose arm had been fractured to a skilful surgeon who had before cured him of a similar wound, we should infer the following course of reasoning: First, a comparison of facts, to discover whether the injury in question was like the one he had received; the ability of this surgeon over others in such cases; and the presumption that the same skill and remedies will again produce the same effects. These are the most obvious points. The dog, in the cited case, had once been healed of a broken limb by a surgeon; and having found a mate in a like situation, took him also to the same surgeon. It is evident that his conduct was as wise as the man's. The facts and actions in the two cases are parallel; and having seen that animals obtain a perception of objects by the same agencies that man does, it only remains to ascertain whether the intermediate reasoning process between perception and action were essentially the same. Now, we cannot prove directly that the mind of another passes through any process whatever; because the proof of any process of our own mind is consciousness, which cannot go beyond us; but we can infer the train of reasoning in a given case with great correctness, taking self-knowledge as a basis; and the similarity of conduct in another, in view of premises, with what our own would have been. This is the chief criterion by which much of our daily conduct is regulated, and is the most substantial proof that can be reached. Hence, we can infer with just as much certainty that the instinct of the dog passed through the process mentioned, as that the mind of the man did in the case supposed. We can also infer it with as much truth as that instinct is susceptible of the process of memory, since the proof in both cases is drawn from facts, and on the same principles.

Again: The beaver's dam is constructed at the very place a skilful engineer would have selected for a similar purpose. This choice of one place before another is necessarily founded on comparison, which is a deliberative reasoning process. It is therefore inconsistent with an impulse, which seems to be the action suggested, by instantaneous perception and reasoning; a single, inflexible propulsion in one direction; without a careful choice, and without deliberation: hence the term impulsive cannot be applied to a large proportion of the actions of animals; and having no reason for supposing the impulses of animals supernatural, or unlike human impulses, the term itself should be abandoned as vague and unmeaning. Gnawing the large tree upon the inner side, that it might fall directly across the stream, also rises above the utmost that we can understand by an inward persuasion; for it is the incipient step, and has full relation to the subsequent work of erecting a pier. We have seen that while one part are cutting down the tree, another part go up the stream, cut smaller trees for stakes, and draw them to the water's edge; while still a third division go in quest of clay to prepare as a mortar. This completeness of plan, and combination of means to execute it, is wholly inconsistent with the common explanation of instinctive operations. Such exhibitions, as we have already remarked, are simply the workings of a certain principle they possess; performing for them the same office that mind does for man; and the true direction of inquiry is to the nature of its qualities. The actions themselves exhibit comparison, a knowledge of the adaptation of means to an end, the combination of these means in regular detail to effect the end, and the still higher intelligence of future cause and effect, as evinced by the enlargement of the water passage with the rise of the stream. These actions, then, being ascertained to be uniformly the same in a great variety of cases, and manifesting the operation of an intelligent principle in every act; and being such as in man would have been in pursuance of the processes of reason mentioned; we are clearly directed to the inference (indeed no other rational one can be made) that they compared the advantages of different places, to enable them to select the best, having reference to the construction of a dam; that they reasoned out the plan of this dam and the adaptation of certain materials to its erection; that they reflected upon the need of its convexity, the better to resist the pressure of the stream, should it be rapid; that they considered the advantages of a division of labor to expedite the work; that they understood from experience, or arrived at the conclusion by reason, that it was safer to discharge the surplus water at one opening well guarded, than over the continuous edge of the dam; and finally they had in view the uses and purpose of this dam from the beginning; and the reasoning preparatory to each successive step was as exact and efficient, with reference to the end designed and the means to be employed, as man's could have been; and was conducted in much, if not exactly, the same manner; because we can conceive of but one way in which an intelligent principle thinks.

To learn, we must derive an impression of the object or event by the senses; and then interpret its meaning by a process of the understanding. The domestic animals may be taught a variety of performances, which if done by man we should not hesitate to pronounce the result of reasoning. Ravens have been taught to sing a regular piece, involving to a certain extent the same kind of apprehension, as in instructing a child in music.[1] The parrot may be taught to speak. Falcons have been learned to hunt, under the influence of motives; a favorite dish being the reward of skilful services. The elephant, the camel, and the horse, in adapting themselves to the wants of man as beasts of burden, give constant proofs of intelligence and deliberation. Some of the most stupid animals apparently, have been taught a variety of feats under the stimulus of rewards, which raise our astonishment at their shrewdness and ingenuity. Imitation, if carefully considered, will be found impossible without the aid of a thinking principle. We know, indeed, very little of any species but our own. Their language is as vague to us as the guttural tongue of the Indian; their movements are usually unmeaning, and all but their general necessities, unknown; we are profoundly ignorant of every thing but the most general manifestations of animal life; and at the same time it must be admitted that they exhibit more intelligence in adapting themselves to, and understanding us, than we do in suiting our conduct to their apprehension.

Many animals provide magazines, on which to subsist during the winter. This appears to be the result of a long process of reasoning; of which the impossibility of obtaining supplies during such period, the amount necessary, the manner of bestowing it, and the kind of provision which is not perishable, may be the most obvious. If all these points were not heeded, the consequence would be fatal. To satisfy present hunger, a simple impulse might be sufficient; but to anticipate distant wants, the exercise of an intelligent principle is requisite. The ant, the bee, the squirrel, the rat, and the beaver, are distinguished instances of this forethought.

If the argument of Paley is sound, that contrivance forms design, and from design we infer intelligence, it applies with emphasis to all constructed animal habitations. The nests of birds, the cells of the bee, the spider's web, the mound of the ant, and the hills of the termites, may be cited. Contrivance and construction seem to be impossible without the constant exercise of a reflecting principle; while economy of labor and time indicates the correctness with which this principle directs the conduct.

Again: If the sentinel of a small party should discover an enemy approaching, he would know, should they reach the encampment, that his companions would be captured; but if he apprized them of the peril, they might escape. This is simply ascertaining the relation of cause and effect; on such conclusions he alarms his mates, and they retreat. We know that many animals not only act the same in view of similar premises, but deliberately prepare for the emergency, like a garrison, by placing sentinels on the watch: now, since their actions are uniformly the same in a great variety of cases, and exactly analogous to the actions of men under similar motives, the same inference results; that such actions in both cases were caused by a reflecting or reasoning principle; and that this principle must perform its functions in nearly if not exactly the same manner, in men and in different animals, to produce such similar conduct. As instances, parrots, jays, crows, ants, marmots, and the chamois, may be referred to.

The ancients attributed intelligence, in its purest sense, to many animals, especially to the elephant and the horse. In one of the passages quoted, Pliny, the naturalist, after describing the ingenious method of the ants, in 'shoving with their shoulders' the larger bits of grain, says: 'There is in them in every deed, reason, memory, and care;' the expression breaks out from him like an irresistible conviction. Virgil also observes that they are 'mindful of the approaching winter;' and he refers to their order, and division of labor. If inquiry should be directed to that industry which accumulates not only beyond present, but even future necessities, it could be accounted for on no other supposition, than as a consequence of reasoning upon the necessity of preparing for the day of need.

Let us turn for a moment to the fables of Æsop. It is remarkable that these first attempts at moral philosophy should have come down to us with such freshness as to be almost without the marks of antiquity; and yet one of their most interesting features is the correctness, so far as we know, with which animals have been invested with their natural characteristics. We still ask

'Astuta ingenuum vulpes imitata leonem?'

and are yet inclined to charge the raven with vanity for being cheated of her meat, as represented in the fable, by the flattery of the fox. We also admire the closing reproof: Εχεις χοραζ νους δε γε λειπει. The artifice of the creature, from his well-known habits, sits upon him with peculiar fitness; and there is nothing very incongruous in allowing him to speak it out. This incites an inquiry into the nature of cunning and artifice, by which animals evade their enemies or take their prey. The fox, for example, obtains a knowledge of external things by the same agencies that man does; and makes a ready and skilful use of such perceptions to obtain some end. When pursued, he frequently runs in the bed of some shallow creek, to conceal every trace of his scent and footsteps; or runs back upon his own track for some distance, and then branches off, to puzzle his pursuers. He evidently knows the means by which he is followed, namely, his scent or foot-prints, and he devises a plan to render them both useless. Much might be said of the artifices of different animals, to decoy and ensnare their prey. Without the aid of reason it would be utterly impossible to form such plans; and beside, from these very stratagems we infer intelligence, and intelligence is of course an intellectual emanation.

Much also might be said of the elephant: indeed, his history alone would furnish sufficient facts to elucidate the whole subject; but the unexpected length of this article prevents the insertion of only a few notices. It is said that if he has been ensnared and escapes, he is afterward very cautious while in the woods, and breaking a large branch from a tree with his trunk, he sounds the ground before he treads upon it, to discover if there are any pits in his passage.[2] He exhibits the same kind of deliberation while passing a bridge. The Indians make use of him to carry artillery over mountains. When the oxen, yoked two and two, endeavor to draw up the mountain the piece of artillery, the elephant pushes the breech of the gun with his forehead; and at every effort that he makes he supports the carriage with his knee, which he places near the wheel.[3] An analysis of these operations would result in the same inference, that such actions were in consequence of reason.

An anecdote of a bird appeared a few months since, bearing the marks of authenticity. She had built her nest by a stone quarry, and during incubation was frequently alarmed by the blasting. She soon learned that the ringing of a bell preceded an explosion, and like the laborers, at this signal she retreated to a place of security. This feat having been discovered, some spectators succeeded in deceiving her a number of times by false alarms. The imposition however was soon detected; and she did not afterward fly at the sound of the bell, unless the workmen also retired. If this incident be true, (and there is nothing improbable in it,) reasoning, and that too of no obtuse character, is as legibly stamped upon this conduct, as if the brain had been uncovered, and we had seen, were it possible, with our own eyes its secret work.

Let us proceed with this inquiry to another point. It is a well-established principle of philosophy, that all pain and pleasure are in the mind, including of course the emotions and passions. We know that animals experience not only physical pleasures and pains, but passions both pleasant and painful; as attachment, courage, fidelity; anger, cowardice, and jealousy. Their manifestation of these pleasant and painful feelings is analogous to the manifestation of the same feelings by the human species; and it proves that they are endowed with a principle corresponding to mind, which we have seen is susceptible, like mind, of such feelings.

Some of the endowments of animals are delicate, even beyond our comprehension. The bee, for instance, is never caught in a shower; but by what agencies it arrives at the knowledge of an approaching storm, we are unable to determine; and therefore we call it pure instinct, leaving the subject as blind as we found it. The solution, however, of this question, will probably be found in the superior acuteness of its senses. We are generally sensible ourselves of a coming rain, by a change in the atmosphere; then, on the supposition that the bee has the sense of touch to a very delicate degree, the apparent enigma will be unravelled. We know also that our own senses convey to us imperfect knowledge, and that our minds serve to correct and supply their deficiencies: on the other hand, animals having reasoning powers of an inferior degree, a superior delicacy of the senses supplies to some extent the difference. They undoubtedly possess a knowledge of lesser things beyond the utmost reach of human intellect; while man possesses knowledge of a higher character, and as far above their comprehension; leaving degrees of intelligence above us, and below them, equally remote from each; for there are yet as many subjects of knowledge in the infinitely small as in the infinitely great. Nature retains her perfection, whether we descend to the atom or ascend to the universe; and the analogies of nature go to prove that the animalcule whose dimensions are below the power of the microscope, has as perfect an organization, and lives as completely, as man.

Animals seem to be as amply endowed with capacities by the Creator, for their sphere of existence, as man appears to be for his; and the Deity as evidently designed their happiness, as man's. He has framed them after the same great outline, and with no greater difference in this respect than is consistent with difference of species. He has endued them with senses, and a principle to take knowledge of the impressions they were designed to convey; and He has placed the means of happiness within their reach, as well as given the power to reach them. This much is self-evident. As to the proof that the principle commonly known as instinct manifests memory and reason, the arguments employed may be obscure; but the facts themselves, on reflection, carry conviction to the mind. To account for these manifestations on any other hypothesis, would be impossible; and to draw any other inference from the facts would be equally impossible; and to pronounce all these phenomena the workings of instinct, a name without a tangible meaning; a designation that prohibits inquiry, because it pretends to furnish an explanation of itself; would be to rest for ever in profound ignorance of the whole subject, when truth might be reached by investigation.

All the intellectual manifestations of mind are treated under four general divisions. One of them is memory; and all we know of it is, simply that there is a principle within us that remembers. Animals likewise have a principle that remembers. If then this principle is a unit in man, and (by parity of reason) in animals, why does not the proof of this one quality carry the whole subject? Can it be asserted that any other principle remembers than the one that reasons? Can any distinction be taken between the dog's remembrance of his master on his return, and the remembrance of the wife? One is as absolute as the other. It is no matter how feeble the endowments of a man may be, he still possesses mind; its memory may be weak, and its reasoning power be confined to the most simple processes; but yet the principle is within him, and as no radical distinction can be made between the memory of the feeble and the powerful intellect, so none can be made between the memory of an animal and of a man.

That principle which remembers, abstracts, imagines, and reasons, is Mind.

The principle called Instinct remembers, abstracts, imagines, and reasons. Therefore, this principle is Mind.

The general deduction follows, that the same thinking intellectual principle pervades all animated existences; created by the Deity, and bestowed in such measures upon the different species as appeared in His wisdom requisite for the destiny and happiness of each; thus establishing a scale from man to the lowest orders of animalculæ; and the successive steps downward from the man of the highest intellectual range to the man of the lowest, are no farther than from the latter to the most intelligent animal; and from him successively to the lowest in the scale of intelligence. All endued with that wonderful principle, which in man, rising above the office of providing for physical wants, expends its powers on the highest subjects of knowledge, though the final cause of this knowledge is the benefit of himself or his species, while in animals, being more limited in its range, but perhaps more delicate in some of its powers, it may be employed, for aught we know, on important subjects of knowledge, tending to promote their own happiness, of a character so minute and intricate as to be beyond the utmost appreciation of the human mind; but yet as essential to their welfare as the most common principles of philosophy are essential to ours.

There is nothing unnatural in this theory; so far from it, it appears to be suggested by nature itself. We all have a living existence, and that existence to sustain and enjoy. The history of animals and men exhibits so many characteristics in common, and those more powerful characteristics which we have discovered only in men, merely serving to establish endowments stronger in degree, without warranting a fundamental distinction, a scale of intelligence from man to the most inferior animal, appears to result as naturally as a scale of intelligence among men, founded on their different characteristics. It may be said, perhaps, that some of these facts and arguments can be employed as well to prove a moral as an intellectual nature. Admitting this for a moment, it is by no means certain that they have not to some extent a moral sense; although our inquiry has no reference to this branch of the subject. Their endowments, like those of the tribes of Africa, neither improve nor degenerate materially; and who is prepared to say that a Goth or a Hun exhibited a nicer sense of right and wrong than a tiger or an elephant does? We know nothing concerning their secret relations. The order and harmony of the bee-hive, the ant-hill, the families of beavers, and flocks of birds; the apparent recognition by some animals of the right of property; will perhaps ever remain an enigma. Animals, on the other hand, of the same species, oppress each other no more than man does his fellow-man; and those of different species cannot act with greater ferocity toward each other, than they can find an example for in human conduct. We tread upon them without concern, and hunt them down for mere amusement. We prepare them for slaughter with a degree of indifference to their sufferings and death that is shocking in the last extreme. Let us not boast too much of our moral qualities, although the Deity did design that we should subsist in part upon flesh; although we have the marks of this design upon us, the same as the bear and the wolf, and have the sanction of the Scriptures; for although the final cause of this is wise, it is no excuse for cruelty; and probably an enlightened moral sense would teach us to abstain entirely from animal food, if we can live without it. We can no more say that animals were made for our convenience exclusively, than that the hare was made for the lion, or that the Deity would wish man should uproot every other species, than that the tiger should. The simple truth is, we are all alike creatures of the Deity, and subjects of His will. He designed all existence; He bestowed it; and His beneficent protection is extended alike over all His works; from man, the noblest of His creation, to the young ravens, whose cry He has admonished us He deigns to hear.

Aquarius.

October, 1843.

BYZANTIUM.

Roll on thou Bosphorus, in wrath or play,
Roused by the storm, or gilded by the ray;
With thy blue billows to the boundless sea
Roll on, like Time unto Eternity.
Thy empire nought shall change; upon thy breast
Guilt hath no record, tyranny no rest;
Roll on: the rock-built city shall decay,
Man sleep in death, and kingdoms pass away,
But thou, unbowed, shalt steal like music by,
Or lift thy Titan strength, and dare the sky.
Alas for proud Byzantium! on her head
The fire may smoulder and the foe may tread,
Yet with heroic look and lovely form
She mocks the deep, unconscious of the storm;
Her footstool is the shore, which hears the moan
Of dying waves; the mountain is her throne;
Her princely minarets, whose spires on high
Gleam with their crescents in the cloudless sky;
Her temples, bathed in all the pomp of day;
Her domes, that backward flash the living ray;
Her cool kiosks, round which, from granite white,
High sparkling fountains catch a rainbow light;
And the dark cypress, sombre and o'ercast,
Which hints cold sleep, the longest and the last;
Each scene around this haughty city throws
A mingled charm of action and repose;
Each feature speaks of glory wrapt in gloom,
The feast, the shroud, the palace, and the tomb.
Yes, thou art fair; but still my soul surveys
A vision of delight, and still I gaze,
Proud city, on the past; when first the beam
Slept on thy temples in its mid-day dream,
Methinks the genius of thy father-land
Raised his gray head and clenched his withered hand,
Exulting, in a parent's pride, to see
Old Rome, without her gods, revived in thee.
Beautiful Queen! unlike thy high compeers,
Thou wast not cradled in the lap of years;
But, like celestial Pallas, hymned of old,
Thy sovereign form, inviolate and bold,
Sprung to the perfect zenith of its prime,
And took no favor from the hands of Time.
There every glorious gift of every zone
Was flung before thee on thy virgin throne:
No breeze could blow but unto thee some slave,
Some handmaid ship, came riding o'er the wave;
The costly treasures of thy marble isle,
The spice of Ind, the riches of the Nile,
The stores of earth, like streams that seek the sea,
Poured out the tribute of their wealth for thee.
Oh! proud was thy dominion; states and kings
Slept 'neath the shadow of thine outstretched wings;
And to the moral eye, how more than fair
Were thy peculiar charms, which boasted there
No proud pantheon flaming in the sun,
To claim for many gods that due to One;
No scene of tranquil grove and babbling stream,
Of vain philosophy to boast and dream,
Till Reason shows a maze without a clue,
And Truth seems false, and Falsehood's self seems true.
Oh, no! upon thy temples, gladly bright,
The truth revealed shed down its living light;
Thine was no champion-badge of pagan shame,
But that best gift, the Cross of Him who came
To lift the guilty spirit from the sod,
To point from earth to heaven, from man to God.
Alas! that peace so gentle, hope so fair,
Should wake but strife, should herald but despair;
Oh, thine, Byzantium, thine were bitter tears,
A couch of fever and a throne of fears;
When passion drugged the bowl and grasped the steel,
When murder followed in the track of zeal;
When that religion, born to guide and bless,
Itself became perverse and merciless:
While factions of the circus and the shrine,
And lords like slaves and slaves like lords, were thine.
What boots the well-known tale so often told?
The feuds that found them frantic left them cold;
The crimes that made them wicked made them weak,
And bloodless might the Arab spread, and wreak
His wasting vengeance; while the soldier slept
The spoiler plundered and the province wept:
Thus did thine empire sink in slow decay,
Thus were its lordly branches lopt away;
And thou, exposed and stript, wast left instead
To bear the lightning on thy naked head.
Yet wert thou noble still; in vain, in vain
The Vandal strove—he could not break his chain;
The bold Bulgarian cursed thee as he bled,
The Persian trembled, and the pirate fled;
Twice did the baffled Arab onward press
To drink thy tears of danger and distress;
Twice did the fiery Frank usurp thy halls,
And twice the Grecian drove him from thy walls:
And when at last up sprung thy Tartar foe,
With fire and sword more dread than Dandolo,
Vain was the task; the triumph was not won
Till fraud achieved what treason had begun;
Till blood made red thy ramparts and thy waves,
And one man's glory left ten thousand graves.
But in that fierce distress, and at thy cry,
Did none defend thee, and did none reply?
No! kings were deaf, and pontiffs, in their pride,
Like Levites gazed, and like them turned aside;
While infidels within Sophia's shrine
Profaned the cup that held the sacred wine;
And, worse than the idolaters of old,
Proclaimed that prophet chief, whose books unfold
The deadliest faith that ever framed a spell
To make of heaven an earth, of earth a hell.
Yet stood there one erect in might and mind,
Before him groaned Despair, and Death behind;
Oh thou last Cæsar, greater midst thy tears
Than all thy laureled and renowned compeers,
I see thee yet, I see thee kneeling where
The patriarch lifts the cup and breathes the prayer;
Now in the tempest of the battle's strife,
Where trumpets drown the shrieks of parting life,
Now with a thousand wounds upon thy breast
I see thee pillow thy calm head in rest;
And, like a glory-circled martyr, claim
The wings of death to speed thy soul from shame.
But thou, fair city! to the Turk bowed down,
Didst lose the brightest jewels of thy crown:
They could not spoil thee of thy skies, thy sea,
Thy mountain belts of strength and majesty;
But the bright cross, the volumes rescued long,
Sunk 'neath the feet of that barbarian throng;
While rose the gorgeous Haram in its sin,
So fair without, so deadly foul within:
That sepulchre in all except repose,
Where woman strikes the lute and plucks the rose,
Strives to be gay but feels, despite the will,
The heart, the heart is true to nature still.
Yet, for a season, did the Moslem's hand
Win for thy state an aspect of command;
Let Syria, Egypt tell, let Persia's shame,
Let haughty Barbarossa's deathless name,
Let Buda speak, let Rhodes, whose knighted brave
Were weak to serve her, impotent to save:
Zeal in the rear and valor in the van
Spread far the fiats of thy sage divan,
Till stretched the sceptre of thy sway, awhile
Victorious, from the Dnieper to the Nile.
Brief, transitory glory, foul the day,
Foul thy dishonor, when in Corinth's bay,
'Neath the rich sun triumphant Venice spread
Her lion banner as the Moslem fled;
When proud Vienna's sallying troops were seen,
When Zeuta's laurels decked the brave Eugene;
When the great shepherd led the Persian van,
And Cyrus lived again in Kouli Khan;
And last and worst, when Freedom spurned the yoke,
And tyrants trembled as the Greek awoke!
Now joy to Greece! the genius of her clime
Shall cast its gauntlet at the tyrant Time.
And wake again the valor and the fire
Which rears the trophy or attunes the lyre.
Oh known how early, and beloved how long,
The sea-girt shrines of battle and of song,
The clustering isles that by the Ocean prest,
In sunshine slumber on his dark blue breast:
Land of the brave, athwart whose ghastly night
Streams the bright dawn, red harbinger of light,
May Glory now efface each blot of shame,
May Freedom's torch yet light the path to fame;
May Christian truth in this, thy second birth,
Add strength to empire, give to wisdom worth,
And with the rich-fraught hopes of coming years
Inspire thy triumphs while it dries thy tears!
Yes, joy to Greece! but even a brighter star
On Hope's horizon sheds its light afar:
Oh Stamboul! thou who once didst clasp the sign,
What if again Sophia's holy shrine
Should, deaf to creeds of sensual joy and strife,
Reëcho to the words whose gift is life;
If down those isles the billowy music's swell
Should pour the song of Judah, and should tell
Of sinners met in penitence to kneel,
And bless the comfort they have learned to feel;
Then though thy fortune or thy fame decline,
Then oh! how more than victory were thine!
Ah! dear Religion, born of Him who smiled
And prayed for pardon when the Jew reviled,
No rose-bound Houris with a song of glee
Strew the rich couch, no tyrant strikes for thee;
Thy holier altar feeds its silent fire
With love, not hate—with reason, not desire;
Welcome in weal or woe, thy sovereign might
Can temper sorrow or enrich delight;
Prepared to gild with hope our darkest hours,
Or crown the brimming cup of joy with flowers;
Thine is the peace-branch, thine the pure command
Which joins mankind like brothers hand in hand;
And oh! 'tis thine to purge each worldly stain,
Wrench the loose links which bind this mortal chain,
Whisper of realms untravelled, paths untrod,
And lead, like Jacob's ladder, up to God!
William C. S. Blair.

NEMAH AND NUMAN.

TRANSLATED FROM THE TURKISH OF SOHAILY, BY J. P. BROWN, CONSTANTINOPLE.

In the time of the Sovereigns of the Beni Ommieh, there resided in the city of Cufah a very wealthy merchant named Rebi bin Jabir; a man possessed of great good feelings and kindness of disposition. This merchant had a son of equally good qualities, in whom, as the close of his life drew near, all his hopes became centered. He named this his only child Numan; paid great attention to his education; taught him to read and write; and, in fine, instructed him in all the accomplishments of that period.

Rebi bin Jabir purchased a young white female slave, of angelic beauty, named Nemah binti Tevfik, whom he had elevated in a manner which should render her worthy to become his son's companion. This Riski Hoor, or object of the jealousy of the Houries of Paradise, was a sweet, tender maiden, such as the eye of the world had never seen, nor of whom the ear of the son of Adam ever heard. They grew up and were instructed together; and ere they had reached the age of puberty, these two young creatures, like the sun and moon for pure brilliancy and light, were unique for their knowledge and accomplishments; particularly the talent of music and song. In the garden of Beauty they were like two cypresses.

Their wealthy parent had erected for them a dwelling like those of the garden of Paradise, which he had beautifully painted and furnished, and where his son and the cypress-formed Nemah were wont to spend their evenings in pleasure and enjoyment. One night when he was disposed to make merry with his mistress, Nemah took an Oad, or Lute in her hand, and with a countenance blooming with youthful freshness and innocent modesty, sang a harmonious air.

While thus engaged, by chance, the governor of the city of Cufah, the cause of much sorrow, Hedjadj ez Zalim, or The Cruel, passed beneath their dwelling, and hearing the melodious sound of Nemah's voice, involuntarily sighed; and after listening for sometime, turned to his attendants and praised the talent of the singer. 'If,' said he, 'this slave's face and form are equal to the delicacy of her voice, I will give any price for her—for a jewel of such great value. Go, learn to whom she belongs; for I desire to send her as a present to the caliph.' So, calling the chief officer of his police, he confided the affair to that master of intrigue, recommending him to be diligent and expeditious.

This man, early on the following morning, called to his aid a cunning old woman, and said to her: 'Help, oh! mother of praise-worthy conduct! Hedjadj ez Zalim has need of your services. You must inform me to whom a girl in such a dwelling belongs; how I shall be able to get possession of her; and what arrangements I must make to bring it about.'

The infamous old woman replied: 'On my head and eyes be it, if the object of your desires be among the Pleiads, on the surface, or under the earth, be it my duty to find her! So consider her as already in your possession.'

The officer conducted the old wretch to Hedjadj the Cruel, and on introducing her, Hedjadj said: 'Go to the house of Numan, son of Rebieh, and if you find that his slave is worthy of presentation to the caliph, obtain her in whatever manner you may like best, only render yourself worthy of my generosity.'

Now the old woman attired herself in the dress of a sofee, or religious devotee, of an hundred years old; and taking an ebony rod in her hand, wrapped a shawl around her head, and, bent almost double, set out on her way, crying out aloud as she passed along: 'There is no God but Allah! oh! these inattentive people!' Deceived by her appearance, the simple-minded who met her on the way, embraced her hands and feet, and implored her blessing and prayers.

At noon, precisely, she reached Numan's dwelling; and on wishing to pass its gate was prevented by the door-keepers. The old hypocrite said to them: 'I am a servant of God, who, having deserted the world, have no other desire than to acquire knowledge, and offer up prayers of devotion; why do you prevent my passage?'

While they were yet engaged discussing her entrance, a servant from within made his appearance, and the old woman, addressing him, said: 'Wherever I bend my steps they bring good fortune; and, as every one profits by my prayers, these door-keepers are very foolish to prevent my entrance.'

The simple-minded servant directed the door-keepers not to prevent her; and taking the old wretch by the hand, led her to Nemah, and asked her blessing. Nemah also was soon deceived by her appearance, and beside offering her every mark of respect, invited her to be seated by her side.

Scarcely were they seated, when she exclaimed: 'Let prayer-time be not forgotten; show me a retired spot where I may offer my devotions.' Nemah, like a waving cypress, hastened to serve her; spread her a carpet with her own hands, and ordered her attendants not to disturb her. The old hypocrite prolonged her prayers from noon to akendee, (three o'clock,) and the three o'clock prayer to that of night-fall, without ever rising from her carpet; and by her false piety gained not only Nemah's heart, but those of all her maidens; so that they all knelt around her feet, and besought her blessing. Every night she would tell Nemah's maidens stories about pious people, and of the efficacy of their prayers.

Early one morning she arose, and asked permission to depart; and when Numah inquired where she purposed going, she replied, that it was her desire to visit some holy persons who resided in that neighborhood. In fine, she so praised them, that Nemah begged her not to refuse her the privilege of accompanying her, to beg also the blessing of the good people. The old woman answered: 'If the recompense of your visit is written on your brow (predestined), it will be easy to obtain. Inshallah! if God wills, we will obtain the object of your desires.'

The unfortunate girl put faith in her words; and after adjusting her dress, they set out on their way. Soon they reached a doorway, that of the palace of Hedjadj ez Zalim, which they entered; and putting Nemah in a vestibule, 'Stay here,' said she, 'while I go to see if the holy man is alone.' So going into the palace, she hastened to give Hedjadj news of her success; and then the accursed creature departed by another door. Hedjadj soon came to the vestibule, and for the first time beholding the beautiful creature, saw a fair maiden resplendent as the moon in her fourteenth night, and illuminating the whole universe with her splendor:

A maiden unequalled for beauty.
The world a slave to her ringlet.
A fresh rose from the garden of fidelity,
And a thousand Philomels are her lovers.

Forthwith he ordered one of his officers to take a sufficient number of men for a guard, and convey the maiden to the residence of the caliph. The officer immediately got ready a litter, and compelling the wretched maiden to enter it, set out for Damascus. Poor Nemah now knew something of the cruel misfortune to which she had become a prey; her suffering and wounded heart (liver) became roasted, and her eyes wept tears of blood, on being thus separated from her lover, country, and home.

In thirty or forty days, they reached Damascus, and entering the palace of the caliph, the officer delivered the letter and maiden from Hedjadj, governor of Cufah. When Abdul Malek (the reigning caliph) saw the lovely, heart-ravishing maiden, he acknowledged her to be a perfect beauty, whom the painter of creation had drawn on the page of existence; such as the eye of observation had never seen, nor of which the ear of the imagination had never heard:

Well made, graceful, delicate, and fresh.
Every member full of grace and splendor.
Her lips more translucent than limpid water.
The stars envious of her pearly teeth:
Her moles are most beauteous to the eye;
Rose-buds open when she smiles, and
Jewels are scattered when she speaks.

Involuntarily the caliph became lost in love with the beautiful creature; passion reached even the centre of his heart; and the thread of power over himself escaped from his hands. Calling his chief eunuch, he ordered him to prepare apartments for her worthy of her beauty; to treat her with kindness, and to be attentive to all her wants.

The caliph Abdul Malek had a sister named Abbassah, a lady of very superior beauty, whom, in his mirth, he addressed, saying: 'Hedjadj has done us a service, which, had he sent me news that he had conquered a province for me, would not have given me greater pleasure. His present is truly worthy of my acceptance.' Abbassah answered her brother: 'May your pleasure be everlasting! Pray what kind of a present has he sent you?' The caliph handed her Hedjadj's letter, wherein she learned that he had purchased for twelve thousand pieces of gold a maiden of exquisite beauty, and offered her for her brother's acceptance. Abbassah asked permission to go and see the maiden, and gain her good-will and friendship; and, on beholding Nemah, she exclaimed that she was indeed an angel in a human form:

With so much beauty, are you a moon from the skies,
A new species of unknown humanity?
Truly, you merit the gift of hearts.
One look alone at your fair face
Is worth twelve thousand pieces of gold;
And oh! how great is my brother's good fortune!

Now Abbassah's beauty was celebrated all over Syria, but when she became companion to the mirror of Nemah's beauty, the moon appeared eclipsed. This lady of ladies inquired for her health, and complimented her on this great good fortune, which had brought her to be the companion of so grand a sovereign as her brother. But poor Nemah only returned her kindness with a sigh, and addressing her, asked:

'Oh, fair of front! whose sweet words touch my heart, and whose ringlets adorn an angel's face, pray tell me, your hand-maiden, who sold me, for whom I was taken, to whom does this mansion belong, and what is the cause of my affliction?'

Abbassah was greatly astonished at these inquiries, and asked what they meant. 'Do you not know who sold you?—that it was Hedjadj ez Zalim, governor of Cufah, who bought you for twelve thousand pieces of gold, and presented you to the caliph?—that this is the palace of the caliph?—and that I am his sister?'

When poor Nemah heard this, she burst into tears, and wept so profusely as to wound the soul and liver of Abbassah:

The fountain of her tears overflowed;
Her liver was like unto tulips,
And her tears fell like morning dew.

Abbassah now perceived there must be some secret connected with Nemah; so, after endeavoring to console her, she arose and went to the caliph, and addressed him, saying:

'Oh! Emir of the Faithful! give the newly-arrived maiden a few days' repose, and allow her time to become acquainted with her new home and companions. She is unhappy, and requires to be left to herself awhile.'

The sensible heart of the caliph was touched by the words of his sister, and he requested her to have a physician sought for, and consulted on the maiden's health. To this Abbassah replied: 'On my head and eyes be it;' and while she searches for a physician, let us return to the unhappy Numan.

Now when Numan had the misfortune to be separated from his mistress, and his beloved companion no more returned to his dwelling, his heart burnt and his eyes wept, and he bewailed her absence. His father also was much aggrieved at the loss of his son's idol. Soon the rose-cheeks of poor Numan faded like autumn leaves, and the alarmed parent sought advice of a physician. If divine wisdom guides the humble servant, the desire of the afflicted will be effected, and the object of his hopes be attained.

While the afflicted father, Rebi bin Jaber, was seated in his dwelling, overwhelmed with sorrow, suddenly a voice reached his ear, saying:

'Let him who needs an expert physician, and an able astrologer, one versed in the science of geomancy and the other hidden knowledges, appear.'

This was a man who, according to the custom of the country, proclaimed his calling in the public way. Rebi at once ordered his servants to bring the man in, and after showing him every attention, he requested of him a remedy for his son. When the learned man had felt Numan's pulse, he knew that no remedy was needed, and informed the parent that his son had not one atom of disease; but, added he, 'I perceive he is feverish from the passion of Love.'

Rebi now related to him the whole circumstance of his son's affliction, adding: 'Tell me, is his mistress dead or alive?—on this earth, or in heaven?—what is her condition?—to whose border has she become a prisoner?—and is there any means of freeing her?'

Now the physician was a perfect master of the science of geomancy; so taking his sand in his hand, he scattered and divided it; then observed its meaning; twice bent his head, and finally was confident that Nemah was in Damascus. 'Good news!' exclaimed the old man to Rebi; 'the end of this trial is lucky, though indeed the sand turns heavily. After your maiden left you, she did not pass the night in the city.'

'Since you know that she is in Damascus, pray,' said Rebi, 'throw the sand once more, so that we may know in whose house she is, and who holds her in confinement.'

The physician did as he was requested, threw another and yet another time his sand; and on examining it, added, smiling: 'Good news! good news to you! your maiden has been sent by the governor of this country to Damascus, where she now is in the palace of the caliph. With God's permission we will yet unloose this knot.'

Rebi, now greatly rejoiced, gave the physician large and costly presents; and, in case of success, promised him all he possessed in the world. 'Provide what is necessary for the voyage,' replied the physician, 'and let us set out direct for Damascus, where we will see what God will show us.'

Soon the essentials were got ready, and they departed; and in the course of a few days reached that city, where in its very centre they opened a shop, stocking it with liquids and drugs in Keshan vases. For some days they treated all who visited them for their complaints, and so successfully cured them, that their name soon became celebrated throughout the whole city. Poor Numan, in the hope of finding a remedy for his grief, sat all day long, opposite the physician, quiet and submissive as a burning night-candle.

At length a female slave in the caliph's palace having heard of the cures performed by the physician, informed Abbassah that a person had arrived at Damascus from Irak, who had remedies for all manner of diseases. The caliph's sister was overjoyed at this news. 'Let us send and represent to this physician poor Nemah's condition; perhaps he may benefit her also.' So one of the slaves of the Harem, named Kahermaneh, was sent to his shop, and addressing the physician, said: 'I am a servant of the Harem of the caliph, and have come to inform you that his favorite maiden is ill; if you are so fortunate as to find a remedy for her, great will be your recompense.' After questioning Kahermaneh, he remarked, that the maiden had no natural disease; 'tell me,' added he, 'her name.'

'Strange!' replied Kahermaneh, 'do you treat the sick, or purchase slaves, that you ask her name?'

'Pardon me,' he answered; 'I asked the sick person's name so as to count the letters which compose it, then write some appropriate holy names on her star, and see what kind of remedies are necessary.'

On hearing this, the slave exclaimed: 'May God bless you; your talent has been proven on every science;' and so gave him the name of Nemah, adding, that her father was called Tevfik; at which he said 'God's Tevfik (assistance) will aid us.'

When poor Numan heard the name of the object of all his desires, bloody tears fell from his eyes, and he uttered an 'Ah!' full of plaintive sorrow. The physician told him in his own language,

; 'Divulge not, but be silent; rise, and hand me that vase of medicine;' which Numan obeying, he wrapped up in paper a piece of mâjuu (electuary), and pouring a liquid from another vase into a bottle, told him to tie up its mouth with paper, and in his own usual style, to write on it that the patient should every morning mix some of the liquid with water and drink it. This Numan having done, he delivered the medicines to Kahermaneh.

Now when Nemah saw the hand-writing of her lover, she involuntarily sprang from her seat, and hastily mixing some of the liquid, as directed, drank it off and said to Kahermaneh, 'Your goodness has been recompensed; my heart finds great relief from this medicine; and if my complaint can be cured, it will be by this. What kind of a man is this physician?'

'He is from Cufah,' was the reply; 'is a man of extraordinary talents, and acquainted with every kind of science. He has in his employ,' added Kahermaneh, 'a youth of great beauty and gentleness;' and as she described his person and dress Nemah's eyes filled with tears, for she understood it was Numan.

While they were engaged in conversation, the caliph came to pay his maiden a visit, and Kahermaneh said to him: 'Oh! Prince of the Faithful! an expert physician has visited our city, from whom I obtained medicines which have proven most beneficial to Nemah.' On learning this the caliph was greatly rejoiced, and putting five hundred pieces of silver in a purse gave it to the maiden, bidding her send a portion of it to the physician who had benefited her. 'His labor is not lost,' added he; 'let him be diligent and attentive.' Nemah took four hundred of the pieces and gave them to Kahermaneh, and then putting the remainder into a purse, with a scrap of paper on which she had written with her own hand: 'This from Nemah, who is separated from her beloved friend, her country, and home;' then sealing it, she gave the purse to Kahermaneh, who carried it to the physician, saying: 'Thanks and blessings to you, for your remedies have proven very beneficial to our sick one, who has regained her color and strength, and her heart is rejoiced.'

The physician handed the purse over to Numan, who on beholding the hand-writing of his mistress, his senses left him, and his cypress form like a shadow strowed the ground. The physician threw rose-scented water in his face, and as his senses slowly returned, tears fell from his eyes. Kahermaneh seeing this, her liver burned within her; she also wept, and in sympathizing grief, addressed Numan thus: 'Unhappy youth, may they never smile who make you weep; pray tell me the cause of your grief.'

Oh! joy of the heart, and light of the eyes!
Perce's envy, and Hoore's jealousy:
On the mind of your breast is the dust of grief,
And yours must be no common sorrow.

Numan replied: 'You are more piteous and tender even than my parents. I am that unhappy youth whose companion Hedjadj ez Zalim, governor of Cufah, by means of a deceitful old woman enticed out on a visit, and sent off as a present to the caliph. This is the grief which has separated me from my home and country, and sent me forth an exile in affliction.'

'Ah!' replied Kahermaneh; 'and that beautiful creature is afflicted wholly from being separated from you.'

Now the physician offered the purse to Kahermaneh, saying: 'I have no need of money; I beg you, for the sake of my gray head, be kind to our cause; keep our secret, and if you do us a favor, until death we will not forget you in our prayers.' In fine, Kahermaneh promised to peril even her soul in their service, and to bring the lovers together.

So, taking with her some more medicines, similarly put up and labelled, this kind woman returned to the palace of the caliph, and opening the conversation with Nemah, found that she verified all Numan had told her. 'Do you desire to see him again?' asked she. Nemah replied: 'Can you ask the sick body if it wants health, or the dying man if he wishes for life? If I can but see his beautiful face once more with mortal eyes, I would then willingly expire.'

Kahermaneh said: 'Then give me a spare suit of female clothes;' which having received, she proceeded forthwith to the physician's shop, and on putting the question to Numan whether he desired to see Nemah again, he answered, 'Yes, even if I but look and die:'

To the ardent lover no deception is wrong;
Whatever the heart speaks must be true.
Boundless are the ardent impulses of love:
To die is a small sacrifice for one's beloved.

'Hasten, then,' said the good woman, 'put on that female dress, and let us set out; but the All-Just alone can fulfil your wishes.' They now took leave of the physician, and praying as they went, reached the entrance of the palace, where a eunuch asked who was Kahermaneh's companion? The reply was, that she was the sister of the caliph's favorite. When they had reached the inner gate of the Harem, Kahermaneh said: 'I cannot pass beyond this, but will wait for you here. This passage leads by ten apartments; follow it, counting as you go, and remember that the ninth is Nemah's, while the tenth is that of the caliph's sister. Make no mistake, and after seeing your mistress, return to this spot.'

Numan did as he was directed; passing on, and counting the apartments as he went; but from timidity and fear he miscounted, and entered the apartment of the caliph's sister, Abbassah, which was furnished with a throne-like sofa, and its walls covered with silk and brocade. It was empty, but poor Numan, half dead with fear, in momentary expectation of seeing his mistress enter, threw himself on the sofa.

Presently a stately and noble person, like the world-adorning Phœbus, entered the apartment, who to her great surprise beheld a woman seated on her sofa, who from fear did not rise up to respect her. Abbassah, for it was her, exclaimed, 'What foolish woman are you, who without my permission dare to enter thus my apartment?' But suddenly, acting according to her Hashemite generosity of character, she added, in a milder tone: 'Who are you? Come, fear not, but tell me your story.'

Poor Numan, speechless with fright, could only throw himself at Abbassah's feet, and humbly rub his face and eyes upon them. The noble-hearted woman was touched with pity, and said: 'Be not afflicted; you are in a place of safety.' Then exposing his face, she perceived he was a man; and kindly added: 'Unhappy man, what secret cause has reduced you to adopt this disguise? what misfortune has befallen you? Speak, and tell me the truth, for

'safety is in sincerity.' Numan, with tears in his eyes, related all his story to Abbassah; and it so touched the heart of the noble princess that she also wept, until her tears fell down on her angelic bosom, and she exclaimed: 'Oh! Numan, be no longer afflicted, for you are safe.' Clapping her hands until her maidens came in, 'Prepare,' said she, 'a seat for me, and then, giving my sâlâms to sweet Nemah, invite her to come to see me.'

Abbassah directed her maidens to make place; and so soon as Nemah had made her appearance, she saw Numan, and these two faithful lovers rushing into each other's arms, fell senseless on the floor. She threw rose-scented water in their faces, and when they had regained their senses, they, offering prayers and thanks for her benevolence, threw themselves at her feet. Immediately joy was on every countenance, and the maidens attendant upon Abbassah were greatly rejoiced for their companion's sake. Each drank three goblets of wine, and each taking their appropriate instrument, played a lively air, accompanying it with their voices. Even Nemah, forgetful of her past sorrows, took a lute in her hand and played an air appropriate to the occasion of her reünion with her lover.

In the midst of this display of delight, lo! the caliph came unexpectedly to see his sister; and on hearing the sound of music and song, approached her door in light step, saying, 'Barik Allah! God be blessed! what sweet sounds are these?' So soon as Abbassah became aware of his approach, she threw a shawl over Numan, and advancing to receive the caliph, prepared a seat for him. Turning to his sister, 'Pray,' said he, 'whatever your conversation may have been, continue it, and let us be a partaker of your mirth.' Abbassah forthwith handed him also three cups full of ruby liquid, which he drank; and after it had exhilarated him, she addressed him as follows:

'Oh! Emir of the Faithful! know that once in past times there was an aged man who had a heart-binding son, brought up with great delicateness and care, for whom he had purchased a maiden, who for beauty and accomplishments was the admiration of the world. These two young persons were educated and grew up together, and loved each other with the strongest affection. Now it happened that one evening when this lover and his mistress were amusing themselves in their own dwelling, the governor of that city, an unjust and tyrannical man, passed under their house and heard the sweet voice of the maiden. So, on the day following, he, by means of a vile woman, deceives the maiden, gets her in his power, and sends her as a present to the sovereign of the age. The youthful lover becomes greatly distressed on being separated from his mistress, and devotes his life to find her. By one means or other he obtains admittance to the palace in which she is confined, and they meet. In the midst of their rejoicings, and the mutual recital of the sufferings which they had experienced during their separation, lo! the sovereign of the country suddenly enters the apartment, and without a moment's delay, or making a single inquiry, draws his sword and puts them to death on the spot. This is all one can expect of an ignorant sovereign, who never inquires into the merits of an affair. But what do you think of it?'

'Stupid ignorance!' replied the caliph; 'the lovers were excusable: he should have learned their story, aided the accomplishment of their desires, and prevented future injustice.'

Abbassah exclaimed: 'Oh! Prince of the Faithful! generosity and benevolence is an inheritance of the tribe of Koraish:[4] tell me, by the souls of your noble forefathers, did such an act, or such a circumstance occur during your reign, and in your own empire, what would you do?'

'I swear that when I was convinced that their condition was as you describe,' replied the caliph, 'I would bestow my favor upon them, and the deceitful governor, whose duty it was to protect true Mussulmans, I would punish for evil administration.'

Abbassah now thanked her brother, kissed his hand, and as she exclaimed, 'May your protecting shadow never pass over the heads of the innocent without rendering them justice!' drew the shawl from off Numan, and said: 'Behold, oh, Prince! the subject of my tale. This is the unfortunate youth, and this the unhappy maiden, who so cruelly was separated from her lover! Hedjadj ez Zalem treated them as I have related; and is it proper that he should endeavor to cause you, noble prince! to commit sin and injustice? Power to do good is in your own princely hands; do whatever you may deem best.'

While Abbassah was yet speaking, the two lovers threw themselves at the caliph's feet; and when she had finished, Abdul Malek, with the generosity and justice which distinguished his reign, raised them up, and taking Nemah by the hand gave her to Numan, dressed him in a robe of honor, and placed him in the highest ranks of his officers. Soon after he dismissed Hedjadj from his office, and appointed the prince in his place. To Kahermaneh he gave one thousand dinars: the sorrow which she had once felt for the lovers was turned to joy; and under the shadow of the caliph's favor she never knew adversity. As to Hedjadj the Cruel, the loss of his office rendered him miserable, and he ever after lived in poverty.

J. P. B.

SONNET

TO L. AND M. D., THE BUDS OF THE SARANAC.

An angel breathed upon a budding flower,
And on that breath the bud went up to heaven,
Yet left a fragrance in the little bower,
To which its first warm blushes had been given;
And, by that fragrance nursed, another grew,
And so they both had being in the last,
And on this one distilled Heaven's choicest dew,
And rays of glorious light were on it cast,
Until the floweret claimed a higher birth,
And would not open on a scene so drear,
For it was more of paradise than earth,
And strains from thence came ever floating near;
And so it passed, and long ere noontide's hour,
The bud of earth had oped, a heaven-born flower.

[WINTER.]

Stern tyrant of the year!
The circling hours bring thine ascendant day,
And hill and plain, sky, sea, and stream obey
Thy rule austere.
The conqueror's march is thine;
Each step thou mark'st with trophies of decay,
And with the fair earth's ruins thy proud way
Dost thickly line.
Deathful thy scowl of gloom;
And the soft green from tree and shrub doth pass,
And summer's delicate flowers and twinkling grass
Are spoiled of bloom.
Beneath thy chilling breath
The sweet-voiced brooks, that bounded on their way
Gleesome and frisk, as children at their play,
Lie stiff in death.
Thou speak'st, and the blithe hum
Of insect life, the choral measures sung
By tuneful birds the greenwood boughs among,
Are stricken dumb.
Earth's sceptre thou dost bear;
And the white badge of servitude to thee
Each crested mount, low valley, stream, and tree
Submissive wear.
Therefore, dread power! rejoice;
Bid the shrill winds pipe out thy triumph high,
And ocean's glad, accordant waves reply
With thunder-voice.
Yet, deem not, potent One!
Though subject earth lie prostrate at thy feet,
That, throned in universal empire's seat,
Thou reign'st alone.
The nobler Spirit-world
No trophies of thy prowess yields to thee;
No flaunting banner of thy sovereignty
Is there unfurled.
The gladsome stream of thought
Glides fertilizing on, untamed and free,
And tracks its bright way toward Thought's central sea,
Heeding thee nought.
The green growths of the soul
Their fragrance breathe, despite thy stormy air,
And not one delicate tint their blossoms wear
Owns thy control.
No winter blights and lours
Where sojourneth the faithful spirit clear,
Fruitage and bloom for it the teeming year
Conjointly showers.
Then hail, dread Power, to thee!
Intently gazing in thy rugged face,
E'en there, methinks, benignity I trace,
True kindness see.
Thou bidst me turn within
To what, untouched of time and change, doth live,
That, which not outward things can ever give,
Or from me win.
One universal tomb
May close on all earth's glorious, bright, and fair,
But to itself still true, the Soul shall wear
Unwithering bloom.
D. H. B.

[IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS.]

BY PETER VON GEIST.

Preliminary.—Sitting in the seat and looking on the scenes of youth; calling back its feelings and thinking over its thoughts; is, we may suppose, seldom pleasing to manhood. Fragments of plans; wrong but captivating views of life; dead hopes which once lived and bloomed; vast schemes dwindled like dry leaves; resolutions broken and re-broken; all covered and lost sight of, under the stream of events that is perpetually flowing into the memory, will come up, bringing a smile and a pang; and the youth of Twenty will stand in living colors before the man of Forty.

Forty. Your face is full of joy, young man; are you thinking of me?

Twenty. I am thinking of you, and therefore am I full of joy.

Forty. I know nothing in me that should give you so much pleasure to contemplate.

Twenty. Do you count, then, honor, wealth, benefactions, and the blessings of your country, as nothing? Do I not see your head encircled with the garland of praise? Are you not enriched with all knowledge and adorned with all graces? Is this a small thing? I would give away ten years of my life, if the space that intervenes between you and me—Now and Then—might be annihilated this instant!

Forty. It is perhaps as well that that space cannot be annihilated or diminished. But could you spare ten years without feeling the loss? Do you suppose yourself sufficiently armed and equipped already, for the campaign?

Twenty. On to the combat! What armor would you have, but a quick eye, a steady hand, and a courageous heart?

Forty. By 'a courageous heart,' you probably mean animal spirits; but they will flag in a little while. Have you thought of that?

Twenty. No, Sir, I do not mean animal spirits. I mean a bold, unshrinking heart, that goes forth to meet the world, and never faints; one which does not grow weary when it is encompassed with adversity, but looks, and hopes, and fights on, till it gains its high end. Is not that armor enough?

Forty. It is, no doubt; so hard that it can receive and not be pierced by the darts of the enemy?

Twenty. There is no need of its being hard. The encounter is not a battle; it is a joust, a tournament, a passage of arms. And cannot brothers and friends tilt, and still be brothers and friends?

Forty. You regard, then, the business of life as the amusements of a gala-day?

Twenty. No, Sir! no, Sir! These figures of speech only conceal and disguise its nature. It is neither a battle nor a play; it is labor. By the sweat of his brow must man eat his bread.

Forty. 'Thorns also, and thistles shall spring up to him.'

Twenty. I say, by labor must men gain the prize. See! I am standing at this moment on an eminence, from which I overlook the whole plain of life. On whatever side I turn my eyes, the landscape smiles, and the thickly-scattered objects of human desire arrest my attention, and invite my pursuit. All are fair and enticing; but my thoughts are fixed on that fairest and most enticing of all; that verdant hill-top before me. On it are the power of wealth and the respect of men; the consciousness of great actions done, of worth, or nobility; domestic affections throw their warm colors upon it; the power of making loved ones happy; the calm, quiet, fresh, dewy summer evening of my earthly pilgrimage; all that makes existence a blessing is there. Between it and me there may be much hard journeying, and many obstacles difficult to surmount. I cannot see them all from here, and do not care. But with my eye steadfastly fixed on that point, I descend to the plain, and set out on the way. What though it be toilsome? What though I stumble, or am thrust from the path, or fogs envelope me, and clouds overwhelm me? Can any thing turn me aside from the straight course? Can any mists be so dense as to shut out that golden spot from my view? And so I struggle on, through darkness and opposition, always keeping within me a brave heart and a well-braced spirit, and never relaxing my nerves, till I reach that predestined place of repose.

Forty. Disjecta membra of a boy's dream!

Twenty. But is it not so? Are you not now there?

Forty. My dear young friend, there is a slight optical illusion in the case. That promised land of yours lies beyond the boundaries of life: the Styx rolls between.

Twenty. I do not understand you. Beyond? Have you not reached it?

Forty. Do I look like one that takes his rest? or these hands, as though I had left off working?

Twenty. But you cannot now be far from it?

Forty. To say the truth, I have no such place of happiness and repose in view as you have mentioned. I lost sight of it soon after setting out. The darkness came down on me so thick that I could scarcely see three paces before me, and the road was so rough that I was forced to be content to pick my steps one by one, and had no time to think of the distant future.

Twenty. I cannot believe it. There is many a lesser prize, many lower heights, in your path, to be gained, which should serve as encouragements and way-marks. I cannot believe that you have lost sight of the ultimate object of your life.

Forty. You have odd views of things! The fact was, when with much exertion and difficulty I had gained one of those lesser prizes, a little social distinction, for example, I was so fatigued that I was glad to sit down a moment, and enjoy my acquisition. Finding it, however, not in every respect suited to my desire, I pushed on, and attained the next of those luminous points, which to you are only way-marks to a higher one beyond. From these I took a survey of the path before me; and seeing that its length rather increased than diminished as I obtained clearer views of the intervening country, and feeling at the same time my strength diminishing, and that 'courageous heart' of yours, (the hope and spirits of inexperienced youth,) growing fainter in its pulsations, I gave up the chase, and suffered myself to settle down into, and become one of, the million.

Twenty. Oh! weak of faith and cowardly!

Forty. Oh! ignorant and presumptuous!

Twenty. Well; it does not become us to bandy names. So you are content to live for nothing?

Forty. I live for something; for my daily bread, and for the pleasures that to-morrow, or at the farthest the next day, may bring forth.

Twenty. And is not that living for nought? You have become an ant, whose thoughts are confined within its cell, and whose cares are centered on its single little kernel of corn. You are a fixture, a vegetable, a sensitive plant, a shell-fish. These are lying words of yours; I will not believe them.

Forty. If you do not credit my report, you can go forward as you have proposed, and satisfy yourself by experience.

Twenty. That will I! Go forth on wings, undeterred by timorous and hesitating counsels. I know it is not so. Can I not see with my own eyes?

Forty. I fancy you see stars that are not in the heavens, and sights that are not on the earth.

Twenty. I am not so pusilanimous and easily contented as you appear to be. My belief in the omnipotence of will and labor is firm. Yonder object have I set my eye on; and breaking through all obstructions, and deaf to all way-side seductions, I will force myself straight on, till I attain it.

Forty. Valiantly resolved! Gallant Sir Knight! Will you take the world by storm?

Twenty. I have told you already that it is not a battle. No passion or strife shall mingle with my motives. Good will to all men, and success to my compeers, even though they triumph in my disappointment, shall be the feeling of my heart.

Forty. As I said before, a very good resolution.

Twenty. Nor is it necessary to spend the intervening years in monotonous, cheerless toil. There are a thousand social affections which spring up spontaneously in the human heart, but which wither unless fostered, cherished, and cultivated; there are social duties to be performed; and the whole man is to be polished into the form of grace and nobility. At the same time, from books and men, by the midnight lamp and in the crowded market-place, will I draw treasures of knowledge and skill; from history, poetry, philosophy, human nature; till I can instruct the judge on his bench, and the artisan in his shop; till I make myself such as men have in all ages delighted to honor, and been compelled to esteem. I will fashion my mind by the model of strength and beauty, and will enlarge the capacities of my heart, and fill it with love. In all this, my labors are ordered with principal reference to that ultimate point of which I never lose sight an instant. Men are forced to acknowledge excellence; much more will they acknowledge it when they see that it is amiable, and love it.

Forty. It is with difficulty that I can refrain from laughter! You have such strange notions!

Twenty. Do you call the notion of excellence strange? You will next say that virtue itself is an 'Idola!' But I tell you, there is a reality in both; I know it, for I can feel it. Nobility, virtue, respect, and happiness, are not empty names. The last, I am conscious of this moment; and if the others did not exist, I should never have had given to me this desire for them.

Forty. Ignorance and happiness!

Twenty. Knowledge and happiness! Why should they not go together? Will the innumerable gifts of nature ever be withdrawn? Or will the capability of receiving pleasure from them ever be taken away? Happiness does not necessarily accompany ignorance, but it does knowledge. And throughout the world, every man has within him a well-toned harp, whose strings nature and society and he himself strike together, making harmonious music. They are sometimes broken; but mine shall be well guarded, and will never produce discord.

Forty. Foolish and vain!

Twenty. And have you then become wise?

Forty. I have become wise enough to know that you are foolish and your thoughts vain; I have become a full grown man.

Twenty. You have, indeed, attained a full growth in the wisdom of those of sordid views and narrow foreheads! But can it be really so? Are you what you seem to be? I have felt, more than once, a suspicion creeping into my mind, that I might be, after all, mistaken. It must be so; and 'how art thou cast down, O my soul!'

Forty. Be not disconsolate, my young friend; your soul is not so much cast down, as turned aside into another channel of thought and mode of existence.

Twenty. Do you mock me, with your 'be not disconsolate?' If you speak the truth, there is nothing in life to live for. Had I not calculated well? Had I not found the means to be used in order to arrive at a certain position? I thought means and the result were connected; but you have undeceived me. Or else, I am too weak and cowardly to follow out my plans: in either case, I am of no worth in the world, and had better quit it at the outset.

Forty. To quit the field, you think less disgraceful than to suffer defeat in a fair and manful fight?

Twenty. The world's opinion is nothing to me, and I don't know the meaning of disgrace. Fame, you say, is an empty breath, happiness delusion, and knowledge vanity; these are the chief things that fill the minds of men, and they are false appearances. Why, then, should I value them?

Forty. You cannot say that all life is not a dream.

Twenty. Oh, I know it is; and therefore I will have nothing to do with it.

Forty. You are a wild colt as yet, and kick against your traces. But the whip, the rein, and work, will soon break down that proud spirit of yours, and you will trot along obediently and patiently.

Twenty. That shall never be; sooner will I leave the world altogether. To suffer this, you call courage! And to be a humble, docile, broken brute, you call becoming wise!

Forty. You use names without discretion.

Twenty. Oh, you would give it a softer-sounding designation; but the fact, though you may disguise it to yourself, cannot be concealed. Do you labor or hope for any thing but the present, or beyond the next hour? Do you not live with your eyes fixed on the ground? Do you not thread your devious and obscure way through the world, content to be unknown, and never casting a glance on the millions that surround you? What is that wisdom of which you boast, but to know that every man is a robber, and to bar your door against him; that, friendship is an empty profession, and friends venial, therefore to trust no one; that all love is a youthful folly, unbecoming the 'full grown man;' therefore to guard against its approaches? This, I should say, is to live and think like the beast that perishes, and to die as the fool dies.

Forty. You were inflated with that exhilarating gas, self-esteem; it is not very pleasant to have it escape, but you will soon be reduced to your own proportions.

Twenty. And you would really have me think that there is no beauty or loveliness in the world? nothing worth hoping or striving for? Because I believed there was, and was filled with enthusiasm in viewing it, you say I was inflated with self-esteem. If I thought as you do, I should contemn myself, and deserve to be despised by every body like myself. You have lost sight of your high destiny, and defiled your soul, which was in the similitude of its Maker, by frequent contact with the earth.

Forty. I was not conscious of that.

Twenty. Tell me, if you please, what was man made for?

Forty. I have told you already; to eat of the fruit of his labors in sorrow, to write his name on the sea-sands, and to leave his place to his successor after him.

Twenty. Think you that you do not defile your soul by such thoughts? To confine his aspirations to the snail-shell in which chance has cast him; to find all his delight therein; to call the three or four inches which his horizon bounds, the world; is this the chief end of man? I know not how it may be with others, but as for me, I was made for something better. I hope, I expect, to have a higher destiny!

Forty. The chase is after shadows.

Twenty. My chase is after real, tangible substances. I see them, and hope revives, strong and living, within me. Away! cold Doubt! I must have knowledge, respect, and happiness. No obstacles shall hinder me, and no allurements shall entice me, from my way. My name shall not be written on the sands: I will link it with lessons of wisdom, and grave them on the eternal rock.

Forty. Glorious dreams, young man! glorious dreams!

Twenty. They are sober, waking realities.

Forty. But since you will not be aroused, I would have no one attempt to break them. Sleep on now, for the day cometh; the clear light of morning will beam on your eyes, dispersing the mists, and then you will see your duties and capabilities through a less distorting medium.

Twenty. Call it a distorting medium if you like; but if it is the mists that make the world appear so much brighter to me than it does to you, they shall always remain before my eyes.

Forty. Sweet dreams; but alas! they cannot last! This conversation with you has filled me, even me, with strange desires and indefinite longings. But they are all vain. It is my lot to see and deal with the world as it is, and I must be contented with my little routine of daily toil. And to remain so contented, I must hold no more communion with you.

Twenty. You are a phantom, as of one in troubled slumber—a lying spirit; and I will never again admit you to my thoughts.

Forty. You shall be dead to me, and I will bury you out of my sight!

[THOUGHTS AT TRENTON FALLS.]

Art thou still the same,
Or have the lapsing ages stolen away
Thy primal beauty, or but added more?
Beautiful stream! did thy clear waters fall
With the same sound as now, in times remote,
When first the sunlight shimmered on thy wave,
Or ere the warbling of a forest bird
Had echoed through these shades; or did'st thou run
In level quietness, till thy smooth bed
Was broken up by the strong hand of Change?
Or did the sinking Deluge leave thee here,
To fill this broken gorge?

R. S. C.

New-York, Oct., 1843.

[THE MIDNIGHT DREAM.]

BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.

I had a vision, love, last eve,
That thrills my very heart with fear;
I could not wish to see thee grieve,
Or wring from manhood's eye a tear:
But in this dream, I saw thee weep
As never man had wept before:
I would not dream the like, if sleep
My wearied eyes ne'er shadowed o'er!
Methought I saw thee, bending low
Above a pale and shrouded form;
A wreath of cold December's snow
Flung out upon the freezing storm
Hath more of beauty, warmth, and life,
Than this white piece of marbled earth!
'How,' thought I, 'have the war and strife
Of passion in its heart had birth?'
I saw thee raise the snowy shroud
That veiled the features from my view;
I heard thee strangely weep aloud,
Then slowly recognition grew
Within my soul; my body lay
All still and wan before me there,
Robed for the tomb, while slow decay
Was painted on the forehead bare!
I saw thee press the icy brow,
Whilst I revolted at the scene;
That lifeless clay I hated now,
But longed against thy heart to lean.
But woe unto that gentle heart!
Had it but deemed my spirit near,
I felt that agony would start
The cold and deadly drops of fear.
I thought if spirits thus were freed
From dust which weighed their pinions down,
Their destiny were bright indeed,
If joy unmingled e'er was known.
But I was chained unto thy side,
While still this truth seemed strange to me,
Though ever by thee I should glide,
I was invisible to thee!
I strove to lift the veil which hides
The progress of immortal birth;
The thin partition that divides
The world of spirits from the earth;
I longed to bear thy spirit up
To flash around the golden throne,
But then, stern Death's embittered cup
Must first be drained by every one!
Yet still I hovered by thy side;
My wings thy very garments brushed,
Whilst thou but knew I lived and died,
All else within the tomb was hushed.
With dreams of earth a sense was blent
Of some neglect of duty there,
And oh! I thought my punishment
Was greater far than I could bear!
How oft I heard thee breathe my name
In tearful accents, sad and low,
Then suddenly thy voice exclaim,
'A ministering angel thou!'
Still swaying thus from sphere to sphere,
My spirit knew nor peace nor rest,
Till daylight broke that vision drear,
And saw me weeping on thy breast!
Cincinnati, 1813.

[THE VENUS OF ILLE.]

RENDERED FROM THE FRENCH OF P. MERIMEE BY THE TRANSLATOR OF 'THE GALLEY SLAVE.'

BY JOHN HUNTER.

After a long day's journey, I descended the last of the Canigou mountains, and although it was now past sunset, I distinguished in the plain beneath me the houses of the little village of Ille, toward which I was now directing my course.

'You know,' said I to the Catalonian who acted as my guide, 'you know, I dare say, where Monsieur Peyrade lives?'

'Do I know?' exclaimed he, 'I know his house as well as I do my own; and if it was not so dark, I could point it out to you now. It is the handsomest in Ille. Ah! he has got the money, Monsieur Peyrade has; and he is going to marry his son to one richer than himself.'

'Indeed! and will this marriage take place soon?' asked I.

'Soon! I'll be sworn the fiddles are already engaged for the wedding. It may be to-night, to-morrow, or the day after, for aught that I know. It will take place at Puygarey, for it is Mam'selle de Puygarey, whom young master is going to marry. Ah! there will be fine doings, I can tell you!'

I had a letter of introduction to Monsieur Peyrade from my friend Monsieur de P——. 'This gentleman,' said he to me, 'is a very learned antiquary, extremely hospitable, and will take great pleasure in showing you all the ruins and relics of art for a dozen leagues around.' I had consequently counted upon him, to visit with me the environs of Ille, which I knew to be rich in ancient monuments, as well as those of the middle ages. This wedding, therefore, of which I now heard for the first time, seemed likely to interfere with my plans.

'I shall be an intruder,' said I to myself; 'but as my visit has been already announced by Monsieur de P——, it will be necessary for me to present myself.'

'Monsieur,' said my guide to me, as we reached the plain, 'I will wager a cigar I can guess what you are going to do at Monsieur Peyrade's.'

'Indeed,' said I, handing him a cigar, 'that will not be so very difficult to guess. At this time of night, when one has travelled six leagues in the Canigou mountains, the principal business I think will be supper.'

'Oh yes, but I mean to-morrow. Come now, I will bet that you have come to Ille to see the idol. I guessed as much when I saw you drawing the likenesses of the saints of Serrabona.'

'The idol! what idol?' the word had excited my curiosity.

'How! have you not heard at Perpignan, that Monsieur Peyrade has found an idol buried in the ground?'

'You mean a statue of terra-cotta, or clay?'

'No, no, of copper, real copper, and there is enough of it to make heaps of sous. She will weigh as much as the big bell of a church. We found her buried deep in the ground, at the foot of an olive tree.'

'You were then present at the discovery?'

'Yes Sir; Monsieur Peyrade told us—that is Jean Coll and me, about a fortnight ago—to root up an old olive tree, which had been frozen last year, for the weather you know was very cold. So you see as we were at work, Jean Coll, who went at it with all his might, gave a blow with his pickaxe, and I heard a bimm, as if he had struck on a bell. What's that? said I. We dug away, and dug away, and presently saw a black hand, which looked like the hand of a dead man, stretching forth from the earth. I was frightened, and ran to Monsieur: 'There are dead men, master,' said I, 'under the olive tree! We had better send for the priest!' 'What, are you talking about dead men?' said he. He comes to the place, and no sooner sees the hand than he begins to cry out like mad, 'An antique! an antique!' You would have thought he had found a treasure. And so to work he goes with pickaxe and hands, and with such a hearty will that he did as much as Jean and I together.'

'And at last what did you find?'

'A large black woman, more than half naked, saving your presence, Sir, all of copper; and Monsieur Peyrade told us that it was an idol of the heathenish times—of the time of Charlemagne, may be!'

'Ah! I see what it is; some good virgin in bronze from a ruined convent.'

'A good virgin! ah! yes indeed. I should have known it soon enough, had it been a blessed virgin. No, no; it is an idol, I tell you; you can see that well enough by its looks. It stares upon you with its great white eyes. They say it will stare you out of countenance. One is forced to cast down his eyes when he looks at it.'

'White eyes? no doubt they are inserted in the bronze; this must be some Roman statue.'

'Roman! that's it; Monsieur Peyrade said it was a Roman. Ah! I see you are a learned man; just such another as he.'

'Is it in good preservation? perfect?'

'Oh yes, Sir, nothing is wanting. It is handsomer, and better made than the bust of Louis Philippe of painted plaster, which stands in the town-hall. But for all this, the face of this idol does not please me. She has got a wicked look; and in fact, she is so.'

'Wicked? why what trick has she played you?'

'Not exactly on me; but you shall hear. Four of us went to work to set her upright; and Monsieur Peyrade, he too must pull at a rope, although, worthy man! he hasn't much more strength than a chicken. With a good deal of trouble we at last got her straight up. I took a piece of tile to keep her steady, when patratas! down she comes headlong, all in a heap. I sung out: 'Take care below!' but not quick enough, however, for Jean Coll hadn't time to pull out his leg.'

'And was he injured?'

'Broken smack off was his poor leg, as if it had been a bean-pole. Sacristi! when I saw that, I was furious. I wanted to break the idol to pieces with my pickaxe, but Monsieur Peyrade wouldn't let me. He gave some money to Jean Coll, who is still in his bed, though it is a fortnight since this happened; and the doctor says he will never walk as well on this leg as on the other. 'Tis a great pity, for he was our best runner, and, next to young master, the best tennis-player in the country. Monsieur Alphonse Peyrade takes it very much to heart, for he always played with Coll. Oh! it was a beautiful sight to see them send the balls up! Paff—paff—they never touched the ground.'

Conversing in this manner, we entered Ille, and I soon found myself in the presence of Monsieur Peyrade. He was a little old man, still ruddy and active, with powdered hair, a red nose, and a gay and jovial air. Before opening the letter of Monsieur de P——, he installed me at a well-spread table, and introduced me to his wife and son, as an eminent archeologist who was going to draw forth Roussillon from the state of oblivion in which the indifference of the savans had so long left it.

While eating with that fine appetite which the keen mountain air imparts, I studied the appearance of my hosts. I have already spoken of Monsieur Peyrade; I may add that he was vivacity itself. He chattered, ate, jumped up, ran to the library, brought me books, showed me prints, poured out wine for me; in short, he was not a moment in repose. His wife, who, as most of the Catalonian women are after the age of forty, was rather fat, and seemed to be a substantial country dame, wholly taken up with the affairs of her household. Although the supper was sufficient for at least six persons, she ran to the kitchen, ordered pigeons to be killed, had fritters made, and opened I know not how many pots of sweet-meats. In a few moments the table was loaded with dishes and bottles, and had I only tasted all that was offered me, I should certainly have died of indigestion. Still, at every dish which I declined, there were fresh apologies. They were 'afraid I did not find things to my liking at Ille. They had so few resources in the country, and Parisians were so hard to please!'

During all this bustle and turmoil, and running to and fro of his progenitors, Monsieur Alphonse Peyrade remained motionless as a post. He was a tall young man, of about six-and-twenty, with handsome, regular features, but totally devoid of expression. His figure and athletic appearance accorded well with the reputation he bore throughout the country, of being a first rate tennis-player. He was dressed this evening in an elegant manner, his clothes being made to resemble exactly the engravings of the last number of the Journal of Fashion. But he did not seem to be at ease in his dress. He was as stiff as a pike-staff in his velvet collar, and when he turned his head, it was only by a movement of his whole body. His large sun-burnt hands with their short nails contrasted strangely with his costly coat; they were the hands of a laborer issuing from the sleeves of a dandy.

Although he examined me from head to foot, with great curiosity, which my character as a Parisian had probably excited, he addressed to me but a single question during the whole evening; which was to ask, where I had bought my watch-chain.

'And now, my dear guest,' said Monsieur Peyrade to me, as supper drew to a close, 'you are in my house, and are my property; and I shall not let you go until you have seen all the curiosities of our mountains. You must take some pains to get acquainted with our Roussillon, so as to do her full justice. You must have no doubts about the things we are going to show you. There are Phenician, Celtic, Roman, Arabic, Bysantian monuments; you shall see them all, from the cedar to the hyssop. I will take you every where, and not a brick shall escape you.'

A fit of coughing here forced the old gentleman to pause; taking advantage of which, I began to express to him my regret at intruding upon his family circle at such an interesting period.

'If you will only give me your excellent advice,' said I, 'touching the excursions I propose making, I will not put you to the trouble of accompanying me.'

'Ah!' said he, interrupting me, 'you mean the marriage of that boy there. This is but a trifle; it will take place the day after to-morrow. You must be present at the wedding with us, in a quiet family way; for the intended bride is in mourning for an aunt, whose property she inherits. So we are to have no merry-making, no ball. This is a great pity. You ought to see our Catalonian girls dance. They are buxom lasses, and perhaps some of them might induce you to follow the example of my Alphonse. One marriage, they say, leads to others. On Saturday, the young folks wedded, I shall be at liberty, and then we will commence our rambles. But I beg pardon for wearying you with this country wedding; you a Parisian, tired of city gayeties and festivities: and a wedding without even a ball! However, you will see a bride; and such a bride! you must tell me what you think of her. But you are so grave and sedate a man, that perhaps you do not look at the women. But I have something better than this to show you; I will let you see something to-morrow! A grand surprise will you have, I promise you.'

'Indeed,' said I, 'but it is a difficult matter to have a treasure in one's house, without people being aware of it. I suspect I can guess what it is you have in store for me. If it is your statue to which you allude, the description my guide gave me of it has only served to excite my curiosity, and prepared me to admire it.'

'Ah! you have then heard about the idol, as they call my beautiful Venus Tur—— But I must say no more at present. To-morrow in broad daylight you shall see her, and you will then say whether I have not reason to be proud of such a master-piece. Parbleu! you could not have arrived more opportunely. There are inscriptions upon it, which I, poor ignoramus, explain after my own fashion; but a savant from Paris! You will perhaps laugh at my explanations: for you must know that I have drawn up a paper on the subject. Yes, even I, old country antiquary as I am, have launched into it. I shall make the press groan. If you, now, would read and correct my memoir for me, I should have some hopes. For instance, I am very curious to know how you would translate this inscription on the pedestal? Cave—— But I must not ask any thing of you now. To-morrow! to-morrow! Not a word of the Venus to-night.'

'You will do well, Peyrade,' said his wife, 'to leave your idol alone for the present. You must see that you are preventing Monsieur from eating his supper. Besides, Monsieur has seen at Paris a great many handsomer statues than thine. At the Tuilleries there are dozens of them, and all of bronze too.'

'Here is ignorance for you! the blessed ignorance of the province!' interrupted Monsieur Peyrade. 'To compare an admirable antique with the foolish images of Costou! 'With what irreverence do my household speak of the gods!' Do you know that my wife wishes me to melt my statue, and run it into a bell for the church! The good dame would like to stand godmother to it. A master-piece of Myron, Sir.'

'Master-piece! master-piece! a pretty master-piece she has made of it! To break a man's leg!'

'Look you here, my wife,' said Monsieur Peyrade, in a resolute tone, and stretching toward her his right leg encased in silken hose, 'if my Venus had broken this leg, I should not have grieved for it.'

'Good heavens! Peyrade, how can you talk so? Luckily the man is doing well; but still I cannot take pleasure in looking at a statue, which causes such misfortunes. Poor Jean Coll!'

'Wounded by Venus, Sir,' said Monsieur Peyrade, bursting into a loud laugh, 'wounded by Venus; the rogue may well complain: 'Veneris, nec prœmia noris;' who has not been wounded by Venus?'

Monsieur Alphonse, who understood French better than Latin, gave a knowing wink, and looked toward me, as much as to say: 'Do you understand that, Parisian?'

The supper at length was finished. I had not been able to eat a mouthful for the last hour. I was extremely fatigued, and could not conceal the frequent yawns which escaped me. Madame Peyrade was the first to perceive them, and observed that it was time to go to bed. Then commenced new apologies for the poor night's lodging I would have. It would not be as at Paris. In the provinces one is so badly provided, I must make allowances for the Roussillon fare. In vain I protested that after a long journey in the mountains a bundle of straw would be a delightful bed; they persisted in begging me to pardon poor country folks, if they did not treat me as well as they wished. At length I ascended to the chamber allotted me, accompanied by Monsieur Peyrade. The staircase, the upper steps of which were of wood, terminated in the middle of a corridor, upon which a number of apartments opened.

'On the right,' said my host to me, 'is the room I have appropriated to Madame Alphonse, that is to be. Your chamber is at the opposite end of the corridor. You know,' added he, with an air which was meant to be facetious, 'you know we must keep the new married couple by themselves. You are at one end of the house, and they are at the other.'

We entered a well-furnished apartment, where the first object which met my eye was a bed about seven feet long, six wide, and so high that it would require a step-ladder to clamber into it. My host having pointed out to me the bell-rope, and satisfied himself that the sugar-basin was replenished, and the bottles of Cologne water, and other appendages of the toilet, duly placed upon the table, and having asked me twenty times over if I wished for any thing more, at length bade me good night and left me alone.

The windows were closed. Before undressing, I opened one, that I might enjoy the cool night air, so delicious after a long supper. Opposite me was the Canigou, at all times striking in appearance, and now illuminated by the beams of a brilliant moon, seeming the most beautiful mountain in the world. I stood for some time gazing upon its picturesque outlines, and was about closing the window, when casting my eyes down, I perceived the statue upon a pedestal, some twenty toises from the house. It was placed at the corner of a quickset hedge, which separated a small garden from a large square perfectly level, which I afterward learned was the tennis-ground of the village. This piece of land, the property of Monsieur Peyrade, had been thrown open to the public by him, at the urgent solicitation of his son. At the distance at which I stood, it was difficult to distinguish the attitude of the statue. I could only judge of its height, which seemed about six feet. Just at this moment, two idlers of the village passed across the play-ground, pretty near the hedge, whistling the pretty air of Roussillon montagnes regalades. They stopped to look at the statue, and one of them apostrophized it aloud. He spoke the Catalonian dialect, but I had been long enough in Roussillon to comprehend nearly all he said.

'Ah! there you are, you slut! (the Catalonian epithet was more energetic) there you are!' said he. 'It was you, then, that broke Jean Coll's leg? If you belonged to me I would break your cursed neck!'

'Bah!' said the other, 'with what? She is made of copper, and so hard that Stephen broke his file trying to make a notch in her. It is copper of the time of the heathens, and harder than any thing I know.'

'If I had my good chisel here, (it seems he was a locksmith's apprentice,) I would soon have out those big white eyes, as I would take an almond from the shell. There's enough silver there to make an hundred sous.'

They proceeded a few paces. 'I must bid the idol good night,' said the larger of the two apprentices, suddenly stopping.

He stooped down and probably picked up a stone. I could see him stretch out his arm, throw something, and immediately a ringing sound was heard from the bronze. At the same instant, the apprentice put his hand to his head, uttering a cry of pain.

'She has flung it back at me!' cried he; and the two vagabonds took to flight, as fast as their legs could carry them. It was evident that the stone had rebounded from the metal, and punished the wag for the insult he had offered the goddess.

I closed the window, laughing heartily. 'Here is another Vandal punished by Venus! May all the destroyers of our ancient monuments have their heads broken in the same manner!' With this charitable wish I fell asleep.

When I awoke it was broad day. Near my bed stood on one side Monsieur Peyrade in his morning gown, and on the other a domestic sent by his wife, with a cup of chocolate.

'Come, get up, get up, Parisian! Why, what lazy fellows you of the capital are!' said my host, as I hurried on my clothes. 'This is the third time I have been up here. I approached your door on tiptoe: nobody stirring; not a sign of life. It is bad for the health to sleep too much at your age. And there is my Venus, which you have not seen yet. Come, swallow this cup of chocolate from Barcelona; real contraband. You can't get the like of it at Paris. You will need all your strength, I can tell you; for when you once get before my Venus you will not so easily be drawn away from her.'

In five minutes I was ready; that is to say, half shaven, scarcely buttoned, and with throat scalded by the chocolate, which I had swallowed boiling hot. I descended into the garden, and found myself before an admirable statue.

It was, in truth, a Venus, and of a marvellous beauty. She was above the common stature, as the ancients usually represented their principal divinities. The right hand raised to the level of the breast, was turned with the palm inward, the thumb and two first fingers outstretched, the two others slightly bent. The other hand placed near the hip, sustained the drapery which covered the lower part of the body. The attitude of this statue reminded me of that of the thrower of the discus, which is designated, I know not why, as Germanicus. Possibly the artist wished to represent the goddess playing at that game.

However this might be, it was impossible to conceive any thing more perfect than the figure of this Venus; nothing more soft or more voluptuous than its outlines; nothing more noble or elegant than the drapery. I had expected some production of the middle ages; I saw a master-piece of the best period of statuary. What chiefly struck me was the exquisite truth of its form, so that one might have supposed it modelled from nature, did nature ever produce perfect models.

The hair, turned back from the forehead, appeared to have been formerly gilded. The head, small like those of almost all the Greek statues, was slightly inclined forward. As to the face, I despair of being able to express its strange character, the type of which did not at all resemble that of any ancient statue I remembered. It was not that calm and severe beauty of the Greek sculptors, which imparts by design to all the features a majestic repose. Here, on the contrary, I observed with surprise the evident intention of the artist to express in the countenance malice almost bordering on malignity. All the features were slightly contracted; the eyes a little oblique, the corners of the mouth drawn up, and the nostrils somewhat dilated. Disdain, irony, cruelty, might be read in the countenance, which was still of incredible beauty. Indeed, the more one looked at this admirable statue, the more one experienced a sense of pain that such marvellous beauty should be allied with the absence of all sensibility.

'If her model ever existed,' said I to Monsieur Peyrade, 'and I doubt if heaven ever produced such a woman, how I should pity her lovers! She would have taken pleasure in making them die of despair. There is something ferocious in her expression, and yet I have never seen any thing more beautiful.'

'C'est Venus tout entière à sa proie attachée!' exclaimed Monsieur Peyrade, satisfied with my enthusiasm.

This expression of infernal irony was perhaps increased by the contrast of the silver eyes, which were very brilliant, with the hue of blackish green which time had given to the whole statue. These lustrous eyes produced a certain illusion which almost gave the effect of the reality of life. I recollected what my guide told me, that she made those who looked at her cast down their eyes. This was in fact almost true; and I could not help feeling vexed at finding myself not quite at my ease before this visage of bronze.

'Now that you have admired every thing in detail, my dear colleague in antiquarian lore,' said my host to me, 'let us have, if you please, a little scientific conference. What say you to this inscription, which you have not yet noticed?'

He pointed to the pedestal of the statue, where I read these words:

CAVE AMANTEM.

'What do you say to that, most learned?' demanded he, rubbing his hands. 'Let us see if we can agree upon the meaning of this cave amantem.'

'But,' said I, 'there are two senses in which it may be understood. It may be translated 'Beware of him who loves you; do not trust lovers.' But in this sense I hardly know whether cave amantem would be good Latin. On looking at the diabolical expression of the lady, I should rather think the artist wished to put the spectator on his guard against this terrible beauty. I would therefore prefer translating it: 'Take care of yourself, if she loves you.''

'Humph!' said Monsieur Peyrade; 'to be sure that meaning is admissible; but with due deference I prefer the first translation, which however I will develop a little. You remember the lover of Venus?'

'She had a great many.'

'True, but the first one was Vulcan. Now does not this mean to say: 'In spite of all your beauty, and your proud and disdainful looks, you shall have a blacksmith, a miserable lame wretch for a lover.' A profound lesson, Sir, for coquettes!'

I could scarcely repress a smile at this far-fetched explanation.

'This Latin is a terrible language with its conciseness,' observed I, not wishing to contradict more directly the good antiquary; and I stepped back a few paces, that I might have a better view of the statue.

'One moment, colleague!' said Monsieur Peyrade, seizing my arm; 'you have not yet seen all. There is another inscription. Get upon the pedestal, and look at the right arm.'

So saying, he assisted me in climbing up. I put my arm without much ceremony around the neck of the Venus, with whom I began to be on familiar terms. I gazed at her a moment face to face, and found her on a close survey to be still more wicked-looking, and still more beautiful. I then noticed some small characters, apparently of an ancient date, engraven upon the arm. With some difficulty, and by the aid of a magnifying-glass, I spelled as follows; Monsieur Peyrade repeating after me each word as I pronounced it, with strong emphasis and gesticulation:

VENERI TVRBVL * * * *
EVTYCHES MYRO
IMPERIO FECIT

After the word TVRBVL of the first line, there appeared to be some letters effaced; but TVRBVL was perfectly legible.

'And what does that mean?' asked my host, chuckling, and smiling maliciously; for he rightly thought that I would not be able to make out this TVRBVL.

'There is one word here that I cannot yet explain,' said I; 'all the rest is easy enough. Eutyches Myron has made this offering to Venus, by her command.'

'Very well. But TVRBVL; what do you make of that? What does TVRBVL mean?'

'Why, TVRBVL puzzles me a good deal; I am trying to recollect some of the appellations of Venus to aid me. Let me see; what do you say to TVRBVLENTA? Venus who troubles, who disturbs? You see I am constantly impressed with her wicked expression. Tvrbvlenta; this is not a bad epithet for Venus;' added I, with an air of deference, for I was not myself very well satisfied with this explanation.